SCENE II.

Miranda, ſpeaking of the ſhipwreck, thus ex⯑preſſes her ſympathetic feelings for the wretched.

[5]There is ſomething in the fond expreſſion of good ſhip, in the laſt line but one, which ſtrikes me with an idea of a peculiar tenderneſs in her compaſſion for the unhappy ſufferers.

Proſpero, confeſſing the mad folly of truſting his reins of adminiſtration into other hands, ſays,

And again, ſpeaking of the ſame perſon,

In continuation,

In this account of the Duke's weakneſs, with the natural conſequences attending it, the Poet has af⯑forded a proper leſſon to princes, never to render themſelves cyphers in their government, by too dan⯑gerous a confidence in their favourites; but ever to conſider thoſe perſons, to whom they depute the ſe⯑veral offices of State, as miniſters, in the literal ſenſe of the word, only, not in the political one.

[6]When Proſpero deſcribes the hazards and difficul⯑ties of his forlorn voyage, Miranda tenderly ex⯑claims,

To which he, in a kind of extaſy of fondneſs, re⯑plies,

Here the Poet finely points to that virtue of true manhood, which ſerves to ſtrengthen our fortitude and double our activity, when objects, whom the ties of Nature, or the ſympathy of affections, have en⯑deared to us, require our ſolace or aſſiſtance in diſtreſs or danger. While our cares center-ſolely in our⯑ſelves, we are but one; but become two, where the heart is ſhared.

Here the too general diſſipations of life are hinted at, and thoſe parents cenſured, who transfer the pious duty of their children's education to merce⯑nary preceptors; except in the meaner articles of it, the arts, exerciſes, and ſciences. Too few attend to the higher and more intereſting charge, of forming the mind and directing the heart to their proper objects; and fewer ſtill, in deputing it to others, ſeem to regard the chief requiſites, of character, or capacity, in thoſe they intruſt with this office, look⯑ing upon competent ſcholarſhip to be alone ſuffi⯑cient.

But a liberal education, as far as it extends in Col⯑leges and Schools, does not always give a liberal [7] mind; and as example is allowed to exceed precept, ſo do thoſe ſentiments and principles which we imbibe in youth from the living manners of our tutors, ‘Grow with our growth, and ſtrengthen with our ſtrength.’ Thoſe only are capable of ſinking into the heart, and imbuing the mind, while mere didactic maxims remain a load upon the memory alone. The firſt only inſpire us how to act, the latter but inſtruct us how to ſpeak.

This paſſage furniſhes a prudent and neceſſary reflection to the mind of the reader, that man's ſuc⯑ceſs in life often depends upon ſome lucky and critical occaſion, which, ſuffered to ſlip by, may ne'er return again. Shakeſpeare expreſſes himſelf more fully on this ſubject, in another place ^*. Some other poet too preſents us with a poetical image to the ſame purpoſe, where he ſays that ‘opportunity is bald behind ^†.’

SCENE III.

Doctor Johnſon, in a note upon this paſſage, has given us the traditionary ſyſtem of the Hebrews re⯑lative to the Fallen Angels; which has afforded me a hint, that tempts me to conſider the tenor of this ſcene in a more intereſting light, by obſerving upon the impatience of Ariel, a condemned ſpirit, claiming, under his ſervitude, the promiſed redemption, before he had fulfilled the commands of his maſter. This alluſion, whether Shakeſpeare intended it or no, is ſo obvious, that there would not require the [8] alteration of a ſyllable, to have it inſerted among the Myſteries ^*. Men would be Chriſtians upon their own terms, only, and are too apt to think that faith and fear, without love or works, are ſufficient for the pur⯑poſe.

SCENE I.

Gonzalo, comforting and cheering up the ſpirits of his companions in the wreck, ſpeaks with a be⯑coming reſignation and proper gratitude towards Providence:

An uncouth or ſevere manner of giving reproof, or offering advice, is very juſtly, and with equal good ſenſe and tenderneſs, reflected upon by Gon⯑zalo, in the following paſſage:

SCENE II.

Trinculo moſt humourouſly ridicules the paſſion of the Engliſh for ſtrange ſights, in the following re⯑flection, on ſeeing Caliban lying aſleep on the ground, whom he takes for a dead ſea-monſter, juſt caſt aſhore by the working of the waves. ‘Were I in England, now, as once I was, and had but this fiſh painted, not a holy-day fool there but would give a piece of ſilver. There would this monſter make a man; any ſtrange beaſt there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to ſee a dead Indian.’ [9] Not, however, that this foible can fairly be in⯑duced againſt us, as a national reflection, by any means; for it is not peculiar to this, or any other particular people, but will be found to be the com⯑mon diſpoſition and idle curioſity of mankind, in general. There is another piece of ſarcaſm, alſo, thrown out, in the ſame ſpeech, as unjuſt as the former: When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar. No nation on the globe is more diſtin⯑guiſhed for charity, humanity, and benevolence, than the Engliſh are, at preſent. And this muſt have been always their characteriſtic; for manners may refine, but cannot create, virtues. Poliſhing may give taſte, but feelings come from nature.

After Trinculo has recovered from his fright, and finds Caliban to be but an harmleſs ſavage, ſo very ſimple as to believe Stephano to be the Man in the Moon; he ſays, ‘By this good light, this is a very ſhallow monſter—I afraid of him? a very ſhallow monſter. The man i' th' Moon? a moſt poor credulous monſter.’

'Tis to be obſerved, here, that he was not charged with having been afraid, nor did any one know of it, but himſelf; and it was this very conſciouſneſs that forced ſuch a bravado from him. This is Doctor Warburton's remark. 'Tis a juſt one, and may be rendered general, by obſerving, that, upon all occaſions, too prompt a defence of ourſelves, is a ſort of ſelf-accuſation.

SCENE I.

Ferdinand's firſt ſpeech, here, prettily expreſſes that kind of chearfulneſs with which a perſon un⯑dertakes labour, or executes the meaneſt or moſt irkſome offices, for their ſecond-ſelf, for thoſe they love.

The above ſpeech has ſomething of the ſame turn and ſpirit in it, with that of Proſpero, in the ſecond Scene of the Firſt Act, already obſerved upon.

SCENE IV.

The horrors and upbraidings of a wounded con⯑ſcience, are finely painted in the latter part of this ſcene:

SCENE I.

A chaſte conduct between betrothed lovers, is ſtrongly urged, and ſanctified, by ſevere maledic⯑tions, and very natural predictions, in the follow⯑ing paſſages:

Ferdinand's reply.

A little after, old Proſpero, being better acquainted with the fallibilities of human nature than the young lovers were, repeats the ſame caution to Ferdinand, again:

To which Ferdinand anſwers, as before,

SCENE IV.

There is a beautiful, but humiliating reflection on the inconſiderableneſs of life and grandeur, made by Proſpero, in this ſcene, which is worthy of being added to the golden verſes of Pythagoras, and ought to be placed in gilt characters, as an inſcription, on all the palaces, monuments, or triumphal arches of the earth.

SCENE I.

The feelings and ſentiments of humanity, with the nobleneſs of remiſſion upon repentance, are here finely and moſt affectingly touched.

This laſt paſſage cloſes the moral ſcene of the piece moſt beautifully; in riſing, by degrees, to the ſummit of all Ethic and Chriſtian virtue, humanity and forgiveneſs. I ſhall, therefore, alſo conclude my remarks upon this performance, with an alluſion to a paſſage in Horace, where he draws a contraſt be⯑tween Maevius and Homer, which is perfectly appli⯑cable to our author, when compared with almoſt any other Dramatic writer who has ever attempted the marvellous:

SCENE I.

In this ſpeech, the pious notion of the Antients, with regard to this relation, while genuine Nature was their ſole Preceptor, is fully expreſſed. Here the duty of children to their parents, is indeed car⯑ried to the height; and yet, methinks, not at all too far. They are the objects of our earlieſt affections, of our firſt deference, of our primary obligations. Even ſuperſtition, in this caſe, as far at leaſt as im⯑plicit obedience extends, exceeds not true devotion.

The Decalogue was originally written on two ta⯑bles; five in each. The firſt refers ſolely to Reli⯑gion; the ſecond, to Morality, only. To honour our parents, therefore, as falling within the former line of obligations, is, by this diſtinction, made one [16] of our pious duties; as through them we honour the Creator, who ordained this relation between us. This precept, then, ſhould ſeem to have a double tie upon us, as partaking both of piety and morals; and there⯑fore, however the latter bond may chance to be cancelled, the firſt ought never to be diſpenſed with.

In fine, there is ſomething ſo fond and endearing in the idea and exerciſe of a child's obedience and deference towards a parent, that how rotten muſt the root be, or how blighted the branches, if ſuch a tree ſhould fail of producing its natural fruit!

Thus far, by way of general reflection, only; for I muſt, notwithſtanding, admit, that the particular inſtance of the daughter's compliance, exacted by the father, in this piece, of reſigning an huſband of her own choice, upon equal terms, and accepting another, choſen arbitrarily for her, by caprice merely, was too ſevere a trial of obedience. Egeus here, like Abraham, would ſacrifice his child at the altar, not only without the command of God, but contrary to his expreſs purpoſe, proclaimed aloud by the voice of Nature, and further confirmed from the deduc⯑tions of virtuous affection, free will, and rational election.

When I ſaid that the duty of a child was natural, I did not mean to inveſt the parent with an authority which was not ſo; and I cannot blame Hermia, therefore, upon the ſevere laws of Athens being de⯑clared to her, for the chaſte and ſpirited reſolution ſhe frames to herſelf on that occaſion.

SCENE II.

Lyſander, the ſuitor elect of Hermia, here makes an obſervation upon the ſtate of love, which is too often verified in life: That a ſympathy of affections, [17] with other fitneſs of circumſtances, are ſeldom found to meet together, ſo as to compleat an happy union.

SCENE III.

In this ſcene we are charmed with that mildneſs, modeſty, and generous eulogium, with which the fond and unhappy Helena accoſts a rival beauty, and woo'd by the man ſhe loves.

[18]Hermia had uſed no arts, no coquetry, to allure her lover from her; for, as ſhe expreſſes it, juſt after, in the ſame dialogue, ‘His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.’ She had, indeed, happened to have done her an injury, but no wrong; and therefore the forſaken maid ſhews her juſtice in plaining her own ill fortune, only, without expreſſing the leaſt manner of reſent⯑ment againſt her unoffending rival.

Hermia, in the ſame ſcene, alludes to the magic power of love, which concenters all our ideas in one, making us prefer a cottage to a palace, and a deſert to a grove, according to the ſituation or circum⯑ſtances of the object of our affections. After having declared the purpoſe of flying her country with her lover, ſhe adds,

And Helena, afterwards, carries on the ſame idea, in the following lines:

Theſeus too, in a paſſage of his ſpeech, in the firſt Scene of the Fifth Act of this Play, accords with the above ſentiment:

And Shakeſpeare has hinted a moral, on this latter ſubject, with regard to irregular or ill-placed affec⯑tion, as Dr. Warburton has juſtly obſerved, ‘by as fine a metamorphoſis as any in Ovid,’ in the laſt line of the following ſpeech, in the ſecond Scene [19] of Act the Second; the whole of which I ſhall tranſcribe here, in order to ſhew how juſtly and poetically he has pointed to the different effects of paſſion upon buſy and contemplative minds, as well as on idle and diſſipated ones.

SCENE IV.

