II


II
























  A Materialist Critique
of English Romantic Drama


  A Materialist Critique
of English Romantic Drama


  A Materialist Critique
of English Romantic Drama






4.


    A Materialist Critique


of English Romantic Drama




        DANIEL P. WATKINS














            University Press of Flsrida

                 Gainsville

                 Tamspa
                 Bssa Ratsn
                 Pensacosla
                 Orlando
                 Miami
                 Jacsosnville


    A Materialist Critique



of English Romantic Drama




         DANIEL P. WATKINS














            University Press of Flsrida

                 Gainesville
                 Tallahassee

                 Bess Ratsn
                 Pesasola
                 Orlando
                 Miamsi
                 Jacksonville


    A Materialist Critique



of English Romantic Drama




         DANIEL P. WATKINS














            University Press of lorida

                 Gainesville
                 Taillahassee
                 Tamspa
                 Bsca Ratsn
                 Penacosla
                 Orlando
                 Miamsi
                 Jacksonville


OF  W' Ia 1MI fOL" t'"'rn


UWYiSV3wy VP F1.0 Ti qnME


UWV~ISlyy pp OFfr~














      Copyright 1993 by th Boad of Reet

        Prfined in heU.S. onaid-freepaper
               All rights reere


   A maeilistcrique of English ~romnti dam
              Daniel P. Watkins.



                  . Tim.
         Includes   7 bilorphclrfrecs(.9 adidx

TI. Engl is drm -1t  century-istory d criticsm
  ,fz.d &es drma English-H~id torni criticism



     3.R mnics - ratBian  4.~~~ Hstoa lmtrai .


        Copyright 1993 by th Boad of Regents


                All rights reevd
   Libray of Cogrs Catalging-i-Pblicaio Data
             Watki, Diel P., 195-
    A materiaist citiqu ofEnglish roani dam /
               DielP.Wkin.
                   P.cm
    Inlde bibligphicl rferne (p.) ad ind.
            IB0-1014-.- IBo-83-124-4 (pbk.)
  IEnglishdram-19t cnuy-Hioy adciiism.
     zVes dm, Eglih-Hioy adciii.
3.Romnicism-Gr       rii..Histoia miteriism.
                   1. Titl.
               117t.W37 1993
          82'.70945-dc2   93-13776

 The Uierity Pres of Floida isth hlaly publishing
   agnyfothe Stat Uiesty Syste  of Florida, copisd
 ofFloida A & M Univrsiy, Florida Atnik Utiverity,
 Floida Interntina Univrty, FoidSteUvity,
   Uniety of Crl Foida, Uniety ofFlida,
 Univerity of Nort Foida, Uierity of Soth Foida,
            UnieriyfWest Florida.

            Uiesty Prs of Floida
            15 Nrhwetybt Stre
            Gitesill, Florida 3261


        Copyight 1y93 by t Boad of Rget
              of tbe Stat of Florida
            P iti t U.S. on aci-fre pape
                All rigbts reservd

   Libay ofCogrs Catlogig-in-Publicaio Data

   A maeiaist citiqu of Engbbs roani da
               Daiel P Watins.
                   p.cm
    Ilude biblogpbkcl refne (p.) and ind.
       IB -813-14-6. - ISB u-8130-1241-4 (pbk.)
  IEglidm-19t cetury-Historydciticism.
     2.Vrs dam, Englibh-Hitoy ad ciiki.
y.Romatis-GretBii.      4.Hiilmteriali.
                   1.Title.
                l716w37    1993
          6<yuygy14-dc         93-13776

 The Utivesiy Pes of Florida is tbbchlaly publibing
 agencyfo bh Ste Univerity Sytmf Florid, coprised
 of Fluida A & M Univetity, Fluida Alki Unierity,
 Fluida Intuntiunl Unietiy, Flurida SaeUnirity,
   Unierityuof CnrlFloridaUnvityfFloid,
 Uiverity of Nubt Flurida, Unieity of Soubh Florida,
            UnieriyuofWesloid.

            Uiterity Prs of Fkoida
            ty Norhb   s y5t Stre
            Gittsille, Floida 3261























For Floyd, Dean, Bonnie, Myra, and Allen
    with love, gratitude, and admiration


For Floyd, Dean, Bonnie, Myra, and Allen
    with love, gratitude, and admiration


For Floyd, Dean, Bonnie, Myra, and Allen
    with love, gratitude, and admiration















[T]he whole secret of the modern Jacobinical drama . .. and of all         [T]he whole secret of the modern Jacobinical drama . . . and of all         [T]he whole secret of the modern Jacobinical drama . .. and of all
its popularity, consists in the confusion and subversion of the natural    its popularity, consists in the confusion and subversion of the natural     its popularity, consists in the confusion and subversion of the natural
order of things in their causes and effects: namely, in the excitement of   order of things in their causes and effects: namely, in the excitement of  order of things in their causes and effects: namely, in the excitement of
surprise by representing the qualities of liberality, refined feeling, and  surprise by representing the qualities of liberality, refined feeling, and  surprise by representing the qualities of liberality, refined feeling, and
a nice sense of honour . . . in persons and in classes where experience     a nice sense of honour . . . in persons and in classes where experience    a nice sense of honour . . . in persons and in classes where experience
teaches us least to expect them; and by rewarding with all the sympa-       teaches us least to expect them; and by rewarding with all the sympa-      teaches us least to expect them; and by rewarding with all the sympa-
thies which are the due of virtue, those criminals whom law, reason,        thies which are the due of virtue, those criminals whom law, reason,       thies which are the due of virtue, those criminals whom law, reason,
and religion have excommunicated from our esteem. and religion have excommunicated from our esteem. and religion have excommunicated from our esteem.

       Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Biographia Literaria Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Biographia Literaria Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Biographia Literaria




[T]he connexion of poetry and social good is more observable in the         [T]he connexion of poetry and social good is more observable in the        [T]he connexion of poetry and social good is more observable in the
drama than in whatever other form: and it is indisputable that the high-    drama than in whatever other form: and it is indisputable that the high-   drama than in whatever other form: and it is indisputable that the high-
est perfection of human society has ever corresponded with the highest      est perfection of human society has ever corresponded with the highest     est perfection of human society has ever corresponded with the highest
dramatic excellence; and that the corruption or the extinction of the       dramatic excellence; and that the corruption or the extinction of the      dramatic excellence; and that the corruption or the extinction of the
drama in a nation where it has once flourished, is a mark of a corrup-      drama in a nation where it has once flourished, is a mark of a corrup-     drama in a nation where it has once flourished, is a mark of a corrup-
tion of manners, and an extinction of the energies which sustain the        tion of manners, and an extinction of the energies which sustain the       tion of manners, and an extinction of the energies which sustain the
soul of social life.                     soul of social life.                     soul of social life.

        Percy Bysshe Shelley, A Defence of Poetry Percy Bysshe Shelley, A Defence of Poetry Percy Bysshe Shelley, A Defence of Poetry





                         CONTENTS







                         Preface / xi

1. "These Disputed Tracts": Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 1

   2. "In That New World": Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio / 21

                 3. "The Gait Disturb'd of Wealthy,
          Honour'd Men": Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 39

             4. "These Have Eat into My Old Estates":
                Charles Lamb'sJohn Woodvil / 6o

   5. "In These Degenerate Days": Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 77

6. "Tenants ofa Blasted World": Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 94

                7. "Tied unto This Wheeling Globe":
        Thomas Lovell Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy / 1tt

                8. "Where the Sires' Quarrels Descend
         upon the Son": Sir Walter Scott's Halidon Hill ! 123

                 9. "Where the World Is Thickest":
        The Dramas of George Gordon, Lord Byron / 134

             1o. "The Act Seals All": Conclusion / 207

                          Notes / 213

                       Bibliography / 235

                          Index / 243


CONTENTS


                          Preface / xi

1. "These Disputed Tracts": Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 1

   2. "In That New World": Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio / 21

                 3. "The Gait Disturb'd of Wealthy,
          Honour'd Men": Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 39

              4. "These Have Eat into My Old Estates":
                Charles Lamb'sJohn Woodvil / 60

   5. "In These Degenerate Days": Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 77

6. "Tenants of a Blasted World": Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 94

                7. "Tied unto This Wheeling Globe":
        Thomas Lovell Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy / 111

                8. "Where the Sires' Quarrels Descend
         upon the Son": Sir Walter Scott's Halidon Hill / 123

                 9. "Where the World Is Thickest":
        The Dramas of George Gordon, Lord Byron / 134

             so. "The Act Seals All": Conclusion / 207

                          Notes / 213

                       Bibliography / 235

                          Index / 243


                         CONTENTS







                         Preface / xi

1. "These Disputed Tracts": Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 1

   2. "In That New World": Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio / 21

                 3. "The Gait Disturb'd of Wealthy,
          Honour'd Men": Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 39

             4. "These Have Eat into My Old Estates":
                Charles Lamb'sJohn Woodvil / 6o

   5. "In These Degenerate Days": Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 77

6. "Tenants of a Blasted World": Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 94

                7. "Tied unto This Wheeling Globe":
        Thomas Lovell Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy / 1t1

                8. "Where the Sires' Quarrels Descend
         upon the Son": Sir Walter Scott's Halidon Hill / 123

                 9. "Where the World Is Thickest":
        The Dramas of George Gordon, Lord Byron / 134

             so. "The Act Seals All": Conclusion / 207

                          Notes / 213

                       Bibliography / 235

                          Index / 243





                PREFACE


















This book uses a materialist methodology to investigate and explain
some of the historical dimensions of English Romantic drama. It is
particularly concerned with the operations of ideology in Romantic
dramatic texts, and with the textual formulation and articulation of
such matters as gender, class, economics, family, law, property, and so
on. I stress this critical orientation because I want to be clear that my
interest in historical explanation in this study is not grounded in the
particular events and episodes at the conjunctural level of history-I
do not seek to recount the details of British society between 1780 and
1832 and then argue for their relevance to the interpretation of Roman-
tic drama. Rather, I am concerned primarily with the way meanings
are put forward in dramatic texts produced under the pressures of the
structural transformation of British society that culminated in the late
eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Put slightly differently, I
am not concerned here with Romantic drama as a reflection of, or
commentary on, preexistent and autonomous historical data; rather, I
approach drama as a part of the social history of the period, as a record,
that is, of the sorts of social relations, anxieties, struggles, and so on
that are constituent features of Romantic culture.
  The materialist orientation of this study, moreover, takes for
granted that the historical past cannot be brought forward and studied
in purely descriptive terms, because the conditions under which criti-


                PREFACE


















This book uses a materialist methodology to investigate and explain
some of the historical dimensions of English Romantic drama. It is
particularly concerned with the operations of ideology in Romantic
dramatic texts, and with the textual formulation and articulation of
such matters as gender, class, economics, family, law, property, and so
on. I stress this critical orientation because I want to be clear that my
interest in historical explanation in this study is not grounded in the
particular events and episodes at the conjunctural level of history-I
do not seek to recount the details of British society between 178o and
1832 and then argue for their relevance to the interpretation of Roman-
tic drama. Rather, I am concerned primarily with the way meanings
are put forward in dramatic texts produced under the pressures of the
structural transformation of British society that culminated in the late
eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Put slightly differently, I
am not concerned here with Romantic drama as a reflection of, or
commentary on, preexistent and autonomous historical data; rather, I
approach drama as a part of the social history of the period, as a record,
that is, of the sorts of social relations, anxieties, struggles, and so on
that are constituent features of Romantic culture.
  The materialist orientation of this study, moreover, takes for
granted that the historical past cannot be brought forward and studied
in purely descriptive terms, because the conditions under which criti-


                PREFACE


















This book uses a materialist methodology to investigate and explain
some of the historical dimensions of English Romantic drama. It is
particularly concerned with the operations of ideology in Romantic
dramatic texts, and with the textual formulation and articulation of
such matters as gender, class, economics, family, law, property, and so
on. I stress this critical orientation because I want to be clear that my
interest in historical explanation in this study is not grounded in the
particular events and episodes at the conjunctural level of history-I
do not seek to recount the details of British society between 178o and
1832 and then argue for their relevance to the interpretation of Roman-
tic drama. Rather, I am concerned primarily with the way meanings
are put forward in dramatic texts produced under the pressures of the
structural transformation of British society that culminated in the late
eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Put slightly differently, I
am not concerned here with Romantic drama as a reflection of, or
commentary on, preexistent and autonomous historical data; rather, I
approach drama as a part of the social history of the period, as a record,
that is, of the sorts of social relations, anxieties, struggles, and so on
that are constituent features of Romantic culture.
  The materialist orientation of this study, moreover, takes for
granted that the historical past cannot be brought forward and studied
in purely descriptive terms, because the conditions under which criti-



xi S Srfc                                                                 i  rfc                                                                 i   rfc


cism operates today are different from the conditions under which
Romantic drama was produced. Therefore, one feature and measure
of the historicity of Romantic drama is the distance between the past
and present. To recognize that distance is to accept that the explana-
tion of Romantic drama is also necessarily an appropriation and use of
its meanings. The explanation of Romantic drama, in other words, is
political.
   I want to mention as well a slightly different matter, namely that in
some respects I have written two books: one is a study of isolated plays
by a variety of individual Romantic writers, a study that concentrates
largely, though not entirely, on issues of gender; the other is a study
of Byron, saying little about gender but concentrating instead on such
issues as religion, class, and revolution. While the turn to Byron in
the latter pages of the study may at first appear to constitute a grating
shift away from the preoccupations of earlier chapters, in my view it
represents a critical adjustment required by the great power of Byron's
accomplishment in drama, and an expansion of the major concerns
of the book. Byron's dramas simply cannot be studied in the same
way one studies Baillie's DeMonfort, Lamb's John Woodvil, Maturin's
Bertram, or Scott's Halidon Hill; the scope and vision of Byron's work
force a slightly different set of critical interests and emphases. And yet
his dramas, as I believe I show, remain distinctly Romantic and, in fact,
stand as the greatest and most articulate voice of Romantic drama.
   While in this study I examine only a few of the hundreds of dra-
mas written during the period, I believe nonetheless that I am able
to demonstrate the historical richness of Romantic drama and illus-
trate the need for further, more comprehensive, materialist study of
the genre. Whatever its aesthetic merits or shortcomings, and however
traditional scholars may situate it within the frames of literary history,
Romantic drama occupies a critically important position in the social
history of Romanticism.

Acknowledgments
This project has benefited considerably from the helpful advice that
many friends and colleagues have offered over the past ten years or so.
I owe a special debt of gratitude to Terry Hoagwood, who for many
years now has shared with me his immense knowledge of Roman-
tic history and literature, and whose encouragement and confidence
in my work have sustained me through more than a few moments


cism operates today are different from the conditions under which
Romantic drama was produced. Therefore, one feature and measure
of the historicity of Romantic drama is the distance between the past
and present. To recognize that distance is to accept that the explana-
tion of Romantic drama is also necessarily an appropriation and use of
its meanings. The explanation of Romantic drama, in other words, is
political.
   I want to mention as well a slightly different matter, namely that in
some respects I have written two books: one is a study of isolated plays
by a variety of individual Romantic writers, a study that concentrates
largely, though not entirely, on issues of gender; the other is a study
of Byron, saying little about gender but concentrating instead on such
issues as religion, class, and revolution. While the turn to Byron in
the latter pages of the study may at first appear to constitute a grating
shift away from the preoccupations of earlier chapters, in my view it
represents a critical adjustment required by the great power of Byron's
accomplishment in drama, and an expansion of the major concerns
of the book. Byron's dramas simply cannot be studied in the same
way one studies Baillie's DeMonfort, Lamb's John Woodvil, Maturin's
Bertram, or Scott's Halidon Hill; the scope and vision of Byron's work
force a slightly different set of critical interests and emphases. And yet
his dramas, as I believe I show, remain distinctly Romantic and, in fact,
stand as the greatest and most articulate voice of Romantic drama.
   While in this study I examine only a few of the hundreds of dra-
mas written during the period, I believe nonetheless that I am able
to demonstrate the historical richness of Romantic drama and illus-
trate the need for further, more comprehensive, materialist study of
the genre. Whatever its aesthetic merits or shortcomings, and however
traditional scholars may situate it within the frames of literary history,
Romantic drama occupies a critically important position in the social
history of Romanticism.

Acknowledgments
This project has benefited considerably from the helpful advice that
many friends and colleagues have offered over the past ten years or so.
I owe a special debt of gratitude to Terry Hoagwood, who for many
years now has shared with me his immense knowledge of Roman-
tic history and literature, and whose encouragement and confidence
in my work have sustained me through more than a few moments


cism operates today are different from the conditions under which
Romantic drama was produced. Therefore, one feature and measure
of the historicity of Romantic drama is the distance between the past
and present. To recognize that distance is to accept that the explana-
tion of Romantic drama is also necessarily an appropriation and use of
its meanings. The explanation of Romantic drama, in other words, is
political.
   I want to mention as well a slightly different matter, namely that in
some respects I have written two books: one is a study of isolated plays
by a variety of individual Romantic writers, a study that concentrates
largely, though not entirely, on issues of gender; the other is a study
of Byron, saying little about gender but concentrating instead on such
issues as religion, class, and revolution. While the turn to Byron in
the latter pages of the study may at first appear to constitute a grating
shift away from the preoccupations of earlier chapters, in my view it
represents a critical adjustment required by the great power of Byron's
accomplishment in drama, and an expansion of the major concerns
of the book. Byron's dramas simply cannot be studied in the same
way one studies Baillie's DeMonfort, Lamb's John Woodvil, Maturin's
Bertram, or Scott's Halidon Hill; the scope and vision of Byron's work
force a slightly different set of critical interests and emphases. And yet
his dramas, as I believe I show, remain distinctly Romantic and, in fact,
stand as the greatest and most articulate voice of Romantic drama.
   While in this study I examine only a few of the hundreds of dra-
mas written during the period, I believe nonetheless that I am able
to demonstrate the historical richness of Romantic drama and illus-
trate the need for further, more comprehensive, materialist study of
the genre. Whatever its aesthetic merits or shortcomings, and however
traditional scholars may situate it within the frames of literary history,
Romantic drama occupies a critically important position in the social
history of Romanticism.

Acknowledgments
This project has benefited considerably from the helpful advice that
many friends and colleagues have offered over the past ten years or so.
I owe a special debt of gratitude to Terry Hoagwood, who for many
years now has shared with me his immense knowledge of Roman-
tic history and literature, and whose encouragement and confidence
in my work have sustained me through more than a few moments



Prefac / xii                        Preace /xiii                                                            refc   iii


of intellectual doubt; to Marilyn Gaull and Michael Scrivener, both
of whom read the manuscript in its entirety and provided excellent,
specific suggestions for revision; to Jerome McGann, whose work on
Romanticism continues to open up new areas of critical investigation
and inspire others to strive for scholarly and critical excellence; to Greg
Kucich, whose friendship, challenging conversation, and outstanding
scholarship have taught me to think in new ways about Romanticism;
to various members of my department, especially Jay Keenan, Sam
Tindall, and Linda Taylor, who kindly listened as I talked through the
ideas of this book and who always talked back in intelligent and in-
structive ways; and to the students in my graduate seminar on Roman-
tic drama during the spring 1991 term, especially Brad Hollingshead
and Andrea Beranek. These students, among other things, taught me
critical and scholarly patience and demonstrated on a weekly basis the
powers of intellectual imagination. I also want to express my grati-
tude to Tony Rosso, whose knowledge of the politics of Romanticism
and whose respect for the utopian dimensions of Romantic thought
have shaped my ideas about Romantic drama in significant ways; and
to an anonymous friend, who long ago introduced me to historical
materialist methodology and whose example continues to shape my
thinking about literature, history, and politics. Finally, my greatest
debt, still, is to my best friend, Joanna Foster.

Portions of this book appeared previously, in slightly different form,
in various scholarly journals; I am grateful to the editors of these jour-
nals for allowing me to reprint those portions here: "'In That New
World': The Deep Historical Structure of Coleridge's Osorio," Philo-
logical Quarterly 69 (1990): 495-515; "Class, Gender, and Social Motion
in Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort," The Wordsworth Circle 23 (1992): 109-
17; "'Tenants of a Blasted World': Historical Imagination in Charles
Maturin's Bertram," The Keats-Shelley Review 4 (1989): 61-80; "Thomas
Lovell Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy and the Situation of Romantic
Drama," SEL 29, 4 (1989): 699-712; "Violence, Class Consciousness,
and Ideology in Byron's History Plays," ELH 48 (1981): 799-816;
"Politics and Religion in Byron's Heaven and Earth," The Byron Journal
11 (1983): 30-39; "The Ideological Dimensions of Byron's The De-
formed Transformed," Criticism 25, 1 (1983): 27-39; and "Byron and the
Poetics of Revolution," Keats-Shelley journal 34 (1985): 95-130.


of intellectual doubt; to Marilyn Gaull and Michael Scrivener, both
of whom read the manuscript in its entirety and provided excellent,
specific suggestions for revision; to Jerome McGann, whose work on
Romanticism continues to open up new areas of critical investigation
and inspire others to strive for scholarly and critical excellence; to Greg
Kucich, whose friendship, challenging conversation, and outstanding
scholarship have taught me to think in new ways about Romanticism;
to various members of my department, especially Jay Keenan, Sam
Tindall, and Linda Taylor, who kindly listened as I talked through the
ideas of this book and who always talked back in intelligent and in-
structive ways; and to the students in my graduate seminar on Roman-
tic drama during the spring 199t term, especially Brad Hollingshead
and Andrea Beranek. These students, among other things, taught me
critical and scholarly patience and demonstrated on a weekly basis the
powers of intellectual imagination. I also want to express my grati-
tude to Tony Rosso, whose knowledge of the politics of Romanticism
and whose respect for the utopian dimensions of Romantic thought
have shaped my ideas about Romantic drama in significant ways; and
to an anonymous friend, who long ago introduced me to historical
materialist methodology and whose example continues to shape my
thinking about literature, history, and politics. Finally, my greatest
debt, still, is to my best friend, Joanna Foster.

Portions of this book appeared previously, in slightly different form,
in various scholarly journals; I am grateful to the editors of these jour-
nals for allowing me to reprint those portions here: "'In That New
World': The Deep Historical Structure of Coleridge's Osorio," Philo-
logical Quarterly 69 (1990): 495-515; "Class, Gender, and Social Motion
in Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort," The Wordsworth Circle 23 (1992): 109-
17; "'Tenants of a Blasted World': Historical Imagination in Charles
Maturin's Bertram," The Keats-Shelley Review 4 (1989): 61-8o; "Thomas
Lovell Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy and the Situation of Romantic
Drama," SEL 29, 4 (1989): 699-712; "Violence, Class Consciousness,
and Ideology in Byron's History Plays," ELH 48 (1981): 799-816;
"Politics and Religion in Byron's Heaven and Earth," The Byron Journal
11 (1983): 30-39; "The Ideological Dimensions of Byron's The De-
formed Transformed," Criticism 25, 1 (1983): 27-39; and "Byron and the
Poetics of Revolution," Keats-Shelley Journal 34 (1985): 95-130.


of intellectual doubt; to Marilyn Gaull and Michael Scrivener, both
of whom read the manuscript in its entirety and provided excellent,
specific suggestions for revision; to Jerome McGann, whose work on
Romanticism continues to open up new areas of critical investigation
and inspire others to strive for scholarly and critical excellence; to Greg
Kucich, whose friendship, challenging conversation, and outstanding
scholarship have taught me to think in new ways about Romanticism;
to various members of my department, especially Jay Keenan, Sam
Tindall, and Linda Taylor, who kindly listened as I talked through the
ideas of this book and who always talked back in intelligent and in-
structive ways; and to the students in my graduate seminar on Roman-
tic drama during the spring 199t term, especially Brad Hollingshead
and Andrea Beranek. These students, among other things, taught me
critical and scholarly patience and demonstrated on a weekly basis the
powers of intellectual imagination. I also want to express my grati-
tude to Tony Rosso, whose knowledge of the politics of Romanticism
and whose respect for the utopian dimensions of Romantic thought
have shaped my ideas about Romantic drama in significant ways; and
to an anonymous friend, who long ago introduced me to historical
materialist methodology and whose example continues to shape my
thinking about literature, history, and politics. Finally, my greatest
debt, still, is to my best friend, Joanna Foster.

