Shakespeare in the Novel

Tags: Cambridge University Press, Cambridge Books Online, Shakespeare, Sarah Fielding, novelists, Oxford University Press, London, Samuel Richardson, ed, Robinson Crusoe, Garrick, Quoting Shakespeare, Peregrine Pickle, Romeo and Juliet, Henry Fielding, Shakespeare and Appropriation, theatrical adaptation, William Beckford, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Daniel Defoe, Thomas Keymer, Clarissa, Reinventing Shakespeare, Reading Shakespeare, Fiona Ritchie, John Robert Moore, Edward Bysshe, King Richard, Fielding, Shakespeare productions, Eliza Haywood, most beautiful Flowers, John Cleland, Shakespeare reference, Shakespearean reference, Frances Brooke, William Warburton, Richardson's Pamela, Colley Cibber, Shakespeare quotations, Delarivier Manley, Richard III, Charlotte Lennox, David Garrick, Richardson
Content: Cambridge Books Online http://ebooks.cambridge.org/ Shakespeare in the eighteenth century Edited by Fiona Ritchie, Peter Sabor Book DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.1017/CBO9781139047333 Online ISBN: 9781139047333 Hardback ISBN: 9780521898607 Chapter Chapter 6 - Shakespeare in the novel pp. 118-140 Chapter DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.1017/CBO9781139047333.010 Cambridge University Press
chapter 6 Shakespeare in the novel Thomas Keymer In the opening chapter of Modern Novel Writing (1796), a deadpan satire by William Beckford on the inanities of circulating-library fiction, the sentimental heroine Arabella Bloomfield sits `like patience on a monument / Smiling at grief '. The quotation is from Twelfth Night (2.4.114­15), and though less than two full lines in length, it is generously indented and displayed. At the foot of the page a self-congratulatory note ­ there to claim cultural authority, not to provide specific context ­ states simply `Shakespeare'. Similar notes follow as the narrative proceeds, and in total at least fifteen quotations from Shakespeare's plays are scattered through the text, typically with a local effect of banality or bathos. `Aye, there's the rub / Must give us pause', exclaims Beckford's narrator near the close of the work, mangling Hamlet in bad-Quarto style, as he wonders how best to wrap up his plot.1 No allusion in Modern Novel Writing outdoes the first for satirical accuracy, however. Popularized in sourcebooks such as The Beauties of Shakespeare (1752), The Poetical Preceptor (1777), and Elegant Extracts (1784), Viola's plaintive speech was a particular favourite with authors of sentimental, Gothic and other subgenres of fiction in the later eighteenth century. In Elizabeth Griffith's The Delicate Distress (1769), `Lucy was the exact resemblance of Shakespear's patience on a monument, "smiling at grief "'; in Anna Thomson's Fatal Follies (1788), Lady Harley looked `the direct picture of "Patience on a monument smiling at Grief "'; in the anonymous Berkeley Hall (1796), Matilda `was the very image of Patience on a monument, smiling at grief '.2 Subtler novels by, among others, Sarah Fielding, Thomas Bridges, Frances Burney, Robert Bage and Regina Maria Roche used the passage with more dexterity, putting it in the mouth of a vacuous character or playing self-consciously on its language; others used it with significantly less, calling on the tag twice within a single volume or making it stand as the epigraph to an entire work.3 118 Downloaded from Cambridge Books Online by IP 142.150.190.39 on Mon Oct 29 21:01:45 GMT 2012. http://dx.doi.org/10.1017/CBO9781139047333.010 Cambridge Books Online © Cambridge University Press, 2012
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Altogether, more than fifty novels between 1760 and 1800 quote or adapt Viola's celebrated image of smiling grief, and Beckford was not the only satirist to observe and ridicule the trend. In the opening chapter of Northanger Abbey (posthumously published, but in all likelihood drafted in 1798­9) we learn that Austen's heroine-in-training Catherine Morland has gained a store of information from Shakespeare, or from the anthologies that mediated Shakespeare to the polite, including the truth
that a young woman in love always looks ­­­ `like Patience on a monument Smiling at Grief '.4
Unmistakably, Viola's speech had been devalued into a standing joke. Quite independently of the habits of novelists, its notoriety as a lollipop is evident from a widely recycled jest of the period, in which a fashionable audience sits through Twelfth Night in bored silence until greeting the familiar lines with thunderous applause; an Oxford wit then sneeringly rises to applaud the audience `for discovering so much true Taste and Judgment '.5 This may have been, indeed, the single most hackneyed Shakespeare tag in currency by the end of the century. Yet it also indicates a much more general pattern, and many further passages from Shakespeare, including others identified by Beckford and Austen, were little less ubiquitous in the novel genre as it steadily, often anxiously, staked its claim to seriousness and prestige. By the 1790s every novelist of every stripe, from Mary Wollstonecraft to Jane West, was making quotation from, or other forms of allusion to, Shakespeare's plays a conspicuous part of his or her narrative repertoire. Quoting Shakespeare was the novelists' golden apple, their fatal Cleopatra ­ but how had this gesture come to be such a grating clicheґ?