In the firſt ſpeech here, Valentine makes a reflec⯑tion, which cannot be too often marked to us, upon the powerful effect of uſe or habit over the mind [31] of man. Second nature is more than a match even for the firſt. In this philoſophy lie the manifeſt and manifold advantages of a good education, which alone forms the different manners allotted to the ſexes, rendering men brave, and preſerving women chaſte. Exchange but the point of honour between them, and you fill the world with amazons and daſtards.

In the ſame Scene he expreſſes himſelf moſt af⯑fectingly, upon diſcovering the faithleſsneſs of his friend, and diſplays a noble and a generous nature, in his ready forgiveneſs, on the other's as prompt penitence.

SCENE V. and loſt.

In this paſſage Valentine is juſtly commended f [...] his proper and becoming manhood, in vindicatin the right both of his love and honour, at the hazar [...] of his, comparatively, meaner life. He has, therefore a right to the appellation and character here given o him, in the following line: ‘Thou art a gentleman, and well derived.’

But what ſtrikes me more particularly in this ſpeech, is the gallant Duke's aſſeveration, in that truly noble expreſſion, ‘Now, by the honour of my anceſtry.’ It was this generous ſpirited idea that continued down the race of heroes, among us, while they did exiſt; and were the profeſſion of heraldry never to be conſidered in any other light, than as a record of men's worth, not titles, it would then become both a political and a liberal ſcience. Honours, as Selden ſays, ſhould be native only, and not dative derived from Merits, not from Gifts.

SCENE II.

That our talents, our faculties, or powers, are not our own, properly; but that we are to conſider ourſelves as endowed with ſuch advantages, by Pro⯑vidence, for the more enlarged benefit of mankind, is finely ſet forth in the following ſpeech:

The dangers to be apprehended to ſociety, from thoſe who affect too much popularity, are very juſtly remarked upon, in the ſame Scene; which judgment may be fully ſupported by innumerable inſtances of Demagogues to be met with in hiſtory, both ancient and modern.

SCENE VI.

That a ſpirit of liberty, where the reins of go⯑vernment are ſuffered to relax, is too apt to exceed into a licentiouſneſs which counteracts its own ends, is well noted here.

Again, in the next Scene:

And juſt after, condemning his own neglect, in ſuffering the people to take ſuch ſcope, he carries his cenſure againſt himſelf ſo far, as even to ſay that he had encouraged them to do ſo:

The ſame reflection is carried on, in the fifth Scene of the Second Act; where ſome one ſays, ‘Lord Angelo is ſevere.’ To which Eſcalus, his colleague in adminiſtration, replies,

But to recur back again to the firſt Act, which I quitted in purſuit of the above argument ſtarted there; in the ſixth Scene, where Claudio deſires his friend to employ his ſiſter to ſolicit his pardon, he very judiciouſly urges that peculiar kind of per⯑ſuaſiveneſs, which naturally dwells in youth and innocence:

And again, in the laſt Scene of this firſt Act, Lucio ſays to Iſabella,

[38]In the ſame Scene the nature and danger of irre⯑ſolution is well deſcribed.

SCENE I.

The political arguments for juſtice, with the humane motives for mercy, are finely contraſted here, between the two Deputies of the State:

SCENE VII.

We find the ſame ſubjects continued here, with additional ſpirit and beauty.

I have tranſcribed, perhaps, more of this dialogue, than may be thought ſtrictly relative to the argu⯑ments of it; but I found it impoſſible to break off before, and I believe the reader would be ſorry to have had me interrupt it ſooner.

SCENE VIII.

The powerful attractions of virtue and modeſty, are finely ſhewn, in Angelo's conflict and reflections, here. Iſabella, having, in the laſt Scene, received ſome hope of pardon for her brother, takes leave of the Deputy, with this expreſſion:

SCENE IX.

The Duke here, under the character of a friar, in confeſſing Juliet, gives an admirable leſſon on the nature of contrition, diſtinguiſhing it very properly from attrition merely; and, at the ſame time, ex⯑preſſes a juſt but ſevere ſentence againſt a woman's failure in the point of chaſtity; their education, their manners, and the moral conſequences of their frailty, throwing ſo many more bars in their way, than the modes of the world have oppoſed to the other ſex.

SCENE X.

The frailty of human nature is well deſcribed in the wanderings of the mind in prayer, and the ſtruggle between virtue and paſſion, in the firſt ſpeech here; which concludes with obſerving, how apt the pageantry or falſe ſeemings of power are to impoſe on the world, even the great vulgar, as well as the ſmall.

SCENE XI.

There is a proper ſentiment of Chriſtian humility, expreſſed by Iſabella, in this place:

[44]And juſt after, there is a virtuous argument finely ſupported by her, againſt the inſidious pleadings of the Deputy; who, after refuſing her a pardon for her brother, thus proceeds:

SCENE I.

The Duke, remaining ſtill under the diſguiſe of a friar, comes to the priſon to prepare Claudio for death; upon which ſubject he makes a number of moral and philoſophic reflections; but theſe laſt moſtly of the Stoic kind, by obſerving on the precariouſ⯑neſs and inſignificancy of human life; the whole of which I ſhall give here at full length.

And in the next ſcene, Iſabella, after hinting to her brother at certain baſe conditions, on which his ſentence might be remitted, endeavours to ſtrengthen his reſolution to prefer death before diſhonour, by ſomewhat of the ſame manner of reaſoning, as above; but more concluſive and conciſe:

To this ſuſpicion of his weakneſs he replies, with the ſpirit becoming a man of honour and vir⯑tue:

But after having paid this compliment to heroiſm, Human Nature comes in for its ſhare, in turn; and he then pleads for life, even on the moſt abject terms:

What an ignoble ſentiment is here expreſſed, in the four laſt lines of this ſpeech! and yet the great Maecenas had the ſame, and declared it very nearly in the ſame words! What a diſgrace to letters! But hiſtory deſcribes him to have been a perſon of fop⯑piſh and effeminate manners; and 'tis but rarely that the outward character belies the inward one.

[47]Iſabella's indignation againſt her brother on this occaſion, though it has no relation to the ſubjects we are upon, yet as it may have an effect in raiſing the ſame reſentment againſt vice and meanneſs, in the minds of my readers, I think it worthy to be in⯑ſerted here:

SCENE VI.

In the laſt ſpeech of this ſcene, our Author gives us a ſhocking, but too juſt deſcription of Slander:

SCENE III.

In the laſt paſſage of this Scene, the Duke repeats the ſame reflection, in ſtill ſtronger terms:

Such has been the complaint of all ages, even when the ſcandal was merely oral; but how much more intolerable has the offence become, of late years, when obloquy is not only privately ſpoken, but pub⯑licly printed, and openly circulated throughout theſe kingdoms? The Freedom of the Preſs ſhould be ever [48] held ſacred among us. 'Tis our Palladium. But ſurely, to reſtrain its Licentiouſneſs, can no more hurt the Liberty of it, than the chaſtiſement of felony can be ſaid to injure the liberty of the ſubject.

SCENE X.

When Iſabella, upon a ſuppoſition of her brother's death, curſes Angelo for his perfidy, the Duke re⯑proves her in the following words:

Shakeſpeare ſeems to have wound up the ſeveral morals of his characters and dialogue, in this place, with an excellent Chriſtian document, againſt the rage of malediction, and the paſſion of revenge; for we find little more in the remainder of it, ſufficiently worthy of continuing any further remarks on the Piece.

SCENE I.

The forebodings or preſentiments of evil, natural to the human mind, are ſtrongly pointed at here. It were in vain to attempt the inveſtigation of this mat⯑ter from philoſophy, any more than that of prophetic dreams; ſo that all we have to do, is ſimply to ac⯑quieſce in the fact itſelf, which repeated experience has ſufficiently vouched in too many remarkable in⯑ſtances, to be imputed to common caſualty.

Upon which his two friends attempt to account for this impreſſion on his mind, in a very natural manner—as, ‘Where a man's treaſure is, there will his heart be alſo.’

But when he denies that any reflection upon the ſtate of his fortune, or that even the paſſion of love, has wrought this grave effect upon his ſpirits, they then remain quite at a loſs to account farther for it, referring it merely to the peculiarity of his charac⯑ter, or particular complexion of mind; which is deſcribed and contraſted with one of an oppoſite caſt, with admirable humour:

Gratiano then coming in, and taking notice of the ſeriouſneſs of Anthonio's aſpect, alike imputes it to the ſame cauſe his other friends had done:

To which he replies:

Upon this, Gratiano enters into the ſame hu⯑morous deſcription of the different characters of men, as Solarino had done.

Another very common character in life is alſo deſcribed in the ſame ſcene; though I think not fairly applicable to the perſon who was capable of making the ſpeech above cited:

[54]In the following paſſage of the ſame Scene, there is a warmth of affection and generous friendſhip, fondly and beautifully expreſſed.

Again, in the third Scene of Act the Third, the ſame noble ſpirit is carried on.

And from the Fifth Scene of the ſame Act, an⯑other paſſage may be quoted, which breathes the ſame ſtrain.

There is a becoming reſerve and modeſty in this laſt ſentence, which gives an additional beauty to the character of Portia. But I muſt now return again to the Firſt Act, that I may recover the order of the reflections which are made in this Piece.

SCENE II.

Here the golden mean is well recommended, by ſhewing the exceſs on either ſide, to be equally bad:

From thence Portia takes occaſion to hint at the inefficacy of good counſel towards governing or reſtraining our paſſions:

SCENE I.

The next paſſage that occurs, is a reflection on the caſualties of fortune, which no merit, no induſtry, no prudence can controul.

SCENE II.

In this Scene, the ſoliloquy of Launcelot is a ſtrong picture of the mind of man, whenever it de⯑bates within itſelf upon the right or wrong of a queſtion, in which it is any way intereſted; for in ſuch caſes, our paſſions, even without our conniv⯑ance, are apt to plead their own cauſe; and we but ſophiſticate, while we think we reaſon. In all doubt⯑ful matters, where the arguments ſeem to be equally ſuſpended, 'tis prudent ever to ſuſpect that ſide of the balance to be the lighteſt, which we find our affec⯑tions the moſt inclined to.

SCENE IX.

The deſcription here given of the parting of two friends, would make a beautiful and affecting ſub⯑ject for the pencil:

SCENE X.

The falſe or miſtaken ſupputations of happineſs, which men are too often apt to frame to themſelves, are well remarked upon, in this place:

And immediately after, in the ſame ſpeech, he makes a juſt and noble reflection, diſtinguiſhing merit from dignities; or titles to, from titles of, ho⯑nour.

SCENE I.

The enchanting powers and effects of muſic are here moſt poetically ſet forth. There can never be ſaid too much on this charming theme. Men's minds may be ſometimes too ſtern or obſtinate to yield to argument, but in melody there is a ſort of ſentiment, that ſinks into the heart, and by awaking the ſofter paſſions of the ſoul, often perſuades, where reaſon elſe would fail.

There is alſo a beautiful alluſion made to the light of a candle, in this place, which, with the moral deduced from it, is, I think, worthy to be noted here.

So ſays the Scripture, "Let your light ſo ſhine." And in the continuation of the ſame dialogue, the effects of time, circumſtance, compariſon, and oc⯑caſion, are beautifully and juſtly pointed out:

The next quotation, and the laſt I ſhall tranſcribe from this Play, is in the ſame Scene; where Portia accoſts her huſband's friend, Anthonio, on his firſt viſit to her, after the cataſtrophe of the piece has been wound up:

In this ſpeech ſhe very juſtly expreſſes the true ſentiment of affection, which renders profeſſions needleſs, where intentions are ſincere.