Portions of this book appeared previously, in slightly different form,
in various scholarly journals; I am grateful to the editors of thesejour-
nals for allowing me to reprint those portions here: "'In That New
World': The Deep Historical Structure of Coleridge's Osorio," Philo-
logical Quarterly 69 (1990): 495-515; "Class, Gender, and Social Motion
in Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort," The Wordsworth Circle 23 (1992): 109-
17; "'Tenants of a Blasted World': Historical Imagination in Charles
Maturin's Bertram," The Keats-Shelley Review 4 (1989): 61-80; "Thomas
Lovell Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy and the Situation of Romantic
Drama," SEL 29, 4 (1989): 699-712; "Violence, Class Consciousness,
and Ideology in Byron's History Plays," ELH 48 (1981): 799-816;
"Politics and Religion in Byron's Heaven and Earth," The Byron Journal
1t (1983): 30-39; "The Ideological Dimensions of Byron's The De-
formed Transformed," Criticism 25, 1 (1983): 27-39; and "Byron and the
Poetics of Revolution," Keats-Shelley Journal 34 (1985): 95-130.





CHAPTER


CHAPTER


CHAPTER


                 "These Disputed Tracts"

            Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama









The recent resurgence of historical scholarship and criticism has,
among other things, exposed and created the desire to explore the
ideological biases that have shaped studies in Romanticism over the
past fifty years or so. In doing so, it has politicized a form of intel-
lectual labor once considered to be culturally innocent. The great and
important work of an older generation of scholars-including, for in-
stance, the work of M. H. Abrams, Earl Wasserman, Walter Jackson
Bate, and Douglas Bush-has been shown to depend not only upon
the excavation of archival materials, the construction of literary tra-
ditions, the explanation of the forms of literary production, and the
development of critical methods, but also upon exclusions of one sort
or another-literary, critical, and political.' For instance, the common-
place assumption in traditional Romantic scholarship that lyric poetry
is the premier Romantic literary form and thus most worthy of critical
and scholarly investigation-along with the massive body of scholar-
ship and criticism that has been produced under that assumption-has
entailed the marginalization (and virtual loss for literary history) of
other important forms of the period, most particularly narrative and
drama, thus effectively narrowing the definition and explanation of
Romanticism.
   These exclusions, of course, proceed in some measure from the
material and ideological conditions under which much Romantic lit-


                 "These Disputed Tracts"

            Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama









The recent resurgence of historical scholarship and criticism has,
among other things, exposed and created the desire to explore the
ideological biases that have shaped studies in Romanticism over the
past fifty years or so. In doing so, it has politicized a form of intel-
lectual labor once considered to be culturally innocent. The great and
important work of an older generation of scholars-including, for in-
stance, the work of M. H. Abrams, Earl Wasserman, Walter Jackson
Bate, and Douglas Bush-has been shown to depend not only upon
the excavation of archival materials, the construction of literary tra-
ditions, the explanation of the forms of literary production, and the
development of critical methods, but also upon exclusions of one sort
or another-literary, critical, and political.' For instance, the common-
place assumption in traditional Romantic scholarship that lyric poetry
is the premier Romantic literary form and thus most worthy of critical
and scholarly investigation-along with the massive body of scholar-
ship and criticism that has been produced under that assumption-has
entailed the marginalization (and virtual loss for literary history) of
other important forms of the period, most particularly narrative and
drama, thus effectively narrowing the definition and explanation of
Romanticism.
   These exclusions, of course, proceed in some measure from the
material and ideological conditions under which much Romantic lit-


                 "These Disputed Tracts"

            Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama









The recent resurgence of historical scholarship and criticism has,
among other things, exposed and created the desire to explore the
ideological biases that have shaped studies in Romanticism over the
past fifty years or so. In doing so, it has politicized a form of intel-
lectual labor once considered to be culturally innocent. The great and
important work of an older generation of scholars-including, for in-
stance, the work of M. H. Abrams, Earl Wasserman, Walter Jackson
Bate, and Douglas Bush-has been shown to depend not only upon
the excavation of archival materials, the construction of literary tra-
ditions, the explanation of the forms of literary production, and the
development of critical methods, but also upon exclusions of one sort
or another-literary, critical, and political.' For instance, the common-
place assumption in traditional Romantic scholarship that lyric poetry
is the premier Romantic literary form and thus most worthy of critical
and scholarly investigation-along with the massive body of scholar-
ship and criticism that has been produced under that assumption-has
entailed the marginalization (and virtual loss for literary history) of
other important forms of the period, most particularly narrative and
drama, thus effectively narrowing the definition and explanation of
Romanticism.
   These exclusions, of course, proceed in some measure from the
material and ideological conditions under which much Romantic lit-



a nls oatcDaaz/ nl                   oantiDam                           a / nls omni rm


erature itself was produced. Scholars have rightly attempted to re-
construct the actual circumstances and value system of their object of
inquiry, and that attempt has helped to determine the ways in which
Romantic texts are selected for critical study as well as the meanings
that criticism attaches to these texts. But the particular kinds of lit-
erature omitted from serious investigation also disclose the extent to
which scholarship and criticism since the Romantic period have con-
tributed to and helped to extend certain ideological notions of art,
identity, subjectivity, and politics, notions which came to maturation
in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In other words, the magis-
terial work of many of the giants of Romantic scholarship, for all its
importance and integrity, is implicated significantly in the structures
of value associated with the historical and literary subject matter that
it has recovered, reconstructed, and presented to posterity'
  Thus, while even the most careful historicist scholars and critics
today owe a great debt to the labors of those who have gone be-
fore-indeed, serious historical scholarship cannot well proceed with-
out drawing upon the knowledge and methods of an earlier genera-
tion-the values, methods, and conclusions that have been handed
down can no longer be accepted wholesale. Nor can the current claim
that Romantic scholarship and criticism have always been politically
charged be made from a politically neutral position. If the intellectual
labors of the past are politically significant, then so are the intellec-
tual labors of the present, and criticism must acknowledge and be
guided by this fact. Rather than more or less recording, endorsing,
and extending without question prevailing Romantic structures of au-
thority and belief-as was often the case in an earlier generation-
historical criticism must interrogate the assumptions behind and the
relations within those structures. Such a strategy necessarily entails
recovering and reassessing what has been marginalized by, or omit-
ted from, literary history (genres, works, writers, ideas); challenging
(when necessary) earlier critical notions of literary and aesthetic value;
and (if political criticism and scholarship are to avoid dogmatic and
dangerous reductions) attempting to construct intellectual principles
that are self-conscious, self-critical, flexible, and committed to inves-
tigating that terrain where criticism, literature, and politics intersect.
To urge Romantic studies to move in this direction is no small effort
and is certainly not without risk, but in an academic environment of
renewed political and historical interest and in an age of growing his-


erature itself was produced. Scholars have rightly attempted to re-
construct the actual circumstances and value system of their object of
inquiry, and that attempt has helped to determine the ways in which
Romantic texts are selected for critical study as well as the meanings
that criticism attaches to these texts. But the particular kinds of lit-
erature omitted from serious investigation also disclose the extent to
which scholarship and criticism since the Romantic period have con-
tributed to and helped to extend certain ideological notions of art,
identity, subjectivity, and politics, notions which came to maturation
in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries? In other words, the magis-
terial work of many of the giants of Romantic scholarship, for all its
importance and integrity, is implicated significantly in the structures
of value associated with the historical and literary subject matter that
it has recovered, reconstructed, and presented to posterity.'
Thus, while even the most careful historicist scholars and critics
today owe a great debt to the labors of those who have gone be-
fore-indeed, serious historical scholarship cannot well proceed with-
out drawing upon the knowledge and methods of an earlier genera-
tion-the values, methods, and conclusions that have been handed
down can no longer be accepted wholesale. Nor can the current claim
that Romantic scholarship and criticism have always been politically
charged be made from a politically neutral position. If the intellectual
labors of the past are politically significant, then so are the intellec-
tual labors of the present, and criticism must acknowledge and be
guided by this fact. Rather than more or less recording, endorsing,
and extending without question prevailing Romantic structures of au-
thority and belief-as was often the case in an earlier generation-
historical criticism must interrogate the assumptions behind and the
relations within those structures. Such a strategy necessarily entails
recovering and reassessing what has been marginalized by, or omit-
ted from, literary history (genres, works, writers, ideas); challenging
(when necessary) earlier critical notions of literary and aesthetic value;
and (if political criticism and scholarship are to avoid dogmatic and
dangerous reductions) attempting to construct intellectual principles
that are self-conscious, self-critical, flexible, and committed to inves-
tigating that terrain where criticism, literature, and politics intersect.
To urge Romantic studies to move in this direction is no small effort
and is certainly not without risk, but in an academic environment of
renewed political and historical interest and in an age of growing his-


erature itself was produced. Scholars have rightly attempted to re-
construct the actual circumstances and value system of their object of
inquiry, and that attempt has helped to determine the ways in which
Romantic texts are selected for critical study as well as the meanings
that criticism attaches to these texts. But the particular kinds of lit-
erature omitted from serious investigation also disclose the extent to
which scholarship and criticism since the Romantic period have con-
tributed to and helped to extend certain ideological notions of art,
identity, subjectivity, and politics, notions which came to maturation
in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In other words, the magis-
terial work of many of the giants of Romantic scholarship, for all its
importance and integrity, is implicated significantly in the structures
of value associated with the historical and literary subject matter that
it has recovered, reconstructed, and presented to posterity.
Thus, while even the most careful historicist scholars and critics
today owe a great debt to the labors of those who have gone be-
fore-indeed, serious historical scholarship cannot well proceed with-
out drawing upon the knowledge and methods of an earlier genera-
tion-the values, methods, and conclusions that have been handed
down can no longer be accepted wholesale. Nor can the current claim
that Romantic scholarship and criticism have always been politically
charged be made from a politically neutral position. If the intellectual
labors of the past are politically significant, then so are the intellec-
tual labors of the present, and criticism must acknowledge and be
guided by this fact. Rather than more or less recording, endorsing,
and extending without question prevailing Romantic structures of au-
thority and belief-as was often the case in an earlier generation-
historical criticism must interrogate the assumptions behind and the
relations within those structures. Such a strategy necessarily entails
recovering and reassessing what has been marginalized by, or omit-
ted from, literary history (genres, works, writers, ideas); challenging
(when necessary) earlier critical notions of literary and aesthetic value;
and (if political criticism and scholarship are to avoid dogmatic and
dangerous reductions) attempting to construct intellectual principles
that are self-conscious, self-critical, flexible, and committed to inves-
tigating that terrain where criticism, literature, and politics intersect.
To urge Romantic studies to move in this direction is no small effort
and is certainly not without risk, but in an academic environment of
renewed political and historical interest and in an age of growing his-



Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 3    Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 3    Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 3


torical anxiety and intellectual marginalization it is, arguably, the most
worthwhile direction that those studies can take.'
One casualty of past scholarly efforts to establish the lyric as the pre-
mier Romantic literary form-one small area that might be used as a
test site for reevaluating and reshaping our historical understanding of
Romanticism and our awareness of the politics of Romantic studies-
is Romantic drama, until recently almost universally dismissed as a
failure. The study of Romantic drama from a historical and politi-
cal perspective would not seek to extend existing critical principles
to a body of work heretofore placed on the margins of the Romantic
canon, but rather to use the drama as a means of demonstrating cer-
tain features or dimensions of Romanticism (in its largest, historical
definition) that are not so readily seen in the conventional interpre-
tive strategies brought to bear on the high profile Romantic literary
forms: namely lyrical forms of one sort or another. In other words,
study of the strong features of Romantic drama, rather than simply of
those features which traditional criticism has presented as definitive
of great Romantic literature, might be one way of challenging con-
ventional interpretive and literary historical approaches to Romantic
work, decentering and contextualizing those approaches so that their
ideological investments-and their durable political significance-be-
come apparent.
  Three recent books suggest that the reassessment and recovery of
Romantic drama have already begun. Alan Richardson's A Mental The-
ater, Jeffrey Cox's In the Shadows of Romance, and Frederick Burwick's
Illusion and the Drama, published within three years of one another, offer
detailed, systematic, and often exciting interpretive commentaries that
place English Romantic dramas in relation to one another or in relation
to European Romanticism, as well as providing helpful discussions of
individual works. Thus they build admirably upon the earlier work of
Joseph Donohue, Terry Otten, and Erika Gottlieb.'
  While these studies assert the integrity of Romantic drama, put
forward new information on the literary history of drama during the
Romantic age, and ask historically informed questions that earlier
studies had not, they remain committed to conventional interpre-
tive strategies and categories, and therefore do not attempt to explain
certain political and ideological issues that a historical materialist
methodology would emphasize. (For instance, they tend to accept the
Romantic preoccupation with the mind and imagination as the pri-


torical anxiety and intellectual marginalization it is, arguably, the most
worthwhile direction that those studies can take.'
One casualty of past scholarly efforts to establish the lyric as the pre-
mier Romantic literary form-one small area that might be used as a
test site for reevaluating and reshaping our historical understanding of
Romanticism and our awareness of the politics of Romantic studies-
is Romantic drama, until recently almost universally dismissed as a
failure. The study of Romantic drama from a historical and politi-
cal perspective would not seek to extend existing critical principles
to a body of work heretofore placed on the margins of the Romantic
canon, but rather to use the drama as a means of demonstrating cer-
tain features or dimensions of Romanticism (in its largest, historical
definition) that are not so readily seen in the conventional interpre-
tive strategies brought to bear on the high profile Romantic literary
forms: namely lyrical forms of one sort or another. In other words,
study of the strong features of Romantic drama, rather than simply of
those features which traditional criticism has presented as definitive
of great Romantic literature, might be one way of challenging con-
ventional interpretive and literary historical approaches to Romantic
work, decentering and contextualizing those approaches so that their
ideological investments-and their durable political significance-be-
come apparent.
  Three recent books suggest that the reassessment and recovery of
Romantic drama have already begun. Alan Richardson's A Mental The-
ater, Jeffrey Cox's In the Shadows of Romance, and Frederick Burwick's
Illusion and the Drama, published within three years ofone another, offer
detailed, systematic, and often exciting interpretive commentaries that
place English Romantic dramas in relation to one another or in relation
to European Romanticism, as well as providing helpful discussions of
individual works. Thus they build admirably upon the earlier work of
Joseph Donohue, Terry Otten, and Erika Gottlieb.'
  While these studies assert the integrity of Romantic drama, put
forward new information on the literary history of drama during the
Romantic age, and ask historically informed questions that earlier
studies had not, they remain committed to conventional interpre-
tive strategies and categories, and therefore do not attempt to explain
certain political and ideological issues that a historical materialist
methodology would emphasize. (For instance, they tend to accept the
Romantic preoccupation with the mind and imagination as the pri-


torical anxiety and intellectual marginalization it is, arguably, the most
worthwhile direction that those studies can take]
One casualty of past scholarly efforts to establish the lyric as the pre-
mier Romantic literary form-one small area that might be used as a
test site for reevaluating and reshaping our historical understanding of
Romanticism and our awareness of the politics of Romantic studies-
is Romantic drama, until recently almost universally dismissed as a
failure. The study of Romantic drama from a historical and politi-
cal perspective would not seek to extend existing critical principles
to a body of work heretofore placed on the margins of the Romantic
canon, but rather to use the drama as a means of demonstrating cer-
tain features or dimensions of Romanticism (in its largest, historical
definition) that are not so readily seen in the conventional interpre-
tive strategies brought to bear on the high profile Romantic literary
forms: namely lyrical forms of one sort or another. In other words,
study of the strong features of Romantic drama, rather than simply of
those features which traditional criticism has presented as definitive
of great Romantic literature, might be one way of challenging con-
ventional interpretive and literary historical approaches to Romantic
work, decentering and contextualizing those approaches so that their
ideological investments-and their durable political significance-be-
come apparent.
  Three recent books suggest that the reassessment and recovery of
Romantic drama have already begun. Alan Richardson's A Mental The-
ater, Jeffrey Cox's In the Shadows of Romance, and Frederick Burwick's
Illusion and the Drama, published within three years of one another, offer
detailed, systematic, and often exciting interpretive commentaries that
place English Romantic dramas in relation to one another or in relation
to European Romanticism, as well as providing helpful discussions of
individual works. Thus they build admirably upon the earlier work of
Joseph Donohue, Terry Otten, and Erika Gottlieb.'
  While these studies assert the integrity of Romantic drama, put
forward new information on the literary history of drama during the
Romantic age, and ask historically informed questions that earlier
studies had not, they remain committed to conventional interpre-
tive strategies and categories, and therefore do not attempt to explain
certain political and ideological issues that a historical materialist
methodology would emphasize. (For instance, they tend to accept the
Romantic preoccupation with the mind and imagination as the pri-



4 / English Romantic Drama               4 / English Romantic Drama               4 / English Romantic Drama


mary explanatory feature ofthe drama, rather than focusing on under-
lying material conditions that might determine the particular shape of
the Romantic mind and imagination.)' By proceeding along a tradi-
tional path of interpretation and literary historical inquiry, Richard-
son, Cox, and Burwick eke out the remaining critical, intellectual,
and ideological capital of a perspective that has begun to run dry in the
study of those Romantic texts most frequently seen as possessing lit-
erary greatness, seeking to find in hitherto neglected or marginalized
works fresh ground for cultivating old presuppositions-presupposi-
tions that for some time now have been under fire from both textualists
and historicists.
  Rather than follow in a critical direction that would shore up tradi-
tional values and beliefs by reclaiming a neglected body of literature,
the study of Romantic drama may benefit more, both critically and
politically, from a consideration of two related literary historical prob-
lems: first, why did drama, in its literary expression, collapse at this
particular historical moment, that is, during the Romantic period (even
while theater was wildly popular); and second, what does this collapse
allow us to discover about literary and social history? Consideration
of these questions not only will very likely disclose the particular his-
torical importance (not to be confused with the purely aesthetic or
literary merit) of Romantic drama, but also might open up an intel-
lectual space for a broader historicist and politically charged critical
practice.
  Part of the difficulty in trying to discuss Romantic drama critically
lies in the drama-theater distinction, which became pronounced dur-
ing the period. Do we mean by Romantic drama those works that were
written for (or were actually performed on) the stage? Or do we mean
poems that were written in dramatic form but never found a hearing
at Covent Garden or Drury Lane? Do we begin from Charles Lamb's
assumption that truly great drama cannot be performed without de-
stroying literary greatness?' Or do we begin from the assumption
that a necessary and constituent feature of drama is its suitability for
the stage?t
  For the most part, the present study is based on an examination of
poetic dramas that did not make it to the stage during the Romantic
period or that had but limited success there (The Borderers, DeMonfort,
John Woodvil, The Brides' Tragedy, Halidon Hill, Byron's dramas, and so
on), but I do not wish to make an absolute drama-theater distinction.


mary explanatory feature of the drama, rather than focusing on under-
lying material conditions that might determine the particular shape of
the Romantic mind and imagination.)' By proceeding along a tradi-
tional path of interpretation and literary historical inquiry, Richard-
son, Cox, and Burwick eke out the remaining critical, intellectual,
and ideological capital of a perspective that has begun to run dry in the
study of those Romantic texts most frequently seen as possessing lit-
erary greatness, seeking to find in hitherto neglected or marginalized
works fresh ground for cultivating old presuppositions-presupposi-
tions that for some time now have been under fire from both textualists
and historicists.
  Rather than follow in a critical direction that would shore up tradi-
tional values and beliefs by reclaiming a neglected body of literature,
the study of Romantic drama may benefit more, both critically and
politically, from a consideration of two related literary historical prob-
lems: first, why did drama, in its literary expression, collapse at this
particular historical moment, that is, during the Romantic period (even
while theater was wildly popular); and second, what does this collapse
allow us to discover about literary and social history? Consideration
of these questions not only will very likely disclose the particular his-
torical importance (not to be confused with the purely aesthetic or
literary merit) of Romantic drama, but also might open up an intel-
lectual space for a broader historicist and politically charged critical
practice.
  Part of the difficulty in trying to discuss Romantic drama critically
lies in the drama-theater distinction, which became pronounced dur-
ing the period. Do we mean by Romantic drama those works that were
written for (or were actually performed on) the stage? Or do we mean
poems that were written in dramatic form but never found a hearing
at Covent Garden or Drury Lane? Do we begin from Charles Lamb's
assumption that truly great drama cannot be performed without de-
stroying literary greatness?' Or do we begin from the assumption
that a necessary and constituent feature of drama is its suitability for
the stage?r
  For the most part, the present study is based on an examination of
poetic dramas that did not make it to the stage during the Romantic
period or that had but limited success there (The Borderers, DeMon fort,
John Woodvil, The Brides' Tragedy, Halidon Hill, Byron's dramas, and so
on), but I do not wish to make an absolute drama-theater distinction.


mary explanatory feature of the drama, rather than focusing on under-
lying material conditions that might determine the particular shape of
the Romantic mind and imagination.)' By proceeding along a tradi-
tional path of interpretation and literary historical inquiry, Richard-
son, Cox, and Burwick eke out the remaining critical, intellectual,
and ideological capital of a perspective that has begun to run dry in the
study of those Romantic texts most frequently seen as possessing lit-
erary greatness, seeking to find in hitherto neglected or marginalized
works fresh ground for cultivating old presuppositions-presupposi-
tions that for some time now have been under fire from both textualists
and historicists.
  Rather than follow in a critical direction that would shore up tradi-
tional values and beliefs by reclaiming a neglected body of literature,
the study of Romantic drama may benefit more, both critically and
politically, from a consideration oftwo related literary historical prob-
lems: first, why did drama, in its literary expression, collapse at this
particular historical moment, that is, during the Romantic period (even
while theater was wildly popular); and second, what does this collapse
allow us to discover about literary and social history? Consideration
of these questions not only will very likely disclose the particular his-
torical importance (not to be confused with the purely aesthetic or
literary merit) of Romantic drama, but also might open up an intel-
lectual space for a broader historicist and politically charged critical
practice.
  Part of the difficulty in trying to discuss Romantic drama critically
lies in the drama-theater distinction, which became pronounced dur-
ing the period. Do we mean by Romantic drama those works that were
written for (or were actually performed on) the stage? Or do we mean
poems that were written in dramatic form but never found a hearing
at Covent Garden or Drury Lane? Do we begin from Charles Lamb's
assumption that truly great drama cannot be performed without de-
stroying literary greatness?' Or do we begin from the assumption
that a necessary and constituent feature of drama is its suitability for
the stage?'
  For the most part, the present study is based on an examination of
poetic dramas that did not make it to the stage during the Romantic
period or that had but limited success there (The Borderers, DeMonfor,
John Woodvil, The Brides' Tragedy, Halidon Hill, Byron's dramas, and so
on), but I do not wish to make an absolute drama-theater distinction.



Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 5    Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 5    Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 5


Indeed, at least a few of the works included in this study-Bertram and
Fazio, for instance-enjoyed much success onstage. The drama-theater
distinction itself is a problem for literary and social historical investiga-
tion and should not be accepted on its own terms as a given distinction
between types of dramatic expression. My aim, therefore, as this re-
mark might suggest, is not to catalog the differences between drama
and theater, or to begin from the assumption that these differences are
in some way determining, but rather to investigate in Romantic drama
certain historical dynamics that may have produced the distinction in
the first place and that relegated drama to a position of lower literary
value within literary history.'
  Because what I have written thus far has been largely at the expense
of traditional, or liberal humanist, scholarship and criticism, I want
to pause here for a moment to add a few words about Marxism and
Romanticism, both because I want to argue against some parts of tra-
ditional Marxist accounts of Romanticism and because I view my own
position finally as falling within the Marxist tradition. A description
of my particular differences with the Marxists mentioned here is in-
tended to clarify and provide a sense of direction for the argument
about Romantic drama that I am proposing.
  Simply put, old-fashioned, economistic Marxism (as well as some
recent, noneconomistic Marxist work) views Romanticism as a form
of bourgeois individualism and escape from the sordid realities of
social life. As Christopher Caudwell writes of Keats: "Keats is the
bannerbearer of the Romantic Revival. The poet now escapes upon the
'rapid wings of poesy' to a world of romance, beauty and sensuous
life separate from the poor, harsh, real world of everyday life, which it
sweetens and by its own loveliness silently condemns." "' G. V. Plekha-
nov says much the same thing about Romanticism in general: "The
romanticists really were at odds with their bourgeois social environ-
ment. True, there was nothing dangerous in this to the bourgeois social
relationships. The romanticist circles consisted ofyoung bourgeois[ie]
who had no objection to these relationships, but were revolted by the
sordidness, the tedium and the vulgarity of bourgeois existence. The
new art with which they were so strongly infatuated was for them a
refuge from this sordidness, tedium and vulgarity."" More recently,
John Fekete, in his brilliant history ofmodern criticism, remarks (again
of Keats): "The abandonment of the effort to change the structure of
reality appears clearly in Keats. Nature, which in Wordsworth had


Indeed, at least a few of the works included in this study-Bertram and
Fazio, for instance-enjoyed much success onstage. The drama-theater
distinction itself is a problem for literary and social historical investiga-
tion and should not be accepted on its own terms as a given distinction
between types of dramatic expression. My aim, therefore, as this re-
mark might suggest, is not to catalog the differences between drama
and theater, or to begin from the assumption that these differences are
in some way determining, but rather to investigate in Romantic drama
certain historical dynamics that may have produced the distinction in
the first place and that relegated drama to a position of lower literary
value within literary history."
  Because what I have written thus far has been largely at the expense
of traditional, or liberal humanist, scholarship and criticism, i want
to pause here for a moment to add a few words about Marxism and
Romanticism, both because I want to argue against some parts of tra-
ditional Marxist accounts of Romanticism and because I view my own
position finally as falling within the Marxist tradition. A description
of my particular differences with the Marxists mentioned here is in-
tended to clarify and provide a sense of direction for the argument
about Romantic drama that I am proposing.
  Simply put, old-fashioned, economistic Marxism (as well as some
recent, noneconomistic Marxist work) views Romanticism as a form
of bourgeois individualism and escape from the sordid realities of
social life. As Christopher Caudwell writes of Keats: "Keats is the
bannerbearer of the Romantic Revival. The poet now escapes upon the
'rapid wings of poesy' to a world of romance, beauty and sensuous
life separate from the poor, harsh, real world of everyday life, which it
sweetens and by its own loveliness silently condemns." "G. V. Plekha-
nov says much the same thing about Romanticism in general: "The
romanticists really were at odds with their bourgeois social environ-
ment. True, there was nothing dangerous in this to the bourgeois social
relationships. The romanticist circles consisted of young bourgeois[ie]
who had no objection to these relationships, but were revolted by the
sordidness, the tedium and the vulgarity of bourgeois existence. The
new art with which they were so strongly infatuated was for them a
refuge from this sordidness, tedium and vulgarity."" More recently,
John Fekete, in his brilliant history ofmodern criticism, remarks (again
of Keats): "The abandonment of the effort to change the structure of
reality appears clearly in Keats. Nature, which in Wordsworth had


Indeed, at least a few of the works included in this study-Bertram and
Fazio, for instance-enjoyed much success onstage. The drama-theater
distinction itself is a problem for literary and social historical investiga-
tion and should not be accepted on its own terms as a given distinction
between types of dramatic expression. My aim, therefore, as this re-
mark might suggest, is not to catalog the differences between drama
and theater, or to begin from the assumption that these differences are
in some way determining, but rather to investigate in Romantic drama
certain historical dynamics that may have produced the distinction in
the first place and that relegated drama to a position of lower literary
value within literary history.t
  Because what I have written thus far has been largely at the expense
of traditional, or liberal humanist, scholarship and criticism, I want
to pause here for a moment to add a few words about Marxism and
Romanticism, both because I want to argue against some parts of tra-
ditional Marxist accounts of Romanticism and because I view my own
position finally as falling within the Marxist tradition. A description
of my particular differences with the Marxists mentioned here is in-
tended to clarify and provide a sense of direction for the argument
about Romantic drama that I am proposing.
  Simply put, old-fashioned, economistic Marxism (as well as some
recent, noneconomistic Marxist work) views Romanticism as a form
of bourgeois individualism and escape from the sordid realities of
social life. As Christopher Caudwell writes of Keats: "Keats is the
bannerbearer of the Romantic Revival. The poet now escapes upon the
'rapid wings of poesy' to a world of romance, beauty and sensuous
life separate from the poor, harsh, real world ofeveryday life, which it
sweetens and by its own loveliness silently condemns." "'G. V. Plekha-
nov says much the same thing about Romanticism in general: "The
romanticists really were at odds with their bourgeois social environ-
ment. True, there was nothing dangerous in this to the bourgeois social
relationships. The romanticist circles consisted of young bourgeois[ie]
who had no objection to these relationships, but were revolted by the
sordidness, the tedium and the vulgarity of bourgeois existence. The
new art with which they were so strongly infatuated was for them a
refuge from this sordidness, tedium and vulgarity."" More recently,
John Fekete, in his brilliant history of modern criticism, remarks (again
of Keats): "The abandonment of the effort to change the structure of
reality appears clearly in Keats. Nature, which in Wordsworth had



96 / Enls Roani Drm                      6  nls omni rm                            / Enlih oanicDrm


stood as an alternative to the ugliness ofurbanization and as a response
to the town-country division and the alienation of fragmentation, ex-
presses a new disaffection from society in Keats.""
The difficulty here is not that these remarks are wrong; in many
respects they are entirely accurate. Rather, the difficulty is that the as-
sessments are too negative, tending to persuade one that there is little
of a critical-political nature to say about Romanticism, except that
Romanticism and criticism of Romanticism are hopelessly entrapped
in the bourgeois ideological web spun by the subjectivism of liberal
humanism.
Marxism, however, has-or should have-much more than this to
say about the historical dimensions of Romanticism and its literary
forms, and much indeed to say about Romantic drama. What is needed
if Marxist explanation is to move beyond tired reductions such as
these is a more positive critical perspective than Caudwell and others
allow, one that is capable of exploring and articulating the ways in
which Romantic drama is a measure or register of the full range of
its social and historical formation. The elaboration of such a position
must not look first at the question of literary merit (though it is tempt-
ing to begin here), but rather at the question of why Romantic drama
is perceived as inferior to, say, Romantic lyric poetry. This question
necessarily directs critical attention to the problems and determining
force of history, society, and politics, refusing narrowly textual ex-
planations-which become valid and credible only after the dust of
historical controversy has settled.
  The best starting point for a materialist consideration of the his-
torical situation of Romantic drama is Raymond Williams's excellent
discussion in The Long Revolution, a somewhat sketchy but indispens-
able account of the history of Romantic dramatic form. According to
Williams, the changes in the nature of drama, and particularly the his-
torical decline of drama as a literary form, in the eighteenth and early
nineteenth centuries correspond directly to the crisis of social class,
which involved the transition-in England-from an aristocratic to
a middle-class social order. This large sociocultural transformation,
Williams argues, "broke up the old forms, which rested on meanings
and interests that had decayed,"" weakening or exhausting the power-
fully expressive voice that once had characterized drama in England.
Since the Renaissance, drama had been one means of articulating the
consciousness of an aristocratic worldview, but it could not be re-


stood as an alternative to the ugliness ofurbanization and as a response
to the town-country division and the alienation of fragmentation, ex-
presses a new disaffection from society in Keats.""
The difficulty here is not that these remarks are wrong; in many
respects they are entirely accurate. Rather, the difficulty is that the as-
sessments are too negative, tending to persuade one that there is little
of a critical-political nature to say about Romanticism, except that
Romanticism and criticism of Romanticism are hopelessly entrapped
in the bourgeois ideological web spun by the subjectivism of liberal
humanism.
Marxism, however, has-or should have-much more than this to
say about the historical dimensions of Romanticism and its literary
forms, and much indeed to say about Romantic drama. What is needed
if Marxist explanation is to move beyond tired reductions such as
these is a more positive critical perspective than Caudwell and others
allow, one that is capable of exploring and articulating the ways in
which Romantic drama is a measure or register of the full range of
its social and historical formation. The elaboration of such a position
must not look first at the question of literary merit (though it is tempt-
ing to begin here), but rather at the question of why Romantic drama
is perceived as inferior to, say, Romantic lyric poetry. This question
necessarily directs critical attention to the problems and determining
force of history, society, and politics, refusing narrowly textual ex-
planations-which become valid and credible only after the dust of
historical controversy has settled.
  The best starting point for a materialist consideration of the his-
torical situation of Romantic drama is Raymond Williams's excellent
discussion in The Long Revolution, a somewhat sketchy but indispens-
able account of the history of Romantic dramatic form. According to
Williams, the changes in the nature of drama, and particularly the his-
torical decline of drama as a literary form, in the eighteenth and early
nineteenth centuries correspond directly to the crisis of social class,
which involved the transition-in England-from an aristocratic to
a middle-class social order. This large sociocultural transformation,
Williams argues, "broke up the old forms, which rested on meanings
and interests that had decayed,"" weakening or exhausting the power-
fully expressive voice that once had characterized drama in England.
Since the Renaissance, drama had been one means of articulating the
consciousness of an aristocratic worldview, but it could not be re-


stood as an alternative to the ugliness ofurbanization and as a response
to the town-country division and the alienation of fragmentation, ex-
presses a new disaffection from society in Keats.""
The difficulty here is not that these remarks are wrong; in many
respects they are entirely accurate. Rather, the difficulty is that the as-
sessments are too negative, tending to persuade one that there is little
of a critical-political nature to say about Romanticism, except that
Romanticism and criticism of Romanticism are hopelessly entrapped
in the bourgeois ideological web spun by the subjectivism of liberal
humanism.
Marxism, however, has-or should have-much more than this to
say about the historical dimensions of Romanticism and its literary
forms, and much indeed to say about Romantic drama. What is needed
if Marxist explanation is to move beyond tired reductions such as
these is a more positive critical perspective than Caudwell and others
allow, one that is capable of exploring and articulating the ways in
which Romantic drama is a measure or register of the full range of
its social and historical formation. The elaboration of such a position
must not look first at the question of literary merit (though it is tempt-
ing to begin here), but rather at the question of why Romantic drama
is perceived as inferior to, say, Romantic lyric poetry. This question
necessarily directs critical attention to the problems and determining
force of history, society, and politics, refusing narrowly textual ex-
planations-which become valid and credible only after the dust of
historical controversy has settled.
  The best starting point for a materialist consideration of the his-
torical situation of Romantic drama is Raymond Williams's excellent
discussion in The Long Revolution, a somewhat sketchy but indispens-
able account of the history of Romantic dramatic form. According to
Williams, the changes in the nature of drama, and particularly the his-
torical decline of drama as a literary form, in the eighteenth and early
nineteenth centuries correspond directly to the crisis of social class,
which involved the transition-in England-from an aristocratic to
a middle-class social order. This large sociocultural transformation,
Williams argues, "broke up the old forms, which rested on meanings
and interests that had decayed,"'" weakening or exhausting the power-
fully expressive voice that once had characterized drama in England.
Since the Renaissance, drama had been one means of articulating the
consciousness of an aristocratic worldview, but it could not be re-



TowrdakTeo  f~ ani Drama~fl /v 7  ToadaTerIfRmnicDaa/7Twr     hor fRmni  rm


formulated by Romantic artists to describe fully and effectively the
new class consciousness coming to maturation in the eighteenth and
nineteenth centuries.
   One consequence of the contradiction between the earlier sensi-
bility of English drama and the developing historical situation was
that, as Williams puts it, "the connection between the theatre and lit-
erature was virtually lost" during the Romantic period." While drama
continued to be produced in great quantity for the stage, and while a
few writers attempted to preserve the tradition of English drama by
imitating styles and themes from the past (Thomas Lovell Beddoes,
for instance, has been placed among these writers), most dramatists
were unable to escape the ideological and economic pressures of their
own age, surrendering their talents to the extreme popular demand for
melodramas and spectacles, or, like Coleridge, turning from dramatic
writing altogether.' By the first decade of the nineteenth century the
spirit of great drama was dead and, as Kenneth Neill Cameron re-
marks, "the little legitimate drama being acted, whether comedy or
tragedy, consisted almost wholly of revivals, especially Shakespeare
and Sheridan."0
   The isolated literary successes in drama-Manfred, Cain, Prometheus
Unbound-were usually, though not always, confined to the closet
(much as the successes or partial successes in epic-another genre
caught in a disabling historical bind-were confined to highly satirical
or highly subjective forms and expression, as DonJuan and The Fall of
Hyperion attest), where the pressures of public taste and demand were
less intense, and where the genre thus seemed more manageable. But
even those writers who retreated into the closet did not insulate the
drama from the social energies of the age; their works reveal the same
anxiety and sense of crisis pervading the period that are found in the
melodramas and spectacles favored by the theatergoing public. In fact,
as I hope to show in subsequent chapters, Romantic closet drama in
some respects represents little more than a "literary" internalization
of the interests, tastes, and dynamics that are constituent features of
social life during the Romantic period.
   For this reason, while division and isolation certainly devastated
the dramatic form, as Williams argues, they do not render Roman-
tic drama insignificant, and in fact they direct many works of drama
toward a cultural space where certain important dimensions of society
at this historical moment become visible. Burdened by the crisis of


formulated by Romantic artists to describe fully and effectively the
new class consciousness coming to maturation in the eighteenth and
nineteenth centuries.
   One consequence of the contradiction between the earlier sensi-
bility of English drama and the developing historical situation was
that, as Williams puts it, "the connection between the theatre and lit-
erature was virtually lost" during the Romantic period." While drama
continued to be produced in great quantity for the stage, and while a
few writers attempted to preserve the tradition of English drama by
imitating styles and themes from the past (Thomas Lovell Beddoes,
for instance, has been placed among these writers), most dramatists
were unable to escape the ideological and economic pressures of their
own age, surrendering their talents to the extreme popular demand for
melodramas and spectacles, or, like Coleridge, turning from dramatic
writing altogether.? By the first decade of the nineteenth century the
spirit of great drama was dead and, as Kenneth Neill Cameron re-
marks, "the little legitimate drama being acted, whether comedy or
tragedy, consisted almost wholly of revivals, especially Shakespeare
and Sheridan."16
   The isolated literary successes in drama-Manfred, Cain, Prometheus
 Unbound-were usually, though not always, confined to the closet
 (much as the successes or partial successes in epic-another genre
 caught in a disabling historical bind-were confined to highly satirical
 or highly subjective forms and expression, as DonJuan and The Fall of
 Hyperion attest), where the pressures of public taste and demand were
 less intense, and where the genre thus seemed more manageable. But
 even those writers who retreated into the closet did not insulate the
 drama from the social energies of the age; their works reveal the same
 anxiety and sense of crisis pervading the period that are found in the
 melodramas and spectacles favored by the theatergoing public. In fact,
 as I hope to show in subsequent chapters, Romantic closet drama in
 some respects represents little more than a "literary" internalization
 of the interests, tastes, and dynamics that are constituent features of
 social life during the Romantic period.
   For this reason, while division and isolation certainly devastated
the dramatic form, as Williams argues, they do not render Roman-
tic drama insignificant, and in fact they direct many works of drama
toward a cultural space where certain important dimensions of society
at this historical moment become visible. Burdened by the crisis of


formulated by Romantic artists to describe fully and effectively the
new class consciousness coming to maturation in the eighteenth and
nineteenth centuries.
   One consequence of the contradiction between the earlier sensi-
bility of English drama and the developing historical situation was
that, as Williams puts it, "the connection between the theatre and lit-
erature was virtually lost" during the Romantic period." While drama
continued to be produced in great quantity for the stage, and while a
few writers attempted to preserve the tradition of English drama by
imitating styles and themes from the past (Thomas Lovell Beddoes,
for instance, has been placed among these writers), most dramatists
were unable to escape the ideological and economic pressures of their
own age, surrendering their talents to the extreme popular demand for
melodramas and spectacles, or, like Coleridge, turning from dramatic
writing altogether.?t By the first decade of the nineteenth century the
spirit of great drama was dead and, as Kenneth Neill Cameron re-
marks, "the little legitimate drama being acted, whether comedy or
tragedy, consisted almost wholly of revivals, especially Shakespeare
and Sheridan."'t
   The isolated literary successes in drama-Manfred, Cain, Prometheus
 Unbound-were usually, though not always, confined to the closet
 (much as the successes or partial successes in epic-another genre
 caught in a disabling historical bind-were confined to highly satirical
 or highly subjective forms and expression, as DonJuan and The Fall of
 Hyperion attest), where the pressures of public taste and demand were
 less intense, and where the genre thus seemed more manageable. But
 even those writers who retreated into the closet did not insulate the
 drama from the social energies of the age; their works reveal the same
 anxiety and sense of crisis pervading the period that are found in the
 melodramas and spectacles favored by the theatergoing public. In fact,
 as I hope to show in subsequent chapters, Romantic closet drama in
 some respects represents little more than a "literary" internalization
 of the interests, tastes, and dynamics that are constituent features of
 social life during the Romantic period.
   For this reason, while division and isolation certainly devastated
the dramatic form, as Williams argues, they do not render Roman-
tic drama insignificant, and in fact they direct many works of drama
toward a cultural space where certain important dimensions of society
at this historical moment become visible. Burdened by the crisis of



8 / English Romantic Drama               8 / English Romantic Drama               8 / English Romantic Drama


social class, Romantic drama is inextricably and peculiarly entangled
in the radical, disruptive changes of the period, displaying at various
levels extreme anxiety that is most fully explained in historical terms.
This anxiety is evidenced not only in the omnipresent references to
class and social status but also in the fact that, at the level of plot, many
Romantic dramas portray (as dramas had done since the Renaissance)
the actions of an aristocratic class, while, at another, deeper level, they
betray (to a much greater extent than Renaissance drama) an antago-
nistic consciousness that is necessarily and powerfully bourgeois.
  The conflict between the content of the surface structure and a
deeper political unconscious" registers one of the key features of the
Romantic historical moment: namely the difficult struggle that marked
the transition from an aristocratic to bourgeois worldview. As Wil-
liams writes of the many references to class in the drama of this period:
"This exceptional class consciousness, though leading in the short run
to little significant drama . . . is a clear sign of a new social order.""
Even if drama could not be made literarily suitable for articulating the
triumph of this new social order, it nonetheless reveals the tensions,
anxieties, and ideological struggles surrounding that triumph. Thus,
while the conflict between a diminishing aristocracy and an emergent
bourgeoisie perhaps took its toll on drama-undoing its status as a pre-
mier literary form in British literary history-at the same time it made
drama critical to our understanding of both social and literary history,
because in this form the class struggle and many of the personal and
public conflicts corresponding to this struggle played themselves out.
  The literary and class dimensions of Romantic drama become clearer
by reference to Lucien Goldmann's comments on the novel, which
came to replace drama in the nineteenth century as the dominant form
of literary expression. Drawing heavily on Georg Lukics and Ren6
Girard, Goldmann argues that the novel emerged alongside a market
economy, and that it is characterized by a contradiction between the
hero and his world-the same contradiction that exists, Goldmann
argues, between the individual and the world under capitalism. While
the novel is a product of bourgeois reality, it is unable to express a
vision of that reality as full, coherent, and meaningful. "The novel
with a problematic hero thus proves . . . to be a literary form bound
up certainly with history and the development of the bourgeoisie,
but not the expression of the real or possible consciousness of that
class."" This failure of the novel, however, is not a failure of form,


social class, Romantic drama is inextricably and peculiarly entangled
in the radical, disruptive changes of the period, displaying at various
levels extreme anxiety that is most fully explained in historical terms.
This anxiety is evidenced not only in the omnipresent references to
class and social status but also in the fact that, at the level of plot, many
Romantic dramas portray (as dramas had done since the Renaissance)
the actions of an aristocratic class, while, at another, deeper level, they
betray (to a much greater extent than Renaissance drama) an antago-
nistic consciousness that is necessarily and powerfully bourgeois.
The conflict between the content of the surface structure and a
deeper political unconscious7 registers one of the key features of the
Romantic historical moment: namely the difficult struggle that marked
the transition from an aristocratic to bourgeois worldview. As Wil-
liams writes of the many references to class in the drama of this period:
"This exceptional class consciousness, though leading in the short run
to little significant drama . . . is a clear sign of a new social order." 5
Even if drama could not be made literarily suitable for articulating the
triumph of this new social order, it nonetheless reveals the tensions,
anxieties, and ideological struggles surrounding that triumph. Thus,
while the conflict between a diminishing aristocracy and an emergent
bourgeoisie perhaps took its toll on drama-undoing its status as a pre-
mier literary form in British literary history-at the same time it made
drama critical to our understanding of both social and literary history,
because in this form the class struggle and many of the personal and
public conflicts corresponding to this struggle played themselves out.
  The literary and class dimensions of Romantic drama become clearer
by reference to Lucien Goldmann's comments on the novel, which
came to replace drama in the nineteenth century as the dominant form
of literary expression. Drawing heavily on Georg Lukics and Rend
Girard, Goldmann argues that the novel emerged alongside a market
economy, and that it is characterized by a contradiction between the
hero and his world-the same contradiction that exists, Goldmann
argues, between the individual and the world under capitalism. While
the novel is a product of bourgeois reality, it is unable to express a
vision of that reality as full, coherent, and meaningful. "The novel
with a problematic hero thus proves . . . to be a literary form bound
up certainly with history and the development of the bourgeoisie,
but not the expression of the real or possible consciousness of that
class."" This failure of the novel, however, is not a failure of form,


social class, Romantic drama is inextricably and peculiarly entangled
in the radical, disruptive changes of the period, displaying at various
levels extreme anxiety that is most fully explained in historical terms.
This anxiety is evidenced not only in the omnipresent references to
class and social status but also in the fact that, at the level of plot, many
Romantic dramas portray (as dramas had done since the Renaissance)
the actions of an aristocratic class, while, at another, deeper level, they
betray (to a much greater extent than Renaissance drama) an antago-
nistic consciousness that is necessarily and powerfully bourgeois.
  The conflict between the content of the surface structure and a
deeper political unconscious" registers one of the key features of the
Romantic historical moment: namely the difficult struggle that marked
the transition from an aristocratic to bourgeois worldview. As Wil-
liams writes of the many references to class in the drama of this period:
"This exceptional class consciousness, though leading in the short run
to little significant drama . . . is a clear sign of a new social order."
Even if drama could not be made literarily suitable for articulating the
triumph of this new social order, it nonetheless reveals the tensions,
anxieties, and ideological struggles surrounding that triumph. Thus,
while the conflict between a diminishing aristocracy and an emergent
bourgeoisie perhaps took its toll on drama-undoing its status as a pre-
mier literary form in British literary history-at the same time it made
drama critical to our understanding of both social and literary history,
because in this form the class struggle and many of the personal and
public conflicts corresponding to this struggle played themselves out.
  The literary and class dimensions of Romantic drama become clearer
by reference to Lucien Goldmann's comments on the novel, which
came to replace drama in the nineteenth century as the dominant form
of literary expression. Drawing heavily on Georg Lukics and Rend
Girard, Goldmann argues that the novel emerged alongside a market
economy, and that it is characterized by a contradiction between the
hero and his world-the same contradiction that exists, Goldmann
argues, between the individual and the world under capitalism. While
the novel is a product of bourgeois reality, it is unable to express a
vision of that reality as full, coherent, and meaningful. "The novel
with a problematic hero thus proves . .. to be a literary form bound
up certainly with history and the development of the bourgeoisie,
but not the expression of the real or possible consciousness of that
class."" This failure of the novel, however, is not a failure of form,



Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 9    Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / g    Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 9


for it corresponds directly to the nature of bourgeois ideology itself,
which is "the first ideology in history that is both radically profane
and ahistorical."'" Thus both the experiences and literary products of
bourgeois society are necessarily characterized by alienation, division,
and fragmentation.
One main difference between Romantic drama and the novel (as
Goldmann describes it), then, is that, while both forms are charac-
terized by social rupture or division, in Romantic drama these result
from a clash between ideologies-that is, aristocratic and bourgeois--
while in the novel they result from a clash within ideology, that is,
bourgeois. The rupture that characterizes the novel also characterizes
bourgeois reality, while the rupture that characterizes Romantic drama
does not. This distinction helps to illuminate Williams's explanation
of why literary drama had become a marginal form by the early nine-
teenth century: it carried within it too much ideological baggage from
the past that denied the new content and consciousness of social life,
and was thus formally unable to envision that past-or the present-
in terms of the bourgeois ideology that had become dominant. The
novel was much better situated formally because it was born with,
shaped, and enabled by a bourgeois worldview. While this distinction
assumes the literary inferiority of Romantic drama, it also helps to
focus its precise importance in social and literary history: its articula-
tion of conflict lays bare the dominant forces of social life at a moment
of severe historical crisis and exposes what bourgeois consciousness
discards, what it redefines, and what it creates anew.
  A complex array of issues, themes, categories, and relations unfold
alongside this class consciousness in Romantic drama, disclosing the
intensity of historic social transformation as well as the various levels
of social life at which that transformation takes place. The articulation
of the clash between aristocratic and middle-class social networks, for
instance, focuses the extent of individual dependence on society for
purpose, direction, and even identity, showing that the crises of per-
sonal and individual lives are often at once crises of the social forms of
human experience. Moreover, in projecting the emergent conscious-
ness of the bourgeoisie amid the desperate and deteriorating structures
of an older world, Romantic drama captures the process by which
social relations, in the passage from one world order to another, were
redefined and reconstituted in bourgeois terms. This process was both
irrevocable, despite the nostalgia for older definitions and forms of


for it corresponds directly to the nature of bourgeois ideology itself,
which is "the first ideology in history that is both radically profane
and ahistorical." c" Thus both the experiences and literary products of
bourgeois society are necessarily characterized by alienation, division,
and fragmentation.
  One main difference between Romantic drama and the novel (as
Goldmann describes it), then, is that, while both forms are charac-
terized by social rupture or division, in Romantic drama these result
from a clash between ideologies-that is, aristocratic and bourgeois--
while in the novel they result from a clash within ideology, that is,
bourgeois. The rupture that characterizes the novel also characterizes
bourgeois reality, while the rupture that characterizes Romantic drama
does not. This distinction helps to illuminate Williams's explanation
of why literary drama had become a marginal form by the early nine-
teenth century: it carried within it too much ideological baggage from
the past that denied the new content and consciousness of social life,
and was thus formally unable to envision that past-or the present-
in terms of the bourgeois ideology that had become dominant. The
novel was much better situated formally because it was born with,
shaped, and enabled by a bourgeois worldview. While this distinction
assumes the literary inferiority of Romantic drama, it also helps to
focus its precise importance in social and literary history: its articula-
tion of conflict lays bare the dominant forces of social life at a moment
of severe historical crisis and exposes what bourgeois consciousness
discards, what it redefines, and what it creates anew.
  A complex array of issues, themes, categories, and relations unfold
alongside this class consciousness in Romantic drama, disclosing the
intensity of historic social transformation as well as the various levels
of social life at which that transformation takes place. The articulation
of the clash between aristocratic and middle-class social networks, for
instance, focuses the extent of individual dependence on society for
purpose, direction, and even identity, showing that the crises of per-
sonal and individuallives are often at once crises of the social forms of
human experience. Moreover, in projecting the emergent conscious-
ness of the bourgeoisie amid the desperate and deteriorating structures
of an older world, Romantic drama captures the process by which
social relations, in the passage from one world order to another, were
redefined and reconstituted in bourgeois terms. This process was both
irrevocable, despite the nostalgia for older definitions and forms of


for it corresponds directly to the nature of bourgeois ideology itself,
which is "the first ideology in history that is both radically profane
and ahistorical."20 Thus both the experiences and literary products of
bourgeois society are necessarily characterized by alienation, division,
and fragmentation.
  One main difference between Romantic drama and the novel (as
Goldmann describes it), then, is that, while both forms are charac-
terized by social rupture or division, in Romantic drama these result
from a clash between ideologies-that is, aristocratic and bourgeois--
while in the novel they result from a clash within ideology, that is,
bourgeois. The rupture that characterizes the novel also characterizes
bourgeois reality, while the rupture that characterizes Romantic drama
does not. This distinction helps to illuminate Williams's explanation
of why literary drama had become a marginal form by the early nine-
teenth century: it carried within it too much ideological baggage from
the past that denied the new content and consciousness of social life,
and was thus formally unable to envision that past-or the present-
in terms of the bourgeois ideology that had become dominant. The
novel was much better situated formally because it was born with,
shaped, and enabled by a bourgeois worldview. While this distinction
assumes the literary inferiority of Romantic drama, it also helps to
focus its precise importance in social and literary history: its articula-
tion of conflict lays bare the dominant forces of social life at a moment
of severe historical crisis and exposes what bourgeois consciousness
discards, what it redefines, and what it creates anew.
  A complex array of issues, themes, categories, and relations unfold
alongside this class consciousness in Romantic drama, disclosing the
intensity of historic social transformation as well as the various levels
of social life at which that transformation takes place. The articulation
of the clash between aristocratic and middle-class social networks, for
instance, focuses the extent of individual dependence on society for
purpose, direction, and even identity, showing that the crises of per-
sonal and individuallives are often at once crises of the social forms of
human experience. Moreover, in projecting the emergent conscious-
ness of the bourgeoisie amid the desperate and deteriorating structures
of an older world, Romantic drama captures the process by which
social relations, in the passage from one world order to another, were
redefined and reconstituted in bourgeois terms. This process was both
irrevocable, despite the nostalgia for older definitions and forms of



1o / English Romantic Drama              1o / Englsh Romantic Drama               1o / English Romantic Drama


order, and, when necessary, extremely violent. Indeed, violence and
dread of violence are seen in both the aristocratic resistance to change
and the bourgeois absolute insistence on change. Even when Roman-
tic drama presents this violence in extremely private or psychological
terms (as in The Cenci or Cain), it usually is traceable to class conflict
and social relations of one sort or another?'
While not all of these matters appear at the level of plot in every
drama of the period, while other Romantic forms contain some or all
of them, and while they cannot be said to constitute in a definitive way
an aesthetic consciousness of dramatic form, in Romantic drama they
nonetheless appear in ways that provide critical and at times unique in-
sight into the many dimensions and governing energy of class struggle
in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, suggesting the de-
termining power of that struggle in both history and literature. Other
literary forms of the period-verse narrative, the novel, the lyric-
manage more effectively to present a reasonably pure bourgeois con-
sciousness and the turbulent conflicts that exist largely within bour-
geois ideology; but the drama-perhaps because during the Romantic
period it was a declining rather than an emergent form-captures most
painfully the context within which that ideology emerged and the
shaping conditions against which it struggled. For this reason it must
be investigated not only in terms of public theater and literary his-
tory, and not only in terms of literary merit-the traditional ways of
studying it-but also in the terms of its class consciousness and social
history.
  Some of the specific historical anxieties and formal difficulties that
both burden and energize Romantic drama can be sketched in a brief
examination of Wordsworth's The Borderers, an early Romantic drama
that exemplifies in many ways the wide range of difficult challenges
facing later dramas of the period. While issues of class conflict are not
explicitly presented in the drama-as they are, for example, in Joanna
Baillie's DeMonfort or Henry Hart Milman's Fazio-they are present by
implication in such plot-level matters as the controversy surrounding
Herbert's barony, in the Enlightenment notion of reason (as repre-
sented in the character of Rivers), and in the special status accorded
to personal affection; and through these matters issues of class touch
various relations of social life, ranging from the family and love to law
and money.


order, and, when necessary, extremely violent. Indeed, violence and
dread of violence are seen in both the aristocratic resistance to change
and the bourgeois absolute insistence on change. Even when Roman-
tic drama presents this violence in extremely private or psychological
terms (as in The Cenci or Cain), it usually is traceable to class conflict
and social relations of one sort or another?.
While not all of these matters appear at the level of plot in every
drama of the period, while other Romantic forms contain some or all
of them, and while they cannot be said to constitute in a definitive way
an aesthetic consciousness of dramatic form, in Romantic drama they
nonetheless appear in ways that provide critical and at times unique in-
sight into the many dimensions and governing energy of class struggle
in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, suggesting the de-
termining power of that struggle in both history and literature. Other
literary forms of the period-verse narrative, the novel, the lyric-
manage more effectively to present a reasonably pure bourgeois con-
sciousness and the turbulent conflicts that exist largely within bour-
geois ideology; but the drama-perhaps because during the Romantic
period it was a declining rather than an emergent form-captures most
painfully the context within which that ideology emerged and the
shaping conditions against which it struggled. For this reason it must
be investigated not only in terms of public theater and literary his-
tory, and not only in terms of literary merit-the traditional ways of
studying it-but also in the terms of its class consciousness and social
history.
  Some of the specific historical anxieties and formal difficulties that
both burden and energize Romantic drama can be sketched in a brief
examination of Wordsworth's The Borderers, an early Romantic drama
that exemplifies in many ways the wide range of difficult challenges
facing later dramas of the period. While issues of class conflict are not
explicitly presented in the drama-as they are, for example, in Joanna
Baillie's DeMonfort or Henry Hart Milman's Fazio-they are present by
implication in such plot-level matters as the controversy surrounding
Herbert's barony, in the Enlightenment notion of reason (as repre-
sented in the character of Rivers), and in the special status accorded
to personal affection; and through these matters issues of class touch
various relations of social life, ranging from the family and love to law
and money.


order, and, when necessary, extremely violent. Indeed, violence and
dread of violence are seen in both the aristocratic resistance to change
and the bourgeois absolute insistence on change. Even when Roman-
tic drama presents this violence in extremely private or psychological
terms (as in The Cenci or Cain), it usually is traceable to class conflict
and social relations of one sort or another.?
While not all of these matters appear at the level of plot in every
drama of the period, while other Romantic forms contain some or all
of them, and while they cannot be said to constitute in a definitive way
an aesthetic consciousness of dramatic form, in Romantic drama they
nonetheless appear in ways that provide critical and at times unique in-
sight into the many dimensions and governing energy of class struggle
in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, suggesting the de-
termining power of that struggle in both history and literature. Other
literary forms of the period-verse narrative, the novel, the lyric-
manage more effectively to present a reasonably pure bourgeois con-
sciousness and the turbulent conflicts that exist largely within bour-
geois ideology; but the drama-perhaps because during the Romantic
period it was a declining rather than an emergent form-captures most
painfully the context within which that ideology emerged and the
shaping conditions against which it struggled. For this reason it must
be investigated not only in terms of public theater and literary his-
tory, and not only in terms of literary merit-the traditional ways of
studying it-but also in the terms of its class consciousness and social
history.
  Some of the specific historical anxieties and formal difficulties that
both burden and energize Romantic drama can be sketched in a brief
examination of Wordsworth's The Borderers, an early Romantic drama
that exemplifies in many ways the wide range of difficult challenges
facing later dramas of the period. While issues of class conflict are not
explicitly presented in the drama-as they are, for example, in Joanna
Baillie's DeMonfort or Henry Hart Milman's Fazio-they are present by
implication in such plot-level matters as the controversy surrounding
Herbert's barony, in the Enlightenment notion of reason (as repre-
sented in the character of Rivers), and in the special status accorded
to personal affection; and through these matters issues of class touch
various relations of social life, ranging from the family and love to law
and money.



Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / n    Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / n    Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / n


But the most striking feature of the drama associated with social
class, and especially with the emergence of a new bourgeois reality,
is the near obsession with language, particularly the relations between
language and power. This interest helps to focus an important di-
mension of bourgeois thought coming to maturation in the late eigh-
teenth century, one that figures prominently in many Romantic dra-
mas: namely the effort to contain the dangers associated with public
exchange and to locate the permanent and most valuable structures
of human experience at the level of affection and personal life. In the
following pages I will consider briefly the connections between lan-
guage, politics, and ideology that The Borderers attempts to negotiate,
in an effort to elucidate some of the material conditions within which
that attempt was made. My aim is not to offer an exhaustive analysis of
language and class but rather to touch glancingly upon certain general
features of the historical bind that pressure the drama, thereby show-
ing how the drama's decided resistance to bourgeois intellectualism-
its condemnation of the villain, Rivers-leads it ideologically and in-
evitably into the trap of bourgeois subjectivity and sentimentality.

The Borderers is commonly viewed as a work in which Wordsworth
casts off Godwin and the philosophy of "independent intellect,""
which had occupied him to the point of emotional collapse in the early
1790s. It is also a work in which he rejects some of his earlier political
commitments, particularly his once strong commitment to the prin-
ciples of the French Revolution and to the use of physical violence to
accomplish the ends of the revolution. (His letter to the bishop of Llan-
daff, 1793, is a vivid and chilling example of his early views on political
violence.)" The rejection of pure reason and of revolutionary poli-
tics lays the groundwork for Wordsworth's nonpolitical poetic vision
of the common man and deep human feeling, which characterizes his
work of the "great decade." The Lyrical Ballads, for instance, steers clear
of direct statements and themes that would situate the poems within a
framework of political activism, emphasizing instead the integrity of
a simple rural life, the generative and compensatory powers of nature,
and the threat to both by various kinds of modern intellectual, social,
and moral structures of authority. While The Borderers is, arguably, not
an accomplished piece of poetry (or drama), it is critically important to
an understanding of the kinds of political and intellectual issues with


But the most striking feature of the drama associated with social
class, and especially with the emergence of a new bourgeois reality,
is the near obsession with language, particularly the relations between
language and power. This interest helps to focus an important di-
mension of bourgeois thought coming to maturation in the late eigh-
teenth century, one that figures prominently in many Romantic dra-
mas: namely the effort to contain the dangers associated with public
exchange and to locate the permanent and most valuable structures
of human experience at the level of affection and personal life. In the
following pages I will consider briefly the connections between lan-
guage, politics, and ideology that The Borderers attempts to negotiate,
in an effort to elucidate some of the material conditions within which
that attempt was made. My aim is not to offer an exhaustive analysis of
language and class but rather to touch glancingly upon certain general
features of the historical bind that pressure the drama, thereby show-
ing how the drama's decided resistance to bourgeois intellectualism-
its condemnation of the villain, Rivers-leads it ideologically and in-
evitably into the trap of bourgeois subjectivity and sentimentality.

The Borderers is commonly viewed as a work in which Wordsworth
casts off Godwin and the philosophy of "independent intellect,""5
which had occupied him to the point of emotional collapse in the early
1790s. It is also a work in which he rejects some of his earlier political
commitments, particularly his once strong commitment to the prin-
ciples of the French Revolution and to the use of physical violence to
accomplish the ends of the revolution. (His letter to the bishop of Llan-
daff, 1793, is a vivid and chilling example of his early views on political
violence.)0 The rejection of pure reason and of revolutionary poli-
tics lays the groundwork for Wordsworth's nonpolitical poetic vision
of the common man and deep human feeling, which characterizes his
work of the "great decade." The Lyrical Ballads, for instance, steers clear
of direct statements and themes that would situate the poems within a
framework of political activism, emphasizing instead the integrity of
a simple rural life, the generative and compensatory powers ofnature,
and the threat to both by various kinds of modern intellectual, social,
and moral structures of authority. While The Borderers is, arguably, not
an accomplished piece of poetry (or drama), it is critically important to
an understanding of the kinds of political and intellectual issues with


But the most striking feature of the drama associated with social
class, and especially with the emergence of a new bourgeois reality,
is the near obsession with language, particularly the relations between
language and power. This interest helps to focus an important di-
mension of bourgeois thought coming to maturation in the late eigh-
teenth century, one that figures prominently in many Romantic dra-
mas: namely the effort to contain the dangers associated with public
exchange and to locate the permanent and most valuable structures
of human experience at the level of affection and personal life. In the
following pages I will consider briefly the connections between lan-
guage, politics, and ideology that The Borderers attempts to negotiate,
in an effort to elucidate some of the material conditions within which
that attempt was made. My aim is not to offer an exhaustive analysis of
language and class but rather to touch glancingly upon certain general
features of the historical bind that pressure the drama, thereby show-
ing how the drama's decided resistance to bourgeois intellectualism-
its condemnation of the villain, Rivers-leads it ideologically and in-
evitably into the trap of bourgeois subjectivity and sentimentality.

The Borderers is commonly viewed as a work in which Wordsworth
casts off Godwin and the philosophy of "independent intellect,""
which had occupied him to the point of emotional collapse in the early
1790s. It is also a work in which he rejects some of his earlier political
commitments, particularly his once strong commitment to the prin-
ciples of the French Revolution and to the use of physical violence to
accomplish the ends of the revolution. (His letter to the bishop of Llan-
daff, 1793, is a vivid and chilling example ofhis early views on political
violence.)" The rejection of pure reason and of revolutionary poli-
tics lays the groundwork for Wordsworth's nonpolitical poetic vision
of the common man and deep human feeling, which characterizes his
work of the "great decade." The Lyrical Ballads, for instance, steers clear
of direct statements and themes that would situate the poems within a
framework of political activism, emphasizing instead the integrity of
a simple rural life, the generative and compensatory powers of nature,
and the threat to both by various kinds of modern intellectual, social,
and moral structures of authority. While The Borderers is, arguably, not
an accomplished piece of poetry (or drama), it is critically important to
an understanding of the kinds of political and intellectual issues with






which Wordsworth was struggling during the mid-179os, and to an
understanding of the determining power of these issues on his later
thought and poetry.
  As Reeve Parker and Theresa Kelley have shown, one of the most
striking features of The Borderers is its studied and systematic handling
of language, especially its remarkable assumptions about the determin-
ing power of language.? During the course of the drama, stories or
tales provide the ground and motivation for every significant thought
and action. For example, the plan of deception that Rivers (Words-
worth's Godwinian villain) devises for Mortimer depends entirely on
a series of stories, which constitute a self-created context exempt from
accountability in the world of human exchange and which are sub-
ject only to the internal coherence and rhetorical power of the stories
themselves. Through such portrayals as this, the drama suggests that
language carries within it an authority that is potentially destructive
of human compassion and integrity.
  But the critique of language implicit in the association of Rivers's
villainy with tale-telling does not reject the special status of language,
while offering a counterargument for the special status of social life,
for example, or even of personal life. Even while Rivers's malicious
reduction of human experience and intellect to their linguistic repre-
sentation is condemned, the drama holds language sacred, as is seen,
for example, in the moving stories told by Herbert, or in Matilda's
childhood stories that are recalled by Mortimer. Rather, the portrayal
of the various plot-level conflicts in terms of the problematic character
of language reveals another assumption altogether, namely that-as
John Fekete puts it, writing in a different context-language is "the
source of intelligibility and of social life, and the locus of the solution
to all problems."s In other words, the problem of the independent
intellect and the nature and role of personal affection that constitute
the center of the plot are real issues; but their solution, the drama sug-
gests, is to be found at the level of language rather than social life.
Thus the critique that the play offers of one kind of language is at the
same time a retreat into another.
  The ideological entanglements evident in these competing views of
language can be glimpsed by sketching several isolated episodes in the
drama. Near the beginning, after Mortimer announces that his charac-
ter is molded by feeling ("Never may I own / The heart which cannot


            u / English Romantic Drama

which Wordsworth was struggling during the mid-1790s, and to an
understanding of the determining power of these issues on his later
thought and poetry.
  As Reeve Parker and Theresa Kelley have shown, one of the most
striking features of The Borderers is its studied and systematic handling
of language, especially its remarkable assumptions about the determin-
ing power of language.0 During the course of the drama, stories or
tales provide the ground and motivation for every significant thought
and action. For example, the plan of deception that Rivers (Words-
worth's Godwinian villain) devises for Mortimer depends entirely on
a series ofstories, which constitute a self-created context exempt from
accountability in the world of human exchange and which are sub-
ject only to the internal coherence and rhetorical power of the stories
themselves. Through such portrayals as this, the drama suggests that
language carries within it an authority that is potentially destructive
of human compassion and integrity.
  But the critique of language implicit in the association of Rivers's
villainy with tale-telling does not reject the special status of language,
while offering a counterargument for the special status of social life,
for example, or even of personal life. Even while Rivers's malicious
reduction of human experience and intellect to their linguistic repre-
sentation is condemned, the drama holds language sacred, as is seen,
for example, in the moving stories told by Herbert, or in Matilda's
childhood stories that are recalled by Mortimer. Rather, the portrayal
of the various plot-level conflicts in terms of the problematic character
of language reveals another assumption altogether, namely that-as
John Fekete puts it, writing in a different context-language is "the
source of intelligibility and of social life, and the locus of the solution
to all problems."2 In other words, the problem of the independent
intellect and the nature and role of personal affection that constitute
the center of the plot are real issues; but their solution, the drama sug-
gests, is to be found at the level of language rather than social life.
Thus the critique that the play offers of one kind of language is at the
same time a retreat into another.
  The ideological entanglements evident in these competing views of
language can be glimpsed by sketching several isolated episodes in the
drama. Near the beginning, after Mortimer announces that his charac-
ter is molded by feeling ("Never may I own / The heart which cannot


            n / English Romantic Drama

which Wordsworth was struggling during the mid-1790s, and to an
understanding of the determining power of these issues on his later
thought and poetry.
  As Reeve Parker and Theresa Kelley have shown, one of the most
striking features of The Borderers is its studied and systematic handling
of language, especially its remarkable assumptions about the determin-
ing power of language.0 During the course of the drama, stories or
tales provide the ground and motivation for every significant thought
and action. For example, the plan of deception that Rivers (Words-
worth's Godwinian villain) devises for Mortimer depends entirely on
a series ofstories, which constitute a self-created context exempt from
accountability in the world of human exchange and which are sub-
ject only to the internal coherence and rhetorical power of the stories
themselves. Through such portrayals as this, the drama suggests that
language carries within it an authority that is potentially destructive
of human compassion and integrity.
  But the critique of language implicit in the association of Rivers's
villainy with tale-telling does not reject the special status of language,
while offering a counterargument for the special status of social life,
for example, or even of personal life. Even while Rivers's malicious
reduction of human experience and intellect to their linguistic repre-
sentation is condemned, the drama holds language sacred, as is seen,
for example, in the moving stories told by Herbert, or in Matilda's
childhood stories that are recalled by Mortimer. Rather, the portrayal
of the various plot-level conflicts in terms of the problematic character
of language reveals another assumption altogether, namely that-as
John Fekete puts it, writing in a different context-language is "the
source of intelligibility and of social life, and the locus of the solution
to all problems."5 In other words, the problem of the independent
intellect and the nature and role of personal affection that constitute
the center of the plot are real issues; but their solution, the drama sug-
gests, is to be found at the level of language rather than social life.
Thus the critique that the play offers of one kind of language is at the
same time a retreat into another.
  The ideological entanglements evident in these competing views of
language can be glimpsed by sketching several isolated episodes in the
drama. Near the beginning, after Mortimer announces that his charac-
ter is molded by feeling ("Never may I own / The heart which cannot



Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 13   Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 13   Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 13


feel for one so helpless" [L i. 39-40]), Rivers begins to set his trap by re-
lating to Mortimer a tale of the villainy of Herbert (father of Matilda,
the woman with whom Mortimer is in love), which includes the accu-
sation that Herbert is not actually Matilda's father. Later, Rivers and
Mortimer overhear Herbert telling Matilda of his military exploits,
of the way he saved his infant daughter's life, and of his love for his
daughter. Thus the story that Rivers tells of Herbert's villainy is set
against the story that Herbert tells of his love for his daughter, and
the confused Mortimer stands between these stories, looking for the
proofs that will show one true and the other false. And Rivers, for
reasons that will become apparent momentarily, does not deny what
Herbert tells Matilda, but rather fuels Mortimer's confusion by re-
marking to him that "the blind man's tale / ... [might] yet be true"
(I.i.44-45), and that "in despite of my conviction, / [Herbert] tempted
me to think the story true" (I. .199-aoo). Further, even if it is not true,
Rivers continues,
       The tale of [Herbert's] quondam Barony
       Is cunningly devised, and on the back
       Of his forlorn appearance could not fail
       To make the proud and vain his tributaries
       And stir the pulse of lazy charity. (I.i.52-56)
  One aim of Rivers here is to shift Mortimer's attention from
the human affection that he actually witnesses between Herbert and
Matilda to the stories used to express that affection. That is, he dis-
lodges language from the situation within which it appears, so that
the central concern comes to be with the abstract matter of proofs:
how does one determine the truth or falsity of the story? To refor-
mulate human issues abstractly, Rivers knows, makes it possible to
devalue people, to manipulate them as reified elements or ingredients
within linguistic structures that have their own independent logic.
That Mortimer allows himself to fall into this intellectual trap is evi-
dent; after Rivers prompts him with "There must be truth in this"
(I.i. 209)-referring to Herbert's tale-Mortimer comments:
       Truth in the story! Had the thing been true
       He must have felt it then, known what it was,
       And thus to prey upon her heart had been
       A tenfold cruelty. (l.i.210-13)


feel for one so helpless" [.i. 39-40]), Rivers begins to set his trap by re-
lating to Mortimer a tale of the villainy of Herbert (father of Matilda,
the woman with whom Mortimer is in love), which includes the accu-
sation that Herbert is not actually Matilda's father. Later, Rivers and
Mortimer overhear Herbert telling Matilda of his military exploits,
of the way he saved his infant daughter's life, and of his love for his
daughter. Thus the story that Rivers tells of Herbert's villainy is set
against the story that Herbert tells of his love for his daughter, and
the confused Mortimer stands between these stories, looking for the
proofs that will show one true and the other false. And Rivers, for
reasons that will become apparent momentarily, does not deny what
Herbert tells Matilda, but rather fuels Mortimer's confusion by re-
marking to him that "the blind man's tale / ... [might] yet be true"
(I.i.44-45), and that "in despite of my conviction, / [Herbert] tempted
me to think the story true" (.i. 199-200). Further, even if it is not true,
Rivers continues,
       The tale of [Herbert's] quondam Barony
       Is cunningly devised, and on the back
       Of his forlorn appearance could not fail
       To make the proud and vain his tributaries
       And stir the pulse of lazy charity. (I.i.s2-56)
  One aim of Rivers here is to shift Mortimer's attention from
the human affection that he actually witnesses between Herbert and
Matilda to the stories used to express that affection. That is, he dis-
lodges language from the situation within which it appears, so that
the central concern comes to be with the abstract matter of proofs:
how does one determine the truth or falsity of the story? To refor-
mulate human issues abstractly, Rivers knows, makes it possible to
devalue people, to manipulate them as reified elements or ingredients
within linguistic structures that have their own independent logic.
That Mortimer allows himself to fall into this intellectual trap is evi-
dent; after Rivers prompts him with "There must be truth in this"
(I.i.2o9)-referring to Herbert's tale-Mortimer comments:
       Truth in the story! Had the thing been true
       He must have felt it then, known what it was,
       And thus to prey upon her heart had been
       A tenfold cruelty. (I.i.210-13)


feel for one so helpless" [I.i.39-40]), Rivers begins to set his trap by re-
lating to Mortimer a tale of the villainy of Herbert (father of Matilda,
the woman with whom Mortimer is in love), which includes the accu-
sation that Herbert is not actually Matilda's father. Later, Rivers and
Mortimer overhear Herbert telling Matilda of his military exploits,
of the way he saved his infant daughter's life, and of his love for his
daughter. Thus the story that Rivers tells of Herbert's villainy is set
against the story that Herbert tells of his love for his daughter, and
the confused Mortimer stands between these stories, looking for the
proofs that will show one true and the other false. And Rivers, for
reasons that will become apparent momentarily, does not deny what
Herbert tells Matilda, but rather fuels Mortimer's confusion by re-
marking to him that "the blind man's tale / ... [might] yet be true"
(I.i.44-45), and that "in despite of my conviction, / [Herbert] tempted
me to think the story true" (Ii. 199-200). Further, even if it is not true,
Rivers continues,
       The tale of [Herbert's] quondam Barony
       Is cunningly devised, and on the back
       Of his forlorn appearance could not fail
       To make the proud and vain his tributaries
       And stir the pulse of lazy charity. (I.i.52-56)
  One aim of Rivers here is to shift Mortimer's attention from
the human affection that he actually witnesses between Herbert and
Matilda to the stories used to express that affection. That is, he dis-
lodges language from the situation within which it appears, so that
the central concern comes to be with the abstract matter of proofs:
how does one determine the truth or falsity of the story? To refor-
mulate human issues abstractly, Rivers knows, makes it possible to
devalue people, to manipulate them as reified elements or ingredients
within linguistic structures that have their own independent logic.
That Mortimer allows himself to fall into this intellectual trap is evi-
dent; after Rivers prompts him with "There must be truth in this"
(I.i.ao9)-referring to Herbert's tale-Mortimer comments:
       Truth in the story! Had the thing been true
       He must have felt it then, known what it was,
       And thus to prey upon her heart had been
       A tenfold cruelty. (I.i.210-13)



tq / English Romantic Drama              14 / English Romantic Drama              14 / English Romantic Drama


Human need, desire, affection, and experience become subordinate in
Mortimer's mind to the problem of "unworthy tales" (L i.227); and,
as Rivers vividly illustrates through the course of the drama, any tale,
considered in the abstract, can be shown to be unworthy-or worthy.
The material consequences of this intellectualization of language reveal
themselves in Mortimer's actions against Herbert.
Rivers's ability to turn Mortimer's interest away from human situa-
tions as the starting point for human action to stories and their prob-
lematic truth content is the central ingredient in his power, enabling
him to weave stories as needed to shape Mortimer's view of specific
situations. This is seen, for instance, in the exchange between Rivers,
Mortimer, and the garrulous beggar woman, whom Rivers pays to
tell tales against Herbert. As she begins, and then strays from, her
tale, Mortimer calls her back to her subject with the comment "But
to your story" (I.iii.95); and as she moves farther into the false tale
about selling her infant daughter to Herbert, she is encouraged by
both Rivers and Mortimer with such comments as "You are as safe as
in a sanctuary: / Speak" (I.iii.129-3o); and again "Speak" (I.iii.130);
"Speak out!" (I.iii.133); and "Nay, speak out, speak out" (Liii.135). As
these comments suggest, Mortimer has become entirely enthralled by
the tales being spun by the people he encounters. Rather than experi-
ence providing the basis for his assessments of linguistic expression,
stories come to provide the basis for his assessments of experience.
Mortimer's chilling comment reveals the human implications of this
perverse hierarchy of values: "I do not think the tale will be believed /
Till I have shed his [Herbert's] blood" (II.i.50-51).
  One further example will suffice to illustrate the shaping power
of stories on the thought of Mortimer. In convincing Mortimer that
Herbert has arranged for Matilda to marry the villainous Lord Clif-
ford, Rivers invents a tale about a proposed kidnapping of Matilda to
bring her to Clifford. He relates the story to Mortimer once they have
arrived on the barren heath, saying that
       I knew it would disturb you,
       And therefore chose this solitary heath
       Here to impart the tale, of which, last night,
       I strove to ease my heart. (III.ii.67-70)

This story is presented by Rivers and accepted by Mortimer as "the
proofs" (III.ii 34) of Herbert's villainy. One story proves the other,


Human need, desire, affection, and experience become subordinate in
Mortimer's mind to the problem of "unworthy tales" (1.i.227); and,
as Rivers vividly illustrates through the course of the drama, any tale,
considered in the abstract, can be shown to be unworthy-or worthy.
The material consequences of this intellectualization oflanguage reveal
themselves in Mortimer's actions against Herbert.
Rivers's ability to turn Mortimer's interest away from human situa-
tions as the starting point for human action to stories and their prob-
lematic truth content is the central ingredient in his power, enabling
him to weave stories as needed to shape Mortimer's view of specific
situations. This is seen, for instance, in the exchange between Rivers,
Mortimer, and the garrulous beggar woman, whom Rivers pays to
tell tales against Herbert. As she begins, and then strays from, her
tale, Mortimer calls her back to her subject with the comment "But
to your story" (I.iii.95); and as she moves farther into the false tale
about selling her infant daughter to Herbert, she is encouraged by
both Rivers and Mortimer with such comments as "You are as safe as
in a sanctuary: / Speak" (I.iii.129-30); and again "Speak" (I.iii.130);
"Speak out!" (Liii.133); and "Nay, speak out, speak out" (Iiii. 135). As
these comments suggest, Mortimer has become entirely enthralled by
the tales being spun by the people he encounters. Rather than experi-
ence providing the basis for his assessments of linguistic expression,
stories come to provide the basis for his assessments of experience.
Mortimer's chilling comment reveals the human implications of this
perverse hierarchy of values: "I do not think the tale will be believed /
Till I have shed his [Herbert's] blood" (Il.i.50-51).
  One further example will suffice to illustrate the shaping power
of stories on the thought of Mortimer. In convincing Mortimer that
Herbert has arranged for Matilda to marry the villainous Lord Clif-
ford, Rivers invents a tale about a proposed kidnapping of Matilda to
bring her to Clifford. He relates the story to Mortimer once they have
arrived on the barren heath, saying that
       I knew it would disturb you,
       And therefore chose this solitary heath
       Here to impart the tale, of which, last night,
       I strove to ease my heart. (III.ii.67-70)

This story is presented by Rivers and accepted by Mortimer as "the
proofs" (III.ii.34) of Herbert's villainy. One story proves the other,


Human need, desire, affection, and experience become subordinate in
Mortimer's mind to the problem of "unworthy tales" (.i.227); and,
as Rivers vividly illustrates through the course of the drama, any tale,
considered in the abstract, can be shown to be unworthy-or worthy.
The material consequences ofthis intellectualization of language reveal
themselves in Mortimer's actions against Herbert.
Rivers's ability to turn Mortimer's interest away from human situa-
tions as the starting point for human action to stories and their prob-
lematic truth content is the central ingredient in his power, enabling
him to weave stories as needed to shape Mortimer's view of specific
situations. This is seen, for instance, in the exchange between Rivers,
Mortimer, and the garrulous beggar woman, whom Rivers pays to
tell tales against Herbert. As she begins, and then strays from, her
tale, Mortimer calls her back to her subject with the comment "But
to your story" (I.iii.95); and as she moves farther into the false tale
about selling her infant daughter to Herbert, she is encouraged by
both Rivers and Mortimer with such comments as "You are as safe as
in a sanctuary: / Speak" (I.iii.129-3o); and again "Speak" (Iiii..130);
"Speak out!" (I.iii.133); and "Nay, speak out, speak out" (I.iii. 135). As
these comments suggest, Mortimer has become entirely enthralled by
the tales being spun by the people he encounters. Rather than experi-
ence providing the basis for his assessments of linguistic expression,
stories come to provide the basis for his assessments of experience.
Mortimer's chilling comment reveals the human implications of this
perverse hierarchy of values: "I do not think the tale will be believed /
Till I have shed his [Herbert's] blood" (Il.i.so-51).
  One further example will suffice to illustrate the shaping power
of stories on the thought of Mortimer. In convincing Mortimer that
Herbert has arranged for Matilda to marry the villainous Lord Clif-
ford, Rivers invents a tale about a proposed kidnapping of Matilda to
bring her to Clifford. He relates the story to Mortimer once they have
arrived on the barren heath, saying that
       I knew it would disturb you,
       And therefore chose this solitary heath
       Here to impart the tale, of which, last night,
       I strove to ease my heart. (IIl.ii.67-70)

This story is presented by Rivers and accepted by Mortimer as "the
proofs" (IIii.34) of Herbert's villainy. One story proves the other,



          Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 15

and all that is left, from Mortimer's perspective, is to bring life into
line with the authority implicit in them. As Mortimer says after this
newest story has been completed:

    To let a creed built in the heart of things
    Dissolve before a twinkling atom.
    Philosophy! I will go forth a teacher,
    And you shall see how deeply I will reason
    Of laws, of qualities and substances,
    Of actions, and their ends and differences. (III.ii.77-82)

 Just as stories are the means by which Mortimer is trapped into vil-
 lainy, so they are the means by which Rivers finally exposes his own
 deceit and malice, effectively illustrating the extent to which language
 has absorbed and controlled Mortimer's thoughts and actions, and,
 moreover, the ease with which new stories can be spun to redirect
 those thoughts and actions. After Herbert has been left for dead on the
 barren heath, Rivers states directly to Mortimer what has been implicit
 throughout, that "There is a power in sounds" (IV.ii.49). This power
 is illustrated by Rivers's story of how, in his youth, he was duped by
 shipmates to leave an innocent ship captain on a desolate island to die,
 after which "The tale was spread abroad" (IV.ii.75) of Rivers's actions,
 thus destroying his integrity, his hope, and the possibility of mean-
 ingful social exchange. Like Mortimer, he had been convinced by a
 story which seemed to provide its own self-evident truth about human
 experience, while in fact it provided no referential proof whatsoever
 of that truth. Rivers's tale, in short, illustrates the destructive capacity
 of the power of sound when it is removed from its human context. As
 Rivers coldly tells Mortimer when his tale is complete: "Think of my
 story-/ Herbert is innocent" (IV.iii.211-12).
 Such tales are set against other, more noble, tales which, the drama
 implies, exemplify the proper function of language motivated by the
 affections rather than by the intellect. Such language, apparently, is
 innocent, and it articulates the common bond of humanity rather than
 the isolated, manipulative power of the individual. For instance, in
 recounting to Rivers his love for Matilda, Mortimer notes that when
 he was a child

     It was my joy to sit and hear Matilda
     Repeat her father's terrible adventures


          Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 15

and all that is left, from Mortimer's perspective, is to bring life into
line with the authority implicit in them. As Mortimer says after this
newest story has been completed:

    To let a creed built in the heart of things
    Dissolve before a twinkling atom.
    Philosophy! I will go forth a teacher,
    And you shall see how deeply I will reason
    Of laws, of qualities and substances,
    Of actions, and their ends and differences. (III.ii.77-82)

 Just as stories are the means by which Mortimer is trapped into vil-
lainy, so they are the means by which Rivers finally exposes his own
deceit and malice, effectively illustrating the extent to which language
has absorbed and controlled Mortimer's thoughts and actions, and,
moreover, the ease with which new stories can be spun to redirect
those thoughts and actions. After Herbert has been left for dead on the
barren heath, Rivers states directly to Mortimer what has been implicit
throughout, that "There is a power in sounds" (IV.ii.49). This power
is illustrated by Rivers's story of how, in his youth, he was duped by
shipmates to leave an innocent ship captain on a desolate island to die,
after which "The tale was spread abroad" (IV.ii.75) of Rivers's actions,
thus destroying his integrity, his hope, and the possibility of mean-
ingful social exchange. Like Mortimer, he had been convinced by a
story which seemed to provide its own self-evident truth about human
experience, while in fact it provided no referential proof whatsoever
of that truth. Rivers's tale, in short, illustrates the destructive capacity
of the power of sound when it is removed from its human context. As
Rivers coldly tells Mortimer when his tale is complete: "Think of my
story-/ Herbert is innocent" (IV.iii.211-12).
  Such tales are set against other, more noble, tales which, the drama
implies, exemplify the proper function of language motivated by the
affections rather than by the intellect. Such language, apparently, is
innocent, and it articulates the common bond of humanity rather than
the isolated, manipulative power of the individual. For instance, in
recounting to Rivers his love for Matilda, Mortimer notes that when
he was a child

     It was my joy to sit and hear Matilda
     Repeat her father's terrible adventures


          Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 15

and all that is left, from Mortimer's perspective, is to bring life into
line with the authority implicit in them. As Mortimer says after this
newest story has been completed:

    To let a creed built in the heart of things
    Dissolve before a twinkling atom.
    Philosophy! I will go forth a teacher,
    And you shall see how deeply I will reason
    Of laws, of qualities and substances,
    Of actions, and their ends and differences. (III.ii.77-82)

 Just as stories are the means by which Mortimer is trapped into vil-
lainy, so they are the means by which Rivers finally exposes his own
deceit and malice, effectively illustrating the extent to which language
has absorbed and controlled Mortimer's thoughts and actions, and,
moreover, the ease with which new stories can be spun to redirect
those thoughts and actions. After Herbert has been left for dead on the
barren heath, Rivers states directly to Mortimer what has been implicit
throughout, that "There is a power in sounds" (IV.ii.49). This power
is illustrated by Rivers's story of how, in his youth, he was duped by
shipmates to leave an innocent ship captain on a desolate island to die,
after which "The tale was spread abroad" (IV.ii.75) of Rivers's actions,
thus destroying his integrity, his hope, and the possibility of mean-
ingful social exchange. Like Mortimer, he had been convinced by a
story which seemed to provide its own self-evident truth about human
experience, while in fact it provided no referential proof whatsoever
of that truth. Rivers's tale, in short, illustrates the destructive capacity
of the power of sound when it is removed from its human context. As
Rivers coldly tells Mortimer when his tale is complete: "Think of my
story-/ Herbert is innocent" (IV.iii.211-12).
  Such tales are set against other, more noble, tales which, the drama
implies, exemplify the proper function of language motivated by the
affections rather than by the intellect. Such language, apparently, is
innocent, and it articulates the common bond of humanity rather than
the isolated, manipulative power of the individual. For instance, in
recounting to Rivers his love for Matilda, Mortimer notes that when
he was a child

     It was my joy to sit and hear Matilda
     Repeat her father's terrible adventures



16 / English Romantic Drama              16 / English Romantic Drama              16 / English Romantic Drama


      Till all the band of play-mates wept together,
      And that was the beginning of my love. (I.i.65-68)

In the exchanges between Matilda and her father too, tales are situated
in a context of mutual regard, where the only (and sufficient) proof of
the tale is the affection which underlies it. When Herbert describes his
past, the loss of his lands, and his efforts to aid his young daughter,
he reminds her that

      ... Thou has been told
      That when, on our return from Palestine,
      I found that my domains had been usurped,
      I took thee in my arms, and we began
      Our wanderings together. Providence
      At length conducted us to Rossland. There
      Our melancholy story moved a stranger
      To take thee to her home. (I.i. 159-66)

And finally Wordsworth presents the drama itself as a tale meant to
show the dangers of language when it is spun entirely out of pure
intellect. After Mortimer discovers that he has been manipulated into
killing an innocent man he states: "Raise on this lonely Heath a monu-
ment / That may record my story for warning" (V.iii.262-63). The
drama implies that such tales as Mortimer's are meant to be seen as
uplifting because they do not require reasoned response and are not
geared to engage the intellect alone; they are motivated and checked
by feeling.
As the foregoing sketch suggests, for Wordsworth in 1795 the prob-
lem of the independent intellect was also a problem of language, and
thus it had direct implications for his theory and writing of poetry.
In The Borderers he addresses the relations of language and intellect
head on, displaying his willingness, and even eagerness, to abandon
certain activist and intellectual principles around which he had once
organized his life, as well as the assumptions about language that had
informed those principles. At the same time, however, he refuses to
condemn the power of language, which is exemplified so disturbingly
in the character of Rivers. As a poet, he wished to defend and preserve
that power. He sought to do this by dislodging it from the principles
of cold reason that had once underwritten his political thought and


      Till all the band of play-mates wept together,
      And that was the beginning of my love. (I.i.65-68)

In the exchanges between Matilda and her father too, tales are situated
in a context of mutual regard, where the only (and sufficient) proof of
the tale is the affection which underlies it. When Herbert describes his
past, the loss of his lands, and his efforts to aid his young daughter,
he reminds her that

      ... Thou has been told
      That when, on our return from Palestine,
      I found that my domains had been usurped,
      I took thee in my arms, and we began
      Our wanderings together. Providence
      At length conducted us to Rossland. There
      Our melancholy story moved a stranger
      To take thee to her home. (I.i. 159-66)

And finally Wordsworth presents the drama itself as a tale meant to
show the dangers of language when it is spun entirely out of pure
intellect. After Mortimer discovers that he has been manipulated into
killing an innocent man he states: "Raise on this lonely Heath a monu-
ment / That may record my story for warning" (V.iii.262-63). The
drama implies that such tales as Mortimer's are meant to be seen as
uplifting because they do not require reasoned response and are not
geared to engage the intellect alone; they are motivated and checked
by feeling.
As the foregoing sketch suggests, for Wordsworth in 1795 the prob-
lem of the independent intellect was also a problem of language, and
thus it had direct implications for his theory and writing of poetry.
In The Borderers he addresses the relations of language and intellect
head on, displaying his willingness, and even eagerness, to abandon
certain activist and intellectual principles around which he had once
organized his life, as well as the assumptions about language that had
informed those principles. At the same time, however, he refuses to
condemn the power of language, which is exemplified so disturbingly
in the character of Rivers. As a poet, he wished to defend and preserve
that power. He sought to do this by dislodging it from the principles
of cold reason that had once underwritten his political thought and


      Till all the band of play-mates wept together,
      And that was the beginning of my love. (L.i.65-68)

In the exchanges between Matilda and her father too, tales are situated
in a context of mutual regard, where the only (and sufficient) proof of
the tale is the affection which underlies it. When Herbert describes his
past, the loss of his lands, and his efforts to aid his young daughter,
he reminds her that

      ... Thou has been told
      That when, on our return from Palestine,
      I found that my domains had been usurped,
      I took thee in my arms, and we began
      Our wanderings together. Providence
      At length conducted us to Rossland. There
      Our melancholy story moved a stranger
      To take thee to her home. (Ii..159-66)

And finally Wordsworth presents the drama itself as a tale meant to
show the dangers of language when it is spun entirely out of pure
intellect. After Mortimer discovers that he has been manipulated into
killing an innocent man he states: "Raise on this lonely Heath a monu-
ment / That may record my story for warning" (V.iii.262-63). The
drama implies that such tales as Mortimer's are meant to be seen as
uplifting because they do not require reasoned response and are not
geared to engage the intellect alone; they are motivated and checked
by feeling.
As the foregoing sketch suggests, for Wordsworth in 1795 the prob-
lem of the independent intellect was also a problem of language, and
thus it had direct implications for his theory and writing of poetry.
In The Borderers he addresses the relations of language and intellect
head on, displaying his willingness, and even eagerness, to abandon
certain activist and intellectual principles around which he had once
organized his life, as well as the assumptions about language that had
informed those principles. At the same time, however, he refuses to
condemn the power of language, which is exemplified so disturbingly
in the character of Rivers. As a poet, he wished to defend and preserve
that power. He sought to do this by dislodging it from the principles
of cold reason that had once underwritten his political thought and



Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 17   Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 17   Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 17


activity, and situating it instead in the proper sphere of a depoliticized
human affection, which, he believed, was permanent and moral.
The implicit assumptions that energize this portrayal of language
in The Borderers are set out more or less explicitly a few years later
in the "Preface" to the second edition of the Lyrical Ballads (t800),
which provides an important gloss on the earlier work. In the "Pref-
ace" Wordsworth attempts to set down in systematic form his ideas
about what poetic language-and, more generally, noble or virtuous
language-should be. His aim in the Lyrical Ballads, he says, was to fit
"to metrical arrangement a selection of the real language of men in a
state of vivid sensation" (118); to determine "in what manner language
and the human mind act and react on each other" (120); and to capture
"the best objects from which the best part of language is originally
derived" (124).? His hope in pursuing this goal was to discover and
present "a more permanent and far more philosophical language than
that which is frequently substituted for it by Poets" (124).
  This position, and the poetic elaboration of it in the poems of the
Lyrical Ballads, sets the tone for much of the poetry of the Romantic
period, and certainly it has, almost single-handedly, shaped critical
thinking about Romanticism for much of this century. Its distin-
guishing characteristic is its assumption that "the best part of lan-
guage," poetic and otherwise, is located in a prepolitical environment
of agrarian or pastoral integrity, virtue, and sincerity, where personal
regard is possible. In addition, it assumes (and even fears) that not
to work self-consciously to advance the permanent and universal di-
mension of language-where human feeling can flourish-is to run
the risk of having language taken over by "the great national events
which are daily taking place, and the increasing accumulation of men
in cities, where the uniformity of their occupations produces a craving
for extraordinary incident which the rapid communications of intelli-
gence hourly gratifies" (128). Explicitly rejecting the political turmoil
and social upheaval in England and Europe, the Wordsworth of the
"Preface" defends the possibility of a transhistorical and redemptive
sphere of unmediated language.
  At the same time, however, in breaking with the decorum and
formal restraints of the poetic language of a previous historical period,
Wordsworth advances a seemingly progressive and even democratic
stance in his defense of "the real language of men," a strategy that


activity, and situating it instead in the proper sphere of a depoliticized
human affection, which, he believed, was permanent and moral.
The implicit assumptions that energize this portrayal of language
in The Borderers are set out more or less explicitly a few years later
in the "Preface" to the second edition of the Lyrical Ballads (1800),
which provides an important gloss on the earlier work. In the "Pref-
ace" Wordsworth attempts to set down in systematic form his ideas
about what poetic language-and, more generally, noble or virtuous
language-should be. His aim in the Lyrical Ballads, he says, was to fit
"to metrical arrangement a selection of the real language of men in a
state of vivid sensation" (118); to determine "in what manner language
and the human mind act and react on each other" (120); and to capture
"the best objects from which the best part of language is originally
derived" (124)?.2 His hope in pursuing this goal was to discover and
present "a more permanent and far more philosophical language than
that which is frequently substituted for it by Poets" (124).
  This position, and the poetic elaboration of it in the poems of the
Lyrical Ballads, sets the tone for much of the poetry of the Romantic
period, and certainly it has, almost single-handedly, shaped critical
thinking about Romanticism for much of this century. Its distin-
guishing characteristic is its assumption that "the best part of lan-
guage," poetic and otherwise, is located in a prepolitical environment
of agrarian or pastoral integrity, virtue, and sincerity, where personal
regard is possible. In addition, it assumes (and even fears) that not
to work self-consciously to advance the permanent and universal di-
mension of language-where human feeling can flourish-is to run
the risk of having language taken over by "the great national events
which are daily taking place, and the increasing accumulation of men
in cities, where the uniformity of their occupations produces a craving
for extraordinary incident which the rapid communications of intelli-
gence hourly gratifies" (128). Explicitly rejecting the political turmoil
and social upheaval in England and Europe, the Wordsworth of the
"Preface" defends the possibility of a transhistorical and redemptive
sphere of unmediated language.
  At the same time, however, in breaking with the decorum and
formal restraints of the poetic language of a previous historical period,
Wordsworth advances a seemingly progressive and even democratic
stance in his defense of "the real language of men," a strategy that


activity, and situating it instead in the proper sphere of a depoliticized
human affection, which, he believed, was permanent and moral.
The implicit assumptions that energize this portrayal of language
in The Borderers are set out more or less explicitly a few years later
in the "Preface" to the second edition of the Lyrical Ballads (180),
which provides an important gloss on the earlier work. In the "Pref-
ace" Wordsworth attempts to set down in systematic form his ideas
about what poetic language-and, more generally, noble or virtuous
language-should be. His aim in the Lyrical Ballads, he says, was to fit
"to metrical arrangement a selection of the real language of men in a
state of vivid sensation" (118); to determine "in what manner language
and the human mind act and react on each other" (120); and to capture
"the best objects from which the best part of language is originally
derived" (124).? His hope in pursuing this goal was to discover and
present "a more permanent and far more philosophical language than
that which is frequently substituted for it by Poets" (124).
  This position, and the poetic elaboration of it in the poems of the
Lyrical Ballads, sets the tone for much of the poetry of the Romantic
period, and certainly it has, almost single-handedly, shaped critical
thinking about Romanticism for much of this century. Its distin-
guishing characteristic is its assumption that "the best part of lan-
guage," poetic and otherwise, is located in a prepolitical environment
of agrarian or pastoral integrity, virtue, and sincerity, where personal
regard is possible. In addition, it assumes (and even fears) that not
to work self-consciously to advance the permanent and universal di-
mension of language-where human feeling can flourish-is to run
the risk of having language taken over by "the great national events
which are daily taking place, and the increasing accumulation of men
in cities, where the uniformity of their occupations produces a craving
for extraordinary incident which the rapid communications of intelli-
gence hourly gratifies" (128). Explicitly rejecting the political turmoil
and social upheaval in England and Europe, the Wordsworth of the
"Preface" defends the possibility of a transhistorical and redemptive
sphere of unmediated language.
  At the same time, however, in breaking with the decorum and
formal restraints of the poetic language of a previous historical period,
Wordsworth advances a seemingly progressive and even democratic
stance in his defense of "the real language of men," a strategy that



18/gishRmni Drm                           1 Englsh Roani Drm                      18/EgihRmnirm


seems calculated to allow Wordsworth to have his politics and reject
them too. In fact, the gesture of democratic sympathy is one that re-
jects the hard politics of "the great national events" and "the increasing
accumulation of men in cities," and would find the highest human
value in a language expressive only of personal life without regard to
social exchange, social class, and social struggle. This is exactly the
ideological perspective informing The Borderers, which not only rejects
the language games indulged in by Rivers but also embraces-in the
portrayals of Herbert and Matilda, and of Mortimer's tragic lesson-
a pure language of the heart, untouched by political reality. The im-
plicit assumption of this view, presented tentatively in The Borderers
and more confidently in the "Preface," is that all political attempts to
disrupt established structures of social authority should be resisted in
favor of higher, natural, universalistic forms of commitment.
  That this position, which would cleanse language and life of all ide-
ology, is itselfideologically burdened becomes clear when we consider
that it presumes an ahistorical and apolitical human nature-which
the best language can describe and celebrate-even as Rivers (in The
Borderers) and the "great national events" of the 1790s (described in
the "Preface") emphatically illustrate the politically charged nature of
human existence. That is, in giving over the self-interested mind and
language of Rivers for the other-interested affections and language of,
for example, the narrator in "Simon Lee," Wordsworth escapes into
a subjectivist theory of language and life. In denying the virtue of
the self-interested intellect, he accepts the virtue of private feelings;
in denying the domain of social and political exchange, he asserts a
domain ofpersonal exchange; in condemning the misuse of intellectu-
alized language, he celebrates only a language that refuses to intervene
in public struggle.
  In short, then, Wordsworth's concern with the possibility of a pure,
unmediated language in the mid-1790s must be regarded, at least on
one important level, as a sign of alienation and anxiety amid the tumul-
tuous changes reshaping the age. While the motivating impulse behind
The Borderers is a noble attempt to construct a basis for meaningful
human relationships, that attempt-as in much drama of the period-
took the form, as Fekete puts it, "of a value alternative or surrogate
experience outside the dominant social practices rather than the critical
edge of transformations within the frame of progress; [thus it became]
more a means of evaluation than a means of orientation for social


seems calculated to allow Wordsworth to have his politics and reject
them too. In fact, the gesture of democratic sympathy is one that re-
jects the hard politics of "the great national events" and "the increasing
accumulation of men in cities," and would find the highest human
value in a language expressive only of personal life without regard to
social exchange, social class, and social struggle. This is exactly the
ideological perspective informing The Borderers, which not only rejects
the language games indulged in by Rivers but also embraces-in the
portrayals of Herbert and Matilda, and of Mortimer's tragic lesson-
a pure language of the heart, untouched by political reality. The im-
plicit assumption of this view, presented tentatively in The Borderers
and more confidently in the "Preface," is that all political attempts to
disrupt established structures of social authority should be resisted in
favor of higher, natural, universalistic forms of commitment.
  That this position, which would cleanse language and life of all ide-
ology, is itself ideologically burdened becomes clear when we consider
that it presumes an ahistorical and apolitical human nature-which
the best language can describe and celebrate-even as Rivers (in The
Borderers) and the "great national events" of the 1790s (described in
the "Preface") emphatically illustrate the politically charged nature of
human existence. That is, in giving over the self-interested mind and
language of Rivers for the other-interested affections and language of,
for example, the narrator in "Simon Lee," Wordsworth escapes into
a subjectivist theory of language and life. In denying the virtue of
the self-interested intellect, he accepts the virtue of private feelings;
in denying the domain of social and political exchange, he asserts a
domain of personal exchange; in condemning the misuse of intellectu-
alized language, he celebrates only a language that refuses to intervene
in public struggle.
  In short, then, Wordsworth's concern with the possibility of a pure,
unmediated language in the mid-1790s must be regarded, at least on
one important level, as a sign of alienation and anxiety amid the tumul-
tuous changes reshaping the age. While the motivating impulse behind
The Borderers is a noble attempt to construct a basis for meaningful
human relationships, that attempt-as in much drama of the period-
took the form, as Fekete puts it, "of a value alternative or surrogate
experience outside the dominant social practices rather than the critical
edge of transformations within the frame of progress; [thus it became]
more a means of evaluation than a means of orientation for social


seems calculated to allow Wordsworth to have his politics and reject
them too. In fact, the gesture of democratic sympathy is one that re-
jects the hard politics of "the great national events" and "the increasing
accumulation of men in cities," and would find the highest human
value in a language expressive only of personal life without regard to
social exchange, social class, and social struggle. This is exactly the
ideological perspective informing The Borderers, which not only rejects
the language games indulged in by Rivers but also embraces-in the
portrayals of Herbert and Matilda, and of Mortimer's tragic lesson-
a pure language of the heart, untouched by political reality. The im-
plicit assumption of this view, presented tentatively in The Borderers
and more confidently in the "Preface," is that all political attempts to
disrupt established structures of social authority should be resisted in
favor of higher, natural, universalistic forms of commitment.
  That this position, which would cleanse language and life of all ide-
ology, is itself ideologically burdened becomes clear when we consider
that it presumes an ahistorical and apolitical human nature-which
the best language can describe and celebrate-even as Rivers (in The
Borderers) and the "great national events" of the 1790s (described in
the "Preface") emphatically illustrate the politically charged nature of
human existence. That is, in giving over the self-interested mind and
language of Rivers for the other-interested affections and language of,
for example, the narrator in "Simon Lee," Wordsworth escapes into
a subjectivist theory of language and life. In denying the virtue of
the self-interested intellect, he accepts the virtue of private feelings;
in denying the domain of social and political exchange, he asserts a
domain of personal exchange; in condemning the misuse of intellectu-
alized language, he celebrates only a language that refuses to intervene
in public struggle.
  In short, then, Wordsworth's concern with the possibility of a pure,
unmediated language in the mid-1790s must be regarded, at least on
one important level, as a sign of alienation and anxiety amid the tumul-
tuous changes reshaping the age. While the motivating impulse behind
The Borderers is a noble attempt to construct a basis for meaningful
human relationships, that attempt-as in much drama of the period-
took the form, as Fekete puts it, "of a value alternative or surrogate
experience outside the dominant social practices rather than the critical
edge of transformations within the frame of progress; (thus it became]
more a means of evaluation than a means of orientation for social



Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / u9   Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama /                     I Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama / 19


leverage."" Once the move in this direction was begun in The Bor-
derers, Wordsworth developed its principles fully in the "Preface" and
poems of the Lyrical Ballads, which are moralistic and value-laden but
which find their energy in a precapitalist and preindustrial agrarian
world-in a social world whose authority, by Wordsworth's day, had
irrevocably passed. To hold up this dead world as an alternative to the
admittedly dirty and corrupting world of industrial growth and land
enclosures is to minimize the political efficacy of poetry and to maxi-
mize its ideological function of diverting historical attention from the
prevailing structures of social authority and from the mechanisms of
political control.
  I am not suggesting that Wordsworth simply selected the wrong
topics to write about, but rather suggesting that what he did write
about is historically, politically, and socially implicated, and that often
it reflects an ideology of the isolated individual within an isolating and
alienating world. While the Lyrical Ballads may be regarded as Words-
worth's first mature expression of this ideology, The Borderers provides
an excellent example of the social context within which it arises--of
the contradictions, desires, and political struggles (in the form of the
Barons' Wars) that might contribute to the privatization of human
experience. This social context is the defining mark not only of The
Borderers but of Romantic drama generally.

The foregoing analysis of The Borderers focuses on what is probably the
single major difficulty that Romantic drama faced: the issues, and the
values underlying those issues, that the drama wishes to explore con-
cern the corruption and loss of social life, and its replacement with
personal or subjective life; this shift of imaginative emphasis from pub-
lic to personal life paralyzes dramatic representation, which depends
upon dynamic social exchange for its content. The Borderers, in other
words, faces the impossible task of dramatizing a negative (or declin-
ing) social energy, and an emerging, mainly subjective set of values.
The drama attempts to negotiate this overwhelming challenge by dis-
placing social exchange into tales of social exchange, thereby preserv-
ing the core subjectivity that is the drama's real concern, while at the
same time providing the necessary mechanisms for creating dramatic
movement.
  The dramatic inadequacy of this maneuver is not without its re-
wards. The attempt to depoliticize the social nexus, while at the same


leverage."-' Once the move in this direction was begun in The Bor-
derers, Wordsworth developed its principles fully in the "Preface" and
poems of the Lyrical Ballads, which are moralistic and value-laden but
which find their energy in a precapitalist and preindustrial agrarian
world-in a social world whose authority, by Wordsworth's day, had
irrevocably passed. To hold up this dead world as an alternative to the
admittedly dirty and corrupting world of industrial growth and land
enclosures is to minimize the political efficacy of poetry and to maxi-
mize its ideological function of diverting historical attention from the
prevailing structures of social authority and from the mechanisms of
political control.
  I am not suggesting that Wordsworth simply selected the wrong
topics to write about, but rather suggesting that what he did write
about is historically, politically, and socially implicated, and that often
it reflects an ideology of the isolated individual within an isolating and
alienating world. While the Lyrical Ballads may be regarded as Words-
worth's first mature expression of this ideology, The Borderers provides
an excellent example of the social context within which it arises-of
the contradictions, desires, and political struggles (in the form of the
Barons' Wars) that might contribute to the privatization of human
experience. This social context is the defining mark not only of The
Borderers but of Romantic drama generally.

The foregoing analysis of The Borderers focuses on what is probably the
single major difficulty that Romantic drama faced: the issues, and the
values underlying those issues, that the drama wishes to explore con-
cern the corruption and loss of social life, and its replacement with
personal or subjective life; this shift ofimaginative emphasis from pub-
lic to personal life paralyzes dramatic representation, which depends
upon dynamic social exchange for its content. The Borderers, in other
words, faces the impossible task of dramatizing a negative (or declin-
ing) social energy, and an emerging, mainly subjective set of values.
The drama attempts to negotiate this overwhelming challenge by dis-
placing social exchange into tales of social exchange, thereby preserv-
ing the core subjectivity that is the drama's real concern, while at the
same time providing the necessary mechanisms for creating dramatic
movement.
  The dramatic inadequacy of this maneuver is not without its re-
wards. The attempt to depoliticize the social nexus, while at the same


leverage."? Once the move in this direction was begun in The Bor-
derers, Wordsworth developed its principles fully in the "Preface" and
poems of the Lyrical Ballads, which are moralistic and value-laden but
which find their energy in a precapitalist and preindustrial agrarian
world-in a social world whose authority, by Wordsworth's day, had
irrevocably passed. To hold up this dead world as an alternative to the
admittedly dirty and corrupting world of industrial growth and land
enclosures is to minimize the political efficacy of poetry and to maxi-
mize its ideological function of diverting historical attention from the
prevailing structures of social authority and from the mechanisms of
political control.
  I am not suggesting that Wordsworth simply selected the wrong
topics to write about, but rather suggesting that what he did write
about is historically, politically, and socially implicated, and that often
it reflects an ideology of the isolated individual within an isolating and
alienating world. While the Lyrical Ballads may be regarded as Words-
worth's first mature expression of this ideology, The Borderers provides
an excellent example of the social context within which it arises-of
the contradictions, desires, and political struggles (in the form of the
Barons' Wars) that might contribute to the privatization of human
experience. This social context is the defining mark not only of The
Borderers but of Romantic drama generally.

The foregoing analysis of The Borderers focuses on what is probably the
single major difficulty that Romantic drama faced: the issues, and the
values underlying those issues, that the drama wishes to explore con-
cern the corruption and loss of social life, and its replacement with
personal or subjective life; this shift of imaginative emphasis from pub-
lic to personal life paralyzes dramatic representation, which depends
upon dynamic social exchange for its content. The Borderers, in other
words, faces the impossible task of dramatizing a negative (or declin-
ing) social energy, and an emerging, mainly subjective set of values.
The drama attempts to negotiate this overwhelming challenge by dis-
placing social exchange into tales of social exchange, thereby preserv-
ing the core subjectivity that is the drama's real concern, while at the
same time providing the necessary mechanisms for creating dramatic
movement.
  The dramatic inadequacy of this maneuver is not without its re-
wards. The attempt to depoliticize the social nexus, while at the same












             20 / English Romantic Drama

 time drawing upon it for dramatic motive and context, involves the
 play directly in numerous interesting ideological and political issues
 that Wordsworth's later lyric poetry conceals more successfully. First
 among these is the pervasive anxiety emerging from a fear of social
 life, and the attempt to alleviate that anxiety by retreating into the
 safer regions of personal life. The valorization of personal life vis-a-
 vis social entrapment entails a rejection of Enlightenment reason and
 its language ofthe head, and their replacement with Romantic subjec-
 tivity and its language of the heart. This Romanticization of language.
 moreover, is necessarily and obviously accompanied by a conserva-
 tive political gesture, one grounded in the assumption that human
 fulfillment is entirely a private affair.?t
 While few dramas of the period are as self-consciously intellectual
 as The Borderers, many contain similar sets of issues. They are marked
 by their sensitivity to questions of individual autonomy, social re-
 1tsponsibility, social stability, social transformation, the possibility of
qIuman value and fulfillment in a rapidly changing-apparently de-
teriorating-world. Surrounding these kinds of concern are questions
regarding the nature, place, and fate of the family, religion, the state,
law, and so on, and the proper relation of the individual to these strait-
ened institutions. In assuming, at the level of the political unconscious,
the end of the world as it was once known, Romantic drama casts into
relief both the crisis of that doomed world and the various historical
forces struggling to establish themselves in its place.


             20 / English Romantic Drama

 time drawing upon it for dramatic motive and context, involves the
 play directly in numerous interesting ideological and political issues
 that Wordsworth's later lyric poetry conceals more successfully. First
 among these is the pervasive anxiety emerging from a fear of social
 life, and the attempt to alleviate that anxiety by retreating into the
 safer regions of personal life. The valorization of personal life vis-a-
 vis social entrapment entails a rejection of Enlightenment reason and
 its language of the head, and their replacement with Romantic subjec-
 tivity and its language of the heart. This Romanticization of language,
 moreover, is necessarily and obviously accompanied by a conserva-
 tive political gesture, one grounded in the assumption that human
 fulfillment is entirely a private affair.?t
 While few dramas of the period are as self-consciously intellectual
 as The Borderers, many contain similar sets of issues. They are marked
 by their sensitivity to questions of individual autonomy, social re-
 5sponsibility, social stability, social transformation, the possibility of
qGhuman value and fulfillment in a rapidly changing-apparently de-
teriorating-world. Surrounding these kinds of concern are questions
regarding the nature, place, and fate of the family, religion, the state,
law, and so on, and the proper relation of the individual to these strait-
ened institutions. In assuming, at the level of the political unconscious,
the end of the world as it was once known, Romantic drama casts into
relief both the crisis of that doomed world and the various historical
forces struggling to establish themselves in its place.


             20 / English Romantic Drama

 time drawing upon it for dramatic motive and context, involves the
 play directly in numerous interesting ideological and political issues
 that Wordsworth's later lyric poetry conceals more successfully. First
 among these is the pervasive anxiety emerging from a fear of social
 life, and the attempt to alleviate that anxiety by retreating into the
 safer regions of personal life. The valorization of personal life vis-a-
 vis social entrapment entails a rejection of Enlightenment reason and
 its language of the head, and their replacement with Romantic subjec-
 tivity and its language of the heart. This Romanticization of language.
 moreover, is necessarily and obviously accompanied by a conserva-
 tive political gesture, one grounded in the assumption that human
 fulfillment is entirely a private affair.?t
 While few dramas of the period are as self-consciously intellectual
 as The Borderers, many contain similar sets of issues. They are marked
 by their sensitivity to questions of individual autonomy, social re-
 ,'sponsibility, social stability, social transformation, the possibility of
qhuman value and fulfillment in a rapidly changing-apparently de-
teriorating-world. Surrounding these kinds of concern are questions
regarding the nature, place, and fate of the family, religion, the state,
law, and so on, and the proper relation of the individual to these strait-
ened institutions. In assuming, at the level of the political unconscious,
the end of the world as it was once known, Romantic drama casts into
relief both the crisis of that doomed world and the various historical
forces struggling to establish themselves in its place.




CHAPTER


    2


CHAPTER


CHAPTER


                  "In That New World"

               Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio









In March 1797, when he began writing Osorio, Coleridge had not
yet retreated from radical politics, as is evidenced by his powerful
denunciation of England in "Ode to the Departing Year," written
only months earlier.' His approach to politics, however, had begun to
change by this time. The failure of The Watchman in May 1796 convinced
him that he was unsuited for the sort of active and public political life
he hitherto had pursued. Thus in December of that year he removed
to Nether Stowey, leaving the public world of politics to be attended
by such people as his radical friend John Thelwall, while Coleridge
himself set about channeling his political energies into poetry. Despite
reservations about the direction that the French Revolution had begun
to take, his commitment to the rebel cause, and his efforts to advance
that cause through poetry, remained more or less firm until 1798, when
France invaded the republic of Switzerland.'
   These well-known details have long provided a helpful frame of ref-
erence for discussion of Osorio, a work of questionable literary merit
but of tremendous intellectual importance for what it tells us about
Coleridge's politics in the 179os Written at the suggestion of Richard
Brinsley Sheridan for possible production at Drury Lane,' Osorio effec-
tively illustrates the sort of radical thinking with which Coleridge
wished to invest his poetry. The drama contains strong anti-Catholic,
antimilitary, and antiaristocratic sentiments, going so far as to project


                   "In That New World"

               Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio









In March 1797, when he began writing Osorio, Coleridge had not
yet retreated from radical politics, as is evidenced by his powerful
denunciation of England in "Ode to the Departing Year," written
only months earlier.' His approach to politics, however, had begun to
change by this time. The failure of The Watchman in May 1796 convinced
him that he was unsuited for the sort of active and public political life
he hitherto had pursued. Thus in December of that year he removed
to Nether Stowey, leaving the public world of politics to be attended
by such people as his radical friend John Thelwall, while Coleridge
himself set about channeling his political energies into poetry. Despite
reservations about the direction that the French Revolution had begun
to take, his commitment to the rebel cause, and his efforts to advance
that cause through poetry, remained more or less firm until 1798, when
France invaded the republic of Switzerland.'
   These well-known details have long provided a helpful frame of ref-
erence for discussion of Osorio, a work of questionable literary merit
but of tremendous intellectual importance for what it tells us about
Coleridge's politics in the 1790s.' Written at the suggestion of Richard
Brinsley Sheridan for possible production at Drury Lane,' Osorio effec-
tively illustrates the sort of radical thinking with which Coleridge
wished to invest his poetry. The drama contains strong anti-Catholic,
antimilitary, and antiaristocratic sentiments, going so far as to project


                   "In That New World"

               Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio









In March 1797, when he began writing Osorio, Coleridge had not
yet retreated from radical politics, as is evidenced by his powerful
denunciation of England in "Ode to the Departing Year," written
only months earlier.' His approach to politics, however, had begun to
change by this time. The failure of The Watchman in May 1796 convinced
him that he was unsuited for the sort of active and public political life
he hitherto had pursued. Thus in December of that year he removed
to Nether Stowey, leaving the public world of politics to be attended
by such people as his radical friend John Thelwall, while Coleridge
himself set about channeling his political energies into poetry. Despite
reservations about the direction that the French Revolution had begun
to take, his commitment to the rebel cause, and his efforts to advance
that cause through poetry, remained more or less firm until 1798, when
France invaded the republic of Switzerland.'
   These well-known details have long provided a helpful frame of ref-
erence for discussion of Osorio, a work of questionable literary merit
but of tremendous intellectual importance for what it tells us about
Coleridge's politics in the 1790s.' Written at the suggestion of Richard
Brinsley Sheridan for possible production at Drury Lane,' Osorio effec-
tively illustrates the sort of radical thinking with which Coleridge
wished to invest his poetry. The drama contains strong anti-Catholic,
antimilitary, and antiaristocratic sentiments, going so far as to project



