  What’s here? A scroll; and written round about? Let’s see. Titus Andronicus, IV. ii. 19. With his steerage shall your thoughts grow on. Pericles, IV. iv. 19. Falstaff. Of what quality was your love, then? Ford. Like a fair house built on another man’s ground. Merry Wives, II. ii. 223.
“ROUND ABOUT” MARGARET CAVENDISH, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE, 1664
(1624?-1674) Remember, when we were very young maids, one day we were discoursing about lovers, and we did enjoin each other to confess who professed to love us, and whom we loved, and I confessed I was in love with three dead men, which were dead long before my time, the one was CÆsar, for his valour, the second Ovid, for his wit, and the third our countryman Shakespeare, for his comical and tragical humour; but soon after we both married two worthy men, and I will leave you to your own husband, for you best know what he is. As for my husband, I know him to have the valour of CÆsar, the fancy and wit of Ovid, and the tragical, especially comical art of Shakespeare, in truth, he is as far beyond Shakespeare for comical humour, as Shakespeare is beyond an ordinary poet in that way. Letter CLXII. CCXI Sociable Letters written by the Lady Marchioness of Newcastle, 1664. Letters CXXIII. and CLXII.
JOSEPH ADDISON, 1711
(1672-1719) Some years ago I was at the tragedy of “Macbeth,” and unfortunately placed myself under a woman of quality, that is since dead; who, as I found by the noise she made, was newly returned from France. A little before the rising of the curtain, she broke out into a loud soliloquy, “When will the dear witches enter?” and immediately upon their first appearance, asked a lady that sat three boxes from her, on her right hand, if those witches were not charming creatures. A little later, as Betterton was in one of the finest speeches of the play, she shook her fan at another lady, who sat as far on her left hand, and told her in a whisper that might be heard all over the pit, “We must not expect to see Balloon to-night.” Not long after, calling out to a young baronet by his name, who sat three seats before me, she asked him whether Macbeth’s wife was still alive; and before he could give an answer, fell a-talking of the ghost of Banquo. She had by this time formed a little audience to herself, and fixed the attention of all about her. But as I had a mind to hear the play, I got out of the sphere of her impertinence, and planted myself in one of the remotest corners of the pit. The Spectator, No. 45, 21 April 1711.
HENRY FIELDING, 1743
(1707-1754) I then observed Shakespeare standing between Betterton and Booth, and deciding a difference between these two great actors concerning the placing an accent in one of his lines: this was disputed on both sides with a warmth which surprised me in Elysium, till I discovered by intuition that every soul retained its principal characteristic, being, indeed, its very essence. The line was that celebrated one in Othello— Put out the light, and then put out the light, according to Betterton. Mr. Booth contended to have it thus:— Put out the light, and then put out the light. I could not help offering my conjecture on this occasion, and suggested it might perhaps be— Put out the light, and then put out thy light. Another hinted a reading very sophisticated in my opinion— Put out the light, and then put out thee, light. Making light to be the vocative case. Another would have altered the last word, and read— Put out thy light, and then put out thy sight. But Betterton said, if the text was to be disturbed, he saw no reason why a word might not be changed as well as a letter, and instead of “put out thy light,” you may read “put out thy eyes.” At last it was agreed on all sides to refer the matter to the decision of Shakespeare himself, who delivered his sentiments as follows: “Faith, gentlemen, it is so long since I wrote the line, I have forgot my meaning. This I know, could I have dreamt so much nonsense would have been talked and writ about it, I would have blotted it out of my works; for I am sure, if any of these be my meaning, it doth me very little honour.” He was then interrogated concerning some other ambiguous passages in his works; but he declined any satisfactory answer; saying, if Mr. Theobald had not writ about it sufficiently, there were three or four more new editions of his plays coming out, which he hoped would satisfy every one: concluding, “I marvel nothing so much as that men will gird themselves at discovering obscure beauties in an author. Certes the greatest and most pregnant beauties are ever the plainest and most evidently striking; and when two meanings of a passage can in the least balance our judgments which to prefer, I hold it matter of unquestionable certainty that neither of them is worth a farthing.” From his works our conversation turned on his monument; upon which Shakespeare, shaking his sides, and addressing himself to Milton, cried out, “On my word, brother Milton, they have brought a noble set of poets together; they would have been hanged erst have convened such a company at their tables when alive.” “True, brother,” answered Milton, “unless we had been as incapable of eating then as we are now.” “A Journey from this World to the Next,” Chapter viii. Miscellanies, 1743.