SCENE I.

THIS Play begins with a reflection on the firſt, and I may add the principal, concern in life, the education of children. Men are often more ſedulous in training the brutes of their kennels, their mews and their ſtables, than they ſeem to be about the heirs of their blood, their fortunes, or their honours. In ſad truth may it be ſaid, that we ſeldom meet with a jockey, an huntſman, or a ſportſman, who is half ſo well-bred as his horſes, his hawks, or his hounds.

Orlando, ſpeaking of the unkindneſs of his elder brother and guardian, ſays, ‘For my part, he keeps me ruſtically at home; or, to ſpeak more properly, flies me here at home, unkept; for call you that keep⯑ing, for a gentleman of my birth, that differs not from the ſtalling of an ox? His horſes are bred better; for beſides that they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their manage; and to that end riders dearly hired; but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth; for the which the animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him as I. Beſides this Nothing that he ſo plen⯑tifully gives me, the Something that Nature gave me his coun⯑tenance ſeems to take from me. He lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and, as much as in him lies, mines ^* my gentility with my education.’

SCENE III.

The laſt ſpeech, here, though it preſents us with no moral, I cannot paſs by without remarking, that it ſeems to be a perfect deſcription of our author's own character.

Oliver, ſpeaking of Orlando, his younger bro⯑ther, ſays, ‘Yet he's gentle; never ſchooled, and yet learned; full of noble device; and of all ſorts enchantingly beloved—’

SCENE IV.

There are ſome paſſages very tender, gene⯑rous, and affecting, in the firſt part of the dialogue between Roſalind and Celia, who had been bred up from their infancy in friendſhip together; the firſt, daughter to the exiled Duke; and the other, child to his brother, the Uſurper.

The ſame fondneſs between them is repeated in the tenth Scene of the ſame Act, upon Roſalind's being commanded to quit the dominions of the Uſurper.

As there are many vices in morals that are injuri⯑ous to ſociety, and which the laws have not ſtigma⯑tized, or poſſibly cannot ſufficiently provide againſt, the reprehenſions of Satire, under proper reſtrictions, may perhaps be deemed a neceſſary ſupplement to legiſlation. The moſt worthleſs perſon would chuſe to ſin in ſecret, as not being able to endure the being rendered an object of public deteſtation or ridicule; the fear of being pointed at has often laid a reſtraint on vice; in which ſenſe the finger may be ſaid to be ſtronger than the arm. Othello patheti⯑cally deſcribes ſuch a ſituation:

The paſſage which gave riſe to theſe reflections, is in this fourth Scene, where Celia interrupts Touch⯑ſtone, in his abuſe of an abſent perſon:

SCENE VIII.

There is a very proper hint given here to women, not to deviate from the preſcribed rules and deco⯑rums of their ſex. Whenever they venture to ſtep [72] the leaſt out of their walk, in life, they are too ge⯑nerally apt to wander aſtray.

SCENE X.

Roſalind, ſpeaking of diſguiſing herſelf in man's apparel, gives a good deſcription of a ſwaggering bully:

SCENE I.

The firſt ſpeech in this Scene is rich in reflection upon the new-moulding faculty of uſe or habit, the preference of a ſincere country life to a falſe city one, the advantages of adverſity, and the benefits of retired contemplation.

In the continuation of the ſame dialogue, ſome humane ſentiments are thrown out on the ſub⯑ject of hunting, with an affecting deſcription given of a wounded deer; and alſo ſome moral allu⯑ſions from human life to the different circumſtances and ſituations of the poor victim, which muſt equally engage the thought and feeling of the reader.

Whoever could read the above deſcription, and eat veniſon, on the ſame day, muſt have a better ſtomach, or a ſtouter heart, than they would do well to boaſt of—Such melancholy, ſuch ſullen fits, as theſe of Jaques, have ſomething more charming in them, than all ‘"The broadeſt mirth unfeeling Folly wears."’

SCENE III.

The dangers of pre-eminence and virtue in a wicked and envious world, are finely noted here.

Adam meeting Orlando, after he had conquered the Uſurper's champion:

When Adam counſels him to fly from the perſe⯑cution of his cruel brother, his anſwer expreſſes a noble and virtuous acquieſcence in any ſtate of miſery or danger, rather than ſubmit to ſupport himſelf by baſe or diſhoneſt means:

There is a charming glow of affection, gratitude, and ſpirit, in the reply made by Adam; with a pleaſ⯑ing deſcription of the virtue and ſobriety of the an⯑tient Peaſantry of England; and the difference of manners and morals between thoſe times and the more modern ones, is well remarked upon.

SCENE. IV.

The nature and follies of love are here extremely well deſcribed, between the ſeveral ſpeakers.

There is a very pretty poem on the ſame ſubject, and which ſeems to have taken its hint from this paſſage in Shakeſpeare, though the inſtances are dif⯑ferent and more in number, written by Miſs Aikin, among a collection of her's lately publiſhed, which I would inſert here, but that I ſuppoſe every reader of taſte muſt be in poſſeſſion of a work which ſo well deſerves a place in the moſt ſelect libraries; as doing equal honour to literature, and her ſex. (See page 66, of her Poems.)

SCENE V.

The common or modern modes of civility are well enough ridiculed, here; which, however, does not by any means reprove the fond expreſſions of affection, or the warm returns of gratitude.

[78]In the ſame place, the melancholy Jaques, as he is characterized, though he be of a gloomy and un⯑ſociable complexion himſelf, deſcribes a character in one word, that, in my opinion, is ſtill more unqua⯑lified for the converſe of the world than his own.

When he is told that the Duke has been all the day to look for him, he replies, ‘And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too diſputable ^* for my company. I think of as many matters as he; but I give heaven thanks, and make no boaſt of them ^‡.’

SCENE VI.

There is ſomething extremely pathetic and affecting in this ſhort ſcene between Orlando and Adam, on their pilgrimage.

SCENE VII.

Trite obſervations and common-place morals are well expoſed here:

In the ſame ſcene there is a good defence made for general ſatire.

Jaques, being accuſed of ſlander, ſays,

See the laſt remark on Scene IV. Act I. of this Play.

SCENE VIII.

The following paſſage requires no comment to point out its beauties, or to mark its impreſſion.

Orlando, travelling through the foreſt, with his poor old friend, leaves him, for a while, to go in queſt of food, as ſhewn before, in the laſt Scene but one; and coming where the Duke and his train are at dinner, draws his ſword, to force ſome of the viands from them. The former Scene, already quoted, prepares us finely for Orlando's violence here, which muſt otherwiſe have created diſguſt, and ſeem to have been inconſiſtent with his expreſſion, in the third Scene above, where he ſays to Adam,

Upon this challenge, the Duke ſays,

SCENE IX.

On Orlando's going out, the Duke ſays,

Upon which alluſion, Jaques gives a fine pictu⯑reſque and dramatic deſcription of life and character, in the following ſpeech:

SCENE X.

Some melancholy reflections on the baſe vice and moſt heinous ſin of ingratitude, are ſweetly com⯑prized in the following Air:

SCENE III.

No ſituation of life is ſatisfactory to us; there is ſomething we like, in all, but none that we would chuſe to take up with for better for worſe. This im⯑patience, this diſſatisfaction, in the mind of man, proclaims aloud that this world was never deſigned as our place of reſt; and to refer us for it to the grave, is but infidel mockery, ſurely.

[83]I am well aware, that after ſo ſerious a reflection, the following paſſage may be deemed too ſlight an illuſtration of the remark; but as it gave riſe to it, I think in juſtice that I ought to quote it here; for even a ſtraw is an argument of Providence, to the contemplative mind.

SCENE IV.

The common ſing-ſong of poetry is well obſerved upon, here; ſuch verſes, as Horace ſays, a perſon may compoſe two hundred of, ſtanding on one leg ^*, "without one thought to interrupt the ſong."

Roſalind, reading a paper written in her praiſe:

Upon which Touchſtone ſays, ‘I'll rhime you ſo, eight years together; dinners, and ſuppers, and ſleeping hours, excepted. It is the right butter-woman's rate to market. This is the very falſe gallop of verſes. Why do you in⯑fect yourſelf with them?’

SCENE VIII.

The different computations of time which are made by perſons variouſly intereſted in its progreſ⯑ſion, [84] are well and humorouſly deſcribed in this place.

SCENE X.

The abrupt commencement of this dialogue leads us to ſuppoſe, that it is but the continuation of one they had engaged in before their appearance in this ſcene, in which Celia had been endeavouring to quiet Roſalind's fears, upon her lover's having broke his promiſe of meeting her; and whether from being tired with her obſtinacy, or reſolving to try her ſincerity, ſhe here ſeems to join in her reſentment, by agreeing with her in every thing; which has an effect very natural in all ſuch caſes, that the plaintiff immediately becomes defendant, whenever the perſon beloved happens to be cenſured by any one elſe but them⯑ſelves.

Hermione ſays,

And the danger of interfering between man and wife, I ſhould hope ariſes from this principle. Reſentments may interrupt affection; but they muſt riſe to ſome⯑thing more, to cancel one that ever has been tho⯑roughly conceived.

SCENE XI.

This is a juſt thought; and it would be well if it were more attended to. No perſons have a right to cenſure others, who are not free from blame them⯑ſelves. This maxim, if extended to the ſtrictneſs of it, would ſilence all ſcandal, detraction, and re⯑proach; [86] and indeed it has been often obſerved, that the moſt faultleſs perſons are generally the leaſt ſe⯑vere. Heaven has more mercy, than man.

SCENE I.

As I have already given the reader ſome extracts of the character and ſentiments of the melancholy Jaques, in this Play, which muſt give a favourable impreſſion of him; I think he will be well pleaſed to ſee him introduced once more, particularly in a part where he gives a deſcription of himſelf, as he does in this ſcene, and where the lively Roſalind alſo equally and juſtly condemns the extremes, both of a merry and a grave complexion of mind and man⯑ners.

Roſalind then, taking advantage of the word travel, gives a deſcription of the alamode pilgrims of Shake⯑ſpeare's times, which may anſwer full as well for the faſhionable emigrants of our own days.

There is ſomething, upon the whole of this ſombre character of Jaques, that is intereſting, and makes me recollect a French line of ſome uncommon, becauſe ingenious and indulgent, Critic, who ſays, ‘Un eſprit né chagrin, plait par ſon chagrin même.’

SCENE V.

There is no paſſion which Shakeſpeare more fre⯑quently, or ſo poetically deſcribes, as that of love; and as it is the one which, by its deſpotiſm in our youthful years, often forms the deſtiny of our future life, and holds ſo immediate a relation to morals, we ſhould ſuffer no occaſion to paſs unnoticed, however humorouſly or ludicrouſly expreſſed, which either de⯑fines its nature, or remarks upon its effects.

SCENE V.

The uncertainty of opinion in things where the mind is anxious, is hinted at here:

SCENE VI.

Men who pretend to know the world, are apt to jo [...]n in the above ſatire upon mankind, by ſaying, what I am ſorry to repeat, that if we were to ſeek for honeſty, we muſt look for it, as the Clown hints, among the middle ranks of life.

The punctilios of honour, with regard to the falſe bravery, or Gothic chivalry of duelling, is admirably jeſted on in the ſame ſcene.

Doctor Warburton, in a note on this paſſage, has quoted a ſimilar one from Fletcher, in his Queen of Corinth:

As the humorous ſatire of Don Quixote came abroad into the world in Shakeſpeare's time, perhaps he might have taken a hint for this piece of ridicule from that writing; and Fletcher may have copied his raillery from him again. Malta is the only place now where the old Gothic chivalry is ſtill preſerved, and that duelling is eſtabliſhed by law.