            22 / English Romantic Drama

the ultimate triumph of the lower orders over aristocratic tyranny.'
Such details forcefully represent Coleridge's unwavering radicalism
and illustrate his self-conscious effort to elaborate and disseminate his
political ideas in works of the imagination.
Emphasis on local detail alone, however, while perhaps a necessary
starting point for investigating such a drama as Osorio, at the same time
risks limiting what can be said about its political and social dimen-
sions, for most often such emphasis uncritically accepts the explanatory
authority of empirical data, leaving larger historical considerations un-
examined. Put differently, data alone-whether drawn from plot or
biography-cannot satisfactorily explain the complex historical and
structural issues that become visible in Coleridge's efforts to formulate
and elaborate his politics through poetry. Investigation of biographical
information and plot issues can effectively locate the drama at the level
of historical conjuncture-that is, it helps us to know better Cole-
ridge's individual hopes and fears at a specific moment in the 1790s-
but says nothing about the place of the drama within the frame of
much longer and slower historical changes, or to illuminate the rela-
tion of Coleridge's political imagination to those changes. The result
is that, in addition to eliding, or obscuring, a potentially rich area
of inquiry, critical activity has locked itself into a position of para-
phrasing the political theme of the drama and of collecting additional
biographical details to elucidate that theme. Such efforts, which per-
haps embrace too readily the individualist problematic from which
Coleridge himself begins, risk unintentionally duplicating the ideo-
logical commitments-and predicament-of the writer and work that
they would explain.'
If historical investigation of Osorio is to overcome these kinds of
limitations, it must, in my view, develop a critical perspective that
would acknowledge the categories of biography, authorial intention,
and historical detail, but would at the same time decenter them by
placing them within the larger category of what Robert Weimann calls
the historical genesis of a text, thereby creating the possibility of gain-
ing critical distance on the political and historical values assigned to
the drama by Coleridge himself. According to Weimann, genesis tran-
scends local detail to embrace "that complex of historical origins by
which the temporal complication of literary images, themes, genres,
modes, and functions can be understood." It is "a more objective cate-
gory" than authorial intention, "referring to the total context of which


            22 / English Romantic Drama

the ultimate triumph of the lower orders over aristocratic tyranny.t
Such details forcefully represent Coleridge's unwavering radicalism
and illustrate his self-conscious effort to elaborate and disseminate his
political ideas in works of the imagination.
Emphasis on local detail alone, however, while perhaps a necessary
starting point for investigating such a drama as Osorio, at the same time
risks limiting what can be said about its political and social dimen-
sions, for most often such emphasis uncritically accepts the explanatory
authority of empirical data, leaving larger historical considerations un-
examined. Put differently, data alone-whether drawn from plot or
biography-cannot satisfactorily explain the complex historical and
structural issues that become visible in Coleridge's efforts to formulate
and elaborate his politics through poetry. Investigation of biographical
information and plot issues can effectively locate the drama at the level
of historical conjuncture-that is, it helps us to know better Cole-
ridge's individual hopes and fears at a specific moment in the 1790s-
but says nothing about the place of the drama within the frame of
much longer and slower historical changes, or to illuminate the rela-
tion of Coleridge's political imagination to those changes. The result
is that, in addition to eliding, or obscuring, a potentially rich area
of inquiry, critical activity has locked itself into a position of para-
phrasing the political theme of the drama and of collecting additional
biographical details to elucidate that theme. Such efforts, which per-
haps embrace too readily the individualist problematic from which
Coleridge himself begins, risk unintentionally duplicating the ideo-
logical commitments-and predicament-of the writer and work that
they would explain.'
If historical investigation of Osorio is to overcome these kinds of
limitations, it must, in my view, develop a critical perspective that
would acknowledge the categories of biography, authorial intention,
and historical detail, but would at the same time decenter them by
placing them within the larger category of what Robert Weimann calls
the historical genesis of a text, thereby creating the possibility of gain-
ing critical distance on the political and historical values assigned to
the drama by Coleridge himself. According to Weimann, genesis tran-
scends local detail to embrace "that complex of historical origins by
which the temporal complication of literary images, themes, genres,
modes, and functions can be understood." It is "a more objective cate-
gory" than authorial intention, "referring to the total context of which


            22 / English Romantic Drama

the ultimate triumph of the lower orders over aristocratic tyranny.
Such details forcefully represent Coleridge's unwavering radicalism
and illustrate his self-conscious effort to elaborate and disseminate his
political ideas in works of the imagination.
Emphasis on local detail alone, however, while perhaps a necessary
starting point for investigating such a drama as Osorio, at the same time
risks limiting what can be said about its political and social dimen-
sions, for most often such emphasis uncritically accepts the explanatory
authority of empirical data, leaving larger historical considerations un-
examined. Put differently, data alone-whether drawn from plot or
biography-cannot satisfactorily explain the complex historical and
structural issues that become visible in Coleridge's efforts to formulate
and elaborate his politics through poetry. Investigation of biographical
information and plot issues can effectively locate the drama at the level
of historical conjuncture-that is, it helps us to know better Cole-
ridge's individual hopes and fears at a specific moment in the 1790s-
but says nothing about the place of the drama within the frame of
much longer and slower historical changes, or to illuminate the rela-
tion of Coleridge's political imagination to those changes. The result
is that, in addition to eliding, or obscuring, a potentially rich area
of inquiry, critical activity has locked itself into a position of para-
phrasing the political theme of the drama and of collecting additional
biographical details to elucidate that theme. Such efforts, which per-
haps embrace too readily the individualist problematic from which
Coleridge himself begins, risk unintentionally duplicating the ideo-
logical commitments-and predicament-of the writer and work that
they would explain6
If historical investigation of Osorio is to overcome these kinds of
limitations, it must, in my view, develop a critical perspective that
would acknowledge the categories of biography, authorial intention,
and historical detail, but would at the same time decenter them by
placing them within the larger category of what Robert Weimann calls
the historical genesis of a text, thereby creating the possibility of gain-
ing critical distance on the political and historical values assigned to
the drama by Coleridge himself. According to Weimann, genesis tran-
scends local detail to embrace "that complex of historical origins by
which the temporal complication of literary images, themes, genres,
modes, and functions can be understood." It is "a more objective cate-
gory" than authorial intention, "referring to the total context of which



Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio / 23    Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio / 23    Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osoro / 23


the individual 'generative intention' is only a factor": "The artist's
private world is not the opposite of society, any more than the recog-
nition of the public world precludes a consideration of the creations of
men as individuals."' According to this view, biographical informa-
tion and expressive intention are not transparent categories but rather
emerge from within already present historical and social structures,
which alone are capable of explaining them.
To investigate Osorio from the perspective of its historical genesis is
to place critical emphasis on the social (rather than only literary) his-
tory within which the drama was written, as well as on the political
unconscious of the story being dramatized. One way (among others)
of developing this emphasis is to investigate the drama as both a prod-
uct of the structural change within society required by the transition in
England from an aristocratic to a bourgeois worldview, and as a regis-
ter of the sensibilities and consciousness accompanying that change. At
this level of investigation, historical anxiety and ideological confusion
become visible in Coleridge's story, illuminating some of the historical
limits within which his imagination was forced to operate and some
of the cultural allurements that drew him into their influence, even
as he directed his energies to other, sometimes even contradictory,
goals. In other words, this deeper level of textual activity discloses the
dialectical tensions that shaped Coleridge's poetic imagination, allow-
ing us to see how his expressed desire for liberty and human integrity
was occasionally and unwittingly betrayed by historical pressures that
controlled that desire. In short, the drama does more than provide a
gloss on Coleridge's mind or even on his expressed political views:
it offers a narrative of the complexity, political stakes, and depth of
structural-historical change.
  The presence and operation of these historical matters in Osorio can
be glimpsed by initially considering the probable political significance
that Coleridge attached to the setting. For the setting, perhaps more
readily than any other single feature, allows us to see the relationship
between certain positive details on the textual surface-that is, de-
tails under the control of authorial intention-and the larger historical
frames of reference that embrace, enliven, and (occasionally) subvert
the values traditionally attached to those details.
  The setting of Osorio-the Spain of Philip II shortly after "the civil
wars against the Moors, and during the heat of the persecution which
raged against them"--seems particularly well suited to Coleridge's


the individual 'generative intention' is only a factor": "The artist's
private world is not the opposite of society, any more than the recog-
nition of the public world precludes a consideration of the creations of
men as individuals."' According to this view, biographical informa-
tion and expressive intention are not transparent categories but rather
emerge from within already present historical and social structures,
which alone are capable of explaining them.
To investigate Osorio from the perspective of its historical genesis is
to place critical emphasis on the social (rather than only literary) his-
tory within which the drama was written, as well as on the political
unconscious of the story being dramatized. One way (among others)
of developing this emphasis is to investigate the drama as both a prod-
uct of the structural change within society required by the transition in
England from an aristocratic to a bourgeois worldview, and as a regis-
ter of the sensibilities and consciousness accompanying that change. At
this level of investigation, historical anxiety and ideological confusion
become visible in Coleridge's story, illuminating some of the historical
limits within which his imagination was forced to operate and some
of the cultural allurements that drew him into their influence, even
as he directed his energies to other, sometimes even contradictory,
goals. In other words, this deeper level of textual activity discloses the
dialectical tensions that shaped Coleridge's poetic imagination, allow-
ing us to see how his expressed desire for liberty and human integrity
was occasionally and unwittingly betrayed by historical pressures that
controlled that desire. In short, the drama does more than provide a
gloss on Coleridge's mind or even on his expressed political views:
it offers a narrative of the complexity, political stakes, and depth of
structural-historical change.
  The presence and operation of these historical matters in Osorio can
be glimpsed by initially considering the probable political significance
that Coleridge attached to the setting. For the setting, perhaps more
readily than any other single feature, allows us to see the relationship
between certain positive details on the textual surface-that is, de-
tails under the control of authorial intention-and the larger historical
frames of reference that embrace, enliven, and (occasionally) subvert
the values traditionally attached to those details.
  The setting of Osorio-the Spain of Philip II shortly after "the civil
wars against the Moors, and during the heat of the persecution which
raged against them"'-seems particularly well suited to Coleridge's


the individual 'generative intention' is only a factor": "The artist's
private world is not the opposite of society, any more than the recog-
nition of the public world precludes a consideration of the creations of
men as individuals."7 According to this view, biographical informa-
tion and expressive intention are not transparent categories but rather
emerge from within already present historical and social structures,
which alone are capable of explaining them.
To investigate Osorio from the perspective of its historical genesis is
to place critical emphasis on the social (rather than only literary) his-
tory within which the drama was written, as well as on the political
unconscious of the story being dramatized. One way (among others)
of developing this emphasis is to investigate the drama as both a prod-
uct of the structural change within society required by the transition in
England from an aristocratic to a bourgeois worldview, and as a regis-
ter of the sensibilities and consciousness accompanying that change. At
this level of investigation, historical anxiety and ideological confusion
become visible in Coleridge's story, illuminating some of the historical
limits within which his imagination was forced to operate and some
of the cultural allurements that drew him into their influence, even
as he directed his energies to other, sometimes even contradictory,
goals. In other words, this deeper level of textual activity discloses the
dialectical tensions that shaped Coleridge's poetic imagination, allow-
ing us to see how his expressed desire for liberty and human integrity
was occasionally and unwittingly betrayed by historical pressures that
controlled that desire. In short, the drama does more than provide a
gloss on Coleridge's mind or even on his expressed political views:
it offers a narrative of the complexity, political stakes, and depth of
structural-historical change.
  The presence and operation of these historical matters in Osorio can
be glimpsed by initially considering the probable political significance
that Coleridge attached to the setting. For the setting, perhaps more
readily than any other single feature, allows us to see the relationship
between certain positive details on the textual surface-that is, de-
tails under the control of authorial intention-and the larger historical
frames of reference that embrace, enliven, and (occasionally) subvert
the values traditionally attached to those details.
  The setting of Osorio-the Spain of Philip II shortly after "the civil
wars against the Moors, and during the heat of the persecution which
raged against them"t-seems particularly well suited to Coleridge's



24 / English Romantic Drama              24 / English Romantic Drama              24 / English Romantic Drama


immediate political and poetic interests. The world of Philip II had
long held a prominent place in the British imagination, as it is filled
with important figures from British history, not least among them
Sir Francis Drake and "Bloody" Mary Tudor, the latter of whom was
briefly married to Philip and who, before her death, seemed willing
to help Philip bring England under Spanish rule. It was, moreover, a
world where the Catholic church ruled supreme-often by force, in
the form of the Inquisition-and threatened to reclaim its authority
over England. Finally, it was a world in which actual war between
Spain and England erupted, with the famous failed attack of Philip's
Armada in 1588 effectively shifting world historical momentum from
Spain to England. In writing about sixteenth-century Spain, then,
Coleridge was describing a familiar and exotic past world that his
audience could comfortably condemn, while at the same time taking
pride in the successes of their own nation against an imperialist and
religiously dogmatic enemy.
Even while the setting plays to long-standing British biases against
Spain, Coleridge interestingly undermines those biases by using the
setting as the basis for a displaced commentary on the British govern-
ment of the 1790s. His characterization of Philip's world strikingly
resembles the England of his own day, which was marked by a repres-
sive and often violent government that sought to crush all resistance-
especially the popular opposition to the war with France-and to allay
the fears of a ruling elite who felt the threat of a revolutionary uprising
within its own borders. Further, the imperialistic exploits of Spain
in the sixteenth century were not radically different from those of
England in the eighteenth, as exemplified most readily by the hugely
profitable (and hotly debated) slave trade that England conducted until
the early part of the nineteenth century. If the immediate effect of the
drama is to display the political and social failures of Spain, clearly a
deeper intention is to warn that England in the 1790s could run the
same risk of failure. In these respects, at least, as Coleridge's sophis-
ticated irony insists, the anti-Spanish sentiments voiced in the drama
are also anti-British sentiments.
  Although the setting is doubtless intended by Coleridge both to ap-
peal to a projected Drury Lane audience and to provide a context for
exposing the political naivete of that audience, at the same time it calls
into play certain historical crosscurrents that politicize the text in still
different, often complex, ways that would seem at odds with the more


immediate political and poetic interests. The world of Philip II had
long held a prominent place in the British imagination, as it is filled
with important figures from British history, not least among them
Sir Francis Drake and "Bloody" Mary Tudor, the latter of whom was
briefly married to Philip and who, before her death, seemed willing
to help Philip bring England under Spanish rule. It was, moreover, a
world where the Catholic church ruled supreme-often by force, in
the form of the Inquisition-and threatened to reclaim its authority
over England. Finally, it was a world in which actual war between
Spain and England erupted, with the famous failed attack of Philip's
Armada in 1588 effectively shifting world historical momentum from
Spain to England. In writing about sixteenth-century Spain, then,
Coleridge was describing a familiar and exotic past world that his
audience could comfortably condemn, while at the same time taking
pride in the successes of their own nation against an imperialist and
religiously dogmatic enemy.
Even while the setting plays to long-standing British biases against
Spain, Coleridge interestingly undermines those biases by using the
setting as the basis for a displaced commentary on the British govern-
ment of the 1790s. His characterization of Philip's world strikingly
resembles the England of his own day, which was marked by a repres-
sive and often violent government that sought to crush all resistance-
especially the popular opposition to the war with France-and to allay
the fears of a ruling elite who felt the threat ofa revolutionary uprising
within its own borders. Further, the imperialistic exploits of Spain
in the sixteenth century were not radically different from those of
England in the eighteenth, as exemplified most readily by the hugely
profitable (and hotly debated) slave trade that England conducted until
the early part of the nineteenth century. If the immediate effect of the
drama is to display the political and social failures of Spain, clearly a
deeper intention is to warn that England in the 1790s could run the
same risk of failure. In these respects, at least, as Coleridge's sophis-
ticated irony insists, the anti-Spanish sentiments voiced in the drama
are also anti-British sentiments.
  Although the setting is doubtless intended by Coleridge both to ap-
peal to a projected Drury Lane audience and to provide a context for
exposing the political naivet6 of that audience, at the same time it calls
into play certain historical crosscurrents that politicize the text in still
different, often complex, ways that would seem at odds with the more


immediate political and poetic interests. The world of Philip II had
long held a prominent place in the British imagination, as it is filled
with important figures from British history, not least among them
Sir Francis Drake and "Bloody" Mary Tudor, the latter of whom was
briefly married to Philip and who, before her death, seemed willing
to help Philip bring England under Spanish rule. It was, moreover, a
world where the Catholic church ruled supreme-often by force, in
the form of the Inquisition-and threatened to reclaim its authority
over England. Finally, it was a world in which actual war between
Spain and England erupted, with the famous failed attack of Philip's
Armada in 1588 effectively shifting world historical momentum from
Spain to England. In writing about sixteenth-century Spain, then,
Coleridge was describing a familiar and exotic past world that his
audience could comfortably condemn, while at the same time taking
pride in the successes of their own nation against an imperialist and
religiously dogmatic enemy.
Even while the setting plays to long-standing British biases against
Spain, Coleridge interestingly undermines those biases by using the
setting as the basis for a displaced commentary on the British govern-
ment of the 1790s. His characterization of Philip's world strikingly
resembles the England of his own day, which was marked by a repres-
sive and often violent government that sought to crush all resistance-
especially the popular opposition to the war with France-and to allay
the fears of a ruling elite who felt the threat of a revolutionary uprising
within its own borders. Further, the imperialistic exploits of Spain
in the sixteenth century were not radically different from those of
England in the eighteenth, as exemplified most readily by the hugely
profitable (and hotly debated) slave trade that England conducted until
the early part of the nineteenth century. If the immediate effect of the
drama is to display the political and social failures of Spain, clearly a
deeper intention is to warn that England in the 1790s could run the
same risk of failure. In these respects, at least, as Coleridge's sophis-
ticated irony insists, the anti-Spanish sentiments voiced in the drama
are also anti-British sentiments.
  Although the setting is doubtless intended by Coleridge both to ap-
peal to a projected Drury Lane audience and to provide a context for
exposing the political naivete of that audience, at the same time it calls
into play certain historical crosscurrents that politicize the text in still
different, often complex, ways that would seem at odds with the more



Saue TayorColrigesoi / g5Sme                 alrCoeig' sn /* U25lt                Saue Talo Coflerdg' Oois


obvious political message just described. By setting his story in the
sixteenth century-at the time of the struggles between England and
Spain-while at the same time drawing historical parallels to his own
day, Coleridge broadens the historical scope of the drama to embrace
the formative era of the making of the middle class, and it is at this
level that political and historical reality slips out of authorial control.
This era-with its moments of creative brilliance in the Renaissance
and the Romantic periods-entailed not only the obvious destruction
of an aristocratic worldview but also-what was more difficult to see
in the later eighteenth century-the replacement of this worldview by
bourgeois structures of feeling and value. While the specific tensions
between old and new worlds never manifest themselves in the plot
of the drama (for instance, none of the characters is from the middle
class), they nevertheless energize and shape its deep structure; indeed,
they are the necessary material condition for the actions portrayed-
appearing in a multitude of features and details that make little sense
except in terms of far-reaching social and historical change. At this
deeper level of textual activity, authorial intention is of little help to
critical investigation-except insofar as it provides a guide to Cole-
ridge's particular understanding of historical process-for Coleridge
himself is implicated in (his work and imagination are products of) the
very sort of turmoil and change that are presented in the drama. The
particular dramatic details, the particular emphases on conflict, and
the authorial insistence on what is historically and dramatically deci-
sive are themselves historically determined, even as Coleridge chooses
them for and enlivens them in the text of the play.
  What I am suggesting here is that the radical political stress of the
drama-particularly the anti-Catholic, antiaristocratic interests-de-
velops within a specifically bourgeois set of values that are implicitly
endorsed by Coleridge and assumed finally to transcend history itself in
permanent victory. One simple detail will help to illustrate the nature
and extent of Coleridge's ideological blindness in his appropriation
of historical detail for dramatic purposes. According to the stage note
introducing the play, Philip persecuted the Moors who lived in Spain
in the sixteenth century. The dramatic action that follows allows an
audience to assume that, because the forces supporting Alhadra expose
and promise to punish the villainy of Osorio, the Moors are successful
in their resistance to this persecution. In fact, however, as Coleridge
himself knew, the Moors-whose presence in the drama constitutes


obvious political message just described. By setting his story in the
sixteenth century-at the time of the struggles between England and
Spain-while at the same time drawing historical parallels to his own
day, Coleridge broadens the historical scope of the drama to embrace
the formative era of the making of the middle class, and it is at this
level that political and historical reality slips out of authorial control.
This era-with its moments of creative brilliance in the Renaissance
and the Romantic periods-entailed not only the obvious destruction
of an aristocratic worldview but also-what was more difficult to see
in the later eighteenth century-the replacement of this worldview by
bourgeois structures of feeling and value. While the specific tensions
between old and new worlds never manifest themselves in the plot
of the drama (for instance, none of the characters is from the middle
class), they nevertheless energize and shape its deep structure; indeed,
they are the necessary material condition for the actions portrayed-
appearing in a multitude of features and details that make little sense
except in terms of far-reaching social and historical change. At this
deeper level of textual activity, authorial intention is of little help to
critical investigation-except insofar as it provides a guide to Cole-
ridge's particular understanding of historical process-for Coleridge
himself is implicated in (his work and imagination are products of) the
very sort of turmoil and change that are presented in the drama. The
particular dramatic details, the particular emphases on conflict, and
the authorial insistence on what is historically and dramatically deci-
sive are themselves historically determined, even as Coleridge chooses
them for and enlivens them in the text of the play.
  What I am suggesting here is that the radical political stress of the
drama-particularly the anti-Catholic, antiaristocratic interests-de-
velops within a specifically bourgeois set of values that are implicitly
endorsed by Coleridge and assumed finally to transcend history itself in
permanent victory. One simple detail will help to illustrate the nature
and extent of Coleridge's ideological blindness in his appropriation
of historical detail for dramatic purposes. According to the stage note
introducing the play, Philip persecuted the Moors who lived in Spain
in the sixteenth century. The dramatic action that follows allows an
audience to assume that, because the forces supporting Alhadra expose
and promise to punish the villainy of Osorio, the Moors are successful
in their resistance to this persecution. In fact, however, as Coleridge
himself knew, the Moors-whose presence in the drama constitutes


obvious political message just described. By setting his story in the
sixteenth century-at the time of the struggles between England and
Spain-while at the same time drawing historical parallels to his own
day, Coleridge broadens the historical scope of the drama to embrace
the formative era of the making of the middle class, and it is at this
level that political and historical reality slips out of authorial control.
This era-with its moments of creative brilliance in the Renaissance
and the Romantic periods-entailed not only the obvious destruction
of an aristocratic worldview but also-what was more difficult to see
in the later eighteenth century-the replacement of this worldview by
bourgeois structures of feeling and value. While the specific tensions
between old and new worlds never manifest themselves in the plot
of the drama (for instance, none of the characters is from the middle
class), they nevertheless energize and shape its deep structure; indeed,
they are the necessary material condition for the actions portrayed-
appearing in a multitude of features and details that make little sense
except in terms of far-reaching social and historical change. At this
deeper level of textual activity, authorial intention is of little help to
critical investigation-except insofar as it provides a guide to Cole-
ridge's particular understanding of historical process-for Coleridge
himself is implicated in (his work and imagination are products of) the
very sort of turmoil and change that are presented in the drama. The
particular dramatic details, the particular emphases on conflict, and
the authorial insistence on what is historically and dramatically deci-
sive are themselves historically determined, even as Coleridge chooses
them for and enlivens them in the text of the play.
  What I am suggesting here is that the radical political stress of the
drama-particularly the anti-Catholic, antiaristocratic interests-de-
velops within a specifically bourgeois set of values that are implicitly
endorsed by Coleridge and assumed finally to transcend history itself in
permanent victory. One simple detail will help to illustrate the nature
and extent of Coleridge's ideological blindness in his appropriation
of historical detail for dramatic purposes. According to the stage note
introducing the play, Philip persecuted the Moors who lived in Spain
in the sixteenth century. The dramatic action that follows allows an
audience to assume that, because the forces supporting Alhadra expose
and promise to punish the villainy of Osorio, the Moors are successful
in their resistance to this persecution. In fact, however, as Coleridge
himself knew, the Moors-whose presence in the drama constitutes



            26 / English Romantic Drama

its major plot-level public event-were brutally crushed by Philip II.
The omission of this historical fact, accompanied by the implicit con-
clusion that Alhadra and her followers win justice, allows and perhaps
encourages a misreading of history by hinting that social stability fol-
lows directly on the fall of the house of Velez, though of course further
social misery-at least for the Moors, who are lower-class people of
color-is what in fact follows.' Such misrepresentation-or, at the
very least, incomplete representation-ofhistory arises, as I shall argue
in detail momentarily, not from Coleridge's desire to withhold infor-
mation but rather from his own deep-seated desire for stability in the
face ofcertain and extreme instability. The social contours of this desire
become visible, in this instance, only after we learn what Coleridge's
text has not shown us. A historical detail that lies entirely outside both
textual and thematic grounds, once brought to the surface, forces a
different sort of reading of Coleridge's presentation of history and of
the characters in the drama who participate in that history.
I want now to turn directly to the drama itself in an attempt to
sketch the workings of its political unconscious. While I do not pro-
vide an exhaustive analysis of the many layers of social life registered
in the drama, my general critique shows that, whatever its expressed
intention and despite the nature of its plot-level episodes, the drama's
unifying ideology is class specific, advancing a bourgeois position not
only against aristocratic authority but also against lower-class needs,
desires, and claims. The personal crises that are presented, the com-
mentary on religion and the aristocracy, the handling of race and
class-all are historically significant insofar as they are presented and
defined by middle-class structures of feeling and desire that in the
1790s were struggling to be born.