political shakespeare It was not always like this. Consider, for example, the case of Daniel Defoe, whose spectacular output of novels towards the end of his long career as a writer on politics, economics, religion and much else marks a key stage in the development of realist fiction. Defoe was famously likened to Shakespeare by Samuel Taylor Coleridge for his deft psychological revelations, and in his marginalia on Robinson Crusoe (1719) Coleridge singled out the quiet admission that follows Crusoe's selfapplauding speech against money, addressed in his isolation to a hoard
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of gold. `O Drug! said I aloud, what art thou good for', Crusoe piously begins, but he ends in the throwaway comment `However, upon Second Thoughts, I took it away.'6 In finding Defoe's ironies in this passage `Worthy of Shakespear', Coleridge was by no means the first to link the two writers. It used to be thought that Defoe set the ball rolling himself in A Vindication of the Press, a pamphlet placed by John Robert Moore at the heart of his standard twentieth-century account of the Defoe­Shakespeare connection.7 Published in the year before Robinson Crusoe, A Vindication cites Defoe's best-known work at the time, his verse satire The True-Born Englishman (1700), to argue that natural genius could matter more than classical learning for success in the literary marketplace:
The preference of Genius to Learning, is sufficiently Demonstrated in the Writings of the Author of the True born English Man; (a Poem that has Sold beyond the best Performance of any Ancient or Modern Poet of the greatest Excellency, and perhaps beyond any Poetry ever Printed in the English Language)[.] This Author is Characteriz'd as a Person of little Learning, but of prodigious Natural Parts; and the immortal Shakespear had but a small share of Literature.8
We now know that this (on inspection somewhat backhanded) compliment came from the pen of the legal writer Giles Jacob, whose authorship of A Vindication has been demonstrated on the basis of external, rather than, as in the prior attribution to Defoe, stylistic or internal, evidence. Yet if anything the objective source of the passage strengthens the indication that Defoe was seen in his own and later generations as Shakespearean in significant ways, whether merely as an unlearned popular success or by virtue of specific powers that made Coleridge reach for the comparison a century later, when Shakespeare's reputation had itself been transformed. In this context it is a remarkable fact that Defoe's novels do almost nothing of an explicit kind to set up a sense of Shakespearean resonance. Commentators on Robinson Crusoe have more often been put in mind of The Tempest than (as was Coleridge) Macbeth, and for Moore `it was Shakespeare's play which suggested an exile who made himself governor of a desert island, his cave, the many parallels between Crusoe and Prospero and between Friday and Ariel, the two sets of mutineers who wander about and fall asleep, the voices which mislead them, the fear that the island is enchanted or inhabited by devils, and so much else besides'.9 Yet Moore's bold assertion of influence is conjectural only, and he was unable to demonstrate that Defoe had any interest in pointing up these somewhat general parallels by means of specific allusions or verbal echoes ­ a state of affairs that persists in recent postcolonial approaches to
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the same connection, where the salient analogy for Friday is no longer with Ariel but with Caliban.10 Indeed, Moore was unable to demonstrate that Defoe even knew The Tempest in Shakespeare's version, and, as he scrupulously notes, the two non-fictional passages in which Defoe elsewhere refers to the play point unmistakably to an adaptation of 1667, The Tempest; or, The Enchanted Island, by John Dryden and William Davenant. The same is probably true of Crusoe's allusion to his former home, in Serious Reflections (1720), as `an enchanted Island', and however fruitful the Tempest­Crusoe pairing may otherwise be for heuristic purposes, the case for assuming any conscious or strategic relation to Shakespeare's original on Defoe's part is very weak.11 It is typical of the novels in general that one line of verse, and only one, is quoted in Robinson Crusoe, and that line is not from Shakespeare, nor even from Dryden or Davenant, but from a now obscure broadside of 1672, Dr. Wild's Humble Thanks for His Majesties Gracious Declaration for Liberty of Conscience, which Defoe used to link Crusoe's survival from shipwreck in his readers' minds with the tenuous political situation of Restoration dissenters.12 Yet there is plenty of evidence outside the novels that Defoe knew certain plays well, and when he turned to Shakespeare, no less than when he turned to Robert Wild, it was more often than not with political interests in mind. This was a period when Julius Caesar was among the most prominent plays in the Shakespeare repertoire, typically represented as a morally uncomplicated contest between virtuous republicanism and arbitrary power, with Brutus played in the tradition established by the Restoration tragedian Thomas Betterton as a noble and irreproachable stoic. Such an approach had obvious appeal for Defoe at the height of his career as a Whig polemicist during the reign of Queen Anne, and in his anti-Jacobite poem Jure Divino (1706) he makes, without qualification, the standard analogy between the historical Brutus and his early republican predecessor Lucius Junius Brutus, who expelled the Tarquins. `The Assassination of Princes, is not at all argued from hence', Defoe prudently observes in a lengthy footnote to Jure Divino, but he goes on to attribute not only to Brutus but to his fellow plotters as a group the same selfless rigour as the first Brutus, `for 'tis plain . . . neither he, nor any of the Conspirators, attempted to set themselves up in Caesar's Place, but their Design appear'd to be purely to restore the Roman Liberty'.13 This was predictable commentary of a Whiggish kind, but unlike many of his contemporaries Defoe was able to see beyond simple endorsement of Brutus to a more interesting ambivalence in Shakespeare's play. Unqualified celebration was all very well for the rhetorical purposes of
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Jure Divino, but in his late work The Political History of the Devil (1726) Defoe writes in significantly more hostile terms about `the great Marcus Brutus, who, notwithstanding all the good Things said to justify it, was no less than a King-killer and an Assassinator, which we in our Language call by a very good Name, and peculiar to the English Tongue, a Ruffian'.14 Perhaps Defoe's mixed feelings about Brutus had something to do with a deep-rooted association in his mind between his political hero William III and the figure of Caesar. `My Soul went up with him, 'tis hardly come back yet', he wrote of William's death in the Review for 31 October 1704, evoking ­ with, in the ascension trope, a surplus of hubris that was all his own ­ Shakespeare's Antony over Caesar's corpse: `My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, / And I must pause till it come back to me' (3.2.106­7). Yet Defoe's ambivalence about Brutus also seems to derive from a subtle alertness to the nuances of Shakespeare's presentation, specifically in the great soliloquy in which Brutus talks himself uneasily into assassinating Caesar on dubious pre-emptive grounds. The creative pay-off of Defoe's interest in the play comes in his brilliant parody of persecutory rhetoric in The Shortest Way with the Dissenters (1702), where Brutus' slippery resort to metaphor in the absence of just rationale (`And since the quarrel / Will bear no colour for the thing he is, / Fashion it thus', 2.1.28­30) enables Defoe to amplify the genocidal suggestions of his imaginary pamphleteer. For Brutus, it is the metaphor of the adder, or the future adder, with the fear of damage it has not yet done, though perhaps it might, that legitimizes Caesar's murder: `And therefore think him as a serpent's egg, / Which, hatch'd, would as his kind grow mischievous, / And kill him in the shell' (2.1.32­4). For Defoe's chillingly prosaic persecutor, as he urges pre-emptive destruction of the Dissenting community, `'tis cruelty to kill a snake . . . in cold blood, but the poison of their nature makes it a charity . . . to destroy those creatures, not for any personal injury received, but for prevention; not for the evil they have done, but the evil they may do'.15 At a stroke, Defoe efficiently suggests the harmlessness of the Dissenters, the paranoid dishonesty of their enemies, and the criminality of the final solution the pamphleteer has in mind. It was Shakespeare, in a different context and for different ends, who showed him the way, though the inspired addition of `charity' was a flourish of his own. If there is a connection to the novels here, it is no doubt that The Shortest Way and Defoe's other ironic pamphlets of 1702­14 developed the techniques of impersonation and ventriloquism that were to enable Robinson Crusoe and Moll Flanders. Directly, however, Shakespeare
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disappears from view in the novels, and their one possible allusion to any of the Roman plays, when Roxana becomes `as rich as Crassus' (the wealthy patron of Julius Caesar mentioned in Antony and Cleopatra) is probably a compositor's error for the proverbial Croesus.16 Much the same pattern is observable in other novelists of the early eighteenth century, and in Delarivier Manley's political roman a` clef The New Atalantis (1709), for all the opportunities provided by the novel's study of power and intrigue, there is little obvious exploitation of Shakespearean parallels. Again, this was not because Manley had no interest in the plays, and following the Hanoverian accession and the Jacobite rebellion of 1715 her studiously ambiguous drama of usurpation and restoration, Lucius, The First Christian King of Britain (1717) was openly influenced by Richard III. Ruth Herman calls the Shakespearean allusions of Lucius an uncharacteristic move for Manley, but Richard III clearly lent itself to her controversial theme of dynastic change, and several echoes of the play are marked and telling.17 As with Defoe and The Tempest, however, the relationship to Shakespeare is complicated by the mediating presence of an adaptation, in this case Colley Cibber's The Tragical History of King Richard III (1699), which ­ remarkably in view of Cibber's later career as a toadying poet laureate in the Whig-Hanoverian interest ­ had at first been refused a licence because of perceived parallels between Henry VI, sympathetically represented in the play, and the exiled James II. It was not until the more or less simultaneous explosion on the literary scene of Samuel Richardson as a novelist and David Garrick as an advocate and interpreter of Shakespeare that Shakespeare's work became a central resource for the emergent genre.
