SCHLEGEL.

A. W. SCHLEGEL (Lectures on Art and Dramatic Literature, trans. by John Black, London, 1815, vol. ii, p. 197). Who could exhaust the praise of this sublime work? Since The Furies of Eschylus, nothing so grand and terrible has ever been composed. The Witches are not, it is true, divine Eumenides, and are not intended to be so; they are ignoble and vulgar instruments of hell. A German poet therefore very ill understood their meaning when he transformed them into mongrel beings, a mixture of fates, furies, and enchantresses, and clothed them with tragical dignity. Let no man lay hand on Shakespeare's works to change anything essential in them; he will be sure to punish himself. . . .

Shakespeare's picture of the witches is truly magical: in the short scenes where they enter, he has created for them a peculiar language, which, although composed of the usual elements, still seems to be a collection of formula of incantation. The sound of the words, the accumulation of rhymes, and the rhythmus of the verse, form, as it were, the hollow music of a dreary dance of witches. These repulsive things, from which the imagination shrinks back, are here a symbol of the hostile powers which operate in nature, and the mental horror outweighs the repugnance of our senses. The witches discourse with one another like women of the very lowest class, for this was the class to which witches were supposed to belong; when, however, they address Macbeth, their tone assumes more elevation; their predictions, which they either themselves pronounce, or allow their apparitions to deliver, have all the obscure brevity, the majestic solemnity, by which oracles have in all times contrived to inspire mortals with reverential awe. We here see that the witches are merely instruments; they are governed by an invisible spirit, or the ordering of such great and dreadful events would be above their sphere. . . . Shakespeare wished to exhibit an ambitious but noble hero, who yields to a deep-laid hellish temptation; and all the crimes to which he is impelled by necessity, to secure the fruits of his first crime, cannot altogether obliterate in him the stamp of native heroism. He has therefore given a threefold division to the guilt of that crime. The first idea comes from that being whose whole activity is guided by a lust of wickedness. The weird sisters surprise Macbeth in the moment of intoxication after his victory, when his love of glory has been gratified; they cheat his eyes by exhibiting to him as the work of fate what can only in reality be accomplished by his own deed, and gain credence for their words by the immediate fulfilment of the first prediction. The opportunity for murdering the king immediately offers itself; the wife of Macbeth conjures him not to let it slip; she urges him on with a fiery eloquence which has all those sophisms at command that serve to throw a false grandeur over crime. Little more than the mere execution falls to Macbeth; he is driven to it, as it were, in a state of commotion in which his mind is bewildered. Repentance immediately follows, nay, even precedes the deed, and the stings of his conscience leave him no rest either night or day. But he is now fairly entangled in the snares of hell; it is truly frightful to behold that Macbeth, who once as a warrior could spurn at death, now that he dreads the prospect of the life to come, clinging with growing anxiety to his earthly existence, the more miserable it becomes, and pitilessly removing out of his way whatever to his dark and suspicious mind seems to threaten danger. However much we may abhor his deeds, we cannot altogether refuse to sympathise with the state of his mind; we lament the ruin of so many noble qualities, and even

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in his last defence we are compelled to admire in him the struggle of a brave will with a cowardly conscience. We might believe that we witness in this tragedy the over-ruling destiny of the ancients entirely according to their ideas; the whole originates in a supernatural influence to which the subsequent events seem inevitably linked. We even find here the same ambiguous oracles, which, by their literal fulfilment, deceive those who confide in them. Yet it may be shown that the poet has displayed more enlightened views in his work. He wishes to show that the conflict of good and evil in this world can only take place by the permission of Providence, which converts the curse that individual mortals draw down on their heads into a blessing to others. An accurate scale is followed in the retaliation. . . . Banquo atones by an early death for the ambitious curiosity, which prompted him to wish to know his glorious descendants, as he thereby rouses Macbeth's jealousy; but he preserved his mind pure from the bubbles of the witches. In the progress of the action, this piece is altogether the reverse of Hamlet; it strides forward with amazing rapidity, from the first catastrophe (for Duncan's murder may be called a catastrophe) to the last. In every feature we see a vigorous heroic age in the hardy North which steels every nerve. The precise duration of the action cannot be ascertained,-years perhaps, according to the story; but we know that to the imagination the most crowded time appears always the shortest. Here we can hardly conceive how very much can be compressed into so narrow a space; not merely external events,-the very innermost recesses of the minds of the persons of the drama are laid open to us. It is as if the drags were taken from the wheels of time, and they rolled along without interruption in their descent. Nothing can equal the power of this picture in the excitation of horror. We need only allude to the circumstances attending the murder of Duncan, the dagger that hovers before the eyes of Macbeth, the vision of Banquo at the feast, the madness of Lady Macbeth,-what can we possibly say on the subject that will not rather weaken the impression? Such scenes stand alone, and are to be found only in this poet; otherwise the tragic muse might exchange her mask for the head of Medusa.

HORN.

