New fragments of information, conjectures and odd fancies are still abundant concerning the details of Shakespeare’s life, but the longer and perhaps now more valuable studies are concerned with helping us to see the dramatist in relation to his fellow-writers and the general current of Elizabethan thought and feeling. To such studies Lawrence Babb has notably contributed in his account of melancholy as it was presented by the scientific writers and the dramatists of the time. He has shown that the tradition derived from Galen presented melancholy as a dreaded disease: in the medical literature this attitude was dominant, but simultaneously, through Aristotle’s influence, melancholy was seen as a privileged condition, the almost inevitable mark of the highly endowed. This opposition is at its clearest in Milton’s companion poems: L’Allegro presents the Galenic picture of melancholy, Il Penseroso the Aristotelian. And love, intimately associated with melancholy, was a disease to be cured, and yet, through the inheritance of the Courtly Love tradition, was an honourable state. The more the age is studied, the more such contradictions seem to abound. This book should increase our reluctance to see any seventeenth-century drama as embodying a thesis: even Ford, in many respects closer than his fellows to the medical writers, presents Giovanni not merely as a pathological case but also as a man raised above his fellows, demanding horrified respect.

Since 1760, when Capell claimed that Edward III was written by Shakespeare, its authorship has been discussed by numerous critics. In the nineteenth century, Tennyson, Ward and Fleay believed that the Countess scenes were Shakespearian, while Swinburne, Saintsbury, Symonds and Moore Smith denied their authenticity. In the present century, Tucker Brooke, while admitting that these scenes were much more Shakespearian at first sight than the rest of the play, came to the conclusion that they were by the same author as the remaining scenes, and that this author was George Peele. F. W. Moorman argued that Shakespeare revised the play between 1590 and 1596, and that he completely rewrote the Countess scenes. R. M. Smith showed that Froissart provided the main source of the play, and that the Countess episode was derived from this source as well as from Painter’s Palace of Pleasure. Smith, however, went beyond the evidence when he concluded that the whole play must have been written “at one time by one playwright”, and that this playwright could not have been Shakespeare. At about the same time, Platt argued that as “Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds” and “scarlet ornaments” were both more appropriate to their contexts in the Sonnets than to those in the play, the unknown author must have seen some of the sonnets in manuscript. Sir Edmund Chambers cautiously supported the view that Shakespeare wrote not only the Countess scenes, but also IV, iv. Finally, Alfred Hart, by means of vocabulary tests, came to the conclusion that the whole play must be either by Shakespeare or by some author unknown—not by Peele, Greene, or Marlowe.

“And is there a difference between the various years?” asked Hjalmer Ekdal. The answer is undoubtedly yes. In spite of the really alarming growth in Shakespearian studies—there is a book or article on Shakespeare for every day of the year—every year has a characteristic flavour. In Shakespeare Survey, 1, Miss Ellis-Fermor observed “the contemplation of Shakespeare as an artist and as a poet”, and she looked for a crucial change in the direction of criticism within the next few years. The next year she laid the emphasis upon the development of Shakespeare’s art and thought, and in Shakespeare Survey, 3 she said:

The critical studies of 1951 bear out these views. Shakespeare the artist and poet is the subject of the majority of works, and Shakespeare is interpreted in terms of speech and style. The language of the plays looks like being the central interest for some years to come. As in the 1920's Shakespearian study depended upon an increased awareness of the power of theatrical conditions, and in the 193 o's was concerned chiefly with problems of imagery, so the writers of to-day are instinctively looking for poetic and dramatic patterns, but with a closer sense than the critics of the 193 o's employed of the way in which these were shaped by Elizabethan habits of thought and of writing.

John Eliot's picaresque life certainly accords with the most colourful notions of the Elizabethan author. A Warwickshire man, like Shakespeare, who was two years his junior, he spent some time at Brasenose, Oxford, one of the generation of university wits; subsequently, through most of the 1580's, he studied, taught and roamed from place to place in France, Italy and perhaps Spain. A schoolmaster, a hack journalist, a novice for monkhood who was released without taking his vows, he was somehow mixed up in French politics (possibly as a secret agent) and on the assassination of Henri III in 1589 found it expedient to return to his native country. During the next four years Eliot was in London, teaching French in rivalry with the Huguenot refugees and translating political tracts from across the Channel for Wolfe, the bookseller who specialized in French affairs.

