SHAKSPEARE. young ladies and gentlemen, on leaving the theatre, is the form of a limb, or the suppleness of a joint! Shakspeare, however, was the writer, not the actor. As an actor, probably, he never excelled. "He was born not to act, but to delineate character; not to play the hero, or the tyrant of a foreign muse, but to create characters and beings of his own, and, with the pencil of nature, to portray in the most glowing colors the various emotions of the heart."* After leaving the metropolis, Shakspeare seems to have had no concern respecting his numerous productions. His literary fame he let go to the winds. We have no account of the revision of manuscripts, or the correction of errors. He composed his plays and poems, made them subserve his purpose, and then coolly left them to their fate. This has been regarded by some as an instance of proud superiority over the "last inferiority of noble minds." But we regret this indifference of the poet, rather than extol it. Had some of his hours of retirement in New Place been spent in correcting, revising, and expunging; had he thrown away some of his common characters, as no longer necessary; had he obliterated indelicate allusions, and bawdy passages; in short, had he, removed from the circle and influence of "public manners," published, so revised, a complete copy of his works from the author's own and last hand, then had not the name of Shakspeare been associated with so much that is of more than doubtful utility; then might we and our children examine his stately cedars, without danger of being caught and entangled in the underbrush and brambles with which his works now abound. Authors may be too sensitive and squeamish about their productions, and they may also be too cold and indifferent. The former is the more common fault; the latter the greater. Dr. Blair,† in his criticisms on the great poet, remarks, "Admirable scenes and passages, without number, there are in his plays; passages beyond what are to be found in any other dramatic writer; but there is hardly any one of his plays which can be called altogether a good one, or which can be read with uninterrupted pleasure from beginning to end. And these interruptions to our pleasure too frequently occur on occasions when we would least wish to meet with them." Every one is sensible of this. We cannot read one of his pieces without wishing some of its passages were obliterated. "In the midst of his great and incomparable beauties, there are many blemishes; and while he scatters roses with a full and liberal hand, he is careless of the offensive weeds which accompany his exuberant profusion." Many of the characters of the great dramatist are exceedingly low; and their language is vulgar * Blake's Biographical Dictionary. Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, p. 530. ↑ Blake's Biographical Dictionary. 53 and profane. In justification of this, his eulogizers say, though they are low, they were common. Granted: so common, no doubt, as to be found abundant among the gentry, nobility, and royalty of his times. But it does not follow because a thing is common, that it must, or should, be commonly exhibited. If so, what a spectacle would be presented! The reader wonders how the recital of some of his pieces could have been listened to by a popular audience. The solution is found in the fact that it was a theatrical audience. There is, however, a palliation that may be offered for the moral impurities of Shakspeare's language. It is found in the customs and state of the times in which he flourished. And though it may seem strange to us, it is, nevertheless, true, that in this respect he was in advance of his times. This may be fully verified by a reference to many of the older authors. The works of Shakspeare are like a vast and wellstored mint. Any coin you desire is there. Notwithstanding his thousand defects and blemishes, his increasing popularity is evidence of the greatness of his mind. "The name of Shakspeare," says a recent writer, "is on every tongue, and day by day the sound waxes louder and louder, as if announcing the approach of some mighty conqueror." No works come from the press without an inkling from Shakspeare. In the lecture-room, at the bar, on the bench, and in the legislative hall his voice is heard; and in the pulpit the thoughts of the poet are freely used. Indeed, he "Puts tongues in trees, books in the running brooks; Sermons in stones, and good in every thing!" The question is often asked, Ought Shakspeare to be read? We think, with suitable guards, and at a proper time of life, he ought. At all events, he will be read. But in reading him we should do as the disciples did, when they had inclosed a great draught of fishes-gather the good and cast the bad way. But how could Shakspeare delineate man as he does in all the circumstances of life; unmasking hypocrisy, exhibiting the deceitfulness of the human heart, making vice more odious, and virtue more lovely; diving into the hidden recesses of the soul, and disclosing the very thoughts and intents of the heart? Undoubtedly, he was enabled to do this from the following resources: namely, close observation of men, the study of the holy Scriptures, and a careful examination of his own nature. Born in humble circumstances, he rose upon his own merits to be the companion of courtiers, and an