partly from reasons of the past, in so far as the remembrance of his grandfather's crime is kept alive by his maintaining the usurped sovereignty, and partly from reasons of the future in so far as the foreign and civil wars (especially the bloody Wars of the Roses which Henry was too weak to suppress) broke the power of the contending vassals; the result being that the Feudal system of the Middle Ages decayed within itself, to make room for a new form of government, different both in nature and substance. This is the important advance of English history which was completed in the reign of Henry VI., and for the realisation of which such a reign was pecu liarly adapted.

In Richard III. we then have the close of the great tragic whole into which these eight dramas have naturally formed themselves. Old, as well as recent wrongs are atoned for by the terrible murderous crimes of Richard III., which prove his own ruin and that of all the other guilty parties: Richard is the blood-thirsty executioner who carries out the great punishment upon all, in order finally to fall a victim to it himself. The severely chastised country long s. for rest and peace; the great barons have exhausted their powers and resources in the long struggle, and therefore it is an easy matter for Henry VII., in his long and peaceful reign, to pave the way for the new historical era which became more firmly established and more definitely developed under Henry VIII Of the drama which bears his name, we can here only say that (as Schlegel observes) it forms the epilogue to the great tragedy, the object of which was to point to the new stage of life entered upon by the English nation during the reign of the father of the great Elizabeth and still more so during her own life-time.

Thus the two cycles in themselves again form two great dramatic works of art, in which every single drama has its definite position as a part of the whole. In the preceding remarks, therefore, I have endeavoured merely to indicate the meaning which each might possess in this dependence, and in its relation to the whole. But each is, at the same time, an independent work of art, and must, accordingly, have its own ideal centre and point of unity,

and this point of unity must moreover be enclosed in the meaning, appropriate to it as a member of the cyclic whole, and yet have a distinct character of its own, and contain ▲ substance of general significance. To point this out in regard to each individual drama, will be my task in the following disquisition.

CHAPTER II.

CORIOLANUS.

THE Roman plays belong to the sphere of clear, plastic antiquity, and we shall find that their inner centre also stands out with a certain degree of plastic definiteness and clearness. Yet they have frequently been misunderstood. Thus it is quite erroneous to suppose that 'Coriolanus' is merely a representation of party spirit in its historical significance. The factious element, i.e. the pursuit of personal interests under the cloak of some general motive, is indeed introduced, but is not the actual lever of the action. The main thing is the struggle between the two opposite principles of a republican polity-the aristocratic and the democratic. These principles can come into conflict only where heroic greatness, manly worth, and moral power are still looked upon as gifts of nature, consequently as dependent upon noble birth, or where the consciousness of the equal rights of all men is beginning to make itself felt, because of their equal moral and mental capacities; they can only come into conflict where ancient rights-which, through abuse, have become doubtful or even partially lost-are to be protected from total extinction, or where new claims-called forth by a changed state of the consciousness of right-rebel against the ancient rights. The struggle does not only mark a transition stage in the republican polity, but also a new phase of legal and moral consciousness.

A transition stage of this kind in the history of the Roman people forms the foundation of the present drama. Not only is the state itself, but the consciousness of right in the nation is divided. Coriolanus, with the patricians on the one hand, the tribunes and the people on the other, are the chief supporters of the action. Coriolanus, it is true, is by no means free from personal pride and ambition, and

yet his foremost wish at all times is but the good of his country; to it, in self-destructive valour, he sacrifices himself, regardless of all consequences, and even the war which he brings upon his country is meant only to save it from the impending disgrace of falling into the hands of the populace. For a plebeian government, in his eyes, is the greatest of misfortunes. He considers all political rights as connected with birth, because it includes all virtues-love of country, valour and nobility of mind; he represents the ancient consciousness of right which does not acknowledge any general rights, but only such as are special, primarily acquired by services rendered, or conquered by superior force, and then become hereditary. He is therefore the pure embodiment of the aristocratic principle; his whole life, his resolves and actions are absorbed in it. It is not so much his personal pride as the pride of caste that, in him, appears carried to that pitch where it collapses in itself, but it is based upon the equally lofty and truly grand nobility of his nature. This is the cause of the harshness, the stubbornness and the passionate vehemence with which he rejects every compromise, every demand which he regards as derogatory; this is the cause of his contempt of the common herd, which certainly here, as everywhere, appears vulgar, but he, being prejudiced, does not perceive the better elements it contains, its aristocratic nature which is already becoming developed.. This contempt is as immoderate, as exaggerated, as his pride and admiration of true personal dignity and virtue. But notwithstanding his heroic greatness, notwithstanding his truly aristocratic sentiments-in which he not only wishes to be considered the first and best, but intends to be the best, the first and greatest-and notwithstanding the fact that he, in reality, is what he intends to be, he nevertheless comes to an untimely end, and justly so. For the very fact of his being such an inveterate aristocrat, boasting only of civil virtue and political privileges, only of political dignity and greatness, the very fact of his so entirely forgetting the man in the citizen and aristocrat, is the cause of the fate that befalls him. And his fate does not come upon him from without, is not the result of the superior strength of his opponents or of unpropitious circumstances,

it comes upon him in a truly tragic manner, as the consequence of his own nature and character, and of his own actions and aspirations. Man ought not to make himself a mere reflex of his birth, of his descent, or of his legal and political position; he ought not to be wholly engrossed in any so-called principle, or self made law. For in his inmost nature he stands above such forms, above all such formative principles of political life, of which one may be better than another, but which are all mere empty husks when devoid of the general nature of right and morality with which they ought to be filled. Coriolanus, in fact, defends mere external, formal rights, as opposed to the aristocratic principle which he himself represents. According to his conception there should exist no right except where noble birth confers nobility of mind, moral power, and political wisdom. But the rights which he defends are rights of political supremacy, privileges which can be exercised even without virtue and wisdom, and have been exercised to the detriment of the whole. His truly aristocratic sentiments, therefore, stand in contradiction with the political principle which he defends and carries out in resolves and actions; his aristocratic sentiments, his genuine heroism and civil virtues, therefore, become the snare into which he falls. And because he is one-sided in his prejudice, because he places man so completely below the citizen, the general principle of humanity avenges itself upon him; the simplest, the most natural and the most human relations are the very ones which work his uin. For he cannot resist the general feelings of filial, conjugal and paternal love. The very fact of his so one-sidedly placing all weight upon birth and descent, proves his tragic fate; his own mother, who is as aristocratic in her pride, as high-minded but more patriotic, and far more given to follow her own feelings, is the cause of his death. Yielding to his love for her, and to her eloquent entreaties, he makes peace with Rome, and retreats with the Volscian army, although he is well aware that in doing so he must inevitably meet with his death.

It is upon this fundamental thought that the whole nction turns. It contains-as already intimated—the