Shakespeare’s attitude to history has been dealt with exhaustively by E. M. W. Tillyard in his Shakespeare’s History Plays. He has shown that Shakespeare’s basic conception of history corresponds with that of the Tudor historians, who themselves followed medieval ideas. The Universe was considered to be a unity, in which everything had its definite place, and it was the perfect work of God. Since any imperfection was regarded as the work not of God, but of man, the varied history of the civil wars appeared as evils caused by human sinfulness. Mortal sins, such as murder, worldly ambition, revenge, were the cause of the disorder. Henry VII favoured such ideas in official historiography, for he could use them for supporting his title to the crown: by uniting the claims of the two houses of York and Lancaster his ascent to the throne brought the disastrous rivalry to an end. This ‘official’ outlook was entirely different from that of later Renaissance authors. Machiavelli, for example, looked upon the natural state of man as disorder which only a clever ruler could restrain by using his wit and power.

Textual and bibliographical studies of Shakespeare were more numerous and more important than usual in 1951–2. The major publication of the year is surely the second volume of A Bibliography of English Printed Drama to the Restoration by Sir Walter Greg. This is one of the works for which must be reserved the adjective ‘monumental’. Of direct interest to Shakespearians are the entries relating to Othello, first printed in 1622, and the plays which were published for the first time in 1623 in the First Folio. But the Bibliography is too well known and too widely used to need praise. It is not inappropriate at this point to return thanks for the reissuing of Greg’s The Editorial Problem in Shakespeare, which has long been out of print. The second edition contains a few corrections in the text and nine pages of prefatory matter in which the author takes account of a decade of textual studies.

"Contrary to what appears to be a general opinion in universities", writes Douglas Southall Freeman in George Washington: A Biography, "it [the history of the American Revolution] is a field that should be replowed and tilled for nearly the whole of its wide area". The remark is equally applicable to the subject of the text of Shakespeare. The exact nature of the manuscripts from which Shakespeare's plays were printed in the early quartos and the First Folio is very imperfectly apprehended even "in universities". Nor is there general comprehension of the various ways in which the text of a particular play was exposed to contamination in the process of transmission from the pen of the author to the printed page. The general public may be forgiven for expressing wonder that there are certain entire plays and portions of others which we shall never recover in the exact form Shakespeare gave them in his fair copies

Every translator is familiar with the difficulties, anxieties, problems and snares of his craft. To begin with, corresponding words in two different languages hardly ever cover the same area of meaning. That is why so-called literal translation is so often unsatisfactory. Plaisir does not mean pleasure; the two words are like two blots of different outline partly covering the same spot on the paper but, for the rest, spreading over different areas. Then again, some things cannot be translated at all because the people who speak the second language, unlike those who speak the first, simply do not say them. An English servant will answer an inquiry at the door: “I am afraid Madam is not in.” That “I am afraid” is utterly incomprehensible in any other language. The French word d’ ailleurs is better dropped when translating French into Spanish. The Spaniard simply does not think that way. There is no word for subir in English; one has to say to go up; but there is no word for up in Spanish.

These are problems of a general nature which beset the translator of any text from one language into another. But over and above them, the task of translating Shakespeare into Spanish verse bristles with problems of its own. The first is that of the language itself. Hamlet is written in the English spoken in London by the wealthy and influential set during the reign of Queen Elizabeth and King James I. A modern translation must appeal to the educated classes of twentieth-century Spain and Spanish America. The translation has therefore to be two-fold: in space, from England to Spain; in time, from 1600 to 1950. A language has to be chosen, in fact, invented, which should not be out of place in either epoch. What is wanted is not precisely that the translation should contain no verbal anachronisms, no words unknown to the Spaniards of 1600; good in itself as a general rule, this practice can in fact be brushed aside in not too glaring cases, without much harm. Rather than philological history or science, taste and art are required, a feeling for style, manner, mood.

The Problems of Translation

Of all the difficulties of producing Shakespeare in China, the greatest are the differences in social etiquette, the language barrier, and the method of translation.

According to old Chinese etiquette, a man cannot touch the hand of a woman. If he should give anything to her, he must put it upon a table instead of handing it to her directly. In spite of many changes during the present century, the same basic principle still holds. Even husband and wife cannot walk hand in hand, or embrace, or kiss in public. Things like that are reserved only for the chamber. Otherwise they are considered as not only vulgar but indecent. That is why on the traditional Chinese stage Duncan cannot say to Lady Macbeth "Give me your hand". That is not courtesy, but seduction.

A compliment, especially a compliment to a lady, is better implied than expressed. We seldom say things like "You are beautiful", even when we are in love. A mere silent admiration is enough. If we should say to a girl things like "You are as beautiful as Helen", we might incur a double charge of hinting that her behaviour is as light as that of Helen and that her only virtue is her beauty. To say the least, she would wonder whether that is a suggestion of an elopement. The chief charm of a young lady is her virtue and not her beauty. Duncan's "Fair and noble hostess, We are your guest to-night" when literally translated would certainly mislead the audience.