attendant upon princes. His keen observation, in a long and unrestrained intercourse with men of all classes of society, gave him a clear insight into the human character, and furnished him with thorough knowledge of the influences and motives which control the actions of mankind. That he was a reader of the Bible, no one will seriously question who is acquainted with his works. To that he is indebted for much that adorns his pages. He communed, also, with his own heart. He sought and found there the illustrations and movements of the will, and the workings of the passions, with which his works so abundantly abound, and which are their chief glory. Herein, we opine, is the great secret of his art. It is a striking feature in the history of man, that his depraved nature is the same-the same in all ages, in all places, and under all circumstances. Thorough acquaintance with one heart, furnishes the key to unlock the thoughts and secret motions of all hearts. When Shakspeare, therefore, practicing upon the maxim, "Know thyself," had thoroughly acquired this knowledge, he came also to understand other men. The world within, and the world without, are but the counterparts of each other. And in the movements of his own heart, every man may read the movements of all hearts. And hence, we may account for what is invariably the case, that the individual who does not understand the science of human nature, as it respects the world of mankind, has but an imperfect knowledge of himself. There is an astonishing depth of thought and magnificence of conception in many of the old authors. Books were not aforetime multiplied by steam; profound treatises on the sciences and arts could not be bought for a few cents. Professional men could not generally hire others to think for them; they were obliged to think for themselves, and rely, to a great extent, upon their own resour ces. This naturally led them to a close examination of all the phenomena of mind, and a careful observation of the various exhibitions of passion. The most distinguishing trait in these authors is thought-deep, patient, penetrating thought. Eminent as the great poet, in their departments, were the authors of the Principia, the Novum Cryunon, the Living Temple, the Analogy of Religion, and, we will add, the Inquiry on the Will. It is altogether a mistaken notion that men are to become great and learned, by the mere cursory examination of many books. It is by close thought, and careful observation, aided by suitable reading, that the mind is expanded, and the intellect unfolded. The knowledge of such is at once practical. It is this that makes the eminent, self-taught man, and original thinker, more effective, both as a writer and speaker, than the cloistered book scholar. The one The addresses man as a rational being; and with a thorough understanding of his own nature, and guided by common-sense views of the mind, he finds his way into the sentient chambers of the soul. other, without this practical view of mind, addresses mankind from the airy regions of transcendentalism and fancied philosophical speculation. One communicates thought and feeling, and works conviction in his hearers, while the other slightly impresses their minds with some vague ideality-something in the imagination undefined and undefinable, and leaves them in ignorance, to wonder at the profun{dity of knowledge which they can never understand! "The proper study of mankind is man." In all the relations which we sustain to each other in life, this knowledge is indispensable to our usefulness and well-being. Altogether important is it to the statesman. He may be thoroughly versed in the theory of political economy, yet if he has not a suitable knowledge of men, derived from observation, and the study of himself, he is not qualified to legislate wisely, nor govern prudently; and, unfortunately, he will find himself coming in collision with the judgment of the people. In no profession is this knowledge more indispensable than in the ministry. Without it there will frequently be such inappropriateness in the themes selected for the pulpit, in exhortation, in counsel, in rebuke, and even in prayer, as almost entirely to defeat the object in view. What havoc also has been made in the Church of Christ, simply for the want of this knowledge in those who have been set to govern. And how ridiculous did it make the young theologue, fresh from school, appear, who, on a trial sermon before an audience that he had never addressed, announced as his text, "I am afraid of you, lest I have bestowed upon you labor in vain!” In this profession, too, there is little excuse for such ignorance. From the nature of the work itself, the intimacy with which the minister is received into the families of all ranks, his great text-book-the Bible-his communion with himself in the study, and all the other helps within his reach, he cannot fail, it would seem, with ordinary perception, to become well acquainted with mankind. We have said that Shakspeare was a student of the Bible. Many of his finest thoughts are furnished by the inspired penmen. Indeed, statesmen and orators, wise men and poets, are indebted to the same source for their best imagery and boldest figures. And thus does the wisdom of the world, and even skepticism itself, acknowledge that the Bible, in its origin and composition, is