THOMAS EDWARDS, 1747
(1699-1757) Canon I. A Professed Critic has a right to declare that his Author wrote whatever He thinks he ought to have written, with as much positiveness as if he had been at his elbow. Canon II. He has a right to alter any passage which He does not understand. Canon III. These alterations He may make in spite of the exactness of measure. Canon IV. Where He does not like an expression, and yet cannot mend it, He may abuse his Author for it. Canon V. Or He may condemn it as a foolish interpolation. Canon VI. As every Author is to be corrected into all possible perfection, the Professed Critic is the sole judge; He may alter any word or phrase, which does not want amendment, or which will do, provided He can think of anything which He imagines will do better. Canon VII. He may find out obsolete words, or coin new ones, and put them in the place of such as He does not like, or does not understand. Canon VIII. He may prove a reading or support an explanation by any sort of reasons, no matter whether good or bad. Canon IX. He may interpret his Author so as to make him mean directly contrary to what he says. Canon X. He should not allow any poetical licences, which He does not understand. Canon XI. He may make foolish amendments or explanations, and refute them, only to enhance the value of his critical skill. Canon XII. He may find out a bawdy or immoral meaning in his Author where there does not appear to be any hint that way. Canon XIII. He need not attend to the low accuracy of orthography, or pointing; but may ridicule such trivial criticisms in others. Canon XIV. Yet, when He pleases to condescend to such work, He may value himself upon it; and not only restore lost puns, but point out such quaintnesses where, perhaps, the Author never thought of them. Canon XV. He may explain a difficult passage by words absolutely unintelligible. Canon XVI. He may contradict himself for the sake of showing his critical skill on both sides of the question. Canon XVII. It will be necessary for the Professed Critic to have by him a good number of pedantic and abusive expressions, to throw about upon proper occasions. Canon XVIII. He may explain his Author, or any former Editor of him, by supplying such words, or pieces of words, or marks, as He thinks fit for that purpose. Canon XIX. He may use the very same reasons for confirming his own observations, which he has disallowed in his adversary. Canon XX. As the design of writing notes is not so much to explain the Author’s meaning as to display the Critic’s knowledge, it may be proper, to show his universal learning, that He minutely point out from whence every metaphor and allusion is taken. Canon XXI. It will be proper, in order to show his wit, especially if the Critic be a married man, to take every opportunity of sneering at the fair sex. Canon XXII. He may mis-quote himself, or anybody else, in order to make an occasion of writing notes, when he cannot otherwise find one. Canon XXIII. The Professed Critic, in order to furnish his quota to the bookseller, may write notes of nothing; that is to say, notes which either explain things which do not want explanation, or such as do not explain matters at all, but merely fill up so much paper. Canon XXIV. He may dispense with truth, in order to give the world a higher idea of his parts, or the value of his work. The Canons of Criticism, first published as a Supplement to Mr. Warburton’s Edition of Shakespear. Collected from Notes in that Celebrated Work, and proper to be bound up with it. By the Other Gentleman of Lincoln’s Inn. Warburton’s edition also elicited An Attempte to Rescue that Auncient English Poet and Play-Wrighte, Maister Willaume Shakespere, from the many Errores faulsely charged on him by Certaine New-fangled Wittes, by a Gentleman formerly of Greys-Inn. 1749. This small treatise dealt with The Tempest in a spirit of genuine zeal, but with less controversial ability than was displayed by the “Other Gentleman.”
MARK AKENSIDE, 1749
(1721-1770) “The Remonstrance of Shakespeare: supposed to have been spoken at the Theatre Royal, while the French comedians were acting by subscription. 1749.” If, yet regardful of your native land, Old Shakespeare’s tongue you deign to understand, Lo, from the blissful bowers where Heaven rewards Instructive sages and unblemish’d bards, I come, the ancient founder of the stage, Intent to learn, in this discerning age, What form of wit your fancies have embrac’d, And whither tends your elegance of taste, That thus at length our homely toils you spurn, That thus to foreign scenes you proudly turn, That from my brow the laurel wreath you claim To crown the rivals of your country’s fame. What though the footsteps of my devious Muse The measur’d walks of Grecian art refuse? Or though the frankness of my hardy style Mock the nice touches of the critic’s file? Yet, what my age and climate held to view, Impartial I survey’d, and fearless drew. And say, ye skilful in the human heart, Who know to prize a poet’s noblest part, What age, what clime, could e’er an ampler field For lofty thought, for daring fancy, yield? I saw this England break the shameful bands Forg’d for the souls of men by sacred hands: I saw each groaning realm her aid implore; Her sons the heroes of each warlike shore; Her naval standard (the dire Spaniard’s bane) Obey’d through all the circuit of the main. Then too great Commerce, for a late-found world, Against your coast her eager sails unfurl’d: New hopes, new passions, thence to bosom fir’d; New plans, new arts, the genius thence inspir’d; Thence every scene, which private fortune knows, In stronger life, with bolder spirit, rose. Disgrac’d I this full prospect which I drew? My colours languid, or my strokes untrue? Have not your sages, warriors, swains, and kings Confess’d the living draught of men and things? What other bard in any clime appears Alike the master of your smiles and tears? Yet have I deigned your audience to entice With wretched bribes to luxury and vice? Or have my various scenes a purpose known Which freedom, virtue, glory, might not own? Such from the first was my dramatic plan, It should be yours to crown what I began: And now that England spurns her Gothic chain, And equal laws and social science reign, I thought, Now surely shall my zealous eyes View nobler bards and juster critics rise, Intent with learned labour to refine The copious ore of Albion’s native mine, Our stately Muse more graceful airs to teach, And form her tongue to more attractive speech, Till rival nations listen at her feet, And own her polish’d as they own’d her great. But do you thus my favourite hopes fulfil? Is France at last the standard of your skill? Alas for you! that so betray a mind Of art unconscious and to beauty blind. Say; does her language your ambition raise, Her barren, trivial, unharmonious phrase, Which fetters eloquence to scantiest bounds, And maims the cadence of poetic sounds? Say; does your humble admiration choose The gentle prattle of her Comic Muse, While wits, plain-dealers, fops, and fools appear, Charg’d to say nought but what the king may hear? Or rather melt your sympathising hearts, Won by her tragic scene’s romantic arts, Where old and young declaim on soft desire, And heroes never, but for love, expire? No. Though the charms of novelty, awhile, Perhaps too fondly win your thoughtless smile, Yet not for you design’d indulgent fate The modes or manners of the Bourbon state. And ill your minds my partial judgment reads, And many an augury my soul misleads, If the fair maids of yonder blooming train To their light courtship would an audience deign, Or those chaste matrons a Parisian wife Choose for the model of domestic life; Or if one youth of all that generous band, The strength and splendour of their native land, Would yield his portion of his country’s fame, And quit old freedom’s patrimonial claim, With lying smiles oppressions pomp to see, And judge of glory by a king’s decree. O blest at home with justly-envied laws, O long the chiefs of Europe’s general cause, Whom Heaven hath chosen at each dangerous hour To check the inroads of barbaric power, The rights of trampled nations to reclaim, And guard the social world from bonds and shame; Oh, let not luxury’s fantastic charms Thus give the lie to your heroic arms: Nor for the ornaments of life embrace Dishonest lessons from that vaunting race, Whom fate’s dread laws (for, in eternal fate Despotic rule was heir to freedom’s hate,) Whom in each warlike, each commercial part, In civil counsel, and in pleasing art, The judge of earth predestin’d for your foes, And made it fame and virtue to oppose. Odes on Several Subjects. Book II., ode i. Poetical Works. Aldine edition, 1835, p. 199.
