used by other contemporary writers in the same way; Markham, for example, in his Treatise on Agriculture, says, 'Next unto Plowing, it is necessarie that I place Reaping, sith it is the end, hope, and perfection of the labour, and both the merit and the incouragement which maketh the toyle both light and portable. Again, the word simular, in the sense of hypocrite, one that counterfeits, is given by Nares and Todd as peculiar to Shakespeare. But it was popularly employed in exactly the same sense before Shakespeare began to write. The same may be said of captivate in the literal sense of taking captive, making a prisoner; pelleted, in the sense of forming into drops; convince, in the sense of conquer or overcome; and overcome, in the literal sense of coming over or over-shadowing.

Shakespeare not unfrequently indeed uses plain words in metaphorical senses and metaphorical words in plain senses, neuter verbs as active and active verbs as neuter, generic terms as specific and the reverse. But these liberties can hardly be complained of as blemishes. On the contrary, it is by the skilful use of such expedients for avoiding hackneyed and nerveless phrases that Shakespeare gives to common words an unaccustomed grace and secures such unfailing freshness, novelty, and force of expression. The real question with regard to shades of meaning is not whether they are new, but whether they are legitimate, whether they conform to the nature of the word and the idiom of the language. It would not be difficult to give from Shakespeare's contemporaries examples of meanings not only new but licentious and abusive, and a few such may no doubt be found in Shakespeare himself. They are, however, rare exceptions, and the assertion that his style abounds in new meanings must therefore, until supported by something like de

FOL. LXXX.-NO. CCCCLXXVI.

tailed evidence, be regarded as at least an unwarrantable one.

After all, however, Mr. Hallam's charge against Shakespeare, though pressed under both heads, refers probably more to his syntax than to his vocabulary. His language suggests this, and obscurity of construction is perhaps the most common critical reproach against Shakespeare's style. After making allowance for difficulties of meaning arising from the partial obsoleteness of words and phrases, Mr. Hallam says:-'It is impossible to deny that innumerable lines in Shakespeare were not more intelligible in his time than they are at present.' And immediately after he refers to the very numerous passages which yield to no interpretation, knots which are never loosed, which conjecture does but cut.' These difficulties must be those of construction, but, as in the case of words and meanings, Mr. Hallam has greatly exaggerated their number and seriousness. The structure of Shakespeare's sentences is no doubt often intricate and elliptical, his constructions occasionally harsh and sometimes ungrammatical. Words are transposed, clauses misarranged, and concords/violated; and the syntax of our noble mothertongue now and then creaks and strains under the weight of thought or rush of feeling. Not of course that such sentences are at all the rule. They are in fact all the more striking from their exceptional character. In general Shakespeare writes with singular ease, vigour, and idiomatic purity. It is impossible to read one of his more important dramas without being struck afresh with the music and grace, the directness and point, the nervous strength and sinewy flexibility of his style. For the combination of simplicity of structure, harmony of numbers, and exquisite felicity of expression with pregnancy of meaning, he remains without a rival in

S

our literature. In this respect his writing was the wonder of his contemporaries and the despair of succeeding poets. Whatever occasional deviations there may be from his own highest and natural standard, the one great characteristic of Shakespeare's writing is the sweetness, purity, and strength of his English style. This is fully admitted even by the better critics of the last century, notwithstanding the dominant prejudice as to Shakespeare's artistic rudeness and want of cultivation. Thus Hurd, after mentioning some of the qualities that help to give freshness and vivacity to Shakespeare's style, sums up by saying:-The writers of the time had so latinised the English language that the pure English idiom which Shakespeare generally follows has all the air of novelty which other writers are used to affect by foreign phraseology.'

Even the exceptional passages marked by flaws of abrupt construction or questionable grammar are often perfectly intelligible. While open to obvious criticism on the score of expression, the meaning is clear enough. But obscurity amounting to utter darkness is the main point of Mr. Hallam's charge. There are, he tells us, in Shakespeare innumerable lines which were not more intelligible in his time than they are at present: that is, as we learn from the context, which were hopelessly unintelligible then as now. Fortunately Mr. Hallam has given some general references in support of this most serious charge, so that it admits to some extent of being directly challenged and confronted with the facts. He refers to the soliloquies of Hamlet and Macbeth as supplying examples of the extreme obscurity he condemns, as containing lines that are unintelligible, and passages that yield to no interpretation. Even so comparatively vague a reference to examples is of con

siderable service, as it enables us to estimate the real worth of the general charge. We venture to say, then, that there is not a single unintelligible passage in any of the soliloquies either of Hamlet or Macbeth. There are one or two abrupt and even unfinished sentences, which add to the dramatic effect of the scenes in which they occur, and in a few passages the construction is somewhat involved, as in the reference to withered murder' in Macbeth's soliloquy at the beginning of the second act. But even in these passages the meaning is quite clear, and there is not, as we have said, a single unintelligible line or sentence in any of the soliloquies. A striking proof of this is that in the Globe Edition of the Cambridge Shakespeare, where the editors have marked with an obelus every passage not yielding an appropriate sense, not a single line of these soliloquies is so marked. The suggested examples of hopeless obscurity thus break down on examination.

