SHAKESPEARE THE DRAMATIST

There may be in the cup
A spider steep'd, and one may drink, depart,
And yet partake no venom, for his knowledge
Is not infected; but if one present

The abhorr'd ingredient to his eye, make known

How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides,

With violent hefts. I have drunk and seen the spider!
-A WINTER'S TALE.

From the earliest times topers and tipplers have been favorite foils of dramatists, who have generally kept the dark side of intemperance in the background and, in the evolution of comic situations, shown a tender regard for drinking customs and tavern life. Glorious Bacchus reveled on the stage long before the advent of Shakespeare, and since his time inspiring, bold John Barleycorn has imparted a coveted swing to reams of anacreontic verse.

Falstaff's intolerable deal of sack to one half-penny worth of bread was not an exceptional diet. Older topers than he preferred abundance of liquor to substantial food. This habit is featured in a drinking song in "Gammer Gurton's Needle," one of the oldest English comedies extant, which is supposed to have been written by a bishop of the national church. The song is heard to this day at convivial gatherings in the British isles. It has a tone of jollity and heartiness that appeals to "good fellows" as they trowl the bowl. There are eight or nine stanzas in the original, but the current version reveals its seductive influence:

I cannot eat but little meat,

My stomach is not good;

But sure I think, that I can drink

With him that wears a hood.

Though I go bare, take ye no care,

I nothing am a-cold;

I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.

CHORUS:

Back and side go bare, go bare,

Both hands and feet go cold;
But belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

I love no roast, but a nut-brown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;

A little bread shall do me stead,
Much bread I not desire.

No frost or snow, nor wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wold;

I am so wrapt, and thoroughly lapt
Of jolly good ale and old.

And Tyb my wife, that as her life,
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she till ye may see
The tears run down her cheek;
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl,
E'en as a malt-worm should;

And saith, sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly old ale and good.

Now let them drink till they nod and wink,
E'en as good fellows should do,

They shall not miss to have the bliss
Good ale doth bring men to.

And all poor souls, that have scoured bowls,
Or have them lustily trowld,

God save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be young or old.

This trend of the literary guild has been attributed largely to temperament. Up to recent days it was the common belief that a certain amount of dissipation was a necessary prelude to a display of genius. It was claimed that men wrote better when fancy was warmed by the fumes of liquor. Wine was supposed to unlock the springs of nimble wit, and endow both tongue and pen with facile eloquence. Were not the master minds of the past famous for their deep potations? Did they not frankly and cheerfully acknowledge their indebtedness to Bacchus? How could they produce great and glowing thoughts with

out the aid of the good familiar creature which had soothed the sorrows of their youth, helped them through manhood's many trials, and was their balm and comforter in life's declining years?

There seemed to be but one answer to these questions, and, therefore, members of the craft, in the feverish pursuit of fame, deemed it laudable and proper to drink "good and good store of fertile liquor." This aptitude was as marked in the eighteenth century as it was in the days of "Good Queen Bess." Men whose names stand high in English literature were as reckless and indifferent to the nobler aims of life as the giants and gods of Shakespeare's day. Many of them plunged rashly into the riot of the age. They did not see the spider in the cup. To them it was brimful of delights; its very dregs had a celestial flavor, and they gloried in its thrall. From their garrets and cellars issued paeans in celebration of revelry. They sang the praise of wine in every key; they ran the gamut of wild excess, holding madly to each note until it turned to a discordant wail, and life ebbed out amid the echoes of ribald jest and song.

Shakespeare was a sealed book to most of those wild Bohemians. His style offended them, his philosophy was beyond their ken. He had no respect for the unities which they affected to revere, and he mystified them with socalled verbal enigmas.

The greatest writers of the period shared this disrespect, this semi-contempt for Shakespeare. Dr. Johnson shrank for years from his accepted task of editing the plays, and at last performed it in a bungling manner, excusing himself with the statement that "Shakespeare has faults sufficient to obscure and overwhelm any other merit." Goldsmith found numerous crudities and inconsistencies in the immortal works. His critical taste was especially offended by Hamlet's soliloquy beginning "To

be or not to be?" This world-famous speech was a heap of absurdities, he said, whether looked upon from the light of the situation, the sentiment, the argumentation or the poetry. Analyzing it line by line, he pronounced it a strange rhapsody of broken images of sleeping, dreaming and shuffling off a coil.

Walpole, who was accounted no mean judge of dramatic literature, declared that Shakespeare "wrote whole plays as bad as any of our present writers." The reigning literary chief, John Dryden, said Congreve was the equal of Shakespeare:

Time, place and action may with pains be wrought,
But genius must be born and never can be taught.
This is your portion, this your native store;

Heaven, that but once was prodigal before,

To Shakespeare gave as much, she could not give him more.

Of this playwright, Thackeray, who had a kindly feeling for the wits of the eighteenth century, says: "Congreve's comic feast flares with lights, and round the table, emptying their flaming bowls of drink, and exchanging the wildest jests and ribaldry, sit men and women, waited on by rascally valets and attendants as dissolute as their mistresses-perhaps the very worst company in the world." Even royalty joined in the effort to belittle the supreme genius of the nation. George II may not be regarded as good literary authority, but he voiced the opinion of many who claimed that distinction when he remarked: "I hear a great deal of Shakespeare, but I cannot read him. He is such a bombast fellow!"

We have observed, however, that Shakespeare, with his plainness of speech and contempt for stilted rules, was governed by a loftier ideal of the dramatist's vocation than most of these carpers. Although he lived in a dissolute age, he did not emblazon vice or encourage riot in high or low places. He upheld the dignity and true nobility of his profession. Search as diligently as you may, and

allowing full weight to his faithful pictures of social conditions, no such scenes of ribaldry and debauchery as writers of Congreve's class portrayed disfigure his pages. He followed man closely from the cradle to the grave, laying bare intrigue, baseness and chicanery, noting the trials and temptations, the pangs and pleasures, which mark our devious passage through nature to eternity; but he refrained from indorsing habits and practices which, while dominant in his own times, found more favor and stronger approval among the erratic scribes of the eighteenth century.

We have seen that Shakespeare attacked the drink problem with boldness and vigor. He exposed its manifold evils, condemned its manifestations in plain, unvarnished terms. His sketches of tavern life are veritable beacons of warning. While others extolled the ease and comfort of the old-time inns, he turned the light of truth upon them and showed their vicious tendencies.

Certain phrases and epithets he directs against the landlords and tapsters have left a lasting sting. He shows that they were neither patterns nor patrons of virtue. They had no compunction about defrauding their customers or hoodwinking officers of the law. They were often guilty of despicable crimes-they frothed the ale and limed the sack. They juggled the scores with dishonest skill, so that the phrase "false as a tapster's reckoning" passed into a proverb.

The warm welcome of the tavern, its apparent atmosphere of genial security, were often veils for sinister purposes. Ostlers cheated in the feed of horses, drawers bamboozled the topers and tipplers, and chamberlains were confederates of highwaymen, whom they kept posted as to the habits and wealth of guests, the time of their departure, the arms they carried, and other matters which might prove serviceable to the hold-up men of the road.