SCENE VII.

I ſhall now conclude my remarks on this Play, with a ſong in this Scene, which comprehends my fa⯑vourite moral.

SCENE I.

The falſe glory of antient heroiſm is juſtly cen⯑ſured in the latter part of the following ſpeech.

The Princeſs, taking the bow to go a ſtag-ſhoot⯑ing, thus argues with herſelf, on a ſuppoſition either of her hitting or miſſing the quarry:

SCENE IV.

Part of a ſpeech here, is very worthy of a quo⯑tation; firſt, as it is one of the many fond deſcrip⯑tions of love given us by our Author; and next, as it ſhews the effects of this paſſion, in higher in⯑ſtances than any of his former ones, by urging its advantages to the minds and manners, as well as its operations upon the affections, of men; and in this light, it may be conſidered as a good comment on the fable of Cymon and Iphigenia.

Biron, ſpeaking to the King, Dumain, and Longa⯑ville, after they had all fallen in love, againſt the phlegmatic and fruitleſs ſtudy of monaſtic life, in a ſecluſion from all female converſe, ſays,

SCENE III.

That perſons of the beſt underſtandings are ge⯑nerally remarked to be the greateſt fools in love, the ſuperiority of their talents adding ſtrength to their paſſion, is well noted in the following obſer⯑vations; which, as Doctor Johnſon ſays upon this paſſage, ‘are worthy of a man who has ſurveyed human nature with the cloſeſt attention.’

Theſe ladies ſeem to ſpeak very philoſophically upon this ſubject; but might yet have improved [101] their lecture, by obſerving on as certain a fact, ſtill more extraordinary; which is, that to render a man of ſenſe the compleateſt ſlave in love, he muſt be captivated by a fool; provided ſhe has, what is ge⯑nerally met with in perſons of that character, a proper proportion of art or cunning.

Senſe is always a match for ſenſe, and can be over⯑reached by folly only; as here no danger is appre⯑hended to put a man on his guard, the fair one's wiles ſeeming to be all nature, naïveté, and charm⯑ing ſimplicity; and 'tis natural to humour thoſe fondlings, whom 'tis thought vain to reaſon with.

SCENE X.

I ſhall finiſh my remarks on this Play, with a paſſage in this Scene, which continues the ſubject above laſt mentioned, and is a further deſcription of the nature and effects of that paſſion:

Biron, to the ladies.

SCENE I.

THE rational, ſociable, and friendly manner in which crowned heads uſed formerly to live plea⯑ſantly with one another, is deſcribed here—Why is it no longer ſo? Does modern polity oppoſe itſelf to hu⯑manity? Kings may have miſtreſſes, indeed; but friend or favourite they muſt have none. What amends can the whole regalia of their ſolitary pomp afford them, for being denied one of the ſweeteſt, the deareſt, and the moſt virtuous enjoyments of life; a manly ſympathy of affections, and a chaſte intercourſe of ſouls! Modern kings may ſay, as Richard the Third did, I am myſelf alone; Incedo ſolus; but not in the happy ſenſe that Horace meant it—the quacunque libido eſt is wanting.

The paſſion in mankind for life, and the pre⯑tences they make to themſelves for ſtill wiſhing to defer their departure from time to time, is well enough pointed out in the following paſſage:

[106]Camillo, ſpeaking of the young Prince of Sicilia, ſays,

He makes old hearts freſh; they that went on crutches, ere he was born, deſire yet their life to ſee him a man.

SCENE II.

The happy ſtate of youth, and conſequently of innocence, is here well deſcribed:

SCENE III.

When Leontes, having conceived a jealouſy of Polixenes, commands Camillo, whom he had ap⯑pointed cup-bearer to his gueſt, to poiſon him; this good man makes an admirable reflection on diſ⯑loyalty and rebellion, in the following ſoliloquy:

SCENE II.

The unhappy Queen of Sicilia, when ſhe is called upon her public trial for a ſuppoſed adultery, ſpeaks with a noble ſpirit of parental ſentiment on the occaſion.

The beautiful ſentiment expreſſed in the laſt lines, which muſt draw tears of pity from virtuous mothers, and ſhould thoſe of another kind from vicious ones, puts me in mind of a parallel paſſage in Scripture— ‘A mother in diſhonour is a reproach to her children ^†’.

SCENES III. and IV.

The ſudden ebbs of warm and violent tempers, with the revealing nature of a guilty conſcience; which is apt to confeſs its crime even before 'tis charged with it, as Leontes does here, with regard to the intended murder of Polixenes, which remained yet a ſecret in his own breaſt; are ſtrongly depicted in this Scene.

Leontes, on hearing that his ſon had died of grief, and ſeeing his wife fall into a ſwoon on that [108] event, is ſuddenly ſtruck with compaſſion and re⯑morſe.

SCENE V.

Paulina too, being likewiſe a perſon of ſtrong paſſions and an ungovernable temper, ſhews as quick a revulſion in the midſt of her rage againſt Leontes, upon finding him repentant, though ſhe had even told him, the moment before, that neither penance nor penitence itſelf could aught avail him.

Though I cannot help obſerving here, that her vindictive ſpirit appears plainly not to have yet ſub⯑ſided, but only taken a different courſe, by the latter part of her ſpeech; for ſhe continues ſtill to accu⯑mulate her charges againſt him, as if only by way of enumerating the articles of her forgiveneſs.

Our Author, who almoſt every where manifeſts a perfect knowledge in the anatomy of the human mind, proves his ſcience more particularly in a paſſage of this Scene, by ſhewing a property in our natures which might have eſcaped any common diſſecter of morals; and this is, our ſuffering, upon true penitence and contrition, not only all reproach thrown out againſt us with meekneſs and ſubmiſſion, but even encouraging and augmenting the abuſe, by joining in our own condemnation. This may poſſibly ariſe from a ſtrong wiſh, or ſanguine hope, that ſuch a voluntary penance may in part be ac⯑cepted, both by heaven and the world, as ſome ſort of atonement for our crimes.

Leontes, while Paulina is arraigning him with the utmoſt virulence and ſeverity, inſtead of having her caſt out from his preſence, cries,

[110]Again, when ſhe ſeems to relent of her ſeverity towards him,

In the Firſt Scene of the Fifth Act, the ſame ſubject is renewed, where Leontes manifeſts the ſame humi⯑liation and contrition for his crime, that he did be⯑fore: but as an interval of ſixteen years, ſpent in ſorrow and repentance, had paſſed between theſe two aeras, he, as would be natural then, ſhews an un⯑eaſineſs at the reproach, and intreats to be relieved from it for the future; but this in a manner ſo gentle and ſubmiſſive, as none but Shakeſpeare him⯑ſelf could have conceived. The whole paſſage is worthy of being quoted.

SCENE IV.

There is a poetical hiſtory of love given here, which cloſes with a beautiful deſcription of a chaſte and pure paſſion in a lover.

SCENE V.

Here is a paſſage that I am particularly fond of, becauſe it vindicates the rights of Nature, even over thoſe arts which ſeem to vie and co-operate with her; for her general laws can never be controlled but by bye ones of her own making.

I have continued the above dialogue beyond the philoſophy of its ſubject, in order to treat my reader with one of the moſt refined ſentiments of a chaſte and delicate mind, that can poſſibly be conceived. Perdita ſhews a charming genuineneſs of nature in her latter ſpeech; for though ſhe confeſſes the truth of Polixenes' poſition, yet is ſhe ſo jealous of the honour of our great parent, that even the appearance of a violation againſt her rights offends her. And the parallel ſhe makes upon the occaſion, is beautiful. Readers ſee not half the greatneſs of Shakeſpeare, who overlook his minutiae.

In the ſame ſcene, the praiſe that Florizel beſtows on Perdita is equally fond and beautiful.

[113]To which ſhe replies, with very good ſenſe and prudence,

In anſwer to this, he ſays,

This is the true character of youth in the different ſexes: Sincerity on one ſide, and confidence on the other. Deceit and diffidence are the fruits of riper, or more rotten, years.

SCENE IX.

There is a reflection made here, which, if true, would be one of the heavieſt articles of affliction.

But I ſhall rather hope and believe, with the charming Perdita, in the faith and fidelity ſhe ex⯑preſſes in her reply:

SCENE XI.

There is a good ridicule, here, on the affectations of perſons of rank, in the deſcription of the man⯑ners by which the vulgar often diſtinguiſh their bet⯑ters—perhaps their ſuperiors only.

The old ſhepherd and his ſon, upon ſeeing Auto⯑licus, the ſharper, dreſſed up in a ſuit of the prince's cloaths, debate thus about him:

SCENE I.

There is a good remark made here, on the wrong timing of reproof, in the ſpeech of Cleo⯑mines to Paulina, upon her rough treatment of Leontes, on the ſubject of his misfortunes, when ſhe is diſſuading him from marrying.

SCENE V.

This Comedy is full of well-deſcribed character, and beautiful deſcription; but theſe not happening to fall within the ſcope I had preſcribed to myſelf in this work, I have reluctantly paſſed them by, without noting. However, there is one paſſage among them, which luckily affords me a proper ſubject of remark, in the account given of Leontes and Ca⯑millo, on their being certified of the preſervation of Perdita.

This deſcription not only contains the beautiful and the ſublime, but riſes to a ſtill higher ſublimity, or, to ſpeak in the ſtile of the Pſalmiſt, to the moſt [115] higheſt, in the alluſion to ſacred writ, relating to the two principal articles in the Old and New Teſta⯑ment, the fall of man, and his redemption. Shake⯑ſpeare makes frequent references to the ſacred text, and writes often, not only as a moraliſt, but as a divine.

Autolicus having by accident had ſome hand in bringing about the diſcovery of Perdita, which was a circumſtance that might have been ſuffi⯑cient to make another man's fortune, makes only this ſad ſoliloquy upon the occaſion: ‘Now, had I not the daſh of my former life in me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought the old man and his ſon aboard the Prince; told him I heard them talk of a fardel, and I know not what; but he at that time over-fond of the ſhepherd's daughter, ſo he then took her to be, who began to be much ſea-ſick, and himſelf little better, extremity of weather continuing, this myſtery remained undiſcovered. But 'tis all one to me; for had I been the finder out of this ſecret, it would not have reliſhed, among my other diſcredits.’

That honeſty is the beſt policy, is a homely proverb; but this only the more vouches the truth of it, by its having ſtood the teſt of all experience. Character is the immediate jewel of the ſoul, not only in its own worth, but even in the temporal advantages which frequently accrue from it. Loſt health may be re⯑paired, loſt fortune be regained, even loſt ſenſes may be recovered; but a forfeited character is rarely ever to be retrieved.

This is a theme which cannot be too largely or too frequently expatiated upon; which I hope will ſerve as my apology for having taken the hint from ſo mean and trifling an inſtance as the foregoing.

SCENE VI.

The old ſhepherd and his ſon having by the me⯑dium of the princeſs Perdita obtained into favour at Court, Autolicus aſks forgiveneſs of the Clown for the tricks he had played him. ‘I humbly beſeech you, Sir, to pardon me all the faults I have committed to your worſhip, and to give me your good report to the prince my maſter.’ [116] This requeſt is ſeconded by the old man, in words which deſcribe the proper character of that rank of life to which he had been juſt elevated.