ROBERT LLOYD, 1751
(1733-1764) There stood an ancient mount, yclept Parnass, (The fair domain of sacred poesy,) Which, with fresh odours ever-blooming, was Besprinkled with the dew of Castaly; Which now in soothing murmurs whisp’ring glides Wat’ring with genial waves the fragrant soil, Now rolls adown the mountain’s steepy sides, Teaching the vales full beauteously to smile, Dame Nature’s handiwork, not form’d by lab’ring toil. The Muses fair, these peaceful shades among, With skilful fingers sweep the trembling strings; The air in silence listens to the song, And Time forgets to ply his lazy wings; Pale-visag’d Care, with foul unhallow’d feet, Attempts the summit of the hill to gain, Ne can the hag arrive the blissful seat, Her unavailing strength is spent in vain, Content sits on the top, and mocks her empty pain. Oft Phoebus’ self left his divine abode, And here enshrouded in a shady bow’r, Regardless of his state, laid by the god, And own’d sweet music’s more alluring pow’r. On either side was plac’d a peerless wight, Whose merit long had fill’d the trump of Fame; This, Fancy’s darling child, was Spenser hight, Who pip’d full pleasing on the banks of Tame; That, no less fam’d than he, and Milton was his name. Next Shakespeare sat, irregularly great, And in his hand a magic rod did hold, Which visionary beings did create, And burn the foulest dross to purest gold: Whatever spirits rose in earth or air, Or bad or good, obey his dread command; To his behests these willingly repair, Those aw’d by terrors of his magic wand, The which not all their pow’rs united might withstand. Beside the bard there stood a beauteous maid, Whose glittering appearance dimm’d the eyen; Her thin-wrought vesture various tints display’d, Fancy her name, ysprong of race divine; Her mantle wimpled low, her silken hair, Which loose adown her well-turn’d shoulders stray’d, She made a net to catch the wanton air, Whose love-sick breezes all around her play’d, And seem’d in whispers soft to court the heav’nly maid. And ever and anon she wav’d in air A sceptre, fraught with all-creative pow’r: She wav’d it round: eftsoons there did appear Spirits and witches, forms unknown before: Again she lifts her wonder-working wand; Eftsoons upon the flow’ry plain were seen The gay inhabitants of Fairy-Land, And blithe attendants upon Mab their queen In mystic circles danc’d along th’ enchanted green. On th’ other side stood Nature, goddess fair; A matron seem’d she, and of manners staid; Beauteous her form, majestic was her air, In loose attire of purest white array’d: A potent rod she bore, whose pow’r was such (As from her darling’s works may well be shown,) That often with its soul-enchanting touch, She rais’d or joy or caus’d the deep-felt groan, And each man’s passions made subservient to her own. The Progress of Envy, 1751, Stanzas 2-4 and 7-10.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 1765
(1728-1774) The character of old Falstaff, even with all his faults, gives me more consolation than the most studied efforts of wisdom: I here behold an agreeable old fellow, forgetting age, and showing me the way to be young at sixty-five. Sure I am well able to be as merry, though not so comical, as he. Is it not in my power to have, though not so much wit, at least as much vivacity?—Age, care, wisdom, reflection, begone!—I give you to the winds. Let’s have t’other bottle: here’s to the memory of Shakespeare, Falstaff, and all the merry men of Eastcheap. Such were the reflections that naturally arose while I sat at the Boar’s-head tavern, still kept at Eastcheap. Here, by a pleasant fire, in the very room where old Sir John Falstaff cracked his jokes, in the very chair which was sometimes honoured by Prince Henry, and sometimes polluted by his immoral merry companions, I sat and ruminated on the follies of youth; wished to be young again; but was resolved to make the best of life while it lasted, and now and then compared past and present times together. “A Reverie at the Boar’s Head Tavern in Eastcheap.” Collected Essays, 1765.
GEORGE, LORD LYTTELTON, 1765
(1709-1773) “Boileau—Pope.” BOILEAU ... The office of an editor was below you, and your mind was unfit for the drudgery it requires. Would anybody think of employing a Raphael to clean an old picture? POPE The principal cause of my undertaking that task was zeal for the honour of Shakespeare: and if you knew all his beauties as well as I, you would not wonder at this zeal. No other author had ever so copious, so bold, so creative an imagination, with so perfect a knowledge of the passions, the humours, and sentiments of mankind. He painted all characters, from kings down to peasants, with equal truth and equal force. If human nature were destroyed, and no monument were left of it except his works, other beings might know what man was from those writings. BOILEAU You say he painted all characters, from kings down to peasants, with equal truth and equal force. I cannot deny that he did so; but I wish he had not jumbled those characters together, in the composition of his pictures, as he has frequently done. POPE The strange mixture of tragedy, comedy, and farce in the same play, nay, sometimes in the same scene, I acknowledge to be quite inexcusable. But this was the taste of the times when Shakespeare wrote. BOILEAU A great genius ought to guide, not servilely follow, the taste of his contemporaries. POPE Consider from how thick a darkness of barbarism the genius of Shakespeare broke forth! What were the English, and what (let me ask you) were the French dramatic performances, in the age when he flourished? The advances he made towards the highest perfection both of tragedy and comedy are amazing! In the principal points, in the power of exciting terror and pity, or raising laughter in an audience, none yet has excelled him, and very few have equalled. BOILEAU Do you think he was equal in comedy to Moliere? POPE In comic force I do: but in the fine and delicate strokes of satire, and what is called genteel comedy, he was greatly inferior to that admirable writer. There is nothing in him to compare with the Misanthrope, the Ecole des Femmes, or Tartuffe. BOILEAU This, Mr. Pope, is a great deal for an Englishman to acknowledge. A veneration for Shakespeare seems to be a part of your national religion, and the only part in which even your men of sense are fanatics. POPE He who can read Shakespeare, and be cool enough for all the accuracy of sober criticism, has more of reason than taste. BOILEAU I join with you in admiring him as a prodigy of genius, though I find the most shocking absurdities in his plays; absurdities which no critic of my nation can pardon. POPE We will be satisfied with your feeling the excellence of his beauties. Dialogues of the Dead, xiv., 4th edition, 1765. XIV. Boileau—Pope, pp. 125-128. Three editions of Dialogues of the Dead were published in 1760. Practically the whole of the passage quoted above appeared for the first time in the fourth edition in 1765.
