: through the perplexity in which she is placed as a Mother and a Queen, to infidelity to her lord and husband, and into the arms of Mortimer the Prince of Wales, afterwards Edward III., has the sad alternative of choosing between the son's affection for his father, and his title to the crown; if he listens to the one, he must sacrifice the other. Lastly, the nobles of the kingdom equally misunderstand their position, and suffer themselves to be seduced, by their hatred of the favourites, into perjury and rebellion. Accordingly, all alike are stricken by the tragic Nemesis. Thus the ground-idea is clearly and distinctly mirrored in all the principal parts of the whole; and this pervading identity of thought constitutes the principal merit of the piece, which, in other respects, exhibits all Marlowe's faults. The scenes are, it is true, better disposed than in the "Jew of Malta;" nevertheless, here, also, the action occasionally stands still, and has the same irregular progress and advance; the long first act, especially, is deficient in movement, and contains little more than the King's assurances of affection for Gavestone, and his rage, complaints, and grief at the treatment of his favourite. The lyrical element, too, is here again predominant in an exuberant expression of affection and passion, which are, no doubt, for the most part, felicitously pourtrayed, but are yet carried to such a height as to become tedious and wearisome. It is only from this side that the characters are completely and vigorously delineated; all the other traits, whether of mind or conduct, are scarcely, if at all, thrown out. Consequently, the King's excessive tenderness for Gavestone, and afterwards for the Spencers and Baldock, remains wholly unaccounted for, and, indeed, inexplicable. As here depicted, these personages are neither amiable nor attractive, and we are utterly at a loss to conceive how they ever could have gained such entire possession of the King's mind. Edward's love for them, as well as his hatred of the Queen, and the beginning of her fondness for Mortimer, seem so subjectively capricious, so perfectly without adequate cause, that here again we miss the usual reaction which the outward world and the inward subjectivity exercise upon each other. On the other hand, the sufferings and the punishment of the King are so external and purely physical, and withal so horrible, that again the tragic borders too closely upon the terrible. Here, too, we are not without a number of indifferent unmeaning characters, which take a very subordinate and uninfluential part in the action. Lastly, the diction is, no doubt, more moderate, better sustained throughout, and not so broken, as in the "Jew of Malta;" but still we meet with occasional excrescences, far-fetched similes, and over-wrought attempts at vigour of expression. It is in this organic contrariety in which Greene and Marlowe stand to each other-the one representing and especially cultivating the epical, the other the lyrical elements of the dramatic form of art, that I am disposed to place the high importance of the two for the history of Shakspeare and the English drama. It is, moreover, their especial merit, that, gifted with a polite and learned education, they successfully laboured to free the national theatre from the rudeness and irregularities with which it was still encumbered by a great class of poets who wrote only to gratify the popular taste. However content we might be to be well rid of certain laboured similes from ancient history and mythology, and certain Latin phrases, &c.-nevertheless, their polished language, and the refined habits, which they knew how to exhibit in the most lively manner, contributed, in no slight degree, to the improvement of the public taste. At the same time, we see how easy, and at the same time how difficult, it was for Shakspeare to improve still further upon these his predecessors and contemporaries. The materials were at hand, ready cut and polished; the foundation had been laid; all that was wanting was artistic skill to combine organically what as yet lay isolated and separate, or at most mixed together, without order or coherence. This, however, required the practised hand of a great architect. In other words, Shakspeare's vocation was to fuse together the dramatic styles of Marlowe and Greene, in such a manner as to preserve their merits without their defects, and thereby to produce a new and superior style, which, as the very notion of the drama demanded, might comprise, in one perfect organic unity, the epic and the lyric forms of art. This, indeed, could not be accomplished, but by giving, at the same time, greater profundity to the ideal subject matter, and a more perfect development to the poetic form; none but a poetic genius, capable of uniting all the depth of a Christian view of the world with a perfect sense of the beauty of form, could solve this problem. How Shakspeare arrived at the position which he subsequently