FRANZ HORN (Shakespeare's Schauspiele erläutert, vol. i, p. 49, Leipzig, 1823). We possess, first of all, in this drama what there is much said about at random, a pure, simple tragedy of Destiny, that is, as concerns Macbeth, the representation of a conflict in which freedom, not yet complete in itself, suffers defeat and becomes the prey of necessity. But this result by no means proves the absolute supremacy of destiny, but only the danger in a certain individual of an ill-secured and imperfect freedom which, as such, must necessarily yield to destiny. The Poet shows throughout that Macbeth was not forced to act because destiny willed it, but that he fell because he put no faith in his freedom; but he could not trust that, because he understood not how to render it complete.

In the life of every human being of any force of character there are everywhere abysses, whence ascends a bewildering perfume as from blooming valleys; but may he who yields to this intoxication lay the blame upon Destiny? Everywhere dazzling colors and alluring voices entice us, and we can follow them or not; accordingly the true Poet knows no one-sided necessity, but only a freedom that has become a beautiful necessity, or a necessity exalted into freedom.

The necessity which Macbeth obeys, because he is not free, exists in his own heart, whose weakness the dark powers make use of to prepare him for his fall. He is of sufficient importance to stir up all hell against him; a prey, such as he is, is quite worth the trouble, and Hell as Hell is perfectly right when it busies itself so eagerly about him.

The power of Hell it is that meets us in the very first scene; a circumstance which deserves special notice, since elsewhere, as in Hamlet, The Tempest, Julius Cæsar, the Poet, with the carefulness of genius, always makes preparation for his supernatural appearances by premonitory hints, broken stories, music, &c. But not so here. The spectator is at once the witness of certain representatives of the hellish Power, and is, from the very beginning, to understand that they are the levers of the Drama, and we are made immediately to see the grim conqueror, Hell, before its gradual advance to victory is represented.

As she is commonly represented, Lady Macbeth is nothing more than the maximum of ambition, a person who, in order to obtain a crown, avails herself of every means, even the most horrible. Such indeed is she, and much more. It may be said, that she would set half the earth on fire to reach the throne of the other half. But,and here lies the depth of her peculiar character,-not for herself alone; but for him, her beloved husband. She is a tigress who could rend all who oppose her; but her mate, who, in comparison with her, is gentle, and disposed somewhat to melancholyhim she embraces with genuine love. In relation to him her affection is great and powerful, and bound up with all the roots and veins of her life, and consequently it passes into weakness. The connection of this fearful pair is not without a certain touching passionateness, and it is through this that the Lady first lives before us, as otherwise she would be almost without distinctive features, and would appear only as the idea of the most monstrous criminality. Ambition without Love is cold, French-tragic, and incapable of awakening deep interest. Here Love is the more moving as it reigns in the conjugal relation; and truly, to the atrocious crimes perpetrated by this pair, there was need of such a counterpoise, in order that they may appear as human beings suffering wreck, and not as perfect devils. . . .

So long as there appears any possibility of preventing the outbreak of his heart, torn to bleeding, Lady Macbeth tries everything in the way of warning and reproach that female sagacity and skill can in such a case suggest. But when all is in vain, and the guests have been dismissed with the commonplace excuse that the King is suffering from his old malady, and the miserable guilty pair are alone, when any less loving and less distinguished woman's nature would have vented itself in endless reproaches at his having betrayed her and made her wretched, she has not one word of upbraiding; but calmly recognizing the fact that what is done is done, she only gently reminds him, that he lacks the season of all natures, sleep,' and, although knowing that he will not be able to sleep, as he has murdered sleep, he lets himself be led away by her like a tired child. . .

The King, Duncan, has been drawn with great freedom and tenderness, in accordance with his fine and tender nature. He is an amiable person, gentle and mild, and with a lively sense of Love and Nature. But he is no captain, and indeed no soldier. Consequently he takes no part in the battle which is fought for his crown. It may even be that we smile at him a little when, upon the wounded soldier's reporting to him how, when the fight was half through, the Norwegian King came to the help of the rebels, the question comes from his lips: Dismayed not this our captains, Macbeth and Banquo?' which receives a true soldierlike and witty answer.

Our light laughter the Poet has not begrudged us, for it does not impair the love with which he inspires us. . . .

Macbeth lingers over this thought, and says that against this horrible deed Duncan's virtues will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued; he sees Pity, that, like a naked, newborn babe, will descend from Heaven, and while it draws tears from every good man's eyes, it must inflame all hearts with rage against the murderer of the unprotected. He says all this to himself; only upon one point is he silent-Duncan's age, approaching its utmost limit. This one circumstance, all sufficient to tame the lion and protect the lamb, he dares not name even to himself, nor to us, for only when he forgets this circumstance can the deed be thought possible, which otherwise could hardly be. But we are not to remain in uncertainty about Duncan's age, and Macbeth himself, in a fearfully touching picture, has to bring it before us. He has killed the grooms, who, suspecting the murderer, were to be silenced for ever. Naturally, Macduff asks why he did so; and then, in order in some measure to excuse himself, he has to describe the scene which he had just seen and caused. So he says: 'Here lay Duncan, His silver skin laced with his golden blood,' &c. Now the deed first stands complete before our eyes; we have learned all, but all in due time. We now take back the light smile that arose at an earlier stage, for the hoary head might well have kept itself aloof from the fight which was fought for him, and the aged man may fittingly ask, as he did, Dismayed not this our captains?'... A very remarkable passage is found in Act I, Scene vi. Duncan has, in a pleasant way, invited himself to sup and pass the night in Macbeth's castle, and every reader and spectator anticipates that he is here delivered to his murderers. Duncan now actually appears before the castle in company with his faithful Banquo, and the question presses upon us: How would a hundred and again a hundred of our European poets have made Duncan talk?