well read in shakespeare Garrick burst to fame in the London season of 1741 as a mesmerizing Richard III, in Cibber's adaptation. But he was no less compelling a performer in comic roles, and within weeks of his London debut the `Gentleman who acted King Richard' was prominently on the bill as foppish Jack Smatter (a version of Lady Davers's nephew Jackey) in the first theatrical adaptation of Richardson's Pamela (1740). There could be no more appropriate coincidence. In the rival spheres of novel and stage, Garrick and Richardson were alike in their rapid attainment of cultural prominence ­ as Joseph Warton wrote in 1742, the fashionable talk was all now `Of Vauxhall, Garrick, or Pamela' ­ and both had a marked influence on the novelistic absorption of Shakespeare over the following decades.18
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Written in the voice of a rustic maidservant, Richardson's first novel was not the right environment for elaborate allusion to Shakespeare, and the few phrases from the plays occurring in Pamela were in general currency at the time. Thus when Mr. B., frustrated by Pamela's resistance to his advances, declares that he `will not sue meanly, where I can command', Richardson may be indicating, by analogy with the fatetempting boast of Richard II ­ `We were not born to sue, but to command' (1.1.196) ­ that Mr. B's power over his interlocutor is less secure than he thinks. On the other hand, he may simply be having Mr. B use a stock formulation that is found elsewhere in the period in contexts innocent of literary allusion.19 That said, Richardson does want to make clear that his low-born heroine is capable of reading Hamlet, even if she then misquotes the text ­ `I said, like as I had read in a Book a Night or two before, Angels, and Saints, and all the Host of Heaven, defend me!'20 ­ and this passage looks forward to Richardson's tragic masterpiece Clarissa (1747­8), the competing protagonists of which make intensive use of Shakespeare's plays, including Hamlet, as they struggle to enforce their rival definitions of the novel's action. It is true that many of Clarissa's dramatic quotations are decorative or casual, plucked with little attention to context from a convenient handbook, in this case Edward Bysshe's The Art of English Poetry (1702), which collected, and organized alphabetically by theme, `the Most Natural, Agreeable and Sublime Thoughts . . . that are to be found in the best English Poets'.21 Lovelace's letters overflow with more or less random verse quotations, most of them by way of Bysshe, from Restoration heroic tragedy (Dryden, he says, is his `favourite bard'22), there simply to characterize him as a self-dramatizing rake with a morally alarming taste for hyperbole and excess. Frequently, Lovelace changes pronouns in his quotations to suit his situation, and in this vein he even draws on a few of Bysshe's Shakespeare extracts, either in their original form ­ `Perdition catch my soul, but I do love her'23 ­ or in Restoration adaptations. `Shakespeare advises well', he later writes, expressing a view of the plays as repositories of practical wisdom that was becoming entrenched at the time, but the advice he then quotes ­ `Oppose not rage, while rage is in its force' ­ is in fact from Dryden's adaptation of Troilus and Cressida (1679).24 Even in cases like these, however, there are indications that Lovelace's Shakespeare quotations function in more complex ways than his lines from latterday bombast-merchants like Sir Robert Howard or Nathaniel Lee. The Othello tag is unmistakably a piece of dramatic irony, an ominous anticipation of Lovelace's own perdition and his destruction of the woman he loves.
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Overt quotation, in any case, does not tell the whole story about Lovelace and Shakespeare. His indented, italicized verse extracts are conspicuous enough to have attracted the attention of scholars, and nearly all of them are traced in Angus Ross's pioneering annotations to Clarissa. But Richardson also weaves Shakespeare less visibly into the fabric of Lovelace's prose, and here the allusions to particular plays, and the implications that follow, have tended to pass unnoticed. An intricate example comes when Lovelace invents the story of a mourning widow whose beauty is disfigured by smallpox soon after her bereavement, only to conclude that, `As the greater malady generally swallows up the less, she may have a grief on this occasion, that may diminish the other grief and make it tolerable.'25 Clarissa reprimands him for this cynical view, and it may intensify her reprimand that she recognizes the gravity of the moment in Shakespeare that Lovelace's wording quietly evokes. As Lear tells Kent on the heath, `Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storm / Invades us to the skin; so 'tis to thee; / But where the greater malady is fix'd, / The lesser is scarce felt' (King Lear, 3.4.6­9). Invaded to the skin herself, Lovelace's imaginary, pock-marked widow gets her greater and lesser maladies the wrong way round. At the same time, Lovelace reveals himself, in his frivolous misapplication of Lear's speech, as ominously impervious to tragic meaning.26 Most of the Shakespeare echoes in Clarissa's letters are from sources omitted by Bysshe, and as Kate Rumbold observes, the first of them is turned pointedly against the overwrought, self-aggrandizing style of Lovelace's language, informed as it is by Bysshe's purple passages and the ranting histrionics of Restoration drama. His `extravagant volubility' reminds Clarissa of `The rattling tongue / Of saucy and audacious eloquence' in A Midsummer Night's Dream,27 whereas her own alternative preference for thoughtful reticence sets up, Rumbold suggests, a divided attitude to Shakespeare in the novel, who is emphatically theatrical in Lovelace's hands, reflectively literary for Clarissa.28 Clarissa is `well read in Shakespeare, our English pride and glory', observes Lovelace following the rape (again with his finger on the cultural pulse ­ Shakespeare now as a national icon), and he goes on at this point to recommend Measure for Measure to her attention on the ineligibility of death, which means `To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot'.29 By now, however, Clarissa is fixated instead on Hamlet, the only source to appear more than once in the fragments she scribbles following the rape,30 when her narrative disintegrates and quotation is her remaining medium of self-expression. Here the great crime at the heart of the novel is on a scale at once with the regicide
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of Claudius (`I could a tale unfold . . .', 1.5.15) and with the betrayal of Gertrude (`an act / That blurs the grace and blush of modesty', 3.4.40­1); it is a complex, endlessly resonant evil that echoes through the remainder of Clarissa until the final, Fortinbras-like appearance of Colonel Morden. As Jocelyn Harris has observed, the same point of tragic reference returns with significant variations in the case of Clementina, the distraught co-heroine of Sir Charles Grandison (1753­4), who reaches for the play in the onset of her madness (`Shall we go through your Shakespeare's Hamlet tonight?'), and whose struggle between love and duty culminates in communion with flowers and attempted suicide by water.31 Touches of this kind make Clementina `a she-tragic, domestic Ophelia', writes Michael Dobson, who finds in Sir Charles Grandison an influential instance of the process through which `Shakespeare and his characters begin to migrate independently into the novel in the 1750s and 1760s'.32 But other Shakespeare heroines are also in the background. In the scene that sets up the Ophelia analogue described by Harris and Dobson, Clementina also repeats ­ with dire consequences for the future of the genre ­ Viola's lines about patience on a monument, smiling at grief.33 In so doing, she explicitly contests, while implicitly confirming, Sir Charles's hint that the lines reflect on her own state. The richness of allusion to Shakespeare's plays in Richardson's novels was among the features that made it a commonplace to praise him, well into the Romantic period, as `the Shakespeare of Romance'.34 No less authoritative a witness than Garrick thought Clarissa `Of Nature born, by Shakespeare got' (the copulatory conceit is not pursued), and the origin of the comparison in Richardson's techniques of dramatic projection and first person disclosure can be seen more clearly in the view attributed to Samuel Johnson by an early biographer, where Richardson is `a writer similar in genius to Shakespeare, as being acquainted with the inmost recesses of the human heart, and having an absolute command of the passions, so as to be able to affect his readers as himself is affected'.35 In one sense Richardson the Shakespearean novelist is a paradoxical construction, in that his personal attitude to the stage was at best unenthusiastic. He admitted in the year of Clarissa's publication that he had never seen Garrick perform, and in the previous decade he even campaigned, with his pamphlet A Seasonable Examination (1735), to close the playhouse at Goodman's Fields in which Garrick was to make his electrifying debut as Richard III. For Richardson, however, Shakespeare was more a literary than a theatrical phenomenon, and in this respect he exemplifies, and in practice advanced, `the shift, already unstoppable,