But 'tis pity that the conduct and behaviour of too many, in ſo reſpectable a claſs, ſhould afford cauſe for the ſevere ſarcaſm couched in the following words of the ſon:

SCENE VII.

Paulina ſays to Leontes, on perceiving him to be ſtrongly affected on ſeeing Hermione repreſented ſo much to the life, as a ſuppoſed ſtatue:

To which he replies:

This is ſpoken with a true ſenſe of a propitia⯑tory and a contrite grief. A ſincere repentance is, indeed, an healing balm to the wounded conſcience; a cordial comfort to the ſoul.

SCENE I.

THIS Play opens with a ſweet paſſage, in which the charms of muſic, and the nature of love, are beautifully deſcribed.

As I have hitherto obſerved upon Shakeſpeare's critical knowledge in human nature, I hope it will not appear invidious now, if I ſhould here remark upon his deficiency in a paſſage above—lines ſecond and third. The duke is there made to wiſh his paſ⯑ſion were extinct; which, I believe, the moſt unhappy lover never yet did. We wiſh to remove every un⯑eaſy ſenſation it afflicts us with, by any means what⯑ever; ſometimes even by death itſelf; but never by the extinction of the affection.

This is not peculiar to love alone; 'tis the ſame in all the tender feelings. We wiſh the object of our grief brought back again to life, but deſire not to forget our ſorrow. We wiſh to relieve the ſubjects of our pity, but would not be deprived of our com⯑paſſion. [120] Heaven hath ſo framed us, and Heaven be praiſed for having endowed and adorned us with ſuch ſweet compunctious viſitings of Nature! 'tis in theſe fea⯑tures only that we can reſemble our Maker. In the more heroic qualities of bravery and fortitude, can be traced no likeneſs of the Deity, becauſe ſuper⯑fluous in a perfect ſtate. The ſubject of love is touched upon again, twice, in the ſame Scene:

And when Valentine acquaints the Duke with Oli⯑via's vow of ſequeſtering herſelf from the world, for ſeven years, to mourn the death of her brother, he cries out in an extaſy,

I am happy that this latter paſſage happens to oc⯑cur ſo immediately after my remark above, as it affords me an opportunity of doing juſtice to Shake⯑ſpeare, by obſerving that his inference, from Olivia's grief, to the nature of her heart in love, ſhews a perfect knowledge in this ſpecies of philoſophy. The paſſions are divided into but two claſſes, the tender and the violent; and any one of either affords an earneſt of all others of the ſame kind.

His diſtinction, too, of the three thrones, the liver, brain, and heart, is admirable. Theſe are truly the ſeats of the three chief affections of love; the heart for paſſion, the mind for eſteem, and the liver for jealouſy; if Horace's anatomy is to be credited ^‡.

SCENE XI.

In the laſt ſpeech of this Act, Olivia ſpeaks in the uſual manner of all infatuated perſons, who are apt to make the Fates anſwerable for thoſe follies or vices which they have not ſenſe or virtue enough to extricate themſelves from, by their own exertions. For, upon a conſciouſneſs of having too weakly be⯑trayed her paſſion for Viola, appearing under the cha⯑racter of a cavalier, ſhe acquieſces in her indiſcre⯑tion, by ſaying,

She repeats the ſame idle apology for herſelf, again, in the ſecond Scene of the next Act:

SCENE I.

There is a ſlight ſtroke thrown out here, againſt an affected refinement on common ſpeech; which however I ſhall lay hold of, as one ſhould animad⯑vert upon every ſpecies of pedantry, which is an incumbrance to literature, and caſts a damp upon all free and liberal converſation.

SCENE XIV.

There is a moſt delicate ſenſibility expreſſed by a perſon here, in his reproach to one whom, by a ſimi⯑larity of appearances, he had miſtaken for a friend on whom he had formerly conferred obligations, which he ſeemed then to have forgotten.

To which the innocent and miſtaken Viola replies, with a becoming ſpirit of conſcious virtue,

There is an antient adage, which ſays, that the ſin of ingratitude includes every vice ^*. It renders us un⯑worthy [123] of all the goods and enjoyments of life, even of our very exiſtence; for we owe them all to favour and benevolence. Religion and virtue are, therefore, but barely the acknowledging a debt, which muſt ever remain undiſcharged.

All the moral I have been able to extract from this Piece, concludes in this Scene, with a poſition which it were devoutly to be wiſhed had as much truth in phyſics, as it has in philoſophy: That the outward form is but the viſible ſign of the internal mind.

I ſhall here give a quotation from a modern dra⯑matic poem of diſtinguiſhed merit, as the paſſage relates ſo immediately to the ſubject above laſt mentioned.

SCENE I.

Upon Mrs. Page's reading Falſtaff's Love-letter to her, ſhe makes the following reflection: ‘What unweighed behaviour hath this Flemiſh drunkard pickt, i' th' Devil's name, out of my converſation, that he dares in this manner eſſay me? Why, he hath not been thrice in my company— What ſhould I ſay to him? I was then frugal of my mirth."’

And in the next Scene, on communicating this adventure to Mrs. Ford, ſhe recurs to the ſame thought again.

This is a very natural ſentiment for a delicate mind to conceive, upon meeting with an affront of this ſort; and 'tis extremely proper, upon all ſuch occa⯑ſions, to enter into ſuch a ſelf-examination, by way of inquiring what part of our own conduct, or unweighed behaviour, as ſhe expreſſes it, might have encouraged the offence; and upon an impartial ſcrutiny we ſhall generally find, that 'tis more our indiſcretion than our charms which prompts the attack.

SCENE IX.

To preſerve a charity in cenſure, from a conſci⯑ouſneſs of our own frailties, is very properly re⯑commended [128] here, though ſpoken in a feigned cha⯑racter.

The vice and folly of unlawful love are well ex⯑poſed by an excellent alluſion, in the ſame Scene:

SCENE XII.

Where Fenton tells Anne Page her father's objec⯑tions to him for his ſon-in-law, he gives a juſt de⯑ſcription and character of thoſe ſpendthrift men of quality, who go into the City to look for wives to repair their broken fortunes.

SCENE XIII.

Anne Page lamenting her father's tyranny, in condemning her to marry a man ſhe deteſted on ac⯑count of his fortune, ſays,

SCENE IV.

There was ſomething very pleaſing and advan⯑tageous to morals in the antient ſuperſtition which [129] ſuppoſed the actions of men to have been under the immediate cognizance of certain ſuperior Beings, who uſed to diſtribute rewards and puniſhments on the inſtant.

Evans, perſonating the King of the Fairies:

The metaphorical expoſition of this fable, is, I believe, and kindly hope too, moſt fully experienced by the difference of ſlumbers between an approving and an upbraiding mind. An evil conſcience is a ſhrew, and gives moſt ſhocking curtain lectures.

SCENE V.

There is a very good reflection made here, upon the nature of fear or guilt being apt to confound our reaſon and ſenſes, ſo as to lead us to miſtake appearances for realities.

Falſtaff, upon the mockery of the Fairies being diſcovered to him, ſays, ‘And theſe are not Fairies? I was three or four times in the thought they were not Fairies; and yet the guiltineſs of my mind, with the ſudden ſurpriſe of my powers, drove the groſſneſs of the foppery into a received belief, in deſpite of the teeth of all rhime and reaſon, that they were Fairies. See now, how wit may be made a Jack-a- [...]t, when 'tis upon ill employment!’

SCENE I.

The proper uſe and choice of travel and ſtudy, of ſuch ſort of travel and ſtudy as rendered ſo many men eminent among the Antients, are well treated of here.

The following reply adds a more liberal ſcope to the uſes of ſtudy and travel:

SCENE III.

A truth is here ſpoken, which is too frequently evinced by the general practice of the ſelf-intereſted, or, more properly ſpeaking, avaricious world; where Gremio and Hortenſio are conferring together about providing a huſband for Catharine, as the younger ſiſter is not to be married till the elder is diſpoſed of.

SCENE IV.

Love conceived at firſt ſight, is the ſubject of moſt Romances; and the philoſophy of theſe Northern climes looks for it only there; but if we conſult the volume of Nature more at large, we ſhall find that ſuch extempore paſſions are not infrequent in the more Southern regions of the world: and the clear and warm air of Italy communicates a briſker motion to the heart and ſpirits, than our natural phlegm can poſſibly be ſenſible of.

Tranio, upon perceiving the emotion of Lucentio, on his firſt view of Bianca, ſays to him,

Tranio replies, very judiciouſly,

SCENE I.

Phyſiognomiſts ſay, that the features of the mind uſually mark their impreſſions on the countenance. A mirthful or melancholy aſpect, a wanton or mali⯑cious one; in fine, every characteriſtic trait of vi⯑ſage throughout, denote their correſpondent paſſions or affections in the ſoul. Socrates acknowledged the certainty of this ſcience, by confeſſing a deſcription of himſelf to be true, as to his nature, though falſe, regarding his character.

According to this piece of philoſophy, a perſon of a ſevere and ſaturnine complexion is humorouſly de⯑ſcribed in this place.

From hence this lively girl proceeds to draw a contraſt between him and another perſon, of a con⯑trary diſpoſition, very juſtly cenſuring both of the extremes: ‘He were an excellent man that were made juſt in the mid-way between him and Benedick; the one is too like an image, and ſays nothing; and the other, too much like my lady's eldeſt ſon, ever⯑more tattling.’

SCENE III.

The abſolute dominion which love is found to uſurp, not only over our paſſions, but our very principles, is too juſtly deſcribed in a paſſage here; which may lead one to pronounce, that neither man or woman can truly boaſt a friend, whom they have not had an occaſion of firſt trying as a rival.

SCENE V.

The effect of ſtrong paſſion in the prevention of utterance, is well expreſſed here:

SCENE VIII.

The total metamorphoſis of character, manners, and diſpoſition, wrought in us by love, is well de⯑ſcribed in a ſpeech in this Scene:

From theſe reflections, Benedick goes on holding a debate with himſelf upon this ſubject; and, like moſt people, before their hearts have become a party in the matter, draws a vain portrait of the peerleſs para⯑gon who only can be capable of triumphing over his affections; leaving nothing, in the choice of his miſtreſs, to Heaven itſelf, except the colour of her hair.

SCENE IX.

Modeſty is as ſure an attendant on Merit, as its companion, as Envy is, as its ſhade ^*.

In the ſame Scene, Don Pedro, ſpeaking of Be⯑nedick, ſays, ‘The man doth fear God, howſoever it ſeems not in him, by ſome large jeſts he will make.’

This is too common a character in life; of perſons who ſcoff at religion with as much fear and trem⯑bling, as would be ſufficient to work out their ſalvation. The whole of infidelity is owing to a fool-hardy diſ⯑poſition [152] of this ſort. The ſtrongeſt Deiſts are but Sceptics; and the Atheiſt, no more than a Deiſt in reality; nay often, as Pope humorouſly expreſſes it on another occaſion, ‘"May be a ſad good Chriſtian in his heart."’

SCENE X.

The ſcheme for inducing Benedick and Beatrice to fall in love with each other, which is commenced with him in the preceding Scene, and concluded with her in the firſt one of the Third Act, is moſt admirably laid. The ſureſt method that artifice can contrive to inſpire a paſſion in any one, is by giving them a notion of the other party's predilection for them; for, as Hero ſays to Urſula, in the plot on Beatrice,

And again,

When every other circumſtance of years, of rank, and fortune happens to be on a par, ſuch arts may, perhaps, be allowed to paſs under the title of pious frauds, at leaſt; for gratitude is a good cement of af⯑fections, as it ſerves to confirm paſſion by principle.