Divine. By an examination of a few passages from the works of Shakspeare, we shall readily discover their paternity. On the death of the heroic prince, Henry V, Bedford exclaims, "Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night! Comets, imputing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky, SHAKSPEARE. And with them scourge the bad revolting stars, In the fourth chapter of Jeremiah, we have a powerfully energetic description of the destruction of Jerusalem by the Chaldeans, "the language and imagery of which," says Dr. A. Clarke, "are scarcely paralleled in the whole Bible:" "My bowels, my bowels! I am pained at my very heart; my heart maketh a noise in me; I cannot hold my peace, because thou hast heard, O my soul, the sound of the trumpet, the alarm of war. Destruction upon destruction is cried; for the whole land is spoiled. * * For this shall the earth mourn and the heavens above be black." Hamlet's" undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveler returns," has been quoted so often that many think it is Scripture. The sentiment is Scriptural, and the language nearly so, as may be seen from the following quotation, made from Cranmer's Bible by Mr. Douce: 55 how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god!" But the Jewish poet, from whom it was borrowed, far excels in perspicuity and force: "What is man that thou art mindful of him? or the son of man that thou visitest him? For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, thou hast crowned him with glory and honor." Wolsey discourses thus on the frailty of man: The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost, Now let us hear from the Psalmist: "As for man his days are as grass; as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth: for the wind passeth over it, and it is gone: and the place thereof shall know it no more." The descriptions of Shakspeare are to the life, and, consequently, must be new and fresh to every generation. It were altogether vain to specify or single out his beauties; for, like the forest leaves in autumn, they are tinted with every hue, and, like them, they are strewed lavishly in every path, and lie upon the brink of every rill. We can hardly resist our inclination, however, to give the following from Portia's reply to Shylock, on mercy. The passage is quoted by Dr. Clarke, as a comment on the words of our Lord: "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." With the text, it should be Afore I go thither from whence I shall not turne againe, even to the lande of darknesse, and shadowe of death, yea into that darke cloudie lande and deadly shadowe, whereas is no order, but terrible feare as in the darknesse. The way that I must goe is at hande, but whence I shall not turne againe," Job. The above passage is often quoted wrong. We hear from the pulpit sometimes, that we shall soon go to that "bourn" from which no traveler returns. Bourn, or, according to Webster, more properly deeply impressed upon our hearts. borne, means limit or boundary. We shall go to that country, from whose borne, limit, or boundary, we shall not return. In Henry IV: "What trust is in these times? They that, when Richard lived, would have him die, "Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind: The following is admitted to be beautiful: "What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! "The quality of mercy is not strained; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven It is enthroned in the hearts of kings; It is an attribute of God himself; Before closing this essay, we wish to give Dryden's character of Shakspeare, which Dr. Blair quotes with approbation, "as not only just, but uncommonly elegant and happy." "He was the man who, of all modern, and, perhaps, ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them, not laboriously, but luckily. When he describes any thing, you more than see it—you feel it, too. They who accuse 56 THE BLIND MOURNER. him of wanting learning, give him the greatest commendation. He was naturally learned. He needed not the spectacles of books to read nature. He looked inward, and found her there. I cannot say he is everywhere alike. Were he so, I should do him injury to compare him to the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat and insipid; his comic wit degenerates into clinches; his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great, where some great occasion is presented to him."* Having made these observations on Shakspeare and his works, his own Hamlet shall conclude our remarks: "He was a man, take him for all in all, THE BLIND MOURNER. THE "earthly sanctuary" was crowded with attentive hearers, while the minister of Jesus dwelt with a heavenly pathos upon the moral blindness and diseased state of the unconverted; and having faithfully portrayed the awful danger of their condition, he effectually pointed to the remedy-told them of the balm of Gilead-of the great Physician-spoke of his infinite love; and that he took no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that the wicked turn from his way and live; and using the kind expostulation of Jehovah, "Why will ye die?" he showed plainly there was no necessity that one sinner should perish, and then urged an immediate acceptance of God's proffered grace, that they might enjoy moral sight and health, and