LAURENCE STERNE, 1768
(1713-1768) “The Passport—Versailles.” I could not conceive why the Count de B*** had gone so abruptly out of the room, any more than I could conceive why he had put the Shakespeare into his pocket—Mysteries which must explain themselves, are not worth the loss of time which a conjecture about them takes up: it was better to read Shakespeare; so, taking up Much Ado about Nothing, I transported myself instantly from the chair I sat in to Messina in Sicily, and got so busy with Don Pedro and Benedick and Beatrice, that I thought not of Versailles, the Count, or the Passport. Sweet pliability of man’s spirit, that can at once surrender itself to illusions, which cheat expectation and sorrow of their wearied moments!—long, long since had you numbered out my days, had I not trod so great a part of them upon this enchanted ground: when my way is too rough for my feet, or too steep for my strength, I get off it, to some smooth velvet path which fancy has scattered over with rosebuds of delights; and, having taken a few turns in it, come back strengthened and refreshed—When evils press sore upon me, and there is no retreat from them in this world, then I take a new course—I leave it—and as I have a clearer idea of the Elysian fields than I have of heaven, I force myself, like Æneas, into them—I see him meet the pensive shade of his forsaken Dido—and wish to recognise it—I see the injured spirit wave her head, and turn off silent from the author of her miseries and dishonours—I lose the feelings for myself in hers—and in those affections which were wont to make me mourn for her when I was at school. Surely this is not walking in a vain shadow—nor does man disquiet himself in vain by it—he oftener does so in trusting the issue of his commotions to reason only—I can safely say for myself, I was never able to conquer any one single bad sensation in my heart so decisively, as by beating up as fast as I could some kindly and gentle sensation, to fight it upon its own ground. When I had got to the end of the third act, the Count de B*** entered with my passport in his hand. M. Le Duc de C***, said the Count, is as good a prophet, I dare say, as he is a statesman—Un homme qui rit, said the Duke, ne sera jamais dangereux. Had it been for any one but the King’s jester, added the Count, I could not have got it these two hours—Pardonnez moi, M. Le Compte, said I—I am not the King’s jester—But you are Yorick?—Yes—Et vous plaisantez?—I answered, Indeed I did jest—but was not paid for it—it was entirely at my own expense. We have no jester at court, M. Le Compte, said I—the last we had was in the licentious reign of Charles II.—since which time our manners have been so gradually refining, that our court at present is so full of patriots, who wish for nothing but the honours and wealth of their country—and our ladies are all so chaste, so spotless, so good, so devout—there is nothing for a jester to make a jest of— Voila un persiflage! cried the Count. Yorick’s Sentimental Journey through France and Italy, etc., 1768, vol. ii.
ANONYMOUS, 1769 “The Dramatic Race. A Catch. By a Lover of the Turf.” Clear, clear the course—make room—make room, I say! Now they are off, and Jonson makes the play. I’ll bet the odds—done, sir, with you, and you; Shakespeare keeps near him—and he’ll win it too: Here’s even money—done for a hundred, done— Now, Jonson! now or never—he has won. I’ll take my oath, that Shakespeare won the prize,— Damme! whoever says he lost it, lies. Shakespeare’s Garland. Being a Collection of New Songs, Ballads, Roundelays, Catches, Glees, Comic Serenatas, etc., performed at the Jubilee at Stratford-upon-Avon, 1769, p. 16.
ISAAC BICKERSTAFF, 1769
(d. 1812?) “Queen Mab. A Cantata.” Recitative Not long ago, ’tis said, a proclamation Was sent abroad through all the Fairy nation; Mab to her loving subjects—A decree, At Shakespeare’s tomb to hold a Jubilee. Accompanied The night was come, and now on Avon’s side The pigmy race was seen, Attended by their queen, On chafers some, and some on crickets ride. The queen appear’d from far, Mounted in a nut-shell car; Six painted lady-birds the carriage drew: And now the cavalcade, In order due array’d, March’d first Where erst The sacred Mulb’ry grew, And there their homage paid. Next they sought the holy ground, And while A thousand glow-worm torches glimmer’d round; Thus Good Fellow, the herald of his fame, Did from the alabaster height proclaim The poet’s titles and his style. Air Shakespeare, heaven’s most favour’d creature, Truest copier of Nature, First of the Parnassian train; Chiefest fav’rite of the Muses, Which soe’er the poet chooses, Blest alike in ev’ry strain. Life’s great censor, and inspector, Fancy’s treasurer, wit’s director, Artless, to the shame of art; Master of the various passions, Leader of all inclinations, Sov’reign of the human heart. Recitative Then did the queen an acorn take, Fill’d with morn and ev’ning dew, Brush’d from ev’ry fragrant brake That round the lawns of Stratford grew. Accompanied “And thus,” said she, “libation do I make To our friend and father’s shade: ’Twas Shakespeare that the Fairies made; And men shall give us honour for his sake.” Air O happy bard, whose potent skill Can give existence where it will! Let giant wisdom strive to chase From man’s belief the Fairy race; Religion stern our pow’r reject, Philosophy our tales neglect, Only trusting what ’tis seeing; Combat us howe’er they list, In thy scenes we shall exist, Sure as if Nature gave us being. Shakespeare’s Garland. Being a Collection of New Songs, Ballads, Roundelays, Catches, Glees, Comic Serenatas, etc., performed at the Jubilee at Stratford-upon-Avon, 1769, p. 21. This piece was set to music by Dibdin.
