thoughts? Those of Hamlet? most like they may be for, of all the characters in those immortal plays, Hamlet's intellect comes nearest to our notion of that which must have given them birth; and it seems rather meant to express the workings of an individual nature, the variations of an individual mind, a picture of moral unity, than to shadow forth the interest of general life, of passionate events or passion. But yet what assurance can we have that the thoughts of Hamlet are his thoughts-that those of Sir John Falstaff are not rather his-or that Lear may not yet more sternly feature forth the gigantic proportions of his immortal mind, and the little vexations of his mortal temper? Alas! say the commentators, we have none-no assurance can ever be had now for the inquiring mind of posterity. Alas! said Mr. George Chalmers, what a pity that we are not let into any of the secrets of Shakspeare's domesticity, his friendship, his amusements, his private character! Alas! echoes Mr. Steevens, it is indeed a pity; we know nothing of him but that he was born in Stratford, married, and had children, came to London and wrote plays, went back to Stratford, made his will, and died. Are you sure you know all that? shrewdly asks Mr. Malone, setting to work to sap the foundations of even the few facts we have. Oh, these commentators, how heavy they do lie upon Shakspeare! The earth, it is to be hoped, lies much lighter upon them.

Dear reader, believe not the commentators. I have suffered this illusion of questioning to be carried on too long in this brief paper. An emphatic answer could have been given carlier. Shakspeare himself has written of himself; Shakspeare himself has told of his loves and his friendships, and of those inner thoughts that alone stamp the character; Shakspeare himself has described the wayward moods of his mortal mind, and the wayward turns of his mortal fate; Shakspeare himself has unconsciously left for the world's gaze a picture, to contrast strangely, but in deep truth, with his glories of the theatre, and with his gaiety of the Mermaid and the Mitre; Shakspeare himself, from the sublime solitude into which the very might of his genius must ever and anon have plunged him, has sent forth audible sighs which are breathing still, and may still be heard amidst the throbbings of his mighty heart! Shakspeare, in one word, has written down his confessions, AND THESE CON

FESSIONS STILL REMAIN.

It was, I find, about the year 1598 that an allusion first appeared in some writings of Shakspeare, undesigned for publication. In that year a book named "The Wit's Treasury" was published, written by one Meres, who indulged himself in an allusion to the poet after the following strain :"As the soul of Euphorbus was thought to live in Pythagoras, so the sweet witty soul of Ovid lives in mellifluous and honey-tongued Shakspeare." Witness, Mr. Meres proceeded, startling greatly all who had not heard of them, witness" his sugared sonnets among his private friends." Now in those days there lived a certain bookseller of doubtful authenticity, a sort of Edmund Curll, in truth, whose ungentlemanly transgressions beyond the honour of the business greatly shocked the sober Lintots and judicious Tonsons of the time. But Providence selects its instruments, and Mr. Jaggard has found favour with posterity. As soon as he saw this "note of Meres," he set to work to ferret out these sonnets, and scrape them together for a volume. He succeeded in collecting several, and published them accordingly, in defiance of the author and of all remonstrance, the following year. I fear he would

scarcely have been incited to this but for some little matters of personal scandal that were in them, and for that the person whom they affected mainly was now becoming of some substance in the world, having just appeared as in part proprietor, as well as actor, of the Globe theatre. This I gather from a curious document produced lately by the ingenious and learned Mr. Collier, in which the name of Shakspeare stands fifth in a list of the owners and actors of the Globe. It was not till 1609 that another publication of these sonnets took place, when a certain W. H., as I take it, performed the office of collector to those that had been written between that year and 1599, and carried the whole to Thomas Thorpe, who, in gratitude, dedicated the volume to his nameless benefactor.

These sonnets, then, are the PERSONAL CONFESSIONS of Shakspeare. They record his loves, his friendships, and his character, as I have already described them. They express (as it has been finely said the sonnet is fitted to express) "some fee grief due to the poet's breast;" they are sighs uttered from the fulness of his heart, which breathe forth its secretest emotions; they record the sweetest pieces of self-denial, and of jealous self-watchfulness; they tell us a variety of personal anecdotes of all sorts; they are, in short, transcripts of the writer's own mind in all its changes from joy to sorrow, and in the loftiest aspect of its intellect as in the lowliest of its daily fortunes. Into what wonderful secrets do they not admit us, what strange incidents do they not disclose! Think of the very inmost feelings of such a heart-of the depths of such a peculiar and solitary spirit, solitary in the very vastness of its sympathies! If the reader may find it worth his while to follow me, I venture to think that I am able to derive from these sonnets such a series of personal experiences, and such personal lessons of exquisite truth and wisdom, as it has rarely been permitted to man to breathe to himself, or to leave unconsciously on record to succeeding men. And how recorded! With what disinterested sentiment, what profound thought, what refinement, what love of nature! What glory does he not add to his thoughts of love, with what exquisite beauty does he not redeem his sorrows! They tell of obstacles, of severe struggles, of poverty, of contumely, of neglect-yet they are not dark with tears. For see, beyond, even out of these splendid colours, these noble words, these lovely thoughts, the rainbow of hope springs up. At least the reader shall see it-if he will take me for his guide. I believe I have discovered many of the most hidden allusions in these poems, though there are many that must still remain impenetrable. For surely, in such a soul as that of Shakspeare, there must ever be unsounded abysses, which it would be but questionable philosophy to undertake very readily to fathom.