live for ever. The minister closed his appeal, while a heavenly solemnity rested upon the audience, and angels seemed hovering over, anxiously waiting to bear the news to the "upper sanctuary" of the sinner's decision. The congregation rose, and commenced singing that delightful hymn-during the singing of which many thousands, perhaps, in different places, have decided to come to Jesus "Come, ye sinners, poor and needy, Weak and wounded, sick and sore, He is willing, doubt no more." They sung it feelingly. God's Spirit impressed the invitation, and more than a score of weeping penitents crowded around the altar. Among the number that came, we saw one slowly feeling her way down the aisle toward the place of prayer. It was blind Lucy. Little Lucy was an amiable, sprightly girl of fifteen; and though morally and physically blind from her childhood, her intellectual vision was keener than most girls of her age possess. She was known by almost every one in the city as the sweet singer, and hundreds have listened to the rich, mellow tones of her * Vide Blair's Lectures, p. 530. voice, as she poured it forth in plaintive or mournful strains to the sweet music of the piano. We shall ever remember when we first heard her. She sung for us that beautiful anthem, "Peace be still." As her fingers rapidly struck the keys of the instrument, we could almost hear the deep-toned thunder of the storm, and the careering wind as it swept over the deep, lashing the waters of Galilee's sea to a foam, and dashing them against the bark that bore Jesus and his affrighted disciples; then, above the fury of the gale, we hear a voice, full, distinct, and sweet, "Peace, be still!" The thunders cease, the winds are hushed, the waves retire, and all is calm, "As the bark glides o'er the billowless deep, And nears the welcome shore." We thought, as we listened to the performance, that though one gift was denied her, others were bestowed more bountifully than usual. But to return to Lucy as a mourner. We left her feeling her way to the place of prayer; and we hope by this time our readers have become sufficiently acquainted with her to feel interested in her welfare; if not, could you have stood by that altar, and seen the tears fall from her sightless eyes, and heard the half suppressed groan of anguish, and the broken petitions for mercy, your heart must be of sterner stuff than ours if you had not felt and wept at such a sight. Kneeling by her side, we inquired, "Lucy, do you feel you need an interest in the blood of the Savior?" "O yes," said she, "I have such a wicked heart, and none but Jesus can do helpless sinners good." "Are you willing to give him your heart?" we inquired. "O, I want to be willing," said she, "but my heart is so hard-it's so wicked." "He has promised to change your wicked heart," we continued, "and give you a heart of flesh. Only take him at his word, Lucy-his promises never fail." As we endeavored to point her to the Friend of sinners, the people of God gathered around, and many a fervent petition ascended in behalf of blind Lucy. After struggling more than an hour, while we sung, "Poor tempest-tossed soul, be stiil, My promised grace receive: "Tis Jesus speaks: I must, I can, I will, I do believe," Lucy, by faith, claimed the blessing, the messenger of mercy descended, and in soothing accents said to her soul, "Daughter, thy sins, which were many, are all forgiven thee: go in peace." Her agony ceased, and a sweet, heavenly influence seemed to fall upon her, and radiate upon those around; and for a time she appeared filled with "unutterable bliss." At length we repeated that beautiful line of one of our hymns, "How sweet the name of Jesus sounds!" This seemed to rouse her to her consciousness, and she exclaimed, "O, it is sweet! it is sweet!" "Do you then love the Savior, Lucy?" "O, yes," said she, "I cannot help but love him." "Do you think WAR ANTI-CHRISTIAN AND UNNATURAL. he loves you?" "Yes, I know, I feel, he whispers, I am his." As she rose to her feet, she instinctively looked upward; and though the windows of her happy soul were closed, yet the bliss she felt within beamed from every feature of her countenance. "What good news," we remarked, "this will be for your parents, Lucy." As we said this, we were surprised to see a shade of sorrow pass over her countenance, as she falteringly sighed, "I have no father nor mother-father is dead, and mother is crazy." This affecting declaration was made with such artless sorrow that it excited our deepest sympathy for the blind orphan. As we told her of the precious promises in God's word to the fatherless, she exclaimed with rapture, "O, I am so glad, I can read the Bible for the blind. I intend to read it all through." Sometime after this we saw little Lucy again; she had found great comfort in reading the Scriptures, and was still happy in the love of God. May the Lord preserve her unto everlasting life. THETA. WAR ANTI-CHRISTIAN AND UNNATURAL. BY CHARLES ELLIOTT, A. M. In all his works the Deity is seen. And bright Arcturus with his num'rous sons? 57 Drives back his chariot past these radiant orbs Arose. Love spake and Chaos heard the voice: And stamped on every part his image love! Nature! temple sublime of Deity, Thou thyself showest rationality; And mind, immortal mind, sinks from its height, Eternal, and makes war upon its Sire. |