maintained in the history of art, will hereafter be shown more at large here we must be content with observing that, in perfect conformity with what we should naturally expect, he at first pursued the course on which Greene and Marlowe had preceded him by a few steps. His "Pericles, Prince of Tyre," and (if the piece be his) "Arden of Feversham," are evidently composed in Greene's style, while "Titus Andronicus," and still more the older, "King John," (the greater part of which is to all appearance his,) approximate to that of Marlowe. That he should surpass both in their respective manners was but to be expected, and was, indeed, necessary, if he was eventually to rise above them. In his "Henry VI." he becomes more original and independent; and already, in "Romeo and Juliet," we discern Shakspeare complete and perfect in all his supereminent greatness of genius. The pointing out in detail the affinity and the difference of these two dramas from Greene's and Marlowe's pieces, I must reserve for my criticisms on his respective dramas. If now, in conclusion, it is asked, how much Shakspeare owed to his predecessors and contemporaries, our answer can only be indirect and qualified in a strict and narrow sense, he could only learn as much as admits of being learned in any art—the technical part of it; an acquaintance, viz. with the stage and theatrical practice-i. e. the arrangement of a piece in such a form as admits of its being easily and conveniently represented, and ensures its due effect. The latter, however, depends chiefly on this point, that the drama itself is drastic; i. e. unfolds a living, rapid, and visible action; in which, consequently, there is something really accomplished on the stage, and wherein the characters do not merely, as it is proverbially expressed, speak like a book, reflecting, moralising, and heaping sentiment on sentiment, and thought upon thought, but, like real men in real life, talk while they act, and act while they talk. At this date a play was, in the first instance at least, composed so exclusively for the stage, that even in the splendour of Shakspeare's career the publication of the works of a dramatic poet as literary articles was looked upon by many as ridiculous. It will, therefore, excite no surprise, if the older English poets are pre-eminently distinguished for their practical knowledge of the theatre and stage: even Marlowe's pieces, notwithstanding the preponderance of the lyric element, still possess much of real action. How skilful Shakspeare was in this respect, how far he surpassed his own teachers herein, every one knows who has had the good fortune to see one of his pieces represented with intelligence and propriety; whereas, in this our paper age, our best poets too often write for the reading rather than the play-going public. Shakspeare's dramas are, without exception, as rich in intrinsic poetic energy as in extrinsic scenic action. In this respect Shakspeare was unquestionably greatly indebted to his predecessors, and to the artistic progress of his age. If, on the other hand, it is asked, what he could have learnt from them as regards the ideal contents and artistic beauty of form, in this sense of the word we answer-little; and yet, again-much. Little, inasmuch as, being a real poetical genius, he was truly original: much, because even genius, so far as it is human, cannot exist without certain conditions, but requires a fertile soil in which to root itself, and air, warmth, rain, and sunshine, for its growth and nourishment. It is not more false to maintain an absolute moral liberty, than to assert an abstract poetic freedom and creative power of man. To assert the former, would be to dissolve the moral liberty into mere subjective caprice, while the latter would reduce the artistic activity into an empty, untrue, and monstrous play of fancy. The old prejudice, which would look upon Shakspeare as a solitary point of light and splendour in a wide waste of darkness, has, I hope, been removed in some degree by the preceding sketch, however hastily executed. The better acquainted we become with the immediate forerunners of Shakspeare, the more convinced we shall feel that he was but a single member in the organical development of a great whole-that he did but complete what had been already begun by others; that he was, in short, but the master-spirit amid a band of worthy associates. In truth, even on this account Shakspeare is not merely a point, but even the culminating and central point in that sphere and 54 SKETCH OF THE ENGLISH DRAMA, BEFORE SHAKSPEARE. circle of artistic development into which he entered. The circumference determines, it is true, the centre, but is yet itself in a greater degree dependent on the centre. How powerfully, accordingly, Shakspeare influenced the artistic development of his age— how he reflected on his predecessors and contemporaries much more light than was thrown from them upon himself,-will be shown in the following sections. |