he must go beyond nature as it is; he must recreate the world for himself in such a way that passion and thought may work without hindrance, and reveal the utmost of their capability for good and evil. Many of the common facts of life, however otherwise important, he must ignore, or employ them only in so far as they may be the emblems of character, that by which the spirit may make its outward sign.

Further, among all the variety of human spirits, Tragedy in her intention deals only with those which are great, or have some greatness in them-with Hamlet and Macbeth and Othello and Brutus, and she deals with them thus: They are set down in circumstances where the temper of their spirit is thoroughly tried, where their nobility can be displayed in all its nobleness, and where their weakness (for weakness there is in all human character) becomes prominent and fatal, and ends in catastrophe. In a perfect state of existence there could be no tragedy, just as in a world such as that we imagine for the beasts there could be none, because tragedy implies both the recognition of a perfect law, and at the same time a failure in some point to meet its requirements-a failure which is symbolised in the hero's death. The purpose which tragedy thus fulfils has never been better expressed than in the familiar phrase of Aristotle,* "effecting by pity and fear the purification of such emotions." As we watch the progress of the drama, it is not the fortunes of a prince of Denmark, or a Moorish captain, or a Scotch adventurer that hold us spell-bound, but the thought-sickness of Hamlet, and the passion of Othello, and the guilt of Macbeth, working themselves out before our eyes to their inevitable catastrophe. In real life we catch only a glimpse here and there of the reign of law, or the self

* δι ̓ ἐλέου καὶ φόβου περαίνουσα τὴν τῶν τοιούτων παθημάτων κálaрow.-ARIST. Poct. 1449. b. 27.

dependence of man's spirit. Chance and appetite seem to rule. But in the ideal world of tragedy all the superficial detail which hinders our recognition of principle is stripped off, and all accident is excluded, and the spirits of men are shown us in free and unhindered action after their kind, succeeding in so far as they approach human perfection, but doomed to failure when they meet with a situation with which a character imperfect in the particular way in which they are imperfect cannot cope. And such catastrophe awakens pity and fear; pity for what was noble and great, fear because we are shown unmistakably that there is a power at work in the world greater than the greatest of men, a law of things which even the greatest cannot with impunity break. And by thus giving a right exercise to our pity and fear, tragedy purifies them. By seeing a great tragedy we get clearer insight into what things are really lovely, and awful, and pitiable. We are raised for a time above the meanness of our ordinary desires; and though “a man's sojourn in this region be short, yet when he falls again the smell of the divine fire has passed upon him, and he bears about him, for a time at least, among the rank vapours of the earth something of the freshness and fragrance of the higher air."*

When the tragic fable is not constructed by the poet, but taken from history, as in the present play, the method of tragedy becomes more distinctly apparent. The first questions for the historian are how and when the events happened; and so our historical estimates of Richard Crookback and Brutus are liable to constant modification as new facts become known. But that Richard or Brutus had ever an historical existence at all is to tragedy an

An Estimate of the Value and Influence of Works of Fiction in Modern Times, p. 9. By T. H. GREEN. (Oxford, 1862.)

accident. The dramatist is interested in them only as men of a certain character, and from the events narrated of them chooses only such as bring this into prominence, not scrupling to add and alter, only taking care that the spectators shall not be disturbed by glaring historical inaccuracies. And just as we should never think of asking whether Hamlet or Othello ever lived, so we ought never to ask whether Shakespeare's idea of Brutus agrees with Mommsen's. It may of course happen that Shakespeare's portrait, being closely studied from Plutarch, is a good likeness of the historical Brutus ; but this will be a matter of side interest. The truth at which tragedy, in common with all poetry, aims is not historical veracity, but the truth of human nature; she refuses to regard man as what he so often appears to be, a mere bundle of circumstances, but is concerned with him as spirit; and she refuses to look upon the world's li as a mere succession of events, but is concerned only with what she can see of an orderly progression, a system of cause and effect underlying them. And for this reason tragedy, however false to historical fact, has yet, as Mr. Arnold translates Aristotle, "a higher truth and a deeper seriousness" than history.t

Now this being so, we may be sure that everything Shakespeare wrote in a tragedy is of importance. We may not skip or pass lightly, as though we were reading a biography or a novel. If Casca in the play contradicts himself, we must not put it down to the poet's inad

* In some of the English History plays it is the history itself which is of prime interest, and the result is a mongrel form of drama.