The readineſs with which we are apt to run into the ſnare ourſelves, with the kind of logic we uſe in order to make a ſudden reſolve appear a deliberate pur⯑poſe, may be ſeen diſplayed in the ſoliloquy of Bene⯑dick, juſt after Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato, had played off their part againſt him, as ſuppoſing him not to be within hearing.

[153]Benedick, advancing from the arbour, ‘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 cenſured; they ſay, I will bear myſelf proudly, if I perceive the love to 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 her wit—nor no great argument of her folly, neither; for I will be horribly in love with her—I may chance to have ſome odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, be⯑cauſe I have railed ſo long againſt marriage; but doth not the ap⯑petite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth, that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips and ſentences, theſe paper bullets of the brain, awe a man from the career of his 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 married. Here comes Beatrice! By this day, ſhe's a fair lady—I do ſpy ſome marks of love in her.’

The ſpeech of Beatrice, alſo, in the firſt Scene of the Third Act, has a right to take place here, though ſomewhat before its time, as a companion to the preceding.

Beatrice, advancing, after Hero and Urſula had quitted the Scene:

SCENE II.

Hero, being falſely accuſed of an act of diſho⯑nour, is examined before her father, her lover, and a Friar, with other friends, who had all met together in a convent to attend her nuptials; and the bitter⯑neſs of a parent's anguiſh and reſentment on ſo trying an occaſion, is moſt feelingly expreſſed in the fol⯑lowing ſpeech:

[156]Upon this occaſion, the good Friar, with that charity and humanity which ſo well become the ſacred office of Prieſthood, and from that obſerva⯑tion which his long experience in the buſineſs of auricular confeſſion had enabled him to form, ſtands forth an advocate for Hero's innocence, in the fol⯑lowing poetical and philoſophical oration:

But, a little after, this good caſuiſt aſks her ſud⯑denly this trying queſtion: ‘Lady, what man is he you are accuſed of?’ Upon which paſſage Doctor Warburton makes the following judicious remark:

‘The Friar had juſt before boaſted his great ſkill in ſifting out the truth; and indeed, he ap⯑pears, in this inſtance, to have been no fool. He was by, all the while at the accuſation, and heard no names mentioned. Why, then, ſhould he aſk her what man ſhe was accuſed of? But in this lay the ſubtilty of his examination. For, had Hero been guilty, it was very probable that, in the hurry and confuſion of ſpirits into which the terrible inſult of her lover had thrown her, ſhe [159] would never have obſerved that the man's name was not mentioned; and ſo, on this queſtion, might have betrayed herſelf, by naming the per⯑ſon ſhe was conſcious of an affair with. The Friar obſerved this, and ſo concluded, that, were ſhe guilty, ſhe would probably have fallen into the trap he had laid for her. I only take notice of this, to ſhew how admirably well Shakeſpeare knew how to ſuſtain his characters.’

But this noble defence for the unhappy Hero, not being ſufficient to obviate the ſtrong impreſſions of her guilt, which the father had conceived againſt her, the honeſt Prieſt then goes on to propoſe a ſcheme of conduct to him, which might peradven⯑ture bring about ſome criſis or event, that would clear her innocence; at leaſt ſilence the infamy, and remove her from being any longer an object of ob⯑loquy. In this propoſal there is ſhewn a juſt knowledge of the world, and an intimate acquaintance with the ſecret movements of the human heart.

To this innocent deception the father at length conſents, expreſſing himſelf, at the ſame time, in a manner that every perſon's experience, who has ever had the misfortune to have been in ſuch ſituations, muſt have felt the juſtneſs of.

Doctor Johnſon's note upon this paſſage, is worthy of being quoted here:

‘This is one of our Author's obſervations upon life. Men overpowered with diſtreſs, eagerly liſten to the firſt offers of relief, cloſe with every ſcheme, and believe every promiſe. He that has no longer any confidence in himſelf, is glad to repoſe his truſt in any other that will undertake to guide him.’

SCENE III.

Beatrice, in ſpiriting up Benedick to avenge her couſin Hero's quarrel, thus expreſſes her reſentment againſt the offender: ‘Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath ſlander'd, ſcorn'd, diſhonour'd my kinſwoman! O, that I were a man! What! bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and then with public accuſation, uncover'd ſlander, unmitigated rancour— O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place. O that I were a man for his ſake! or, that I had any friend would be a man for my ſake! But manhood is melted into courteſies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too—He is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie, and ſwears to it—I cannot be a man with wiſhing, there⯑fore I will die a woman with grieving.’

There is a generous warmth of indignation in this ſpeech, which muſt certainly impreſs a female reader with the ſame ſentiments upon ſuch an occaſion. I am not ſo diſingenuous to take advantage of this paſſage as an hiſtorical fact, but am willing to reſt it upon the ſole authority of the Poet's aſſumption, as this will ſufficiently anſwer the deſign of my intro⯑ducing it; which is, to vindicate my ſex from the general, but unjuſt charge of being prone to ſlander; for were this the caſe, were not the reſentment of Beatrice, in this inſtance, natural, how could it move our ſympathy? which it actually does here, even though we acknowledge the circumſtance to have been merely imaginary.

I believe, that there is nothing which a woman of virtue feels herſelf more offended at, than defama⯑tion or ſcandal; firſt againſt her own character, and proportionably when others are made the victims. There are women, indeed, who may be fond of flander, as having an intereſt in depreciating an idea of chaſtity; but this is owing to their frailty, not their ſex—Vice is neither maſculine, nor feminine; 'tis the common of two.

SCENE I.

While the above-mentioned experiment was de⯑pending, and before the honour of Hero had been cleared, Antonio, her uncle, endeavours to com⯑fort his brother under this misfortune; who replies to him in a manner very natural for a perſon la⯑bouring under the immediate preſſure of affliction, to ſpeak to all adviſers who do not ſuffer the ſame portion of grief themſelves.

SCENE II.

Upon the two brothers meeting Claudio ſoon after, the father challenges him to ſingle combat, for the ſcandal he had thrown upon his daughter's fame; which being paſſed off in a ſort of contemp⯑tuous manner, the reſentment of the younger bro⯑ther is rouſed, and he immediately ſteps between and takes the quarrel upon himſelf, retorting the affront by a juſt deſcription of the bragging profligates of thoſe, or, indeed, of any times. Horatio's taunt to Lothario ^* ſeems to have been borrowed from this paſſage.

As I commenced my remarks on this Play with a note of Doctor Warburton's, I ſhall conclude them, alſo, with another very judicious obſervation of the ſame critic upon this laſt paſſage:

‘This brother Anthony is the trueſt picture ima⯑ginable of human nature. He had aſſumed the character of a Sage, to comfort his brother o'er⯑whelmed with grief for his only daughter's affront and diſhonour; and had ſeverely reproved him for not commanding his paſſion better, on ſo try⯑ing an occaſion. Yet, immediately after this, no ſooner does he begin to ſuſpect that his age and valour are ſlighted, but he falls into the moſt in⯑temperate fit of rage himſelf; and all his brother can ſay, or do, is not of power to pacify him. This is copying Nature with a penetration and exactneſs of judgment peculiar to Shakeſpeare. As to the expreſſion, too, of his paſſion, nothing can be more highly painted.’

SCENE I.

THE Counteſs of Rouſillon ſpeaking of Helena, her Ward, ſays, ‘I have thoſe hopes of her good, that her education promiſes her; diſpoſition ſhe inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go with pity; they are virtues and traitors too; in her they are the better for her ſimpleneſs; ſhe derives her honeſty, and achieves her goodneſs.’

The Commentators are not agreed in opinion upon the verbal ſenſe of this paſſage—but no matter; I ſhall leave their criticiſm undecided, and proceed to the moral interpretation of it; which is, that a derived virtue, which implies a natural good diſpo⯑ſition, affords conſiderable aſſiſtance to a good edu⯑cation; that accompliſhments, without ſuch a foun⯑dation, are a diſadvantage to the poſſeſſors, as but tending to their condemnation and reproach; that the innocence and ſimplicity of Helena's mind and heart made uſe of no arts, but left her talents to the natural effect of their own operations; and that though a good diſpoſition may be inherited, virtues muſt be purchaſed.

In the ſame Scene, when Bertram comes to take leave of his mother, in order to attend the king, ſhe gives him her bleſſing in a moſt pathetic manner, and the moſt effectual too, where the ſeeds of virtue are, by ſetting his noble father before him as a pat⯑tern. To this ſhe likewiſe adds ſome precepts for the conduct of his life, which would have done honour to the firſt Sages of Aegypt, Greece, or Rome.

SCENE II.

Frequent deſcriptions of love recur in almoſt every one of Shakeſpeare's Plays. The enamoured Helena ſpeaks very affectingly on this ſubject here; firſt, by reproving the vain ambition of her paſſion for Bertram, a young nobleman ſo far above her hopes, and then proceeding, notwithſtanding, though very naturally, to give an account of the fond in⯑dulgencies with which ſhe ſtill nouriſhes her flame.

The preferences which worthleſs people, flatterers and paraſites, too often gain by addreſs and com⯑pliances, before perſons of unſupple merit and virtue, are well ſet forth in this place.

Helena, ſpeaking of Parolles, ſays,

SCENE IV.

There are ſome excellent well-ſpirited reflections here thrown out, to encourage men in the exertion of all their active faculties towards the advancement of their fortunes; and to earn their independance by the manly means of induſtry, inſtead of poorly crouching at the gates of Providence, whining for an alms.

Helena, upon her reſolving to undertake the cure of the king's diſorder, in hopes through that means to raiſe her rank and fortune to a reſpect not un⯑worthy of Bertram, ſays,

SCENE V.

There is a moſt beautiful character given here, of a gallant ſoldier and virtuous courtier, in the de⯑ſcription of Bertram's deceaſed father; with ſome juſt ſtrictures on the deficiency of theſe qualities, in the ſucceeding generation; which being the prin⯑cipal parts of the ſpeech, I have firſt noted in it; but as there is alſo a charming mixture of the old [168] man and the old friend, in the reſt of it, I ſhall here give the whole together.

[169]The ſelf-interruptions in the above ſpeech, how ad⯑mirably are they in the uſual ſtile of a narrative old man! What age, what ſex, what character, ſtation, or office of life, eſcapes the touches of Shakeſpeare's plaſtic hand!

SCENE VI.

The diffidence which every one ſhould manifeſt, reſpecting their own merits, is well recommended in the following paſſage.

The ſteward, ſpeaking to the Counteſs: ‘Madam, the care I have had to even ^* your content, I wiſh might be rather found in the calendar of my paſt endeavours; for then we wound our modeſty, and make foul the cleanneſs of our deſerv⯑ings, when of ourſelves we publiſh them.’

SCENE VI.

There are a number of moral and philoſophic thoughts on worth and virtue, and on the ſevere laws which the pride and vanity of mankind have eſta⯑bliſhed againſt their own happineſs and enjoyments^†, delivered here, on the occaſion of Bertram's declining a marriage with Helena, who had confeſſed her love for him to the king, becauſe the happened to have neither birth or means to intitle her to the honour of his alliance.

SCENE VII.

When Lafeu has quitted the ſcene, after having bullied and abuſed Parolles, the latter being left alone, makes this ſoliloquy:

Upon this paſſage Doctor Warburton takes oc⯑caſion to pay the following juſt compliment to our Author:

‘This the Poet makes Parolles to ſpeak alone; and this is nature. A coward would endeavour to hide his poltroonery even from himſelf. An or⯑dinary writer would have been glad of ſuch an op⯑portunity to bring him to a confeſſion.’