But the general charge that in Shakespeare innumerable lines are utterly unintelligible may in the same way be confronted with the general facts of the case. From the Globe Edition already referred to, we may collect and present in a rough way what may be called the statistics of Shakespearian obscurity. On going through the volume for this purpose we have counted seventy-six passages marked with an obelus, but as the type is small some may have escaped observation, and we may therefore put down the obelised passages in round numbers at eighty. But this total must be largely reduced from the plan the editors have followed in marking unintelligible passages. Their extreme caution and timidity in admitting plausible conjectural emendations has considerably increased, instead of diminishing, the residuary difficulties of the text. They have in some instances rejected correc

tions not only good in themselves, but so happy as to be almost certainly restorations of the original text. They habitually reject sound and sagacious emendations. To

such an extent is this the case that after examining with care the first twenty passages marked with an obelus, we found only five that presented any real difficulties. If we cut down by one-half the total number of passages marked by the Cambridge editors, there will still remain a very liberal allowance for the real and ultimate difficulties of the text. We should thus have forty lines not yielding an intelligible sense in a total of about one hundred and twenty thousand lines, or one doubtful and difficult line to every three thousand. When the circumstances under which the text of Shakespeare was given to the world are considered, the wonder is, not that such lines are so numerous, but that they are so extremely few. Johnson has summed up these circumstances in a characteristic but at the same time a striking and truthful passage. After stating that

the works of most modern authors are published in their lifetime and revised by themselves, he adds :

But of the works of Shakespeare the condition has been far different; he sold them, not to be printed, but to be played. They were immediately copied for the actors, and multiplied by transcript after transcript, vitiated by the blunders of the penman, or changed by the affectation of the player; perhaps enlarged to introduce a jest, or mutilated to shorten the repre

sentation; and printed at last without the concurrence of the author, without the conmade by chance or by stealth out of the sent of the proprietor, from compilations

separate parts written for the theatre; and thus thrust into the world surreptitiously and hastily, they suffered another depravation from the ignorance and negligence of the printers, as every man who knows the state of the press in that age will readily conceive.

It is not easy for invention to bring together so many causes concurring to vitiate the text. No other author ever gave up his works to fortune and time with so little care; no books could be left in hands so likely to injure them, as plays frequently acted, yet continued in manuscript; no other transcribers were likely to be so little qualified for their task as those who copied for the stage, at a time when the lower ranks of the people were universally illiterate; no other editions were made from fragments so minutely broken and so fortuitously re-united; and in no other age was the art of printing in such unskilful hands.

It was almost inevitable that dramas published in this way should abound with verbal errors and textual corruptions of almost every kind. But as already stated, the great mass of these have been removed by the labours of the critics, and in the best recent editions, such as that of Mr. Dyce, if we grant one unsolved difficulty for every play, we should make ample allowance for the that still baffle critical elupassages cidation. The carefully-edited text of Mr. Dyce's new edition may be offered indeed as a complete and satisfactory reply to Mr. Hallam's sweeping censure of Shakespeare's vocabulary and style.

number themselves regard as such, but rather that which commends itself to the judgment of some third person (let us say some perfectly disinterested and almost infallible philosopher) as being likely to produce for the greatest possible number a happiness the most intense in degree, and the most unlimited in extent. This third view is, of course, logically tenable, but, as no utilitarian has ever adopted it, and as it throws us back upon the insoluble question, who is the wisest of mankind, it may safely be dismissed. The nineteenth century may have its Socrates, but it has no Delphic oracle to authoritatively pronounce him the wisest of men. We are consequently reduced to a choice between two alternatives, and in this choice we are, moreover, left to decide entirely by ourselves. The treatises of professed utilitarians fluctuate between the two views, passing from one to the other as occasion may require; nor do I know of any writer, himself a professed utilitarian, who distinctly decides for either view in preference to the other. Now, suppose that we adopt as our ethical creed the formula that the virtuous man is he who promotes that which is, from their own point of view, the greatest happiness of the greatest number, we shall, of course, in determining what it is in which this happiness consists, be obliged to follow the opinion of the numerical majority. We need no plebiscitum to tell us what this opinion would be. Putting the views of savage and uncivilised races on one side, we still are fairly justified in assuming that the numerical majority of mankind have not a very high ideal. Surely virtue is something more than doing our best to secure the greatest happiness of the greatest number, even though that happiness consist of the sum total of pleasures as laudable and enjoyable as would be yielded by

Eight hours' work,
Eight hours' play,
Eight hours' sleep,

And eight shillings a day,—

which idyllic conception of happiness is widely prevalent in the most thickly populated portions of the United Kingdom. I do not believe that either Mr. Morley or Mr. J. S. Mill would for a moment give his assent to the view just described. But, strange as the theory may seem, it has had its supporters. Summarily stated it is something to the following effect. That man is happy who is most able to do what he himself may wish. But he who wishes to enjoy this freedom of action for himself must humour the wishes of his fellow creatures, or, in other words, must 'shout with the crowd;' and, if there are two crowds, he must shout with the largest.' Such a view of life is at least consistent, but hardly needs refutation.

Are we then to hold that the virtuous man is he who promotes, not that which the greatest number themselves conceive as constituting their greatest happiness, but rather that which he himself conceives as such? If this be so, all that is meant by utilitarianism would seem to be, that a man may do exactly as he likes, provided that he is benevolent from his own particular point of view; and perhaps no man would be a better utilitarian than a Grand Inquisitor, whose whole life is spent in securing what he conscientiously holds to be eternal happiness for as many persons as possible, by reconciling' them to the bosom of the Church.

Between these two views Mr. Mill steers a sort of middle course. The utilitarian theory is simply that the virtue of conduct is to be measured by its tendency to promote the pleasures of the greatest number. To promote the pleasures of hogs, or the pleasures of men? Clearly the pleasures of men.

But