It should perhaps be made clear that this is not a contribution to the debate on Shakespeare’s original planning of the Prince Henry plays. It has been argued by Dover Wilson in The Fortunes of Falstaff and in his New Cambridge edition, and by E. M. W. Tillyard in Shakespeare’s History Plays, that the two parts of Henry IV constitute one long play, envisaged at least in its main outlines from the very beginning of Part I. M. A. Shaaber, on the other hand, has put a case for regarding Part II as a sequel, outside Shakespeare’s original plan, brought into being through the remarkable success of Part I. Whichever of these views is correct, it is possible for Part II to have its own characteristic mood and structure, its separate dramatic impact, and my concern will be to demonstrate that this is indeed the case. The only assumption I shall make, which I think will be readily granted to me, is that Part II was written after Part I.

In writing the series of eight plays which give an outline of English history from the reign of Richard II to the accession of Henry VII, Shakespeare can hardly at the beginning have seen the scheme as a whole. If he had, it would be odd to start with the troubles of Henry VI. The mention of Prince Henry near the end of Richard II suggests it was then that Shakespeare began to think of plays in which he would be the central figure, plays which would close the gap between Bolingbroke's usurpation and the funeral of Henry V. But clearly the plays in the sequence already written had been markedly different from one another in structure and atmosphere.

Over a lengthy period of playgoing it is inevitable that certain productions of the classics make more lasting effect than others. This may be due to superlative rendering or, and I think more probably, the frame of mind of the spectator, who by some chance happens to be in a receptive key or mood to receive the play’s message. Of the whole chronological sequence of Shakespeare’s histories given at Stratford-upon-Avon by F. R. Benson in 1906, it was the unknown Second Part of King Henry VI that made the greatest impression on my mind. To see all the histories in succession was the experience of a lifetime, and, under present conditions, very unlikely to be repeated. Benson and his company had all the histories excepting the three parts of Henry VI in their repertoire: no existing company of artists can claim so much, and it was of unimaginable help in presenting the entire cycle to have only the Trilogy to rehearse and prepare from scratch. To embark upon the project with a blank sheet would prove a superhuman task. Nowadays, the only practical method, as with Benson, would be to build up the histories over a course of years with a permanent company. As modern theatrical activities are, in the main, opposed to team work, the chances of ever witnessing the entire chronology in order must remain beyond possibility.

Some Nineteenth-Century Views

In contemplating the masterpieces of the past, each age imparts to them something of itself. In few fields of literary criticism is there a more striking contrast between the last century and this than in their interpretation of Shakespeare’s history plays. Although we no doubt add some different alloy from our own prejudice, it is easy for us now to see that the nineteenth century’s conception of them was in some measure the result of its predilection. For an age of industrial and commercial progress, of growing nationalisms and imperialist expansion, the most obvious thing about Shakespeare’s history plays was their expression of a national spirit. Together they formed an ‘immortal epic’ of which England was the true protagonist. It would be foolish to look for a single originator of this common view, but it can be traced back especially to A. W. Schlegel’s Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature, delivered in 1808 and translated into English in 1815. Most of the German and many of the English critics followed Schlegel in regarding the ten histories as one great work of which King John was the prologue and Henry VIII the epilogue. An occasional sceptic found difficulty in accepting as a prologue something which gives no hint of the work to follow or of reconciling such a scheme with the belief, then usual, in the composite authorship of the first three or four plays. Nevertheless, it was the large vision of the romantic critics that showed us the broad historical pattern into which the plays fall. Schlegel himself strikingly anticipated recent critics when he saw that the dethronement of Richard II begins a cycle of revolts which continue until the curse is finally expiated in the overthrow of Richard III.

Timon of Athens has for more than a century been the object of a good deal of speculation; and the workmanship of another hand was for long seen in the apparently weaker parts of the play. But several critics during the last two decades have endeavoured to show that there is more unity of theme and treatment in this play than was commonly supposed. Some of this very detailed analysis may be unconvincing, but most of the discussion has in recent years been concerned with deciding whether the play, as we have it, is in a finished or an unfinished state. Sir Edmund Chambers revived an old suggestion that the weakness of parts of the play was due to their being still in rough draft. That the play as printed in the Folio is in an incomplete state was likewise surmised by Sir Walter Greg, drawing particular attention to the stage-directions (“Some read almost more like directions for composition than production”); and Professor Una Ellis-Fermor has, on literary grounds, persuasively argued the same opinion.

This may be regarded as one of the most important outstanding problems of Shakespearian scholarship. If we could feel confident that the play is in part still in rough draft, then we should have a unique opportunity of getting close to Shakespeare's method of writing during the years of his greatest creative activity. We should be confirmed in our belief that he was a conscientious artist, prepared to correct and revise his work; and we could draw several interesting conclusions regarding his manner of constructing a play: that he put structure before composition, taking care, even in an early draft, to unify his play by means of ironic preparation and anticipation, symbolic contrast of plot and sub-plot, 'chorus-statements' by disinterested observers, iterative wx)rds, etc., but paying little attention, at first, to the characterization of minor personages and to the prose-verse form of the speeches.