SCENE VI.

THE following ſpeech, though delivered with an air of levity, and expreſſed in humorous words and images, ſupplies occaſion for three very juſt reflections. The firſt, That ſelf intereſt, in the mere worldly ſenſe of the term, is the ruling prin⯑ciple of mankind. Secondly, That men are too apt to inveigh againſt corruption, more from the being void of temptation themſelves, than their being free from this vice; and, laſtly, That bad examples in the ſuperior ranks of life, have a dangerous tendency to injure the morals of the inferior claſſes of a people.

Upon a peace being made between the kings of England and France, in which the right of Arthur to the Britiſh throne is betrayed on the one hand, and but poorly compenſated on the other, Faulcon⯑bridge makes this ſoliloquy:

The aſtoniſhment of Conſtance, on hearing that her ſon's intereſts are ſacrificed to the league, with the doubts which we are naturally inclined to con⯑ceive of the truth of ſudden ill news, and the weak ſtate of mind and ſpirits to which perſons in misfor⯑tune, eſpecially helpleſs women, are generally re⯑duced, are all finely painted and deſcribed in the fol⯑lowing ſpeech.

A little further, upon Saliſbury's confirming the bad news, ſhe conceives a very natural though un⯑reaſonable idea, with which, however, we are apt to be impreſſed toward all meſſengers of bad tidings, however innocent of the evil:

That partiality in favour of beauty, which it is natural for all perſons to be ſenſible of, even where their duty and intereſts in different objects are equal, is ſtrongly marked by Conſtance, when her ſon begs her to ſuſtain his wrongs with patience. The whole ſpeech is affecting.

In the ſame Scene, when Saliſbury tells her that the two kings had ſent for her, and that be muſt not return without her, the anſwer ſhe makes is full of that dignity, which grief, mixed with reſentment, is capable of conferring on illuſtrious unfortunates; and her whole demeanour upon that occaſion is ex⯑preſſive of a great ſoul, rendered ſtill braver by miſ⯑fortunes.

Doctor Johnſon has given us a very judicious note on this paſſage; and as it relates to the paſſions, which, as well as morals, are a ſubject of this work, I ſhall preſent the reader with a tranſcript of it here.

‘In Much Ado About Nothing, the father of Hero, depreſſed by her diſgrace, declares himſelf ſo ſub⯑dued by grief, that a thread may lead him ^*. How is it that grief, in Leonato and Lady Conſtance, produces effects directly oppoſite, and yet both agreeable to Nature? Sorrow ſoftens the mind, while it is yet warmed by hope; but hardens it, when 'tis congealed by deſpair. Diſtreſs, while there remains any proſpect of relief, is weak and flexible; but when no ſuccour appears, is fearleſs [179] and ſtubborn; angry alike at thoſe who injure, and at thoſe who do not help; careleſs to pleaſe, where nothing can be gained; and fearleſs to offend, when there is nothing further to be dreaded. Such was this Author's knowledge of the Paſſions.’

SCENE II.

What expreſſions can be ſtronger in themſelves, or more ſhocking to the ears of her oppreſſors, than the following ſhort exclamation!

Here the ſpeech ſhould have ended; the four re⯑maining lines but weaken and diſgrace it.

SCENE III.

When Philip is urged by the Pope's Legate to break the league he had juſt entered into with John, he offers to compound the treachery by ceaſing to be his friend, but without becoming his enemy.

To which Pandulpho makes him this reply:

The old Jeſuit argues here as ingeniouſly for the diſpenſing power of the Papacy, as Satan does in Milton for his rebellion. The object of both is the ſame; namely, the abſolute and excluſive dominion of Heaven.

SCENE VI.

The wild and enthuſiaſtic manner with which the fondneſs and deſpair of Conſtance for her ſon, impels her to ſpeak of him, has ſomething extremely mov⯑ing in it:

There is ſomething very tender and affecting in her making uſe of the epithet pretty, in the laſt line. It has a better effect there than deareſt, angel, or even lovely, (though this laſt has a more compre⯑henſive ſenſe) would have had in that place. I muſt beg leave to refer to the Reader's own taſte for [181] the juſtneſs of this obſervation; for I own, I cannot explain why it ſtrikes me in this manner myſelf.

The reaſon why we are apt to cheriſh grief in our breaſts; that ſpecies of it, I only mean, which may be diſtinguiſhed by the name of tender ſorrow; from a peculiar ſort of indulgence it is capable of affording us, is admirably well expreſſed in the fol⯑lowing paſſage:

Theſe laſt three lines are almoſt ſuffocating. I be⯑lieve no woman with a mother's feeling, could ever be able to pronounce them articulately, even in re⯑preſentation.

Doctor Johnſon gives a good note on one of the paſſages of the above ſpeech:

‘This is a ſentiment which great ſorrow always dictates. Whoever cannot help himſelf, caſts his eyes on others for aſſiſtance; and often miſtakes their inability for coldneſs.’

[182]I remember a couple of French lines on this ſub⯑ject of grief, which contain the ſame thought that Conſtance expreſſes above:

SCENE VIII.

This may be a juſt image of life, to thoſe who have exhauſted its variety, and palled their ſenſes with its pleaſures. The ſpeech might not have ill become his father, old Philip, then labouring under baffled hopes and diſappointed wiſhes; who had juſt then ſuffered the mortification of having loſt a battle, in the heart of his own dominions, and whoſe miſ⯑taken faith in heaven had obliged him to break faith on earth, without effect too; but it was certainly rather too premature a ſentence to have proceeded from the lips of a young prince, who had been but juſt married to a woman he loved. Such an impro⯑priety in the character of a ſpeaker, hurts the effect of a thought or ſentiment.

In the ſame Scene, there is a ſtrong deſcription given of the ſituation of a ſovereign, with regard to the people, after he has forfeited their love, confi⯑dence, or eſteem.

Pandulpho, ſpeaking of John's keeping Arthur in priſon:

SCENE IV.

The ſeveral uſeful reflections and morals to be col⯑lected from the following ſpeeches, are ſo many, and ſo mixed, that it is difficult to ſeparate or diſtinguiſh them. I ſhall therefore lay the whole paſſage toge⯑ther before the Reader, to draw his own inferences from; and ſhall alſo begin the Scene a little earlier than may at firſt appear to be neceſſary, not only on account of the admirable painting preſented to us in the beginning of it, but in order to ſhew the ſitua⯑tion of circumſtances in which the principal ſpeaker ſtands at the time.

Doctor Johnſon has made a comment on the latter part of this Scene, which the Reader has a right to claim in this place.

[185] ‘There are many touches of Nature in this conference of John with Hubert. A man engaged in wickedneſs would keep the profit to himſelf, and transfer the guilt to his accomplice. Theſe re⯑proaches vented againſt Hubert, are not the words of art or policy, but the eruptions of a mind ſwell⯑ing with the conſciouſneſs of a crime, and deſi⯑rous of diſcharging its miſery on another.’

‘This account of the timidity of guilt, hadſt thou but ſhook thy head, &c. is drawn ab ipſis receſſibus mentis, from an intimate knowledge of mankind; particularly that line in which he ſays, that to have bid him tell his tale in expreſs words would have ſtruck him dumb. Nothing is more certain, than that bad men uſe all the arts of fallacy upon them⯑ſelves, palliate their actions to their own minds by gentle terms, and hide themſelves from their own detection in ambiguities and ſubterfuges.’

SCENE VII.

When Hubert has been ſuſpected and charged with the murder of prince Arthur, the ſpeech of Faulcon⯑bridge to him is finely expreſſive of the ſtrength of deſpair ariſing from a guilty conſcience:

SCENE I.

The manner and ſpirit with which great perſonages ſhould act, on extraordinary occaſions of difficulty or danger, are bravely pointed out by the gallant Faulconbridge, in the following ſpeech to king John, when the French had invaded his kingdom.

SCENE II.

The ſtruggles and compunctions of a good mind, upon the being neceſſitated to take that part in a public cauſe which in polity is ſtiled Rebellion, and alſo the horrid nature of a Civil War, are finely and juſtly drawn here.

The anſwer to this ſpeech is fine; it pays due honour to the generous conflict in the ſpeaker's breaſt, and makes a diſtinction between the effects of male and female tears, paying the uſual, but too partial, compliment to the former. Be it ſo—The firſt are ſtronger on account of their being more rare, owing ſolely to the ſuperior harſhneſs of men's na⯑tures; but as the paſſions and feelings, which the ſpectator is ſenſible of, from each, are ſo very dif⯑ferent in their nature too, I cannot ſee how any ſort of compariſon can be fairly made between them.

SCENE X.

Saliſbury, ſpeaking to King John, perceives him dead.

This would make a good epitaph for a royal Sepulchre!

This Play cloſes with one truth in fact, and another in prophecy, which I hope all time will vouch the inſpiration of.

SCENE I.

THIS Play opens with a proper caution to all judges and jurors, in criminal cauſes, to attend moſt carefully to the principle, or motive, by which the accuſer appears to be actuated, that the credit of his teſtimony may be rated accordingly.

When the King calls the ſuit of Bolinbroke againſt Norfolk upon trial, he ſpeaks thus to the father of the former:

SCENE II.

When the King forbids the combat, and com⯑mands the Duke of Norfolk to throw down Bolin⯑broke's gage ^*, he anſwers with the true ſpirit of a gallant nobleman:

Afterwards, when Bolinbroke is called upon to the ſame purpoſe, he alſo replies as bravely; but as he expreſſes himſelf in ſo much an inferior man⯑ner to the former, I think it could afford the reader no great entertainment to have the paſſage quoted.

SCENE IV.

When the King ſentences theſe two champions to exile, he exacts an oath from them both, not to be reconciled to one another abroad, ſo far as to con⯑federate againſt the ſtate of England; in the ad⯑miniſtering of which bond, he deſires them to

Upon which latter line Doctor Warburton gives the following note:

‘It is a queſtion much debated among the writers on the Law of Nations, whether a baniſhed man be ſtill tied in allegiance to the ſtate which ſent him into exile. Tully and Clarendon declare for the affirmative: Hobbes and Puffendorf hold [193] the negative. Our Author, by this line, ſeems to be of the latter opinion.’

But I agree intirely with Cicero and Clarendon. The undergoing any penalty of law cannot diſſolve either the moral or the political duty we owe our country. Socrates, by refuſing to eſcape out of priſon, ſhewed, that he thought his obedience and ſubmiſſion to the ſtate continued ſtill to be obliga⯑tory on him, even though the decree was unjuſt, and the ſentence death. And under the Oſtraciſm, which impoſed baniſhment upon men for their very eminence and virtue, we do not hear of the illuſtri⯑ous exiles either ſpeaking, or acting, as if they deemed their allegiance to have been cancelled.

Nay, Ariſtides carried the ſubmiſſion of a good ſubject ſo far, as to think himſelf obliged in duty to write his own name on a ſhell, at the requeſt of an illiterate citizen of Athens, who voted againſt him on that very law. And Themiſtocles, though baniſhed through the ſpirit of faction, not that of the laws, and kindly entertained and preferred in the armies of Perſia, choſe to ſwallow poiſon, rather than march againſt his country.

'Tis not the community that baniſhes a man, but the laws which govern it.

Theſe ſurely are no object of reſentment; and to riſe in arms againſt a nation, becauſe one of its ſtatutes had fallen heavy upon us, would be juſt as rational, as to ſet a foreſt on fire, becauſe we had received the baſtinado by a cudgel that was taken out of it.