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from the stage to the page' that Gary Taylor detects in attitudes to Shakespeare following the Stage Licensing Act of 1737, with the restrictions it placed on the theatre.36 Richardson's most conspicuous reinforcement of the stage/page binary comes in the postscript to Clarissa, where, defending his refusal to satisfy audience demands for a happy ending, he deplores the fact `that the altered King Lear of Mr. Tate is constantly acted on the English stage, in preference to the original, though written by Shakespeare himself!' In compliment to the power, taste and self-image of Garrick as custodian of Shakespeare's reputation, he adds the hope that Tate's providential ending might soon be dropped in favour of Shakespeare's original, now that `an actor and a manager, in the same person, is in being, who deservedly engages the public favour in all he undertakes, and who owes so much, and is gratefully sensible that he does, to that great master of the human passions'.37 But this appeal to Garrick ­ who later restored Shakespearean elements to Tate, though never the tragic ending38 ­ is not much more than a passing thought on Richardson's part, relegated to a footnote and removed from subsequent editions. More emphatic is the impression left by Richardson's postscript that Shakespeare's work is corrupted in practice by the exigencies of performance and the vagaries of audience taste. It exists more properly as a text, a stable and authentic entity in which purists like himself and Clarissa can be `well read'.
shakespeare industries The emphasis of modern scholarship on the eighteenth-century reorientation of Shakespeare from performance to text should not be allowed to obscure the more than residual importance of Shakespearean theatricality as a focus of attention in fiction. It would be an exaggeration to claim, as does a fictional version of George Lyttelton in a novel of 1775, that Shakespeare `owes most of his fame to the singular advantage of a practical commentator, and must certainly be content to divide his laurels with Garrick '.39 But Garrick's magnetism as a celebrity actor certainly intensified the role of playgoing ­ going, more especially, to the Shakespeare plays in which Garrick specialized ­ as a core activity in metropolitan life, even if holdouts like Richardson stayed away. High-profile novels such as Tobias Smollett's Peregrine Pickle (1751), which gives a detailed, hostile critique of Garrick's postures and gestures in the dagger scene of Macbeth, and comparable accounts of Garrick on stage in various minor novels make clear the desire of novelists to include the experience of live theatre
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in their documentation of social reality.40 In so doing, novelists could also exploit significant parallels between Garrick's Shakespeare productions and their own plots, or they could amplify thematic concerns with dissembling and illusion, or with identification and sympathetic response. Garrick even enters the primary cast of several novels, notably The Juvenile Adventures of David Ranger (1756), a roman a` clef by Edward Kimber that imagines his early life in picaresque style, and Frances Brooke's The Excursion (1777), with its revenge representation of the now retired Garrick (who as a manager had rejected two of Brooke's plays) as a shifty, stammering philistine. In his capacity as impresario of the Stratford Jubilee of 1769, Garrick may eventually have enshrined a style of bardolatry that marginalized Shakespeare's role as a practical dramatist, but his influence on fiction was clearly to assert the identity of Shakespeare's plays as performance and theatre. As a result, novels of the period are among the richest surviving witnesses to eighteenth-century acting styles, and in particular to Garrick's revolutionary interpretations of his major roles. Yet alongside the scenes of theatricality typified by Peregrine Pickle (or, with its celebrated Hamlet episode, Tom Jones), other novels of the 1750s show the influence of literary or textual forces that were abstracting Shakespeare from the theatre at the time and packaging him for a range of readerships. With their prolix annotations, cavalier emendations and rhetoric of superior civility, editions such as William Warburton's eightvolume Works (1747) brought Shakespeare into the libraries of the polite as lavish texts for reading, and as venerable sources that might seamlessly, creditably feed into new writing. At significant points, Warburton's annotations even align Shakespeare with the prehistory of the novel genre, as when he recycles, as an appendix to Love's Labour's Lost, a genealogy of chivalric romance that he had originally contributed to Charles Jervis's 1742 translation of Don Quixote, or again when he bluntly identifies the plot of Measure for Measure as `taken from Cinthio's Novels'.41 Later writers seized on this sense of Shakespeare's indebtedness to Renaissance fiction, to the point where, far from being an influence on the novel genre, he could start to look instead like an offshoot from it. Fresh from publishing her best-known novel The Female Quixote (1752), Charlotte Lennox compiled an elaborate demonstration, in Shakespear Illustrated (1753­4), of the origins of the plays in narrative prose. `How little Shakespear owed to his own Invention in his Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, may be seen by comparing that Play with the foregoing Novel', she claims in a characteristic passage (the novel in question being Bandello's
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1554 tale `Giulietta e Romeo', which Lennox assumes Shakespeare knew via William Painter's collection The Palace of Pleasure).42 Elsewhere, her commentaries fault individual plays for losing the distinctively novelistic strengths of this kind of source (probability, plot coherence, behavioural decorum), so that the work as a whole stakes a claim to value for the novel genre at Shakespeare's expense. Some rhetorical sleight of hand was at work in this gambit, and Lennox exploits the shifting sense of the term `novel' by applying it explicitly to Renaissance novelle while also implicitly referencing the `new species of writing' to which she herself was a contributor.43 As Jonathan Brody Kramnick has shown, the `singularly fraught and ambiguous dedication' that Johnson contributed to Shakespear Illustrated was on this issue an exercise in damage limitation, and Richardson was no more enthusiastic than Johnson about the work, which he thought an attempt `to rob Shakespeare of his Invention'.44 In subsequent decades, Lennox's work was largely ignored by Shakespeare editors, Johnson himself being the exception. But it had its effect in the culture at large, and by 1770 it could be presented as a self-evident truth, in need of no demonstration, that `the plays of our Shakespeare are many of them formed on the plan of novels'.45 In this context, works such as Sarah Fielding's The Lives of Cleopatra and Octavia (1757) ­ not strictly speaking a `novelization' of Shakespeare, but a rewriting of his classical sources in the idiom of the `new species' ­ only reinforced an impression of Shakespeare as a novelist manqueґ, and of the novel as the primary, proper genre for the material he used. As Linda Bree notes, Antony and Cleopatra was in any case a reading play at the time, when Dryden's All for Love (1677) still held the stage, and Fielding implicitly invites readers to read Shakespeare and herself in parallel, paraphrasing key speeches and echoing Shakespeare's theme of romantic abandon and political disaster.46 Alongside editions such as Warburton's and commentaries such as Shakespear Illustrated, popular anthologies like William Dodd's The Beauties of Shakespeare more radically severed individual speeches from their original context as theatre, while also facilitating their appropriation by novelists. Two years after publishing The Beauties of Shakespeare, Dodd brought out a novel of his own, The Sisters (1754), that was clearly appreciative of Shakespearean theatricality: one ironic episode has a rake seduce one of the co-heroines by taking her to see Garrick in Romeo and Juliet, where she succumbs to alcohol while Juliet on stage `was preparing to drink the fatal draught'.47 But The Beauties of Shakespeare had the opposite tendency, disconnecting quotable fragments of verse from the
