With consum

between the first and second acts.
mate art Shakespeare makes us see that the action
is important, concerning not simply individuals
but kings and empires, and that this interval of
time was employed by Brutus in a most exciting
inward conflict:

"Between the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma or a hideous dream :
The genius and the mortal instruments
Are then in council, and the state of man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection."

Now, this 'first motion' is an exact definition of the exciting force, which is expressed in Brutus' words at the beginning of Act II, "Then it must be by his death," the completion of the hero's resolve to join and lead the conspiracy against the life of Cæsar. Usually this conflict, whether inward or outward, is seen in the introduction, the interval between Acts I and II being devoted to preparation for the carrying out of the resolve which forms the exciting or initiating force of the action; but in the case of Julius Cæsar the actual resolution of Brutus is delayed until after this

"interim" between the "first motion" and "the acting of a dreadful thing.'

In a Classical drama or a drama with only one action, there is, of course, only one exciting force and its position is regular, being at or near the end of Act I. In romantic dramas, however, there are often several actions-a main action and one or more minor or subordinate actions. Each of these actions has its own exciting force; but sometimes, as in Hernani and The Robbers, the exciting force of a sub-action usurps the position usually held by that of the main action, intentionally perhaps misleading the spectators. JAMES D. BRUNER.

The University of North Carolina.

A MISINTERPRETED PASSAGE IN
GOETHE'S HERMANN UND Dorothea.

In order to realize the state of affairs presented in the concluding canto of Hermann und Dorothea, it should be remembered that when the maiden is

introduced into Hermann's parental home, all persons are aware of the young man's real intentions, except Dorothea herself. Thus the father, going straight to the point with his whimsical, self-complacent speech (IX, 78-85) unwittingly brings the uncomfortable situation to a head. Encouraged by the sagacious pastor, Hermann relieves the tension of the moment by confessing his stratagem and declaring his love to Dorothea ; and then the pastor, with his accustomed presence of mind and sureness of judgment, seizes upon the "psychologic" moment and of his own accord proceeds to the rites of betrothal, as follows (243 f.):

"Noch einmal sei der goldenen Reifen Bestimmung, Fest ein Band zu knüpfen, das völlig gleiche dem alten. Dieser Jüngling ist tief von der Liebe zum Mädchen durchdrungen,

Und das Mädchen gesteht, dass auch ihr der Jüngling erwünscht ist.

Also verlob' ich euch hier und segn' euch künftigen Zeiten,

Mit dem Willen der Eltern und mit dem Zeugnis des Freundes."

The mercurial apothecary cannot refrain from signalling his felicitations before the ceremony is over (249 f.):

"Und es neigte sich gleich mit Segenswünschen der Nachbar.

Aber als der geistliche Herr den goldenen Reif nun Steckt' an die Hand des Mädchens, erblickt' er den anderen staunend,

Den schon Hermann zuvor am Brunnen sorglich betrachtet.

Und er sagte darauf mit freundlich scherzenden Worten: 'Wie! du verlobest dich schon zum zweitenmal? Dass

nicht der erste

Bräutigam bei dem Altar sich zeige mit hinderndem Einspruch !'"'

Probably the passage would not bother the reader had it not been obfuscated by critical overconscientiousness. For the editors, from Father Düntzer on, are perplexed by the pastor's astonishment, inasmuch as he knows, or ought to know, all about Dorothea's former love affair (VI, 186-190). And so they seek for an explanation. Nearly all American editors of H. u. D. have dealt with this question.

Says Hewett (p. 209): "The pastor's real or feigned surprise has led to the supposition that

We must

the subject of the preceding sentence. refrain, however, from making capital out of the above not altogether correct summary of actual literary practice, the more so since Curme himself practically repudiates the rule by advising, very justly, adherence to the personal pronoun (in preference over derselbe and dieser), if no ambiguity would arise therefrom. Heyse, 24th edition, p. 147, says that in doubtful cases reference to the subject of the previous clause should be made by means of er, but to the object by means of derselbe. The aversion to derselbe in such use, nay in conversational German its absolute avoidance, is not taken into account. Curme, by the way, I find no allusion to the use of jener for er to refer back to a word in a preceding sentence or clause by which means a very careful writer may nearly always obviate ambiguity; e. g., "Aus allen Bänden ragten zahlreiche Papierstreifchen und bewiesen, dass jene fleissig gelesen wurden." Gottfr. Keller, Das Sinngedicht, Ges. Werke, VII, p. 40.

In

In contrast with such almost overscrupulous avoidance of ambiguity stands the slipshod use of the personal pronoun which may be frequently observed in writers of a more ordinary stamp: "Ihr Fuss berührte seinen Schenkel; er spürte es; es war, als ob ein Feuer von ihm (Fuss? Schenkel? er?) ausliefe." C. Freiherr v. Schlichtegroll, Die Hexe von Klewan, p. 78.

