and well-calculated eloquence, by the republican fame of his own race-which he thinks it his duty to maintainand by his own pride in his dignity as a man-which will not bow to any single individual, not even to a Cæsarthat not only does he not see, or ignores the evident signs of the times, but determines (even though after great inward struggles) to commit a deed, the worth of which, in a political respect, is extremely doubtful, because extremely doubtful in its consequences, and which from a moral point of view is undoubtedly equal to a crime. For, apart from the fact that every delicate sense of moral feeling must revolt with horror from a treacherous murder (even though politically justifiable), Brutus, like Coriolanus, tramples upon the most natural and the noblest emotions of the human heart-the duty of gratitude, of esteem and loyalty to Cæsar-for the sake of the phantom-honour of free citizenship. He murders a man who is not only politically great, but who, as a man, had always proved himself great and noble, and who had more especially overwhelmed him with kindness, with proofs of his affection and high esteem. On the other hand, Brutus was the soul of the conspiracy; if his mind became confused, his courage unnerved, the whole enterprise must inevitably collapse. And it did collapse, because it was as much opposed to the moral law as to the will of history.

Accordingly, Shakspeare allows the ghost to play a part in the drama in order to point out this two-fold crime. It appears but once and utters a few, pregnant words; but we continually feel that it is hovering in the background, like a dark thundercloud; it is, so to say, the offended spirit of history itself, which, in fact, not only avenges political crimes, but visits ethical transgressions with equal severity. This spirit, as it were, perpetually holds up before our view the moral wrong in the murder of Cæsar, as well as the political right which he had on his side owing to the necessity of the monarchy, and points to the fact, that even the triumph of the oligarchical principle is but transitory, oligarchy itself but a transition stage. A similar intention induced Shakspeare to introduce the spectral

apparitions in his 'Richard III.,' for both of these dran.as occupy the same historical stage, both represent turning points in history, the end of an old and the beginning of a new state of things; they also exhibit a certain affinity from an ethical point of view.

CHAPTER IV.

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

'ANTONY and Cleopatra' must obviously be regarded as a continuation of Julius Cæsar;' in the former we have the old times at war with the new, in the latter, these elements are exhibited in their separation, and become themselves engaged in conflict with one another. The oligarchy is restored, the Roman world is divided, and Antony, Octavius and Lepidus govern the empire. Now, one person as ruler is an harmonious idea, at least the tout ensemble of the state can be represented thus in an individual form, can form the central point where all the radii of the wide circle meet; but several individuals at the head of the state is an ever insolvable contradiction. An oligarchy, therefore, can only represent a point of transition, it collapses as soon as it has accomplished its purpose. The history of this decay, in the form of given concrete relations and facts, constitutes the historical substance of the drama; the necessity of the transition from the oligarchy to monarchy is its historical truth.

The bursting of the oligarchical form in order to bring to light the monarchy contained in it, can be accomplished only in a struggle of the oligarchists among themselves for supreme power. The question is, Who shall be the victor? Who is capable of patching up the distracted body politic? Who has the power to rule half-slaves who still remember their freedom, and half-freemen with their tendency to be slaves? Antony, Lepidus and Octavius are the rivals for the brilliant misery of this kind of supremacy. Antony in his straightforward, frank disposition, which originally aimed at political and moral greatness, with his love of truth and bravery, and his esteem for personal virtue, of which he gives a proof in his funeral oration on Brutus-represents the old and better days, however, no longer in their purity,

but troubled and corrupted by the spirit of the new order of things. In him are combined the virtues of the former, but also the principal vices of the latter, i.e. love of dominion, ambition, inconstancy, arrogance, and excessive voluptuousness. In his relation to Cleopatra, his whole character is a true reflex of the Roman national spirit of the age. In this relation he himself appears like the slave possessed of his never-forgotten remembrance of freedom, and like the freeman with the irresistible tendency to slavery. He tears himself away from the ties that bind him to Cleopatra, only again to fall back into her snares. We see in him sparks of the old heroism and nobleness of soul, flashes of the old energy and geniality that remind us of Cæsar, but they are mere sparks from a smouldering heap of ashes; the fire itself is extinguished, stifled by the atmosphere of excessive love of pleasure. Antony's was never a firm character; Cleopatra makes him a moral renegade, makes him wholly wanting in firmness and character, by the same means-only, as it were, idealised— with which voluptuous Asia had enervated and degraded the character of the Roman people.

By the side of Antony stand Lepidus and Sextus Pompeius, the former a good but weak man, wanting in spirit and energy, the latter a hasty, energetic youth, but wanting in thoughtfulness and experience. They perish, and their glory pales before the star of Octavius' good fortune. He, when compared with them, does not appear to possess any higher moral right, any greater power of mind and energy, or any pre-eminent talent, not even bravery or military skill, and to be supported solely by his prudence and moderation. Yet he is the conqueror of all! And why? Because the history of his day, preeminently called for prudence and consistency. When the true, moral spirit of a nation is dead, it has to be replaced by these semi-virtues, that is to say if state and nation are, for a time, to be preserved from utter ruin. There was as yet no motive for the complete downfall of Rome-the time for this had not yet come. History did not as yet desire the overthrow of the Roman empire, and therefore made Octavius its ruler. But even under other circumstances the first demands of history-which is

itself essentially action-are moderation, prudence and self-control. He who does not possess these qualities—he who, like Anteny, cannot control himself, or, like Lepidus, sceptre in hand, sleeps off his drunken debauches, dreaming of the crocodiles of Egypt, or, like young Pompeius, fancies himself able to spring to the head of the empire at one bound-is not destined to take an independent part in the great piece of machinery; it thrusts him off into perdition. This is the universally acknowledged and yet often neglected lesson which runs through the history of all nations, and is here the fundamental chord of the whole; history conceived from the standpoint of its autocratic power of action and evolution, proclaims its own independence by demanding of its bearers energy and perseverance, and accordingly, above all things, moderation, steadfastness of purpose and self-control.

This theme is re-echoed in the deaths of Enobarbus and Fulvia; both, as regards their character and life, stand in the same relation to Octavia, Macænas and Agrippa, as Antony to Octavius. But Cleopatra' the serpent of old Nile,' the representative of the fallen greatness, of the degenerate, corrupt culture of the East, which has been stifled in sensual pleasures and voluptuousnessis adorned to excess with beauty and grace, mind and wit, is full of caprices and contradictions, and possessed of passions as glowing as they are sudden in their change; as wanton and voluptuous as old Asia, as fantastic, strange and unfathomable as mysterious Egypt itself; the very essence of oriental splendour and naturalness, but, at the same time, initiated in all the arts of an over-refined civilisation; a woman with all the vices and virtues of a woman, half Grace, half Maade, full of coquetry, fickleness and egotism, and yet equally full of love and devotion, wholly absorbed in feminine frivolity, and yet at the same time of a lofty mind and a genial instinct for true greatness. She, in whom everything is becoming, because she does it with the charm of demoniacal gracefulness, can, it is true, deceive an Antony and rule half the world through him, but cannot herself govern, cannot act independently. She lives to repent the arrogance and capricious inquisitiveness which