SCENE V.

Upon which paſſage there is the following reflec⯑tion, in the note by Doctor Johnſon:

‘It is matter of very melancholy conſideration, that all human advantages confer more power of do⯑ing evil, than good.’ A very melancholy reflection, indeed, were we to ſuppoſe it true!

In the inſtance before us, the hand of power, ſtrength, or treachery, may certainly deprive us of a life, which it cannot reſtore; but Shakeſpeare does not mean to make the reflection univerſal. A good Prince may render his whole people happy; a bad one can only affect a part. When tyranny becomes general, it defeats itſelf, at the coſt of the oppreſſor.

If my objection to the above uncomfortable maxim be valid, in the higheſt example, it would be trifling to adduce any leſſer ones to prove it.

SCENE VI.

Lancaſter, by way of comforting his ſon upon the ſentence of baniſhment, paraphraſes and poeti⯑ciſes the old Engliſh ſentence, of every place is an honeſt men's home, in theſe words:

which lines are followed by a long and equivocal de⯑clamation in the ſtile of the Stoic philoſophy; to which Bolinbroke impatiently replies, in a manner perfectly natural to the unhappy; for it requires lei⯑ſure to grow wiſe; nor is this ever effected by our becoming better able to bear misfortune, but by our feeling it leſs, from uſe and habit.

SCENE I.

The weight of perſuaſion which the admonitions of a dying perſon are apt to impreſs upon the mind, more than the moſt lively remonſtrances of one in perfect health, is well expreſſed here. The circum⯑ſtances of the time impreſs us with an awe which imprints the advice more ſtrongly on our memory, and gives it additional authority.

Lancaſter brought in ſick, attended by the Duke of York.

In the continuation of this dialogue, the fatal conſequences to a Prince of ill-choſen favourites, the danger of ſuffering foreign faſhions and manners to be introduced into a ſtate, with an enumerative deſcription of the peculiar advantages of England, with regard to its ſituation, and other happy cir⯑cumſtances, are ſtrongly pointed out.

The latter part of this ſpeech ſeems to be as pro⯑phetical as the firſt, if we compare it to the ſtate of our national debt—to our ſtocks—by which we have long ſince become tenants to foreigners.

SCENE V.

There are undoubtedly certain notices, or premo⯑nitions, in the order of Providence, which mankind have been frequently ſenſible of; ſometimes from dreams, at other times from unaccountable impreſ⯑ſions on the mind, foreboding particular misfortunes of our lives, let philoſophy reaſon againſt the no⯑tion ever ſo wiſely.

Indeed, there appears one argument to oppoſe this opinion, which, in any indifferent caſe, might be thought ſufficiently able to overthrow it; which is, that ſuch hints rarely, if ever, have been found to anſwer any other purpoſe, than to render us unhappy before our time.

But matter of fact is not to be controverted by ſyllogiſm. The objection only ſerves to reſolve it into a myſtery, and leaves it ſtill uninveſtigable by human ſcience. The more of ſuch inexplicable ſecrets of Providence which fall under our obſerva⯑tion, the better; as they may ſerve to rouze the Atheiſt from his lethargy, and afford the Deiſt oc⯑caſion to ſuſpect, at leaſt, that what he calls Na⯑tural Religion, is not the intire ſcheme of the Divine oeconomy with regard to men:

Here follows the paſſage which gave riſe to the above reflection.

Shakeſpeare has given a deſcription of the ſame complexion of mind, before, in the perſon of Antho⯑nio, in the Merchant of Venice. See my firſt remark on the Firſt Scene of the Firſt Act of that Play.

SCENE IX.

Hope has been often termed the aſſuager of our grief; but Shakeſpeare has juſtly raiſed it to an higher character, by making it an augmentation to our joys, alſo.

SCENE II.

The biſhop of Carliſle, endeavouring to awaken the king to a manly exertion of his ſpirit againſt the rebellion, and neither to truſt to the weak defence of right againſt might, nor expect that Providence ſhall, out of reſpect to his divine right, fight his battles for him, while he looks idly on, ſays,

To which the king, after expreſſing a contempt for Bolinbroke and his adherents, makes a reply agreeable to the vain notion and political ſuperſtition of thoſe times, with regard to the abſurd doctrine of indefeaſible right.

SCENE III.

However, he afterwards begins to ſpeak more ra⯑tionally upon this ſubject; for though he appears a little caſt down at firſt, yet, on hearing ſome further ill news, he rouzes himſelf again, in the following ſpeech:

SCENE IV.

But this poor abdicating king had no true heroiſm in his ſoul; for, upon the intelligence of ſome more croſs events arriving to him juſt after, he ſuddenly drops the character of a fighting prince, and imme⯑diately ſinks into that of a preaching prieſt.

This kind of homily he continues afterwards, in the ſame Scene; including, however, ſome good re⯑flections on the unſtable and unſatisfactory ſtate of mortality, even in the higheſt ſpheres of life; which would have become his confeſſor better than they did himſelf, as the ſpirited Biſhop, a true ſon of the church militant, tells him, in the cloſe of the following paſſage.

There are ſeveral other paſſages of the ſame kind, in this and the ſubſequent Act, where Richard alter⯑nately riſes to a vain confidence in his indefeaſible right, and then ſinks again under a deſpondency about his fortunes; which I ſhall not diſguſt the Reader with here, as the repreſentation of a great [202] man ſuffering misfortunes meanly, is rather an object of contempt than of compaſſion.

In the latter part of this Scene, upon his finding matters growing worſe and worſe, he exclaims,

Doctor Johnſon has prevented my obſervation on this paſſage, by a note of his upon it.

‘This ſentiment is drawn from Nature. Nothing is more offenſive to a mind convinced that its di⯑ſtreſs is without a remedy, and preparing to ſubmit quietly to irreſiſtible calamity, than thoſe petty and conjectured comforts which unſkilful officiouſ⯑neſs thinks it virtue to adminiſter.’

SCENE I.

There is ſomething, however, extremely affecting, in what this unhappy man ſays to his queen, upon her lamenting the miſery of his ſituation.

This ſhort ſentence lays hold of the heart, makes us forget him as a king, and feel for him as a man. The fondneſs of his expreſſion too, of fair woman, increaſes the tenderneſs of our regret at the addi⯑tional unhappineſs of their ſeparation.

SCENE II.

This poor moralizing prince makes a very juſt obſervation here, on the nature of all alliances in vice.

A further and ſtronger reflection upon ſuch vi⯑cious connections, occurs in the laſt Scene of this Play, which I ſhall bring forward here before its time, where Exton, who had murdered Richard, brings an account of his great ſervice to Bolinbroke.

SCENE X.

The following ſoliloquy, in which the ſtate of the mind is compared to that of the world, though the thought is rather too much laboured, deſerves to be quoted, on account of the beauties it contains, the reflections it ſupplies, as well as for the moral com⯑paſſion, and generous reſentment, with which it is capable of inſpiring the virtuous Reader for the un⯑happy ſpeaker.

The laſt reflection has been ſo often made and remarked upon, before, in the courſe of this Work, that I ſhall leave it unnoticed here, and ſo conclude my obſervations on this Play.

SCENE I.

IN the firſt ſpeech here, Henry the Fourth, in order to encourage his ſubjects to attend him with the better ſpirit on the Cruſade expedition, which he had then reſolved upon, gives a horrid deſcription of their former ſtate of civil war, which the kingdom was happily at that time free from.

SCENE II.

The method that men take to diſguiſe the nature of their vices, by palliating epithets, is of dangerous conſequences in life. It not only ſerves to blunt the edge of remorſe in ourſelves, but often helps to in⯑duce a milder cenſure in others, upon the moſt fla⯑grant enormities.

Thus a proſtigate fellow, who debauches every woman in his power, is ſtiled a man of galantry; a pennyleſs adventurer, who carries off a rich heireſs, [208] is called a ſoldier of fortune; a duelliſt, dubbed with the title of a man of honour; a ſharper, un chevalier d'induſtrie; an atheiſt, a free-thinker; and ſo forth.

A good ſpecimen of this ſort of deceitful phraſeo⯑logy is preſented to us in part of this Scene.

Piſtol, in ſome other place, ſays of ſtealing, ‘con⯑vey the wiſe it call ^*.’

SCENE III.

I think I may venture to pronounce, for the ho⯑nour of human nature, that the moſt abandoned per⯑ſon breathing, means not to paſs his whole life in a ſtate of profligacy. He purpoſes, from time to time, to take up, as the phraſe is; but is too apt, from time to time, to procraſtinate his amendment; thus ſilenc⯑ing the clamours of his conſcience, by the hopeful deſign of reformation, and thinking his repentance ſufficiently advanced, by a ſelf-confeſſion of his vice or immorality.

The danger of this ſpecies of quietiſm, is ſtrongly pointed out, in part of a work lately publiſhed; and as it may afford a uſeful warning to ſome of my diſſipated readers, I ſhall quote the paſſage I allude to here.

The following ſpeech affords us a beautiful in⯑ſtance of this method of amuſing our too flexible and indolent tempers of mind; which I copy here with the greater pleaſure, as the ſpeaker of it did effectually reform his life and manners, and has en⯑riched the annals of England with a memoir of true glory.

The Prince of Wales, ſpeaking of his looſe com⯑panions, who had juſt quitted the ſcene, ſays,

SCENE IV.

When the brave Hotſpur is taxed by the king with having refuſed to ſurrender the priſoners which he had taken at the gallant action of Holmedon-Moor, to his order, the ſpeech he makes upon that occaſion, in excuſe for his refractorineſs, preſents us with a [210] very natural deſcription of the uneaſy, froward, and difficult temper of mind, a perſon is ſubject to in ſuch circumſtances as he paints himſelf to be at the time mentioned; and alſo entertains us with a cha⯑racter, admirably and humorouſly drawn, of a pert, foppiſh, and affected Court minion. The contraſt of the two figures here before us, would make an ex⯑cellent picture on canvas.

The king, not being ſatisfied with his apology, ſays to him, after ſome prior altercation between them,

Upon this menace, the impatient temper of Hotſpur breaks out into the following expreſſions; which, though the ſubſtance of them does not fall within the purpoſe of this Work, I ſhall, however, repeat here, and alſo continue the dialogue a good deal further, as it leads to the character of the ſpeaker, which I deſign to give a deſcription of, in the cloſe of my obſervations on the two next Plays.

And again, to the ſame purpoſe:

The precarious confidence that men can venture to place in unwarrantable ſervices performed for an⯑other, is well marked in the ſame ſcene, by one of the diſloyal conſpirators who had aſſiſted Henry to dethrone king Richard.

The Reader may here refer back to the quotation from the Second Scene in the Fifth Act of the former Play.

SCENE I.

In this truly comic Scene, which may be the rather ſtiled ſo, becauſe there is no buffoonery in it, and which I therefore think preferable even to the hu⯑mour of Falſtaff, the vanity of old Glendower, in ſuppoſing himſelf to have been a peculiar object of the notice of Providence, which has, however, been the foible of ſeveral great men, Caeſar, &c. with the vulgar ignorance of miſtaking natural events for mi⯑racles, is finely contraſted with the careleſs humour, ſturdy ſpirit, and rational inveſtigation of Hotſpur.

It would be doing injuſtice to the dialogue, to parcel it out as it refers ſingly to the ſeveral arti⯑cles above ſpecified; therefore I ſhall entertain my readers with the whole paſſage intire, leaving them to mark the application in their own minds which will occur in their proper places.