ANONYMOUS, 1778 “Shakespeare’s Bedside, or his Doctors enumerated.” Old Shakespeare was sick;—for a doctor he sent;— But ’twas long before any one came: Yet at length his assistance Nic Rowe did present, Sure all men have heard of his name. As he found that the Poet had tumbled his bed, He smooth’d it as well as he could; He gave him an anodyne, comb’d out his head, But did his complaint little good. Doctor Pope to incision at once did proceed, And the Bard for the simples he cut; For his regular practice was always to bleed, Ere the fees in his pocket he put. Next Theobald advanc’d, who at best was a quack, And dealt but in old women’s stuff; Yet he caus’d the Physician of Twick’nam to pack, And the patient grew cheerful enough. Next Hanmer, who fees ne’er descended to crave, In gloves lily-white did advance; To the Poet the gentlest of purges he gave, And, for exercise, taught him to dance. One Warburton then, though allied to the Church, Produc’d his alternative stores; But his med’cines the case so oft left in the lurch, That Edwards kick’d him out of doors. Next Johnson arriv’d to the patient’s relief, And ten years he had him in hand; But, tir’d of his task, ’tis the general belief, He left him before he could stand. Now Capell drew near,—not a Quaker more prim,— And numbered each hair on his pate; By styptics, call’d stops, he contracted each limb, And crippled for ever his gait. From Gopsall then strutted a formal old goose, And he’d cure him by inches, he swore; But when the poor Poet had taken one dose, He vow’d he would swallow no more. But Johnson, determin’d to save him, or kill, A second prescription display’d; And, that none might find fault with his drop or his pill, Fresh doctors he call’d to his aid. First Steevens came loaded with black-letter books, Of fame more desirous than pelf; Such reading, observers might read in his looks, As no one e’er read but himself. Then Warner, by Plautus and Glossary known, And Hawkins, historian of sound; Then Warton and Collins together came on, For Greek and Potatoes renown’d. With songs on his pontificalibus pinn’d, Next Percy the great did appear; And Farmer, who twice in a pamphlet had sinn’d, Brought up his empirical rear. “The cooks the more numerous, the worse is the broth,” Says a proverb I well can believe; And yet to condemn them untried I am loth, So at present shall laugh in my sleeve. Gentleman’s Magazine, 1787, vol. lvii. ii. 912. Muses’ Mirror, 1778, i. 90. “Edwards,”—the author of Canons of Criticism, see p. 281. “Capell ... numbered each hair on his pate,”—Edward Capell (see p. 107), of whom Dr. Johnson remarked that his abilities “were just sufficient to enable him to select the black hairs from the white for the use of periwig makers.” He gave most of his attention to the production of an accurate text, based on a careful collation of the old copies, and he did his work very thoroughly. “From Gopsall ... a formal old goose,”—Charles Jennens (1700-1773), who printed some of Shakespeare’s tragedies, and brought upon himself the unmerciful ridicule of George Steevens. He lived at Gopsall in Leicestershire. “Warner,”—Richard Warner (1713?-1775), the botanist and classical scholar. He made extensive collections for an edition and for a glossary of Shakespeare. Neither was published. “Hawkins,”—Sir John Hawkins (1719-1789), who published The General History of the Science and Practice of Music, 1776. “Warton and Collins,”—Joseph Warton (1722-1800) and William Collins (1721-1759) were school-fellows at Winchester, and life-long friends. “Percy,”—Bishop Percy of Percy’s Reliques. “Farmer,”—Richard Farmer (1735-1797), author of the Essay on the Learning of Shakespeare, 1767.
HORACE WALPOLE, EARL OF ORFORD, 1788
(1717-1797) My histrionic acquaintance spreads. I supped at Lady Dorothy Hotham’s with Mrs. Siddons, have visited and been visited by her, and have seen and liked her much, yes, very much, in the passionate scenes in “Percy”; but I do not admire her in cool declamation, and find her voice very hollow and defective. I asked her in which part she would most wish me to see her? She named Portia in the “Merchant of Venice”; but I begged to be excused. With all my enthusiasm for Shakespeare, it is one of his plays that I like the least. The story of the caskets is silly, and, except the character of Shylock, I see nothing beyond the attainment of a mortal; Euripides, or Racine, or Voltaire might have written all the rest. Letter to the Countess of Ossory, 15 Jan. 1788. Letters, ed. Peter Cunningham, 1859, vol. ix. p. 124.
PAUL WHITEHEAD, 1790
(1710-1774) While here to Shakespeare Garrick pays His tributary thanks and praise; Invokes the animated stone, To make the poet’s mind his own; That he each character may trace With humour, dignity, and grace; And mark, unerring mark, to men, The rich creation of his pen: Preferr’d the prayer—the marble god Methinks I see, assenting, nod, And, pointing to his laurell’d brow, Cry—“Half this wreath to you I owe: Lost to the stage, and lost to fame; Murder’d my scenes, scarce known my name; Sunk in oblivion and disgrace Among the common scribbling race, Unnotic’d long thy Shakespeare lay, To dulness and to time a prey: But now I rise, I breathe, I live In you—my representative! Again the hero’s breast I fire, Again the tender sigh inspire; Each side, again, with laughter shake, And teach the villain-heart to quake; All this, my son! again I do— I?—No, my son!—’Tis I, and you.” While thus the grateful statue speaks, A blush o’erspreads the suppliant’s cheeks— “What!—Half this wreath, wit’s mighty chief?— O grant,” he cries, “one single leaf; That far o’erpays his humble merit, Who’s but the organ of thy spirit.” Phoebus the generous contest heard— When thus the god address’d the bard: “Here, take this laurel from my brow, On him your mortal wreath bestow;— Each matchless, each the palm shall bear, In heav’n the bard, on earth the play’r.” “Verses dropped in Mr. Garrick’s Temple of Shakespeare.” Poems and Miscellaneous Compositions, 1790. Garrick had in his garden at Hampton a temple dedicated to Shakespeare, containing a statue of the poet by Roubiliac.