But ambiguity occurs also in writers who are in general quite careful in matters of style:

"Er (Jörn Uhl) warf den Rock ab und zog sein. Hemd aus und fasste den Oberkörper des Verwundeten. Da stiess er einen Schrei aus; sein Kopf fiel zurück, und er war tot." (Not Jörn, but the wounded soldier, was dead.) G. Frenssen, Jörn Uhl, p. 272.

For the correct reference of the personal pronoun the writer unconsciously relies on the context; as a rule he may do so with far greater safety than on any grammatical prescript. The next illustration is from an author with an exceptionally good diction :

"Sie (Iphigenie) gedenkt seiner (des Tantalus) mit Ehrfurcht, auch Orest nennt ihn das teure, vielverehrte Haupt. Von einer Liebe zu den

Observance of the "rule," in itself, by no means furnishes a safeguard against momentary equivocation. In the following, the noun subject

of the first sentence would better have been repeated in the subordinate clause of the second:

"Das Kopftuch trug sie, wie sich's für ein ehrbares und unbescholtenes Mädchen gehört; doch ahnte man den dicken Knopf braunen Haares darunter, obwohl es (das Kopftuch) das ganze Gesicht rahmte und hüllte." J. J. David, Filippinas Kind, Neue Rundschau, Jan., 1907, p. 96.

In ordinary conversation, too, the clarity of the "rule." If I were told in a tone of perfect expression does not depend on compliance with calmness: "Ich trat ins Zimmer meines Sohnes, um nach dem Ofen zu sehen und bemerkte zu

Ümeiner berraschung, dass er rauchte," I might be in doubt whether the surprise was due to the smoking of the stove or of the speaker's son.

A considerable collection of sentences with a more or less uncertain reference of the personal pronoun, culled casually from my miscellaneous reading in the course of a few weeks, furnishes convincing proof that the passage in Hermann und Dorothea in point of syntax has analogues by the score; yet our passage may be reckoned as unique in that the true antecedent of the personal pronoun has apparently not even been given the "benefit of the doubt."

In English the personal pronoun pays even less attention to the wishes of grammarians. This is due to the more restricted possibilities of substitution. The lack of surrogates is not infrequently responsible for actual ambiguity where enlightenment is not conveyed by circumstantial evidence. A double meaning would be carried by a warning worded as follows:

You must not put your hands on the pictures, else they will be soiled.

and best remembered, is to give a tone, usually a glamor and a sense of romance, to a whole play. Proteus's song to Sylvia, the only song in Shakespeare actually sung by a lover to his mistress, and by him under pretense of acting as a deputy, is the song of a faithless lover, and its substance has no peculiar fitness to the situation. Only the age and time and place wherein such songs are sung is raised and ideal. In Cymbeline it is Cloten who causes to be sung the "hunt's-up," "Hark! hark! the lark"; but the charm of the song makes the whole play beautiful with the light of morning, while the song of the two boys by "fair Fidele's grassy tomb" perfumes it as with the breath of violets.

It is in the woodland romances that this effect is most plain; as is natural from the traditions of Elizabethan song. It is largely, if not mainly, It is largely, if not mainly, pastoral in spirit. The pastoral form has never taken firm hold in English literature, but the pastoral spirit has been vital there as in few literatures, a spirit of delight in rural life, felt by people near enough to enjoy it, far enough to appreciate it, and sophisticated enough to idealize it. In the pastoral romances, elegant and refined shepherdesses, or princesses disguised as such, are wooed by elegant and chivalrous shepherds; and both of them fill every pause with song. When the hero is sad, he sings; when hopeful, he sings; when he has nothing to do, he sings; when he is going to do something, he sings; and when he has done something, he sings. We are told what passion his songs display, but when we read the verses the passion seems to have evaporated, leaving usually a caput mortuum, but sometimes a delicate savor of gentle and romantic beauty, and a strange and sweet union of sincerity and artificiality. Such are the songs and pastorals of Breton, the successful songs of Lodge and Greene, and such in the drama are the golden songs of Peele, and Lyly's "Cupid and my Campaspe." Arcadia is a kind of fairyland, and Cupid and other delicate mythological fancies from the gardens of Alexandria are not unfit associates for the princesses of curds and cream who dwell there. The appropriateness of such songs to the forest of Arden is evident, even though a clearer air blows in it than in the sometimes "musky alleys" of Arcadian groves. Without "Under the greenwood tree," "Hey, ding

a-ding," and "Blow, blow, thou winter wind,” how much even of the charm of Rosalind would be lost.

Fairies and sweet spirits of course sing. One might think song would be their natural speech; but this is not the case. Fairies and witches speak in a special metre, but they speak. Yet the incantations of fairyland are often sung:

"Ye spotted snakes, with double tongue,

Thorny hedge-hogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind worms, do no wrong;

Come not near our fairy queen."