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context of performance, and also, of course, from the individual play that gave each fragment its meaning. In a process analogous to the consequences of `index learning' as documented in Scriblerian satire, an author could now be badly read in Shakespeare and still cite him to apparent effect ­ the temptation to do so increasing, in what Leah Price terms `the atomistic logic of anthologies', as the most frequently anthologized speeches took on free-floating status as portable nuggets of wisdom.48 In later decades, didacticism came to supersede `beauty' as the quality to be prized and reinforced. As the influential bluestocking Elizabeth Montagu put it in An Essay on the Writings and Genius of Shakespear (1769), prizing content over form, `we are apt to consider Shakespear only as a poet; but he is certainly one of the greatest moral philosophers that ever lived'.49 In this climate, for novelists to invoke his work ­ his philosophy, not poetry, certainly not theatre ­ was a simple and powerful means of enhancing their own claims to seriousness. In the wake of Montagu's Essay, the novelist Elizabeth Griffith used The Morality of Shakespeare's Drama Illustrated (1775) to compile a new anthology of passages selected expressly as agents of moral instruction, a project she closely aligned with the ideology of domestic virtue in modern fiction. Her selections and commentaries would highlight, she wrote, `those moral duties which are the truest source of mortal bliss ­ domestic ties, offices, and obligations'.50 For Elizabeth Eger, these exercises in bluestocking learning together `formed a zealous defense of Shakespeare's dramatic power',51 but their primary emphasis is on the rather more static qualities to which respectable novelists aspired: knowledge of human nature; sympathy and sensibility; didactic efficacy. One way to gauge the cultural shift in progress here is to consider the two-stage output of Eliza Haywood. From her first recorded appearance in Timon of Athens (the Shadwell adaptation) in 1715, Haywood knew Shakespeare well in her capacity as an actress. But in her amatory novels and secret histories of the 1720s, the intensity of Haywood's concentration on erotic immediacy, and in some instances political innuendo, leaves little room for literary allusion of any kind. As a result, recent reprints of her early fiction have required only very sparse intertextual annotation from their editors. Following the breakthrough decade for fiction of the 1740s, however, Haywood reinvented herself as a serious novelist in terms of both moral purpose and thematic scope, and allusion to Shakespeare (alongside various Restoration playwrights) now becomes a conspicuous feature of her work. Several scenes from Shakespeare are discussed in her periodical of 1744­6, The Female Spectator, albeit with the usual blurring
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between original and adaptation. In the final number of the periodical, the advice of `our inimitable Shakespear' that `Our lives are short, but to extend that Span / To vast Eternity, is Virtue's Work' could not be located by the Oxford editor in a Shakespeare concordance because ­ Shakespeare's inimitability notwithstanding ­ it was written by an imitator, Dryden.52 But it is in Haywood's novels of the 1750s that Shakespeare comes into his own as a creative resource (though Dryden's original tragedies seem to have caught her imagination even more). Here again haste and faulty memory could sometimes undermine the effect of taste and erudition for which Haywood was reaching, and in two different works of her final years she misattributes to Shakespeare what was obviously a favourite tag, `gone beyond the clouds' ­ which, as John Richetti notes, is in fact from Oedipus, a Dryden/Lee collaboration of 1678.53 In other cases, however, Haywood's misattributions look to be strategic, comic effects, and in a virtuoso moment in Betsy Thoughtless (1751) she even has the heroine's uninspiring suitor Trueworth identify as by Shakespeare, and pompously intone as blank verse, a passage of cynical prose from a Congreve comedy.54 Elsewhere Shakespeare is cited above all for dramatic context, as when Richard III is deftly invoked in Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy (1753) to highlight the scheming hypocrisy of Bellpine, the novel's villain. Here the lines quoted ­ `Was ever woman in this humour woo'd? / Was ever woman in this humour won?' (1.2.227­8) ­ scarcely qualify as `beauties' or wisdom in the sense for which the anthologists were searching. For alert readers, however, they establish a sinister analogy between Bellpine's manipulative courtship of the heroine and Richard's courtship of Lady Anne after killing her husband.55 Other novelists had all Haywood's inaccuracy with none of her flair, and in many further novels from the 1750s onwards, Shakespeare's name is complacently affixed to endless quotations from his Restoration adapters, and occasionally from unrelated sources. A typical case is The Histories of Some of the Penitents in the Magdalen House (1760), a sentimental novel emanating from the Bath circle of Lady Barbara Montagu, in which none of the quotations attributed to Shakespeare is identified by source play, all are familiar anthology favourites, and one of the most prominent ­ the same motto about `virtue's work' that had previously caught out Haywood ­ is in fact by Dryden.56 Mistakes like this, and they are everywhere in fiction of the period, strongly suggest that novelists wanting to suggest familiarity or even kinship with `our Shakespeare' were routinely using the anthologies, strewn as many of them were with errors, as a
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convenient short cut. The passages they culled are in consequence no more than arbitrary decoration, unconnected with dramatic contexts to which the authors were often blind. If any intertext at all is meaningfully at work in novels of this kind, indeed, it is not Hamlet or King Lear but The Beauties of Shakespeare or The Morality of Shakespeare's Drama Illustrated ; by the same token, the `Shakespeare' they invoke is a simulacrum fabricated by Dodd or Griffith, who scoured the plays for `beauties' or lessons which they shaped into things of their own. Even a writer as theatrical in mindset as Haywood could have sympathy for this kind of reshaping, and in The Female Spectator she concedes ­ with explicit reference to adaptation, but as though in advance endorsement of Dodd ­ that
Some of Shakespear's Comedies, and all his Tragedies have Beauties in them almost inimitable; but . . . he sometimes gave a Loose to the Lux[u]riancy of his Fancy; so that his Plays may be compared to fine Gardens full of the most beautiful Flowers, but choaked up with Weeds through the too great Richness of the Soil: Those therefore which have had those Weeds pluck'd up by the skilful Hands of his Successors, are much the most elegant Entertainments.57
Perhaps Haywood was also remembering the history plays in this passage. Like the `sea-walled garden' of Richard II, `full of weeds, her fairest flowers chok'd up' (3.4.43­4), Shakespeare's text cried out for drastic remedies of selection and reorganization ­ remedies that left novelists to work from mere traces and fragments of what went before.