WILLIAM COMBE, 1812
(1741-1823) “Dr. Syntax in the Pit of Covent Garden Theatre.” Critic.— “Oh, what a Falstaff! Oh, how fine! Oh, ’tis great acting—’tis divine!” Syntax.— “His acting’s great—that I can tell ye; For all the acting’s in his belly.” Critic.— “But, with due def’rence to your joke, A truer word I never spoke Than when I say—you’ve never been The witness of a finer scene. Th’ admir’d actor whom you see Plays the fat knight most charmingly: ’Tis in this part he doth excel; Quin never played it half so well.” Syntax.— “You ne’er saw Quin the stage adorn: He acted ere your sire was born, And critics, sir, who liv’d before you, Would have disclos’d a different story. This play I’ve better acted seen In country towns where I have been. I do not hesitate to say— I’d rather read this very play By my own parlour fireside, With my poor judgment for my guide, Than see the actors of this stage, Who make me gape at Shakespeare’s page. When I read Falstaff to myself, I laugh like any merry elf; While my mind feels a cheering glow That Shakespeare only can bestow. The swaggering words in his defence, Which scarce are wit and yet are sense; The ribald jest—the quick conceit— The boast of many a braggart feat; The half-grave questions and replies In his high-wrought soliloquies; The dubious thought—the pleasant prate, Which give no time to love or hate, In such succession do they flow, From no to yea—from yea to no, Have not been to my mind convey’d By this pretender to his trade. The smile sarcastic, and the leer That tells the laughing mock’ry near; The warning look, that ere ’tis spoke Aptly forbodes the coming joke; The air so solemn, yet so sly, Shap’d to conceal the ready lie; The eyes, with some shrewd meaning bright, I surely have not seen to-night: Again, I must beg leave to tell ye, ’Tis nought of Falstaff but his belly.” Critic.— “All this is fine—and may be true; But with such truths I’ve nought to do. I’m sure, sir, I shall say aright, When I report the great delight Th’ enraptur’d audience feel to-night; It is indeed, with no small sorrow, I cannot your opinions borrow To fill the columns of to-morrow. My light critique will be preferr’d, The public always takes my word; Nay, the loud plaudits heard around Must all your far-fetch’d thoughts confound: I truly wonder when I see You do not laugh as well as me.” Syntax.— “My muscles other ways are drawn: I cannot laugh, sir,—while I yawn.” Critic.— “But you will own the scenes are fine?” Syntax.— “Whate’er the acting, they’re divine, And fit for any pantomime. Of this it is that I complain; These are the tricks which I disdain: The painter’s art the play commends; On gaudy show success depends: The clothes are made in just design; They are well character’d and fine. The actors now, I think, Heav’n bless ’em, Must learn their art from those who dress ’em; But give me actors, give me plays, On which I could with rapture gaze, Tho’ coats and scenes were made of baise: For if the scene were highly wrought; If actors acted as they ought; You would not then be pleased to see This heavy mass of frippery. Hear Horace, sir, who wrote of plays In Ancient Rome’s Augustan days:— ‘Tanto cum strepitu ludi spectantur, et artes, DivitiÆque peregrinÆ: quibus oblitus actor Cum stetit in scena, concurrit dextera lÆvÆ. Dixit adhuc aliquid? Nil sane. Quid placet ergo? Lana Tarentino violas imitata veneno.’” Critic.— “Your pardon, sir, but all around me There are such noises they confound me: And though I full attention paid, I scarcely know a word you said. To say the truth, I must acknowledge ’Tis long since I have quitted college: Virgil and Horace are my friends, I have them at my fingers’ ends. But Grecian lore, I blush to own, Is wholly to my mind unknown. I therefore must your meaning seek: Oblige me, sir, translate your Greek. But see, the farce is now begun, And you must listen to the fun, It sure has robb’d you of your bile; For now, methinks, you deign to smile.” Syntax.— “The thing is droll, and aptly bent To raise a vulgar merriment: But Merry-Andrews, seen as such, Have often made me laugh as much. An actor does but play the fool When he forsakes old Shakespeare’s rule, And lets his own foul nonsense out, To please th’ ill-judging rabble rout: But when he swears, to furnish laughter, The beadle’s whip should follow after.” The Tour of Dr. Syntax in search of the Picturesque. 1812, Canto XXIV. ll. 173 sq. Tanto cum strepitu, etc., Horace, Epistles, II. i. 203-7.
CHARLES LAMB, 1826.
(1775-1834) Your fair critic in the coach reminds me of a Scotchman who assured me that he did not see much in Shakespeare. I replied, I dare say not. He felt the equivoke, lookd awkward, and reddish, but soon returnd to the attack, by saying that he thought Burns was as good as Shakespeare: I said that I had no doubt he was—to a Scotchman. We exchangd no more words that day. Letter to J. B. Dibdin, June 30, 1826. Works of Charles and Mary Lamb. Ed. E. V. Lucas. 1903-4. Vol. vii.