Most of them would have made him express himself thoughtfully, gravely, ominously, after the manner, doubtless, of Henry IV of France, who hears in his presaging ear the footfall of the murderer seeking him through the streets of Paris; feeling the spectral knife long ere Ravaillac had armed himself therewith.' Or, if the King were represented as unaware of coming evil, some friend, at least, would warn him, and upon being questioned whence came his forebodings, would say no more than that a mysterious voice within prompted him thus to speak. It is not to be denied, that in many tragedies such a treatment might be proper. But here it would disturb the effect; for into the calm, soft spirit of Duncan, and into the bold heart of Banquo, no mystic voices can penetrate.

Other poets might perhaps have hoped to produce an exhilarating effect by sharp contrasts, and even to have put the King in a light-hearted, merry mood, which would have been sufficiently out of place.

Our Poet, in his wisdom and clear insight into human nature, has struck the right point, and is thoroughly human and humane in introducing the repose which he here opens before us, in order to deepen the tragic pathos that follows. . . .

It has been remarked above that Macbeth, before the deed, suggests to himself, with one single exception, everything that duty and conscience can urge against his crime, and that he prophesies to himself, in a manner, the whole tortured life that awaits him. He has murdered sleep, and is now himself to sleep no more. Who does not know the fearful legend of the Wandering Jew who cannot die? We see here something similar: a hero, inwardly torn by the cunning powers of darkness and by himself, scourged by the Furies, doomed for ever to wake, and yet so fully

recognizing the infinite blessing of sweet, holy sleep, and so touchingly painting this blessed gift to his own thirsting soul. But the ceaseless watcher falls at last into a feverish, distracted condition, and, rent and torn, he will rend and tear, and believes that he is fated to do so. He believes himself thus fated, because what begins in treason and blood, can, so he thinks, only in treason and blood be continued.

That he errs in this belief is evident, for as long as there are human beings, the traitor will believe that he is conspired against, and the murderer that he is surrounded by murderers. But at last he too will be bent upon destroying; for such sinners, as he has become one of, feel at last a certain horrible tedium which can only be relieved by frequent crime. [See Tacitus's description of the last years of Tiberius.] . . .

The tragic heroes of the French stage manifest almost no natural pain, but express it only in low, fine tones, intimating that they suffer deeply, and would express their sufferings in an ordinary way were it becoming to do so in the presence of princes and princesses, or even of the master of ceremonies. The modern English treat pain mostly in a metaphysical style of speech. Addison's Cato feels no pain at all; his breast is a philosophical anvil, and from which, alas! when it is struck, we cannot even see any beautiful sparks fly. Many of the Germans are too broad, and on such occasions bring out a paragraph in mediocre iambics from their philosophical sheets. Others,-some good fellows with the rest,-instantly administer religious consolation (which certainly should attend upon every sorrow), whereby Nature is deprived of her rights, as she shows herself in at least two-thirds of mankind who do not yet always live in the pure atmosphere of religion, and we are deprived of the sympathy which it is intended we should feel. But how altogether different is our Poet! We mention only, in passing, the great word, he has no children,' 'the sweet little ones,' for every one knows these grand heart-sounds, and no one ventures to imitate them in other places where they do not belong. But I may quote as a true warning and poetic law, addressed to all poets, the following passage:

Put these lines before hundreds of French, English and German tragedies, and they sound like scathing satire; put them before Egmont or William Tell, and they give us a hearty delight. Let them never again, ye dear poets, sound like irony, but give us human beings with hearts that can bleed and heal! Then you will never shrink from that motto. . . .

But, it may be asked, might not the murder of Macduff's wife and son have been omitted? I doubt it, for it was not permitted to the Poet to forget, what is almost superfluously clear, that Necessity must have its issue in Act. That such a necessity existed, arising from the character of Macbeth, and from the moment in which he decides upon the extermination of the hated house, needs no proof. There is another question of more importance: could not this new monstrous crime at least have been withdrawn from our eyes? A certain tenderness dictates this suggestion, and Schiller doubtless was of this opinion, as he suppresses the whole scene. Were it now to be set on the stage according to the prevailing taste, no small part of the public would be outraged to such a degree as to refuse to enter further into the horrors of this tragedy; as one is bound not to terrify, but only gently and gradually to