every man's shakespeare In his classic study of Shakespeare in fiction, which draws on about 750 novels published between 1740 and 1780, Robert Gale Noyes estimates that `one novel in every seven contains some Shakespearean reference': a total figure, then, of just over a hundred.58 Yet between 1760 and 1800, as noted above, more than half this number of novels quotes or reworks just one brief passage from Twelfth Night. In this context, Noyes's figure looks far too low, and his interest in fictional visits to the theatre and narrated conversations about plays may have led him to miss or discount the kind of casual, opportunist quotation that was rapidly becoming routine, even compulsory. Few quotations from Shakespeare were quite so gloriously misplaced as the line from Romeo and Juliet inserted by John Cleland in Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure (1748­9), but something of the absurdity contrived here stands for the irrelevance of Shakespeare reference in countless more decorous novels of the decades to come. In Cleland's second volume, the heroine describes her fellow prostitute Louisa, at the
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height of her ecstasy with an ithyphallic client named Dick, as being `"Gorg'd with the dearest morsel of the earth "' ­ to which she pretentiously adds the usual nonspecific attribution `Shakespear'. Originally, the line quoted by Fanny refers to Juliet's beautiful corpse, which Romeo laments in a tender speech; here they indicate nothing other than Dick's prodigious dick, which, as Fanny has already reported, `seem'd in hue and size not unlike a common sheep's heart'.59 Cleland, one has to assume, was laughing here; the trouble is that most of his successor novelists were not. There were honourable exceptions, of course. The teasing wit with which Laurence Sterne keeps Hamlet in play throughout Tristram Shandy (1759­67) and A Sentimental Journey (1768) is well known, and in both works the figure of Yorick amplifies Sterne's jocoserious preoccupation with jest and death.60 Frances Burney's intimate and wide-ranging knowledge of Shakespeare is as plain from her novels as from her journals and letters, and in Camilla (1796) a ludicrously botched performance of Othello highlights Burney's more general use of the play to point up `the pressure of private feeling and misconstruction' in the novel, or, in a more recent formulation, `the relationships among femininity, race, and monstrosity'.61 A generation before Burney, Sarah Fielding's habit of endowing her heroines with Shakespearean names is only the most obvious mark of a complex intertextual relation, and in The Cry (1754), an experimental attempt to write fiction as dramatic dialogue, pervasive reference to Shakespeare by Portia, Fielding's principal interlocutor, is fully digested within the thematic structure of the work. Fielding's later novel Ophelia (1760) sets up a sustained pattern of Macbeth allusion, inaugurated by a stage performance at which her hyper-responsive heroine `might more properly be said to act the Play, than some of the Persons on the Stage'; the pattern continues with ominous analogies between the novel's scheming Marchioness and Shakespeare's ­ or possibly Davenant's ­ Lady Macbeth.62 No such uncertainty between original and adaptation arises with Henry Fielding, whose understanding of the emergent Shakespeare industries of the day, with all their attendant trends towards theatrical and textual corruption, was profound and amused. In his mock-scholarly playtext of 1731, The Tragedy of Tragedies, a spoof commentary identifies the play itself as an Elizabethan work, perhaps ­ Fielding takes a sideswipe here at Lewis Theobald's claims for Double Falshood ­ `originally written by Shakespear'. But Fielding's obtuse commentator then fails to hear the play's burlesques of Shakespeare's most famous lines, deafened as he is by long exposure to Restoration bombast. He knows Thomas Otway well
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enough to associate `O, Tom Thumb! Tom Thumb! Wherefore art thou Tom Thumb? ' with a line from Caius Marius (1679), but seems unaware of Romeo and Juliet. He hears All for Love in `Your Huncamunca. / Tom Thumb's Huncamunca, every Man's Huncamunca', but misses the play on Much Ado About Nothing, which Fielding leaves hanging for the reader.63 Jokes like this about wrong-headed scholarship long outlived Fielding's early pose as `Scriblerus Secundus', and the arrogance and incompetence of Shakespearean actors and editors were among his favourite targets for two decades. A memorable scene in A Journey from This World to the Next (1743) has two celebrity actors consult a bemused Shakespeare in the underworld about how best to amend a line from Othello, the frontrunner among five different candidates being Put out thy Light, and then put out thy Sight. But Betterton said, if the Text was to be disturbed, he saw no reason why a Word might not be changed as well a Letter, and instead of put out thy Light, you might read put out thy Eyes.64
In the next decade, the same mania for gratuitous intervention in Shakespeare's text animates a fictional contributor to The Covent-Garden Journal, who writes in to celebrate `that there are not less than 200 Editions of [Shakespeare] with Commentaries, Notes, Observations &c. now preparing for the Press' ­ none of which, however, will have hit on his own conjectural emendation to the text of Hamlet. Like a madcap cross between Uncle Toby and a New Critic, Fielding's commentator points with dim-witted satisfaction to a pattern of military metaphors in the play, and infers what must be the correct reading of its best-known line: `To be, or not. To be! That is the Bastion.'65 Even as the efforts of editors and booksellers proliferate, Fielding satirically suggests, so the body of work they aim to clarify and fix becomes more blurred and unstable. The same goes for actors and managers, who squabble pedantically about the stress of a word while sacrificing entire speeches to gratuitous spectacle or slash-and-burn revision. Fielding's intimacy with, even in some respects his indebtedness to, protagonists of the eighteenth-century Shakespeare industry such as Garrick and Warburton gave him an odd and somewhat conflicted position from which to satirize its excesses. Nor was he a purist or pedant, as his cavalier habits of quotation from memory make very clear, nor a despairing prophet of cultural decay. He found in contemporary attitudes to Shakespeare, however, a towering instance of dulness in its modern mode of obtuse condescension, convinced that the present improves
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on the past while merely subjecting the past to its own stupidity and ignorance. Satire in this vein continues within the novels, notably Tom Jones (1749), which with its running play on the `sagacity' of readers is among much else a satire on the Bentleian tradition of conjectural criticism, with Fielding's eye especially on the adoption of Bentley's methods by Shakespeare editors: accordingly, readers of Tom Jones may be `as learned in Human Nature as Shakespear himself was', or equally `no wiser than some of his Editors'.66 Even before Shakespeare quotation had become such a clicheґ in novels, Fielding presciently satirizes the practice, introducing a misremembered passage from Macbeth's `walking shadow' speech with the pompous phrase `So the immortal Shakespear', but then abruptly backtracking: this is in fact a `hackneyed Quotation', he decides on second thoughts, best replaced by lines from a little-known modern poem by Samuel Boyse.67 For Fielding, Shakespeare was a source not for random, self-congratulatory quotation but, as in Partridge's visit to Hamlet near the close of the novel, for the kind of self-conscious play on representation and illusion that Madeleine Descargues finds characteristic of the Shakespearean element throughout Tom Jones and Fielding's other novels.68 In this context, it is hard not to sense a satirical gleam in Fielding's eye when, instead of breaking his heart in the approved manner, Tom merely fractures an arm. Grimacing in pain as he waits for the surgeon, `he "sat like Patience on a Monument smiling at Grief "'.69
NOTES 1 William Beckford, Modern Novel Writing; or, The Elegant Enthusiast, ed. Robert J. Gemmett (Chalford, Glos.: Nonsuch, 2008), pp. 37, 171. 2 Elizabeth Griffith, The Delicate Distress, ed. Cynthia Booth Ricciardi and Susan Staves (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1997), p. 53; Anna Thomson, Fatal Follies; or, The History of the Countess of Stanmore, 4 vols. (London, 1788), vol. i, p. 85; Berkeley Hall; or, The Pupil of Experience, 3 vols. (London, 1796), vol. i, p. 106. 3 Margaret Lee, Clara Lennox; or, The Distressed Widow, 2 vols. (London, 1797), vol. i, pp. 23, 170; the tag is also repeated in Griffith's The Delicate Distress (p. 250), and provides title-page epigraphs to The History of Amelia Harcourt and Louisa Darlington (1777) and Caroline de Montmorenci (1794), both by unknown authors. As Kate Rumbold has argued, overworn Shakespeare quotation could be knowingly used by novelists to indicate a character's banality: `"So Common-Hackneyed in the Eyes of Men ": Banal Shakespeare and the Eighteenth-Century Novel', Literature Compass, 4 (2007), 610­21; more often, however, the banality is unwitting, and a property of the narrative itself.
