happy results. The scene has no real tragic appeal; we are little affected by the grief of the hero or by the rascality of the villain; both, as is inevitable in such an episode, seem artificial and-in the bad sense-theatrical.1

We leave as a pleasantly insoluble problem this theory of the old play and its subsequent revision. There is, however, connected with the absorbing question of Shakespeare's handling of his materials, borrowed and invented, a further matter for discussion, arising out of Coleridge's well-known criticism: "Take away from the Much Ado About Nothing all that which is not indispensable to the plot, either as having little to do with it, or, at best, like Dogberry and his comrades, forced into the service, when any other less ingeniously absurd watchmen and night-constables would have answered the mere necessities of the action; take away Benedick, Beatrice, Dogberry, and the reaction of the former on the character of Hero, and what will remain ? In other writers the main agent of the plot is always the prominent character; in Shakespeare it is so, or is not so, as the character is in itself calculated, or not calculated, to form the plot. Don John is the mainspring of the plot of this play; but he is merely shown and then withdrawn." One ventures with great hesitation to disagree with Coleridge, but here he was, I think, a little over anxious to prove his point. "Less ingeniously absurd watchmen" would not have possessed just that mixture of shrewdness and folly that led at once to the prompt capture of the delinquents and to the fatal delay in the exposure of the conspiracy. It was essential to the peace of mind of the audience that the plot should be discovered before Hero's repudiation; it was also necessary in the interests of the story that the truth should not be proclaimed until after the interrupted wedding. Only in the person of such an official as Dogberry could a solution be found. He is not a complete fool; but we must, apologetically, write him down an ass. He sensibly enjoins his men to watch about Leonato's door; when at length he learns the details of the plot he hastens to lay them before the right authority. But his mind works slowly, groping its way through a mist of delighted self-satisfaction. The examination of the prisoners is delayed through his inability to

The same adverse criticism, in stronger terms, may be applied to the parallel scene in Die Schoene Phaenicia, where Tymborus is tricked by a still cruder device,

realize the importance of anything save himself, and the villainy of Don John is allowed to reach the desired consummation. The absurdity of Dogberry is thus woven into the very texture of the plot, is made responsible for its unfolding.

Don John's part is also, perhaps, unduly depreciated by Coleridge, certainly by later editors. He is not, we admit, a very formidable scoundrel. "I cannot hide what I am," he boasts; and a villain who cannot dissemble has against him the tradition of the ages; he must not hope to prosper. Don John cannot even plot his own dark designs; the conception and execution are left to his servant, Borachio, a drunkard. None the less, he is quite enough of a villain for a comedy and he can offer a reasonable excuse for his villainy; it has a definite motive. The "ended action," described in the opening lines of the play, is evidently an easily suppressed rebellion raised by the Bastard against Don Pedro. Conrade reminds his master: "You have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath ta'en you newly into his grace" (I. iii. 18-20). In this struggle the young Florentine has greatly distinguished himself, "doing in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion." Here is the ground of Don John's quarrel with Claudio: "That young start-up hath all the glory of my overthrow" (I. iii. 60-61), surely a sound enough reason for hatred. Once more we see the shaping sensitive fingers at work. In this instance Shakespeare changes the mainspring of the action so as to provide the villain with an adequate motive for his villainy (that is adequate to himself; "motiveless malignity" must ever appear as surprising and unlikely to the villain as to his victims), thus relieving his comedy of the darker treachery of the earlier versions, in all of which a bosom friend of the hero is the close contriver of all harms.

We may notice briefly here the other means adopted by Shakespeare to lighten the tragedy of his central theme. There is first the easement given to the audience in the knowledge that the plot against Hero has already been discovered before the ceremony and only awaits disclosure. Secondly, the atmosphere has been carefully prepared in the early part of the play so that the distresses of the church scene do not move our deepest feelings. Even Hero and Leonato, when we remember them plotting against the peace of Benedick and Beatrice, appear not wholly in tragic guise. They have too lately moved in a world of sunshine and gaiety; we still

hear their laughter and we know that their tears are soon to be dried. Moreover, we have not been shown any sign of ardent love on Hero's part. The two lovers are not for a moment alone together on the stage. When the match is made between them Hero tells Claudio that she loves him (so Beatrice says) but it is "in his ear"; we are not allowed to listen. Overshadowed by her cousin Hero certainly is, but she is not dull-witted, not lethargic. In the ensnaring of Beatrice she takes her part with spirit and humour-a rather caustic humour on such gentle lips-and in the masked ball she answers her partner readily enough. But Shakespeare gives us no sign nor token whereby we may read her heart. She seems willing to allow herself to be disposed of, whether to the prince or to Claudio, without any expression of her personal feelings. It is this singular quiescence in the early scenes of the play, when her wooing and wedding are under discussion, that helps to rob the church scene of too sharp a pain.