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, 1845
(1804-1864) The human race had now reached a stage of progress so far beyond what the wisest and wittiest men of former ages had ever dreamed of, that it would have been a manifest absurdity to allow the earth to be any longer encumbered with their poor achievements in the literary line. Accordingly, a thorough and searching investigation had swept the booksellers’ shops, hawkers’ stands, public and private libraries, and even the little bookshelf by the country fireside, and had brought the world’s entire mass of printed paper, bound or in sheets, to swell the already mountain-bulk of our illustrious bonfire. Thick, heavy folios, containing the labours of lexicographers, commentators, and encyclopedists, were flung in, and, falling among the embers with a leaden thump, smouldered away to ashes, like rotten wood. The small, richly-gilt French tomes of the last age, with the hundred volumes of Voltaire among them, went off in a brilliant shower of sparkles, and little jets of flame; while the current literature of the same nation burnt red and blue, and threw an infernal light over the visages of the spectators, converting them all to the aspect of parti-coloured fiends. A collection of German stories emitted a scent of brimstone. The English standard authors made excellent fuel, generally exhibiting the properties of sound oak logs. Milton’s works, in particular, sent up a powerful blaze, gradually reddening into a coal, which promised to endure longer than almost any other material of the pile. From Shakespeare there gushed a flame of such marvellous splendour, that men shaded their eyes as against the sun’s meridian glory; nor even when the works of his own elucidators were flung upon him, did he cease to flash forth a dazzling radiance beneath the ponderous heap. It is my belief that he is still blazing as fervidly as ever. “Could a poet but light a lamp at that glorious flame,” remarked I, “he might then consume the midnight oil to some good purpose.” “That is the very thing which modern poets have been too apt to do, or at least to attempt,” answered a critic. “The chief benefit to be expected from this conflagration of past literature undoubtedly is, that writers will henceforth be compelled to light their lamps at the sun or stars.” Mosses from an Old Manse: “Earth’s Holocaust,” ii. 146-7.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, 1846
(1775-1864) “Shakespeare and Bacon.” Southey.—In so wide and untrodden a creation as that of Shakespeare’s, can we wonder or complain that sometimes we are bewildered and entangled in the exuberance of fertility? Dry-brained men upon the continent, the trifling wits of the theatre, accurate however and expert calculators, tell us that his beauties are balanced by his faults. The poetical opposition, puffing for popularity, cry cheerily against them, his faults are balanced by his beauties; when, in reality, all the faults that ever were committed in poetry would be but as air to earth, if we could weigh them against one single thought or image, such as almost every scene exhibits in every drama of this unrivalled genius. Do you hear me with patience? Porson.—With more; although at Cambridge we rather discourse on Bacon, for we know him better. He was immeasurably a less wise man than Shakespeare, and not a wiser writer: for he knew his fellow-man only as he saw him in the street and in the Court, which indeed is but a dirtier street and a narrower; Shakespeare, who also knew him there, knew him everywhere else, both as he was and as he might be. Southey.—There is as great a difference between Shakespeare and Bacon as between an American forest and a London timber-yard. In the timber-yard the materials are sawed and squared and set across; in the forest we have the natural form of the tree, all its growth, all its branches, all its leaves, all the mosses that grow about it, all the birds and insects that inhabit it; now deep shadows absorbing the whole wilderness; now bright bursting glades, with exuberant grass and flower and fruitage; now untroubled skies; now terrific thunderstorms; everywhere multiformity, everywhere immensity. “Southey and Porson.” Imaginary Conversations. Works, 1846, i. pp. 12-13. This is from the enlarged edition of the Imaginary Conversations. It does not appear in the original Southey-Porson “Conversation” published in 1824.
WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT, 1868
An Unfortunate Likeness
(b. 1836) I’ve painted Shakespeare all my life, “An Infant” (even then at “play”!) “A boy” with stage-ambition rife, Then “married to Ann Hathaway.” “The bard’s first ticket night” (or “ben.”), His “First appearance on the stage,” His “Call before the curtain”—then “Rejoicings when he came of age.” The bard play-writing in his room, The bard a humble lawyer’s clerk, The bard a lawyer—parson—groom— The bard deer-stealing, after dark. The bard a tradesman—and a Jew— The bard a botanist—a beak— The bard a skilled musician too— A sheriff and a surgeon eke! Yet critics say (a friendly stock) That, though it’s evident I try, Yet even I can barely mock The glimmer of his wondrous eye! One morning as a work I framed, There passed a person, walking hard: “My gracious goodness,” I exclaimed, “How very like my dear old bard! “Oh what a model he would make!” I rushed outside—impulsive me!— “Forgive the liberty I take, But you’re so very”—“Stop!” said he. “You needn’t waste your breath or time,— I know what you are going to say,— That you’re an artist, and that I’m Remarkably like Shakespeare. Eh? “You wish that I would sit to you?” I clasped him madly round the waist, And breathlessly replied, “I do!” “All right,” said he, “but please make haste.” I led him by his hallowed sleeve, And worked away at him apace, I painted him till dewy eve,— There never was a nobler face! “Oh sir,” I said, “a fortune grand Is yours, by dint of merest chance,— To sport his brow at second hand, To wear his cast-off countenance! “To rub his eyes whene’er they ache— To wear his baldness ere you’re old— To clean his teeth when you awake— To blow his nose when you’ve a cold!” His eyeballs glistened in his eyes— I sat and watched and smoked my pipe; “Bravo!” I said, “I recognise The phrensy of your prototype!” His scanty hair he wildly tore: “That’s right,” said I, “it shows your breed.” He danced—he stamped—he wildly swore— “Bless me, that’s very fine indeed!” “Sir,” said the grand Shakespearean boy (Continuing to blaze away), “You think my face a source of joy; That shows you know not what you say. “Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps: I’m always thrown in some such state When on his face well-meaning chaps This wretched man congratulate. “For oh! this face—this pointed chin— This nose—this brow—these eyeballs too, Have always been the origin Of all the woes I ever knew! “If to the play my way I find, To see a grand Shakespearean piece, I have no rest, no ease of mind, Until the author’s puppets cease. “Men nudge each other—thus—and say, ‘This certainly is Shakespeare’s son,’ And merry wags (of course in play) Cry ‘Author,’ when the piece is done. “In church the people stare at me, Their soul the sermon never binds; I catch them looking round to see, And thoughts of Shakespeare fill their minds. “And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile, Who find it difficult to crown A bust with Brown’s insipid smile Or Tomkins’s unmannered frown, “Yet boldly make my face their own, When (oh, presumption!) they require To animate a paving-stone With Shakespeare’s intellectual fire. “At parties where young ladies gaze, And I attempt to speak my joy, ‘Hush, pray,’ some lovely creature says, ‘The fond illusion don’t destroy!’ “Whene’er I speak, my soul is wrung With these or some such whisperings: ‘’Tis pity that a Shakespeare’s tongue Should say such un-Shakespearean things!’ “I should not thus be criticised Had I a face of common wont: Don’t envy me—now, be advised!” And, now I think of it, I don’t! Reprinted from Fun, 14 Nov. 1868. “The bard a lawyer”— “Go with me to a notary: seal me there Your single bond.” Merchant of Venice, I. iii. “Parson”— “And there shall she at friar Laurence’ cell Be shriv’d, and married.” Romeo and Juliet, II. iv. “Groom”— “And give their fasting horses provender.” Henry V., IV. ii. “A tradesman”— “Let us, like merchants, show our foulest wares.” Troilus and Cressida, I. iii. “A Jew”— “Then must the Jew be merciful.” Merchant of Venice, IV. i. “A botanist”— “The spring, the summer, The chiding autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries.” Midsummer Night’s Dream, II. ii. “A beak”— “In the county of Gloster, justice of the peace, and coram.” Merry Wives of Windsor, I. i. “A skilled musician”— “What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?” King John, V. ii. “A sheriff”— “And I’ll provide his executioner.” II Henry VI., III. i. “A surgeon”— “The lioness had torn some flesh away, Which all this while had bled.” As You Like It, IV. iii. W. S. Gilbert.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, 1872
(1809-1894) I wonder if anything like this ever happened:— Author writing,— “To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether ’tis nobl—” “William, shall we have pudding to-day, or flapjacks?” “Flapjacks an it please thee, Anne, or a pudding for that matter; or what thou wilt, good woman, so thou come not betwixt me and my thought.” Exit Mistress Anne, with strongly accented closing of the door, and murmurs to the effect: “Ay, marry, ’tis well for thee to talk as if thou hadst no stomach to fill. We poor wives must swink for our masters, while they sit in their arm-chairs, growing as great in the girth through laziness as that ill-mannered old fat man, William, hath writ of in his books of players’ stuff. One had as well meddle with a porkpen, which hath thorns all over him, as try to deal with William when his eyes be rolling in that mad way.” William—writing once more—after an exclamation in strong English of the older pattern,— “Whether ’tis nobler—nobler—nobler— To do what? O these women! these women! to have puddings or flapjacks! Oh! “Whether ’tis nobler—in the mind—to suffer The slings—and arrows—of— Oh! Oh! these women! I’ll e’en step over to the parson’s, and have a cup of sack with his reverence, for methinks Master Hamlet hath forgot that which was just now on his lips to speak.” The Poet at the Breakfast-Table, 1872, pp. 10-11.
THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON, 1897 “Shakespeare’s Friend speaks.” To sing the nation’s song, or do the deed That crowns with richer light the motherland, Or lend her strength of arm in hour of need, When fangs of foes shine fierce on every hand, Is joy to him whose joy is working well— Is goal and guerdon too, though never fame Should find a thrill of music in his name; Yea, goal and guerdon too, though Scorn should aim Her arrows at his soul’s high citadel. But if the fates withhold the joy from me To do the deed that widens England’s day, Or join that song of Freedom’s jubilee Begun when England started on her way— Withhold from me the hero’s glorious power To strike with song or sword for her, the mother, And give that sacred guerdon to another, Him will I hail as my more noble brother— Him will I love for his diviner dower. Enough for me who have our Shakespeare’s love To see a poet win the poet’s goal, For Will is he; enough and far above All other prizes to make rich my soul. “Christmas at the Mermaid.” The Coming of Love, and Other Poems, 1898 [1897].
JUDGE WILLIS, 1902
(b. 1835) “Examination of Edward Blount, one of the printers and publishers of the Shakespeare folio of 1623.” Did you never hear that Shakespeare the actor, whom you knew, had nothing to do with the pieces published under his name? I never did. Did you never hear that the name “Shakespeare,” that is, with the “e” after the “k,” was assumed to cover and conceal the writings of a very great, distinguished man? I never did. Would you be surprised to hear that Lord Bacon— The reporter says that as soon as this word escaped from Counsel’s lips, the whole Court was convulsed with laughter, in which the jury joined. To save appearances, the learned Judge retired into his private room, as he said, in order to fetch his copy of “Venus and Adonis.” His laughter was heard in the hall. “We noticed,” says the reporter, “that Mr. Jonson never smiled. He seemed deeply moved, and exclaimed, ‘What next? And next?’” On the return of the Judge, the laughter had not quite subsided, and the usher cried “Order, Order.” The Judge, on again taking his seat, said to the Counsel for the defence, “I am sorry, sir, your question should have been so received, but you must remember the spectators are human, and that the jury and myself are not free from infirmity. We are, however, quite impartial.” The Counsel resumed. Now that this indecent laughter is over, tell me, sir, do you not know that Lord Bacon was the author of the plays contained in the folio volume? I do not know it, and never until now have I heard a doubt cast upon the authorship of Shakespeare. Did you never have any communication from Lord Bacon in respect of the publishing the folio volume? Never. I never received a paper of any kind from him, nor did I communicate any portion of the manuscript to him. Did not Mr. Benjamin Jonson bring you the manuscripts, or some of them, from which you printed? “My lord, my lord!” said Jonson. “Pray be quiet, Mr. Jonson, you will have your turn directly,” said the Judge. He did not, nor did he touch any sheet of them. As I have told you, I never communicated with him until I spoke to him about writing some lines for the portrait. Did not Mr. Jonson write the Dedication or Preface? He wrote neither. Heminge and Condell wrote the Dedication, and the Address to the Readers they composed in consultation with myself. Did you not receive money from some one in order to induce you to print the folio? I did not. I looked to the sale, and the sale only, to recoup myself and my co-adventurers. Re-examined.—I myself never touched the manuscripts, nor added a line to them. After they were in my possession, Heminge and Condell never, to my knowledge, altered the manuscripts, nor did any one else. I could, if necessary, have written a Dedication and the Address to the Readers. I wrote a work entitled “A Hospital for Incurable Fools.” I hope some day such hospital will be founded. The Shakespeare-Bacon Controversy; A Report of The Trial of an Issue in Westminster Hall, 20 June 1627. Read in the Inner Temple Hall, Thursday, May the 29th, 1902, by William Willis, Treasurer of the Honourable Society of the Inner Temple, pp. 15-16. This extract is taken from an account of an imaginary suit in connection with the administration of Shakespeare’s estate, to determine whether the testator was the author of the plays published under the name of William Shakespeare in the folio volume of 1623.
The Dictionary of National Biography states that Edward Blount (fl. 1588-1632), the stationer, has been credited on doubtful grounds with the authorship of the very curious Hospitall of Incvrable Fooles: Erected in English, as neer the first Italian Modell and platforme as the vnskilful hand of an ignorant Architect could deuise. Printed by Edm. Bollifant for Edward Blount, 1600.
|
  |