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4 Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey, ed. Barbara M. Benedict and Deirdre Le Faye (Cambridge University Press, 2006), p. 8. In an obvious allusion to the anthologies, Austen attributes Catherine's knowledge to `such works as heroines must read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives' (p. 7). See also, in this context, Henry Crawford's view of Shakespeare in Mansfield Park as `part of an Englishman's constitution' because `His thoughts and beauties are so spread abroad that one touches them every where': Jane Austen, Mansfield Park, ed. John Wiltshire (Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 390­1; as Leah Price argues, Austen's point here is about the filterings of anthologists, not about the plays as wholes or as works of theatre: The Anthology and the Rise of the Novel (Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 79­80. 5 The Complete London Jester; or, Wit's Companion, 10th edn (London, 1781), p. 39. 6 Daniel Defoe, Robinson Crusoe, ed. Thomas Keymer and James Kelly (OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS, 2007), p. 50; see Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Marginalia II, ed. George Whalley (Princeton University Press, 1985), p. 160. The marginalia date from 1830. Of an earlier passage in the novel (p. 14), Coleridge observes that Crusoe's sense of being locked on a course of self-destruction by his first sin exhibits `the moral of Shakespear's Macbeth' (p. 160). 7 John Robert Moore, `Defoe and Shakespeare', Shakespeare Quarterly, 19 (1968), 71­80. 8 [Giles Jacob,] A Vindication of the Press (London, 1718), pp. 29­30; for the attribution, see Stephen Bernard, `After Defoe, before The Dunciad: Giles Jacob and A Vindication of the Press', Review of English Studies, 59 (2008), 487­507. 9 Moore, `Defoe and Shakespeare', p. 80; see also his `The Tempest and Robinson Crusoe', Review of English Studies, 21 (1945), 52­6. 10 See, for example, Jean-Jacques Hamm, `Caliban, Friday, and Their Masters', in Robinson Crusoe: Myths and Metamorphoses, ed. Lieve Spaas and Brian Stimpson (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 1996), pp. 110­24. 11 Daniel Defoe, Serious Reflections during the Life and Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, ed. G. A. Starr (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2008), p. 227. For Defoe's allusions elsewhere to the Dryden/Davenant Tempest, see Moore, `Defoe and Shakespeare', p. 80, citing the Review for 31 October 1706 and The History and Reality of Apparitions (1727). 12 Defoe, Robinson Crusoe, p. 41. 13 Daniel Defoe, Jure Divino, ed. P. N. Furbank (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2003), p. 256. 14 Daniel Defoe, The Political History of the Devil, ed. John Mullan (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2005), p. 212. 15 Daniel Defoe, The True-Born Englishman and Other Writings, ed. P. N. Furbank and W. R. Owens (London: Penguin, 1997), p. 139. 16 Daniel Defoe, Roxana, ed. John Mullan (Oxford University Press, 1998), p. 238. 17 Ruth Herman, The Business of a Woman: The Political Writings of Delarivier Manley (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2003), pp. 203­4.
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18 Joseph Warton, Fashion: An Epistolary Satire to a Friend (London, 1742), p. 6; on Garrick and Pamela, see Thomas Keymer and Peter Sabor, Pamela in the Marketplace: Literary Controversy and Print Culture in Eighteenth-Century Britain and Ireland (Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 114­17. 19 Samuel Richardson, Pamela, ed. Thomas Keymer and Alice Wakely (Oxford University Press, 2001), p. 193 n. 20 Ibid., p. 31. In fact, Hamlet's words are `Angels and ministers of grace defend us!' (1.4.39). 21 I quote from the title-page of the expanded sixth edition (1718), which Richardson appears to have used: see Michael E. Connaughton, `Richardson's Familiar Quotations: Clarissa and Bysshe's Art of English Poetry ', Philological Quarterly, 60 (1981), 183­95. 22 Samuel Richardson, Clarissa, ed. Angus Ross (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1985), p. 761. 23 Richardson, Clarissa, p. 146; cf. Othello, 3.3.90­1. 24 Richardson, Clarissa, p. 800. Richardson seems to have been misled here by the misattribution in Bysshe, unless, as is possible, he means to attribute the error to Lovelace himself. 25 Ibid., p. 701. 26 See also, for an application of this passage from King Lear to Clarissa herself, Sarah Fielding, Remarks on Clarissa (London, 1749), p. 43. 27 Richardson, Clarissa, p. 397; A Midsummer Night's Dream, 5.1.102­3. 28 Kate Rumbold, `"Alas, poor YORICK ": Quoting Shakespeare in the Mid-Eighteenth-Century Novel', Borrowers and Lenders: The Journal of Shakespeare and Appropriation, 2 (2006), www.borrowers.uga.edu/cocoon/borrowers/ request?id=781458. 29 Richardson, Clarissa, p. 1148; Measure for Measure, 3.1.118. On the implications of Measure for Measure, see Martin Scofield, `Shakespeare and Clarissa : "General Nature ", Genre and Sexuality', Shakespeare Survey 51 (1998), 27­43 (pp. 29­30). 30 Richardson, Clarissa, p. 893. 31 Samuel Richardson, Sir Charles Grandison, ed. Jocelyn Harris, 3 vols. (London: Oxford University Press, 1972), vol. ii, p. 155; see also Harris's Samuel Richardson (Cambridge University Press, 1987), p. 160. 32 Dobson, National Poet, pp. 213, 214. 33 Richardson, Sir Charles Grandison, vol. ii, p. 153. 34 Monthly Magazine (1813), cited by Mark Kinkead-Weekes, Samuel Richardson: Dramatic Novelist (London: Methuen, 1973), p. 396. 35 Garrick's manuscript epigram on Clarissa, dated 1751, is reproduced by Alan Dugald McKillop, Samuel Richardson, Printer and Novelist (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1936), p. 161; Sir John Hawkins, The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D. (London, 1787), p. 217. 36 Gary Taylor, Reinventing Shakespeare: A Cultural History, from the Restoration to the Present (Oxford University Press, 1991), p. 137; Dobson puts it more strongly, with Shakespeare `abducted from the theatre' into literary texts, notably mid-century novels of domestic virtue (National Poet, p. 213).