Our knowledge of the drama during the early years of Queen Elizabeth is fragmentary. We know the names of a few playwrights; a certain number of plays have been preserved; some actors are known; and we have the names and locations of a few early playhouses such as the Saracen’s Head in Islington and the Boar’s Head in Aldgate. In spite of this insufficient knowledge we can be reasonably certain that there was a great deal of theatrical activity during the middle years of the century, and the following passage written by John Strype in 1720 well describes the growth and development of the drama during the years in question.

Discussion of the relationship between Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra and the 1607 version of Daniel’s Cleopatra has up to the present turned on claims for verbal similarities and an examination of the changes made in the structure of Daniel’s play between 1594 and 1607. There is, however, one curious passage in Daniel’s 1607 play to which attention has not hitherto been drawn and which may possibly provide a more intimate link with Shakespeare’s play than has before been suspected: it may, in fact, be a reminiscence by Daniel of an actual production of Antony and Cleopatra.

The passage in question occurs in Dircetus's account of Antony's last visit to Cleopatra, a part of Plutarch's story which Daniel had not used in the earlier, 1594, version of his play. Dircetus recounts what happens after Antony has given himself the fatal wound:

“Antony and Cleopatra is an attempt at serious drama. To say that there is plenty of bogus characterization in it—Enobarbus for instance—is merely to say that it is by Shakespeare. But the contrast between Caesar and Antony is true human drama; and Caesar himself is deeper than the usual Shakespearean stage king.” Thus Bernard Shaw in 1897, after “an afternoon of lacerating anguish, spent partly in contemplating Miss Achurch’s overpowering experiments in rhetoric, and partly in wishing I had never been born”. He had already endured the production at Manchester, where Janet Achurch’s magnificent voice and audacious but discordant conception of Shakespeare’s music suggested that she had been “excited by the Hallelujah Chorus to dance on the keyboard of a great organ with all the stops pulled out”. Janet Achurch had created Ibsen’s heroines for the English intelligentsia—unapproachable as Nora and Mrs Alving—and for Cleopatra, having no gift for comedy, “she substituted Brynhild-cum-Nora Helmer in an Ibsen-and-Wagner pie”.”

The Huntington Library is dedicated to the study of Anglo-American civilization. Outside its chosen fields it is confined in the main to works which a scholar concentrating in one of these fields may wish to consult in order to learn what was happening elsewhere or at other times. For the Middle Ages it has no more than a fair representation of the original and secondary materials, though the presence of sets like Acta Sanctorum compensates to some extent for the absence of many smaller works. The purchase of the late T. F. Tout’s books provided a good, working library for the medievalist. Though the Library contains the largest number of individual titles (but not of volumes) of incunabula in any collection in the Americas (listed in Incunabula in the Huntington Library by H. R. Mead, 1937), and has several thousand books in European languages, it is comparatively weak in Continental works. In general, the Continental authors represented, often by translations, are those known to have influenced Anglo-Saxondom.

The Library's great strength develops with the Renaissance and, so far as Great Britain is concerned, declines gradually after 1641 until 1800. After the latter date there are, for English literature, many first editions of classics and much correspondence of their writers, together with some authors' manuscripts. For English history there are the standard works and lives and letters of foreign secretaries and diplomats concerned with Anglo-American relations, together with a fair sampling of the descriptions of the United States written by English travellers. American history and literature are very strongly represented until about 1900, after which time the concentration is upon the Southwest to the comparative neglect of the rest of the United States.

It is generally held that the 1622 Quarto and the Folio texts of Othello were printed from different manuscripts, that the manuscript used for the Quarto was a transcript, and that a transcript also possibly intervened between the foul papers and the Folio. But no one seems very happy about Othello’s textual history and I suspect it was very different from what is generally believed.

Until the question of the relationship of the extant printed texts is settled we cannot begin to guess at the character of the manuscripts, no longer extant, which lay behind them. It is my main purpose in what follows to show that the Quarto and Folio texts were not independent prints but that the Folio was printed from a corrected copy of the Quarto. I have finally suggested that the well-recognized inferiority of the Quarto text was due not to scribal errors but to memorial contamination.

The general superiority of the Folio text has never been questioned and we can safely assume that the manuscript which lay behind it was of good authority. In most cases where the texts differ it is immediately apparent that the Folio readings are better than those of the Quarto. But it is as well to understand the cause of the Quarto's inferiority in cases where the Folio reading is preferable, and it is even more important to be in a position to assess how far Quarto readings can safely be substituted where the Folio variants are unsatisfactory.