It shall be the object of a second paper to throw into succinct arrangement a most remarkable piece of autobiography (the most remarkable, perhaps, ever placed on distinct record), derived from these sonnets. Meanwhile, the space which remains shall be occupied with some remarks on a few of those thoughts and allusions that are in them, which I find explained even by the little that is known to us of the actual circumstances of Shakspeare's life. The most unbelieving of my readers may perhaps be content to exercise their reason, if not their faith, in arguing thus from the known to the unknown. It is proper perhaps to throw out this as a sop for Pagans, though it is not by any means for such as them that these pages are written.

The mention of these persons, however, reminds me to quote a passage of

authority on the subject, from a very eminent writer, which may probably induce many most reasonable readers to follow me with a more implicit and confiding faith through the task I have undertaken. The quotation is due also in justice to the writer. The passage, I should remark, however, has only come under my notice since I began this article. Augustus William Schlegel, in his masterly criticisms on Shakspeare, remarks on the extraordinary deficiency of critical acumen in the commentators, that none of them, as far as he knows, have ever thought of availing themselves of his sonnets for tracing the history of his life. "These sonnets," proceeds that great critic, "paint most unequivocally the actual situation and sentiments of the poet, and they enable us to become acquainted with the passions of the man." I had not seen this passage when I began to write, but I am most proud to follow in the steps of so great an authority; one which will have the effect, too, I trust, of bringing along with me all the more scrupulous order of believers. The remark, however, strongly forces itself upon me, that the conduct of the commentators, in this matter, is less surprising than that Schlegel, having thus expressed himself, should stop here. It is easier to forgive the commentators than to forgive him. The excuse of ignorance is at least something, and the commentators have it on their side in its most emphatic form. When Mr. Steevens says that the strongest Act of Parliament, framed on purpose, would never compel people to read these sonnets, we cannot help thinking Mr. Steevens an idiot on that point, and treating him accordingly. When Schlegel employs the language we have just quoted, and fails to follow it up with a realization of its own suggestion, we must even complain of Schlegel. He has left the task to very humble hands. What would we give to have seen it in his own!-that is now impossible. Above all, what would we not give, what sacrifices would we not make, to see it in the yet more Shakspearian hands of a countryman of our own--the deepest, the most apprehensive of critics-the noblest of humanists, the purest, most modest, and most delightful of all prose writers-respected, admired, and loved Charles Lamb! May that be possible still!*

As I write this, I have taken down a volume of Mr. Lamb's works, and opened on the following passage. It is the only one, I believe, in which he has alluded to the sonnets of Shakspeare; but it shows in how fine a spirit he would have treated the subject. I quote it for that reason, and because it has reference to one of the subjects I had intended to remark upon in concluding this paper. It occurs in the masterly essay on the tragedies of Shakspeare, considered with reference to their fitness for stage representation. (Works, vol. ii. p. 1.) Mr. Lamb is commenting indignantly on the circumstance of Garrick's having been called a kindred mind with Shakspeare's. "Did not Garrick shine, and was he not ambitious of shining, in every drawling tragedy that his wretched day produced-the productions of the Hills and the Murphys and the Browns-and shall he have that honour to dwell in our minds for ever as an inseparable concomitant with Shakspeare? A kindred mind! O who can read that affecting sonnet of Shakspeare which alludes to his profession as a player

"Oh, for my sake, do you with Fortune chide,

The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,

This hope is vain. As I correct these sheets I hear from one of his most honoured friends that that fine writer is no more,

That did not better for my life provide

Than public means which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand;
And almost thence my nature is subdued

To what it works in, like the dyer's hand-”

Or that other confession

"Alas! 'tis true, I have gone here and there,

And made myself a motley to the view:

Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear-" Who can read these instances of jealous self-watchfulness in our sweet Shakspeare, and dream of any congeniality between him, and one that, by every tradition of him, appears to have been as mere a player as ever existed?" These are, indeed, affecting passages which Mr. Lamb has quoted, and, with something of this sort, inexpressibly interesting and touching, the majority of the sonnets are burthened. What a thing it is to see a mighty and immortal poet, thus lighting to his individual existence on the common earth, and jostled by the mortal crowd! How touching, in all respects, are the circumstances! These two sonnets, I find, were published in Jaggard's first surreptitious collection, and must, therefore, have been written early; perhaps before he had thrown off any of his greater works, and while the dogs of necessity were still goading him on to common labours, already faded and panting in spirit from their worldly chace. But yet observe; he performs his dutieshe plays at the theatre as usual-he does not shrink from that; he goes afterwards, perhaps, to the Mermaid or the Mitre, and keeps up the semblance of gaiety there-but the rack only stands still! In the solitude of his spirit, his spirit falls back upon itself, and its own mighty communings. I can fancy the horror with which the thought first crossed him, that as a mere task-worker he might cease to think his own thoughts become subdued to the thoughts of others from daily working in them, and daily speaking them--and be at last unable to give forth those wonderful creations with the throes of which his breast must have been heaving then! There were moments when Raphael fancied himself no painter; there may have been moments when Shakspeare feared he could not write "Hamlet" or "Othello." The touching allusion, in the second sonnet, to his "goring" his own thoughts, and selling cheap" what is most dear," with the exquisite line which follows (omitted in Mr. Lamb's quotation),

"Made old offences of affections new,"

seem to me to intimate that, whatever may have been his success as an actor with the audience, in impressing on them the meaning of the scene, he most assuredly went for his acting to the only sure source--his own heart. Well might he say, he sold cheap what is most dear, since he "coined his heart for drachmas." His own thoughts he gored, that he might express the thoughts of others-his own affections, newly reaped, he turned into a harvest of profit for others, tampering with them, and changing them-and for what? How many shillings a week had Shakspeare for his acting?

But a more interesting question is, What sort of acting was it? I have a shrewd suspicion, from the evidences of these sonnets, and from other sources I will name, that it must have been fine-as far in advance, indeed, of his contemporaries and of his audience, as his writing was. At least, if this may not be conceded, Lingo's amusing plea will,

perhaps, be allowed: "A scholar! I am a master of scholars!" Shakspeare was unquestionably, if not an actor, a master of actors. Witness his noble advice to the players in "Hamlet;" that admirable dialogue on acting and " playing the big tragedian," between Richard and Buckingham; and a thousand other evidences throughout his plays. But this is not all. The author of the "Roscius Anglicanus" distinctly states, on excellent authority, that Shakspeare himself specially taught Taylor to play Hamlet, and Lowin to play Henry the Eighth he himself was content with the Ghost. Rowe says it was his top performance: and a noble performance I imagine it to have been. What a sense of the poetry, what an awful and most imaginative impressiveness must have been there! I would venture much that, as Taylor in Hamlet described the "piteous action" of Shakspeare in the Ghost, the audience must have felt, as it were humanly in their hearts, even that awful visitation. Another of his parts, too, known to have been acted by him, was that of Adam in "As you like it." How characteristic of the heart of the man (as the other had been of his imagination) to select this piece of beautiful and pathetic devotion! How sure a proof that he was equal to its noblest expressions! Aubrey distinctly states indeed, that he "did act exceedingly well." I am very sure of it: but we have seen in what way his jealous self-watchfulness fancied acting might hurt his mind, and there may have been other reasons to disgust him with the profession. Honest John Davies, of Hereford, wrote to him jocosely,

"Some say, good Will, which I in sport do sing,

Hadst thou not played some kingly parts in sport,
Thou hadst been a companion for a king,

And been a king among the meaner sort!"

but there was truth in this jest; and it is impossible to think that it can have other than revolted his fine nature to exhibit himself 66 a motley to the view" of the fops who, in those days, had the privilege of sitting on the stage; to be hustled perhaps, and impertinently addressed by a noble pimp of a fellow with his "tobacco-pipe in his mouth," in " a jerkin cudgelled with gold lace," with "a hat scarce pipkin high," and "a poniard on his thigh,"-as they are graphically described for us, sitting on the stage laughing, it might be, in the face of Macbeth or Lear. Add to all this the suggestion I began with-that his acting was probably in advance of his time. And what is an actor without applause? The war-horse without the trumpet. An actor must feel his living triumph, for but a slight one can survive him. At all events, Shakspeare seized the first opportunity of quitting the stage. In 1603 he played Sejanus in Ben Jonson's play; and this is the last date at which I find his name. When Volpone was acted, in 1605, his name does not appear. The truth is, that, in 1603, he appears, from the license dated in that year, to have accomplished the purchase of a larger share in the Globe theatre, and the first use he made of his new power was to take his own name from the list of actors!

I had intended to close this paper with some striking proofs of Shakspeare's strong sense of the immortality of his writings, but of the uncertainty of his own name surviving along with them,-a feeling I have already strongly insisted on as entertained, in some degree, by his contemporaries, and in these confessions of his thus strangely corroborated by himself. But I find that for the present I must conclude. My task has been no unpleasant one, and I trust I have found in the kindness of the reader some encouragement to proceed with it.