At the end of A Midsummer Night's Dream, a stage direction calls for a song and dance of the fairies to hallow the house; and the pretended fairies in The Merry Wives play their pranks with a song, reminding us how in Lyly's plays no mischief of page or fairy but is performed to singing. The scenes in Macbeth containing stage directions for a song are generally regarded as spurious, and while the witches must intone "Double, double," or deliver it in recitative, the metrical structure of the verses which accompany this refrain seem to make a regular tune for the words very unlikely. Ariel is a creature of song. His element is even more ethereal than that of the fairies, and he is represented nearly always as exercising his magic influence, or as in an ecstasy beyond expression except through song. Hence he sings always.

Fools are all singers. They are professional entertainers, they are emotionally unbalanced, hysterical, and excitable, and song, whether fragmentary or complete, is appropriate in their mouths. Rogues also sing. Like fools, they make a business of entertaining; and their irresponsibility is marked by their giving themselves up to impulse, instead of looking to the remote consequences of action. Illustrations are Falstaff, Pandarus, Autolycus. Rogues and fools are generally but two species of the same genus in Shakespeare, and both alike are usually given something of the golden charm of Arcadian life such as pervades the atmosphere of As You Like It. Autolycus in particular through his songs expresses the delights of irresponsible living sweetly and perfectly.

Effective men do not sing in Shakespeare. Iago may seem to be an exception; but Iago

sings not to sing but to seduce. He sings as a dramatic act, with purpose and with effect in the plot. He assumes the appearance of unthinking good-fellowship, and in doing so displays another of the gifts which his creator lavished upon him. We e may be sure he was a creditable vocalist as well as a ready improvisator.

A station of dignity is incompatible with singing, on the stage of Shakespeare, either by man or woman. Hence great personages who desire to hear music call for it, and the actual singing is performed by a servant or attendant, usually a young person. Here, of course, the influence of practical exigencies in determining the assignment of rôles must be recognized. Singing parts would naturally be taken by the best vocalist in the company; and a company would be strangely fortunate in which the best vocalist possessed also the abilities qualifying him for the nobler rôles. In principle, Hamlet as a complete gentleman should be a musician; but Hamlets who can rise to the part are not so common that the choice should be limited by adding dispensable requirements to the absolute necessities of the part. Often, indeed, the singer might not have histrionic talent for even humble rôles. Hence, the playwright, except where assured of uncommon powers possessed by the singing actor, could safely offer him only a colorless part, or at best one of little variety, in which he could be coached. Yet, after all allowances and abatements are made, it is plain that like all other wise artists, like the painter in oil who "feels his medium," or the architect who is aware that the same ideas cannot be expressed in marble, iron, and brick, Shakespeare has by accepting the limitations of his art, made them the means of characteristic effects. It is to be observed that even the noble personages who care for music in Shakespeare are in general a little soft. It is the love-sick duke in Twelfth Night who is consoled by listening to Feste and finds "music the moody food of love." Brutus asks the boy Lucius for a song, and the emotional tenderness of Brutus, hidden under his mask of stoicism, is often suggested. The melancholy Jaques, who beweeps the deer, calls for Amiens' first song; and though the banished duke asks for the second, he does not listen, but talks to Orlando. The songs at the ladies' windows,

"Hark! hark! the lark," and "Who is Sylvia?" are conventional compliments, and indicate no interest in music on the part of either Cloten or Thurio. It is a trait of the character of Othello, a man of action, that he "does not greatly care to hear music," and of Benedick that he says, "A horn for my money!" To be sure, Benedick tries to sing when he is in love; but he makes himself ridiculous in the attempt.

Among women, the forsaken and unhappy lady is solaced by song. Mariana in her moated grange hears her page sing "Take, oh, take those lips away." Queen Katharine in Henry VIII listens to "Orpheus with his lute,”—the convention is the same whether the scene be Shakespeare's or not. The reason why decent, effective, and dignified men do not sing or appear to care much for song in Shakespeare is that they are responsible persons in the world of action: it is the passive characters in tragedy who sing or are comforted by song. It is the pathetic situation of the woman, a passive character, overcome by fate not deserved, the satellite of the active characters, which is thus accentuated,-pathetic, I say, not tragic, overcoming by pity, not associated with terror. Ophelia's songs are of this nature, and Desdemona's song of "Willow, Willow," owes its dramatic effect to the same sentiment. It is a curious illustration of the difficulty felt in the Shakespearean drama of combining external dignity with the act of singing that the one lady should be mad when she sings, and that the other should be in the utmost privacy of her home, and overcome by melancholy sentiment.

In reading Shakespeare's dramas for the purposes of this study, I have been surprised to observe how many scenes, whether musical or not, are mainly contributory to the atmosphere and background, instead of the action, of the plays. The intenser scenes are in this way provided with foils, and the attention is not jaded by too constant excitement. Thus to some of the most active plays are given serenity and gentleness, qualities which predominate in the personal impression left by Shakespeare.

University of Wisconsin.

H. B. LATHROP.