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37 Richardson, Clarissa, p. 1497. 38 See Cunningham, Garrick, pp. 119­35. 39 The Correspondents, An Original Novel (London, 1775), p. 116. 40 See, for example, John Collet, Chit-Chat; or, natural characters, and the Manners of Real Life, Represented in a Series of Interesting Adventures, 2 vols. (London, 1755), vol. i, pp. 12­23; Emily; or, the History of a Natural Daughter, 2 vols. (London, 1756), vol. i, pp. 12­16, 186­7; and Memoirs of Sir Thomas Hughson and Mr. Joseph Williams, With the Remarkable History, Travels, and Distresses, of Telemachus Lovet, 4 vols. (London, 1757), vol. iv, pp. 224­33. On the representation of Garrick in all these works, see Robert Gale Noyes, The Thespian Mirror: Shakespeare in the Eighteenth-Century Novel (Providence, RI: Brown University, 1953), pp. 38­40, 105­9. 41 The Works of Shakespear in Eight Volumes, ed. William Warburton (London, 1747), vol. ii, pp. 288 ff.; vol. i, p. 355. 42 Charlotte Lennox, Shakespear Illustrated; or, The Novels and Histories, on which the Plays of Shakespear Are Founded,Collected and Translated, from the Original Authors, 3 vols. (London, 1753­4), vol. i, p. 99. Similar objections from Lennox about The Winter's Tale, Measure for Measure and All's Well That Ends Well are quoted by Margaret Anne Doody, `Shakespeare's Novels: Charlotte Lennox Illustrated', Studies in the Novel, 19 (1987), 296­310. 43 For a sense of the complications involved, see Novel Definitions: An Anthology of Commentary on the Novel, 1688­1815, ed. Cheryl L. Nixon (Peterborough, Ont.: Broadview, 2008). 44 Jonathan Brody Kramnick, `Reading Shakespeare's Novels: literary history and Cultural Politics in the Lennox­Johnson Debate', Modern Language Quarterly, 55 (1994), 429­53 (p. 446); Selected Letters of Samuel Richardson, ed. John Carroll (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1964), p. 250 (8 December 1753). 45 Edward Burnaby Greene, Critical Essays (London, 1770), p. 226. 46 See Linda Bree, Sarah Fielding (New York: Twayne, 1996), pp. 109­13. 47 William Dodd, The Sisters; or, The History of Lucy and Caroline Sanson, 2 vols. (London, 1754), vol. i, p. 80; see also Noyes, Thespian Mirror, pp. 103­5. 48 Price, Anthology and the Rise of the Novel, p. 82. 49 Montagu, Essay, p. 59. 50 Elizabeth Griffith, The Morality of Shakespeare's Drama Illustrated (London, 1775), p. xiii. 51 Elizabeth Eger, `"Out rushed a female to protect the Bard ": The Bluestocking Defense of Shakespeare', Huntington Library Quarterly, 65 (2002), 127­51 (p. 137). 52 Eliza Haywood, Selections from The Female Spectator, ed. Patricia Meyer Spacks (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), p. 312; the lines are from Dryden's Troilus and Cressida; or, Truth Found Too Late (London, 1679), 5.1.93­4. Possibly Haywood had performed in the Dryden version, though it seems more likely that she was using Bysshe's Art of Poetry, where she would have found the lines attributed to Shakespeare under the heading `Virtue'. 53 Eliza Haywood, The History of Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy, ed. John J. Richetti (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2005), pp. 234, 405 n.; see also her
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Epistles for the Ladies, 2 vols. (London, 1749­50), vol. i, p. 232, and the Dryden/Lee Oedipus, A Tragedy, 2.1.187. 54 Eliza Haywood, The History of Miss Betsy Thoughtless, ed. Beth Fowkes Tobin (Oxford University Press, 1997), p. 411. The source, unidentified by Tobin, is Valentine's speech in Love for Love, ed. Emmett L. Avery (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1966), p. 108 (act four, lines 553­5). 55 Haywood, Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy, pp. 378, 410 n. 56 The Histories of Some of the Penitents in the Magdalen House, ed. Jennie Batchelor and Megan Hiatt (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2007), p. 82 (and n. 95). In a recent essay about attribution, Carolyn Woodward argues for collaborative authorship involving Sarah Fielding and probably Sarah Scott, in `The Modern Figure of the Author, Sarah Fielding, and the Case of The Histories of Some of the Penitents in the Magdalen House', English, 58 (2009), 278­96; the crass use of Shakespeare in this work is one among several factors making Fielding's role unlikely. 57 Eliza Haywood, The Female Spectator, 4 vols. (London, 1744­6), vol. ii, p. 91 (Book viii). 58 Noyes, Thespian Mirror, p. iii. 59 John Cleland, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, ed. Peter Sabor (Oxford University Press, 1985), pp. 164, 162; Romeo and Juliet, 5.3.46. 60 For further aspects of the connection, see Robert L. Chibka, `The HobbyHorse's Epitaph: Tristram Shandy, Hamlet, and the Vehicles of Memory', Eighteenth-Century Fiction, 3 (1991), 125­51; and J. T. Parnell, `"Que scёais-je? ": Montaigne's "Apology ", Hamlet, and Tristram Shandy : Enquiry and Sceptical Response', Eighteenth-Century Ireland, 10 (1995), 148­55. 61 Margaret Anne Doody, Frances Burney: The Life in the Works (Cambridge University Press, 1988), p. 257; Felicity Nussbaum, The Limits of the Human: Fictions of Anomaly, Race, and Gender in the Long Eighteenth Century (Cambridge University Press, 2003), p. 130. 62 Sarah Fielding, The History of Ophelia, ed. Peter Sabor (Peterborough, Ont.: Broadview, 2004), p. 112. 63 Henry Fielding, Plays, Volume I, 1728­1731, ed. Thomas Lockwood (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2004), pp. 542, 564, 575­6. Cf. `O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?' (Romeo and Juliet, 2.2.33) and `Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every man's Hero' (Much Ado About Nothing, 3.2.106­7). 64 Henry Fielding, Miscellanies, Volume II, ed. Bertrand A. Goldgar and Hugh Amory (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), p. 40. Cf. "Put out the light, and then put out the light " (Othello, 5.2.7). 65 Henry Fielding, The Covent-Garden Journal and A Plan of the Universal Register-Office, ed. Bertrand A. Goldgar (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988), pp. 192, 193 (18 April 1752). 66 Henry Fielding, The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, ed. Martin C. Battestin and Fredson Bowers (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974), p. 523 (x.i); see Henry Power, `Henry Fielding, Richard Bentley, and the "Sagacious Reader " of Tom Jones', Review of English Studies, 61 (2010), 749­72.
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67 Fielding, Tom Jones, p. 324 (vii.i). 68 Madeleine Descargues, `Shakespeare on the Scene of Eighteenth-Century Fiction', in Representation and Performance in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Peter Wagner and Freґdeґric Ogeґe (Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, 2006), pp. 85­95; see also, on the implied politics of the Hamlet episode, John Allen Stevenson, The Real History of Tom Jones (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), pp. 159­80. 69 Fielding, Tom Jones, p. 204 (iv.xiv).
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