Lastly, by the time Hero's wedding day arrives, the main interest of the audience is centred not on her love affair with Claudio, but on the fortunes of Beatrice and Benedick. We are as anxious as the prince to know what will happen when the two bears meet. This point is not likely to escape notice; it has perhaps been over-emphasized. We must remember that the author's own sympathy with the hero and heroine does not diminish as the play progresses; they are not suffered to show too palely beside the brighter spirits of the play, nor are their concerns neglected. Shakespeare deals gently with the young man, even the young man Claudio, and in restoring Hero to her lover's arms he at least does his duty by her according to the demands of comedy. Nevertheless, it is a commonplace of criticism that in Much Ado About Nothing the characters and incidents that Shakespeare borrowed are less interesting than those he invented. For this reason it was perhaps worth while to discuss the former at some length. The appeal of Benedick and Beatrice is irresistible; it could not be overlooked. Nor could the scenes in which Dogberry is ready to bestow all his tediousness upon us. Elizabethan literature is full of references to the ludicrous insufficiency of night-watchmen and constables. Tarleton's Jest Book alone, if we could trust to the authenticity of the incidents he describes, would show that in the presentation of Dogberry and his associates Shakespeare did not greatly exaggerate. Lyly's

Endymion may have supplied a hint to Shakespeare; the watch scenes in Middleton's Blurt, Master-Constable, May's The Heir and Glapthorne's Wit in a Constable, clearly derive from Much Ado About Nothing. In all these plays the officers of the law are more or less humorous characters; but they lack the reality of neighbour Dogberry. He is more than real; his belief in his own importance makes him incredibly substantial; we hear the boards creak under him.

Dogberry shares with the rest this quality of life, of reality. For the most part the characters move in couples, but there is no duplication of types. In all the pairs-old men, young men, servants, constables-we see only the external and accidental likenesses due to similar positions in society; there is clear distinction of personality. Vigorous characterization depends here largely on propriety of dramatic dialogue, as it always must, and throughout this comedy the language of each speaker is strongly individual :

"How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am heart-burned an hour after.

He is of a very melancholy disposition " (II. i. 3-5).

No marginal names are needed. Nor are they later, in the church scene, when we recognize the accents of each man in turn as he arraigns Hero before her family; the Prince with quiet gravity, Don John hatefully sneering, and Claudio in melodious rhetoric that we suspect was prepared beforehand (IV. i. 84-105).

This vividness of dialogue, so rich, so various and adaptable, is the distinguishing feature of the play, and almost compensates for the absence of high poetry noticed earlier. It makes full amends in the scenes where Beatrice and Benedick, together or separately, hold the stage.1 We reach, with them, the secret of the play's early popularity and of its enduring charm. From the opening scene to the last word we follow their fortunes with ever-deepening interest and anxiety. Ferdinand and Miranda, we are sure, would have changed eyes without the aid of Prospero's magic; they are children of light and must instinctively follow where their hearts lead them. But Benedick and Beatrice-highspirited, audacious, witty, each a dominating personality, each exultantly independent-these two strong souls have

1 Biron and Rosaline of Love's Labour's Lost are but shadowy prototypes of Benedick and Beatrice. All echoes from one play to another are worth recording, but this often-cited parallel offers little ground for full or interesting comparison.

to be tricked by their friends into the attainment of their happiness, even into the realization of where their happiness lies. They are very ready to be duped, glad that it is possible to capitulate with honour, for the war between them is after all an affair of intellectual, rather than of sex, antagonism. None the less, without the Prince's stratagem they must have remained apart, separated by their own pride and mockery, by the determination to yield no inch to the enemy.

In their skirmishes of wit Benedick is not at his best; his weapons shine more keen and deadly in the absence of Beatrice, which is not surprising, for her wit is swift and formidable and not easily vanquished. Some of her sallies, it is true, have lost their edge, but by no means all; we are apt to make too much of this. We owe to her not only our gayest moments but the one great moment that catches the breath in our throats and sets our hearts beating in passionate approbation. "Kill Claudio!" We know that the ends of comedy must be served, that every Jack must have his Jill, that Claudio will therefore be forgiven. But he is dramatically judged; we know what Beatrice thinks of him and we are satisfied. With less romance, less poetry in her disposition than Rosalind or Viola or Portia, Beatrice is even more richly endowed than they with generosity of the noblest kind. Shakespeare often shows a rare understanding of the friendship that may exist between two women, nowhere more movingly than in this play, where Beatrice is the first to assert unhesitating belief in Hero's innocence:

"O, on my soul, my cousin is belied!" (IV. i. 143).

The same generous spirit is revealed in the entire humility with which she accepts the strictures overheard in the garden, and in her immediate resolve to requite the love of Benedick; it was not easy for Beatrice to bate her accustomed crossness. In all her ways she shows herself a great lady, high souled and high bred; as courteous to the messenger as to the Prince; one who knows her world and enjoys living in it and makes it, by her presence, a more radiant world. Campbell and others of myopic vision may find her 'an odious woman'; we can only echo the Serbian proverb, Even God has not been able to please everybody.

In one other respect, apart from its dramatic truth, is the language of this play noteworthy, namely, in the skill with which the stage 'business' is throughout implied in the