† φανερὸν δὲ ὅτι οὐ τὸ τὰ γενόμενα λέγειν, τοῦτο ποιητοῦ ἔργον ἐστίν ἀλλ ̓ οἷα ἂν γένοιτο καὶ τὰ δυνατὰ κατὰ τὸ εἰκὸς ἢ τὸ ἀναγ καῖον· διὸ καὶ φιλοσοφώτερον καὶ σπουδαιότερον ποίησις ἱστορίας EOTív.-ARIST. Poel. 1451, a. 35.

vertence, and propose in one of the two places to read Cassius. We must not say that Shakespeare introduced Artemidorus in addition to the soothsayer, or used the incidents of the poet Cinna and the cynic poet, simply because he found them in Plutarch. What Shakespeare took or left, he took or left with a purpose. And not to look for his purpose is to miss some of his meaning.

To come then to our own play. The hero is Brutus ; the circumstance which is to try him is the conspiracy to assassinate Cæsar. Of this conspiracy the master spirit is Cassius. In the early part of the play it is Cassius who makes the greatest figure. He wins over Casca without much difficulty, and lays plans to win Brutus. On the decision of Brutus the play hinges. He wavers, and at last joins the conspirators. And in his consent is the revelation of his great weakness, which will work itself out into the catastrophe. What is this weakness? It is a want of political insight and sure touch with affairs. He joins the conspirators, acting from a political principle which does not cover the facts of the case. And the same defect appears in his subsequent action. The motive of the play is thus mainly political. It is the tragedy of a high-souled, but incompetent statesman. It is possible, as we see every day, for a man of the utmost integrity of character to be yet incompetent in public affairs, to make fatal blunders through want of insight into the true position of things and the true character of men; and however we may choose in the last resort to exalt moral soundness over practical wisdom, the want of either in a statesman is not condoned by the presence of the other, and it may happen that to the State the latter is of the greater moment. The good will of Brutus does not save the State, but nearly ruins it. With the best meaning he incurs the

.worst.

The decision of Brutus to join the conspiracy arose partly from not recognizing the real greatness of Cæsar's character, which was obscured to him by such superficial vanities as the desire of the form of kingship, partly from not understanding the urgent need for some strong, steady, single will to put an end to the strife of parties, and make a unity of the empire. The "name of king" was abhorrent to him. Kings in Rome, so tradition said, had been tyrannous. On the other hand, the name of senate represented the equal government of all. In each case he regarded the name, the constitutional fiction, rather than the facts and the crying need of the times. Instead of seeing in Cæsar the spirit of the age at its best, the one man capable of doing what all required, he regarded the "spirit of Cæsar as something merely personal, and so fondly thought to destroy it in the person of Cæsar. This mistake of Brutus is shown in two very noticeable ways. He was afraid of tyranny, and so murdered Cæsar. So soon as Cæsar is dead, tyranny begins in the proscription of the triumvirs. (Act iv. sc. I.) He was blind to the necessity for a strong will like Cæsar's to ensure peace to the State, and so destroyed the one bond of cohesion; whereupon the whole mass is convulsed, and flies apart in civil war; and it is only when the spirit of Cæsar takes flesh again in a person, Octavius, that peace is restored.

Notice all through the play how little facts weigh with Brutus in comparison with his political theory. When he hears the shouting at the Lupercalia, he says, "I do fear the people choose Cæsar for their king." And yet the next day we find him enfranchising them, as though they were a nation of Brutuses; and he sees nothing absurd in having to tell them they are enfranchised and give them reasons for what he has done. There could scarcely be a better comment on the abuse of watchwords than