The central feature of Osorio is historical anxiety, specifically anxiety
among an aristocracy whose social authority is seriously disintegrating
even as the drama opens. Aristocratic daughters refuse to do what is ex-
pected of them by aristocratic fathers; aristocratic brothers attempt to
kill their brothers; aristocratic religion is far removed from the Chris-
tian love and charity that are its ostensible center, instead supporting
the commands of blind power and justifying the enforcement of law
by physical force. These events, attitudes, and practices, while in the
beginning seeming entirely personal in nature, ultimately constitute
a rupture within aristocratic society, infecting the entire aristocratic


            26 / English Romantic Drama

its major plot-level public event-were brutally crushed by Philip II.
The omission of this historical fact, accompanied by the implicit con-
clusion that Alhadra and her followers win justice, allows and perhaps
encourages a misreading of history by hinting that social stability fol-
lows directly on the fall of the house of Velez, though of course further
social misery-at least for the Moors, who are lower-class people of
color-is what in fact follows.t Such misrepresentation-or, at the
very least, incomplete representation-of history arises, as I shall argue
in detail momentarily, not from Coleridge's desire to withhold infor-
mation but rather from his own deep-seated desire for stability in the
face of certain and extreme instability. The social contours of this desire
become visible, in this instance, only after we learn what Coleridge's
text has not shown us. A historical detail that lies entirely outside both
textual and thematic grounds, once brought to the surface, forces a
different sort of reading of Coleridge's presentation of history and of
the characters in the drama who participate in that history.
I want now to turn directly to the drama itself in an attempt to
sketch the workings of its political unconscious. While I do not pro-
vide an exhaustive analysis of the many layers of social life registered
in the drama, my general critique shows that, whatever its expressed
intention and despite the nature of its plot-level episodes, the drama's
unifying ideology is class specific, advancing a bourgeois position not
only against aristocratic authority but also against lower-class needs,
desires, and claims. The personal crises that are presented, the com-
mentary on religion and the aristocracy, the handling of race and
class-all are historically significant insofar as they are presented and
defined by middle-class structures of feeling and desire that in the
1790s were struggling to be born.

The central feature of Osorio is historical anxiety, specifically anxiety
among an aristocracy whose social authority is seriously disintegrating
even as the drama opens. Aristocratic daughters refuse to do what is ex-
pected of them by aristocratic fathers; aristocratic brothers attempt to
kill their brothers; aristocratic religion is far removed from the Chris-
tian love and charity that are its ostensible center, instead supporting
the commands of blind power and justifying the enforcement of law
by physical force. These events, attitudes, and practices, while in the
beginning seeming entirely personal in nature, ultimately constitute
a rupture within aristocratic society, infecting the entire aristocratic


            26 / English Romantic Drama

its major plot-level public event-were brutally crushed by Philip II.
The omission of this historical fact, accompanied by the implicit con-
clusion that Alhadra and her followers win justice, allows and perhaps
encourages a misreading of history by hinting that social stability fol-
lows directly on the fall of the house of Velez, though of course further
social misery-at least for the Moors, who are lower-class people of
color-is what in fact follows.' Such misrepresentation-or, at the
very least, incomplete representation-ofhistory arises, as I shall argue
in detail momentarily, not from Coleridge's desire to withhold infor-
mation but rather from his own deep-seated desire for stability in the
face of certain and extreme instability. The social contours of this desire
become visible, in this instance, only after we learn what Coleridge's
text has not shown us. A historical detail that lies entirely outside both
textual and thematic grounds, once brought to the surface, forces a
different sort of reading of Coleridge's presentation of history and of
the characters in the drama who participate in that history.
I want now to turn directly to the drama itself in an attempt to
sketch the workings of its political unconscious. While I do not pro-
vide an exhaustive analysis of the many layers of social life registered
in the drama, my general critique shows that, whatever its expressed
intention and despite the nature of its plot-level episodes, the drama's
unifying ideology is class specific, advancing a bourgeois position not
only against aristocratic authority but also against lower-class needs,
desires, and claims. The personal crises that are presented, the com-
mentary on religion and the aristocracy, the handling of race and
class-all are historically significant insofar as they are presented and
defined by middle-class structures of feeling and desire that in the
1790s were struggling to be born.

The central feature of Osorio is historical anxiety, specifically anxiety
among an aristocracy whose social authority is seriously disintegrating
even as the drama opens. Aristocratic daughters refuse to do what is ex-
pected of them by aristocratic fathers; aristocratic brothers attempt to
kill their brothers; aristocratic religion is far removed from the Chris-
tian love and charity that are its ostensible center, instead supporting
the commands of blind power and justifying the enforcement of law
by physical force. These events, attitudes, and practices, while in the
beginning seeming entirely personal in nature, ultimately constitute
a rupture within aristocratic society, infecting the entire aristocratic



          Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio / 27

state apparatus, challenging its underlying structures of value, eroding
its integrity, and destroying its ability to rule. The ideas of the ruling
class, at least in the particular moment of pervasive social turmoil de-
scribed in the play, are not the ideas of all society, and in the anxiety
issuing from this fact many social relations and ideological claims are
laid bare.
  One of the most obvious relations of aristocratic social life brought
into question in the drama involves gender. From the beginning Lord
Velez, father of Osorio and the individual of highest social rank por-
trayed in the drama, is depicted in paternalistic terms, as one who
takes for granted the sacred authority of aristocratic patriarchy and
who understands his patriarchal integrity in terms of his ability to
give gifts to those women over whom he holds power. In the open-
ing scene, for instance, when he attempts to persuade Maria to marry
Osorio (whom she does not love), his warm and fatherly treatment of
his adopted daughter (1.7-11) is accompanied by a gentle reminder that
her well-being has always depended upon his kindness. From his point
of view, Maria's very life has been preserved, protected, and nurtured
by the gift of his love and strength; when she was "a powerless babe"
(I 12), and her "mother with a mute entreaty / Fix'd her faint eyes on
mine [Lord Velez's]" (I.13-14), Lord Velez rescued and reared her as
his own child.
  That the seeming warmth and benevolence of this patriarchal atti-
tude in reality mask a hatred of women is shown later in the drama,
when it becomes obvious that Maria will not budge from her posi-
tion regarding Osorio. Lord Velez, once convinced of his adopted
daughter's immovable loyalty to Albert, turns absolutely and violently
against her, displaying explicitly the ugly power that had been hidden
by his seeming benevolence. He sneers at her, calls her a "thought-
less woman" (IV.ii.247), an "Ungrateful woman" (IV.ii.268), and ulti-
mately sends her from his house (IV.ii.274-76). The gift of protec-
tion that he had bestowed upon Maria, as his blunt and authoritarian
withdrawal of that gift makes plain, is at the same time a powerful
expression of domination. Maria's human worth is measured directly
in terms of her subservience to him; once she refuses to occupy a
subservient position, she is despised and rejected.
  The relation between Lord Velez and Maria, however, serves as
more than a sign of patriarchal villainy. The violence of Lord Velez's
response to Maria, by exposing the real hatred behind his patriarchal


          Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio / 27

state apparatus, challenging its underlying structures of value, eroding
its integrity, and destroying its ability to rule. The ideas of the ruling
class, at least in the particular moment of pervasive social turmoil de-
scribed in the play, are not the ideas of all society, and in the anxiety
issuing from this fact many social relations and ideological claims are
laid bare.
  One of the most obvious relations of aristocratic social life brought
into question in the drama involves gender. From the beginning Lord
Velez, father of Osorio and the individual of highest social rank por-
trayed in the drama, is depicted in paternalistic terms, as one who
takes for granted the sacred authority of aristocratic patriarchy and
who understands his patriarchal integrity in terms of his ability to
give gifts to those women over whom he holds power. In the open-
ing scene, for instance, when he attempts to persuade Maria to marry
Osorio (whom she does not love), his warm and fatherly treatment of
his adopted daughter (L 7-11) is accompanied by a gentle reminder that
her well-being has always depended upon his kindness. From his point
of view, Maria's very life has been preserved, protected, and nurtured
by the gift of his love and strength; when she was "a powerless babe"
(I. 12), and her "mother with a mute entreaty / Fix'd her faint eyes on
mine [Lord Velez's]" (I. t3-I4), Lord Velez rescued and reared her as
his own child.
  That the seeming warmth and benevolence of this patriarchal atti-
tude in reality mask a hatred of women is shown later in the drama,
when it becomes obvious that Maria will not budge from her posi-
tion regarding Osorio. Lord Velez, once convinced of his adopted
daughter's immovable loyalty to Albert, turns absolutely and violently
against her, displaying explicitly the ugly power that had been hidden
by his seeming benevolence. He sneers at her, calls her a "thought-
less woman" (IV.ii.247), an "Ungrateful woman" (IV.ii.268), and ulti-
mately sends her from his house (IV.ii.274-76). The gift of protec-
tion that he had bestowed upon Maria, as his blunt and authoritarian
withdrawal of that gift makes plain, is at the same time a powerful
expression of domination. Maria's human worth is measured directly
in terms of her subservience to him; once she refuses to occupy a
subservient position, she is despised and rejected.
  The relation between Lord Velez and Maria, however, serves as
more than a sign of patriarchal villainy. The violence of Lord Velez's
response to Maria, by exposing the real hatred behind his patriarchal


          Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio / 27

state apparatus, challenging its underlying structures of value, eroding
its integrity, and destroying its ability to rule. The ideas of the ruling
class, at least in the particular moment of pervasive social turmoil de-
scribed in the play, are not the ideas of all society, and in the anxiety
issuing from this fact many social relations and ideological claims are
laid bare.
  One of the most obvious relations of aristocratic social life brought
into question in the drama involves gender. From the beginning Lord
Velez, father of Osorio and the individual of highest social rank por-
trayed in the drama, is depicted in paternalistic terms, as one who
takes for granted the sacred authority of aristocratic patriarchy and
who understands his patriarchal integrity in terms of his ability to
give gifts to those women over whom he holds power. In the open-
ing scene, for instance, when he attempts to persuade Maria to marry
Osorio (whom she does not love), his warm and fatherly treatment of
his adopted daughter (I.7-11) is accompanied by a gentle reminder that
her well-being has always depended upon his kindness. From his point
of view, Maria's very life has been preserved, protected, and nurtured
by the gift of his love and strength; when she was "a powerless babe"
(It 1), and her "mother with a mute entreaty / Fix'd her faint eyes on
mine [Lord Velez's]" (I. s3-14), Lord Velez rescued and reared her as
his own child.
  That the seeming warmth and benevolence of this patriarchal atti-
tude in reality mask a hatred of women is shown later in the drama,
when it becomes obvious that Maria will not budge from her posi-
tion regarding Osorio. Lord Velez, once convinced of his adopted
daughter's immovable loyalty to Albert, turns absolutely and violently
against her, displaying explicitly the ugly power that had been hidden
by his seeming benevolence. He sneers at her, calls her a "thought-
less woman" (IV.ii.247), an "Ungrateful woman" (IV.ii.268), and ulti-
mately sends her from his house (IV.ii.274-76). The gift of protec-
tion that he had bestowed upon Maria, as his blunt and authoritarian
withdrawal of that gift makes plain, is at the same time a powerful
expression of domination. Maria's human worth is measured directly
in terms of her subservience to him; once she refuses to occupy a
subservient position, she is despised and rejected.
  The relation between Lord Velez and Maria, however, serves as
more than a sign of patriarchal villainy. The violence of Lord Velez's
response to Maria, by exposing the real hatred behind his patriarchal



28 / EnlsaoatcDaaz / Enls Roani Drm                                                                                                             28/EgihRmni rm


authority, signals as well a weakening of that authority, suggesting
that more socially palatable exercises of power have become ineffec-
tive. That is, while his treatment of Maria is a sign of real power-he
can dismiss her from his house-it is at the same time an act ofdespera-
tion in that it can produce no satisfactory solution within the frame of
the existing aristocratic patriarchal estate. It reflects an authority that
can only manifest itself negatively, an authority that thus fails in its
more important constructive capacity of enriching and extending aris-
tocratic masculine power and property, and thus it marks an opening
for challenging that authority.
   The particular psychological landscape upon which the challenge to
aristocratic patriarchy unfolds can be glimpsed in the consequences of
Maria's conduct and attitudes that have called Lord Velez's tyrannical
authority into action. Her refusal to conform her thoughts and actions
to the accepted social codes that minimize personal feminine love and
that uphold masculine decisionmaking, as I shall explain below, does
not constitute in any way a feminist move toward autonomy. None-
theless, her passive resistance does help to illuminate a remarkable
moment of change in relations of gender, for it both erodes aristo-
cratic patriarchy and makes room for the construction of an alternative
arrangement for gender and social relations. She avoids marriage to
Osorio; she finds and wins the ostensibly dead Albert, whom she has
loved all along; and she triumphantly attaches herself to an emerg-
ing authority that is certain to replace the demise of Osorio and Lord
Velez: these plot-level developments describe a radical disruption of
social life and redirection of social energy toward a world defined by
its possibilities for women rather than by its limitations. The psycho-
logical healing that accompanies this giant restructuring of personal
and social arrangements is seen in the fact that it is not alienation but
rather personal and social wholeness that flow to Maria from the crisis
that she has helped to precipitate.
   To put the matter this way, however, risks distorting the portrayal
of gender relations in the drama, for it suggests that Maria is more
materially engaged in changing the world than she really is. The actual
deeds that produce social change are most often performed not by
Maria but by Alhadra, the Arab woman of color who, unlike Maria,
is outspoken, active, a leader of rebels, and willing to shed blood to
further her cause.? Never a model of the new woman-the feminine
values of the drama do not center around her character-she none-


authority, signals as well a weakening of that authority, suggesting
that more socially palatable exercises of power have become ineffec-
tive. That is, while his treatment of Maria is a sign of real power-he
can dismiss her from his house-it is at the same time an act of despera-
tion in that it can produce no satisfactory solution within the frame of
the existing aristocratic patriarchal estate. It reflects an authority that
can only manifest itself negatively, an authority that thus fails in its
more important constructive capacity of enriching and extending aris-
tocratic masculine power and property, and thus it marks an opening
for challenging that authority.
  The particular psychological landscape upon which the challenge to
aristocratic patriarchy unfolds can be glimpsed in the consequences of
Maria's conduct and attitudes that have called Lord Velez's tyrannical
authority into action. Her refusal to conform her thoughts and actions
to the accepted social codes that minimize personal feminine love and
that uphold masculine decisionmaking, as I shall explain below, does
not constitute in any way a feminist move toward autonomy. None-
theless, her passive resistance does help to illuminate a remarkable
moment of change in relations of gender, for it both erodes aristo-
cratic patriarchy and makes room for the construction of an alternative
arrangement for gender and social relations. She avoids marriage to
Osorio; she finds and wins the ostensibly dead Albert, whom she has
loved all along; and she triumphantly attaches herself to an emerg-
ing authority that is certain to replace the demise of Osorio and Lord
Velez: these plot-level developments describe a radical disruption of
social life and redirection of social energy toward a world defined by
its possibilities for women rather than by its limitations. The psycho-
logical healing that accompanies this giant restructuring of personal
and social arrangements is seen in the fact that it is not alienation but
rather personal and social wholeness that flow to Maria from the crisis
that she has helped to precipitate.
   To put the matter this way, however, risks distorting the portrayal
of gender relations in the drama, for it suggests that Maria is more
materially engaged in changing the world than she really is. The actual
deeds that produce social change are most often performed not by
Maria but by Alhadra, the Arab woman of color who, unlike Maria,
is outspoken, active, a leader of rebels, and willing to shed blood to
further her cause." Never a model of the new woman-the feminine
values of the drama do not center around her character-she none-


authority, signals as well a weakening of that authority, suggesting
that more socially palatable exercises of power have become ineffec-
tive. That is, while his treatment of Maria is a sign of real power-he
can dismiss her from his house-it is at the same time an act of despera-
tion in that it can produce no satisfactory solution within the frame of
the existing aristocratic patriarchal estate. It reflects an authority that
can only manifest itself negatively, an authority that thus fails in its
more important constructive capacity of enriching and extending aris-
tocratic masculine power and property, and thus it marks an opening
for challenging that authority.
  The particular psychological landscape upon which the challenge to
aristocratic patriarchy unfolds can be glimpsed in the consequences of
Maria's conduct and attitudes that have called Lord Velez's tyrannical
authority into action. Her refusal to conform her thoughts and actions
to the accepted social codes that minimize personal feminine love and
that uphold masculine decisionmaking, as I shall explain below, does
not constitute in any way a feminist move toward autonomy. None-
theless, her passive resistance does help to illuminate a remarkable
moment of change in relations of gender, for it both erodes aristo-
cratic patriarchy and makes room for the construction of an alternative
arrangement for gender and social relations. She avoids marriage to
Osorio; she finds and wins the ostensibly dead Albert, whom she has
loved all along; and she triumphantly attaches herself to an emerg-
ing authority that is certain to replace the demise of Osorio and Lord
Velez: these plot-level developments describe a radical disruption of
social life and redirection of social energy toward a world defined by
its possibilities for women rather than by its limitations. The psycho-
logical healing that accompanies this giant restructuring of personal
and social arrangements is seen in the fact that it is not alienation but
rather personal and social wholeness that flow to Maria from the crisis
that she has helped to precipitate.
   To put the matter this way, however, risks distorting the portrayal
of gender relations in the drama, for it suggests that Maria is more
materially engaged in changing the world than she really is. The actual
deeds that produce social change are most often performed not by
Maria but by Alhadra, the Arab woman of color who, unlike Maria,
is outspoken, active, a leader of rebels, and willing to shed blood to
further her causee Never a model of the new woman-the feminine
values of the drama do not center around her character-she none-



Saue Taylor t~ Coeig' Isn g              SauehTylrColeide' tuso/z                 Saue Talo ~Coegs Osori /g2


theless exemplifies explicitly the antiaristocratic energy necessary for
social change. Her active resistance to established authority and her
bold exercise of her own authority (seen most powerfully in her com-
mand that Osorio be executed) point toward the inevitable termination
of aristocratic patriarchal rule and the new possibilities for women in
a transformed world. In fact, her final speech courageously dares to
imagine the overthrow of "the kingdoms of this world; / The deep
foundations of iniquity" (V.ii.313-t4). Though her imaginings here
are, arguably, sadly out of touch with the actual direction of social
change described in the drama-at least with those changes involving
issues of gender-they declare the promise of a new world and of the
changed position of women in that world.
  Alhadra's activist response to aristocratic patriarchal authority helps
to clear the political and ideological ground for the more positive
values associated with Maria, whose character shows something of
the real shape and direction of the new (and acceptable) femininity
described in the drama. Never dirtied by the actual struggles against
patriarchy-as Alhadra is through her association with political con-
spiracy and political violence-Maria is consistently shown in ideal-
ized and humane terms, as a woman who embodies absolute integ-
rity. Her triumph over adversity, and the happiness she eventually
finds through unwavering commitment to her beliefs, are a sign of an
emerging new world and of her secure place in that world.
  The characterization of Maria, though positively drawn as a bene-
ficiary of the social changes taking place, is fraught with difficulties of
its own, as it suggests that the new self-satisfied femininity is less than
independent. The sympathetic portrayal of Maria, in fact, is to a large
degree a description of a new kind of patriarchy and an endorsement
of the structures of value and authority undergirding that patriarchy.
Though she successfully resists the authoritarian threats of Lord Velez
and Francesco, she nonetheless remains entirely dependent upon mas-
culine strength or masculine presence; and thus even in her triumph
over her oppressors she does not discover the freedom that Alhadra
is so bold to imagine. The persistence of Maria's dependent mind-set
even at that moment when she rejects prevailing authority (that is,
Lord Velez and Francesco) can be seen in her absolute constancy in
matters of love. One need not suggest that she is wrong to love, and to
love sincerely, to recognize that in the extremity of her commitment to
Albert she entirely negates herself, even to the point of imagining her


theless exemplifies explicitly the antiaristocratic energy necessary for
social change. Her active resistance to established authority and her
bold exercise of her own authority (seen most powerfully in her com-
mand that Osorio be executed) point toward the inevitable termination
of aristocratic patriarchal rule and the new possibilities for women in
a transformed world. In fact, her final speech courageously dares to
imagine the overthrow of "the kingdoms of this world; / The deep
foundations of iniquity" (V.ii.313-14). Though her imaginings here
are, arguably, sadly out of touch with the actual direction of social
change described in the drama-at least with those changes involving
issues of gender-they declare the promise of a new world and of the
changed position of women in that world.
Alhadra's activist response to aristocratic patriarchal authority helps
to clear the political and ideological ground for the more positive
values associated with Maria, whose character shows something of
the real shape and direction of the new (and acceptable) femininity
described in the drama. Never dirtied by the actual struggles against
patriarchy-as Alhadra is through her association with political con-
spiracy and political violence-Maria is consistently shown in ideal-
ized and humane terms, as a woman who embodies absolute integ-
rity. Her triumph over adversity, and the happiness she eventually
finds through unwavering commitment to her beliefs, are a sign of an
emerging new world and of her secure place in that world.
  The characterization of Maria, though positively drawn as a bene-
ficiary of the social changes taking place, is fraught with difficulties of
its own, as it suggests that the new self-satisfied femininity is less than
independent. The sympathetic portrayal of Maria, in fact, is to a large
degree a description of a new kind of patriarchy and an endorsement
of the structures of value and authority undergirding that patriarchy.
Though she successfully resists the authoritarian threats of Lord Velez
and Francesco, she nonetheless remains entirely dependent upon mas-
culine strength or masculine presence; and thus even in her triumph
over her oppressors she does not discover the freedom that Alhadra
is so bold to imagine. The persistence of Maria's dependent mind-set
even at that moment when she rejects prevailing authority (that is,
Lord Velez and Francesco) can be seen in her absolute constancy in
matters of love. One need not suggest that she is wrong to love, and to
love sincerely, to recognize that in the extremity of her commitment to
Albert she entirely negates herself, even to the point of imagining her


theless exemplifies explicitly the antiaristocratic energy necessary for
social change. Her active resistance to established authority and her
bold exercise of her own authority (seen most powerfully in her com-
mand that Osorio be executed) point toward the inevitable termination
of aristocratic patriarchal rule and the new possibilities for women in
a transformed world. In fact, her final speech courageously dares to
imagine the overthrow of "the kingdoms of this world; / The deep
foundations of iniquity" (Vii-3t3-t4). Though her imaginings here
are, arguably, sadly out of touch with the actual direction of social
change described in the drama-at least with those changes involving
issues of gender-they declare the promise of a new world and of the
changed position of women in that world.
  Alhadra's activist response to aristocratic patriarchal authority helps
to clear the political and ideological ground for the more positive
values associated with Maria, whose character shows something of
the real shape and direction of the new (and acceptable) femininity
described in the drama. Never dirtied by the actual struggles against
patriarchy-as Alhadra is through her association with political con-
spiracy and political violence-Maria is consistently shown in ideal-
ized and humane terms, as a woman who embodies absolute integ-
rity. Her triumph over adversity, and the happiness she eventually
finds through unwavering commitment to her beliefs, are a sign of an
emerging new world and of her secure place in that world.
  The characterization of Maria, though positively drawn as a bene-
ficiary of the social changes taking place, is fraught with difficulties of
its own, as it suggests that the new self-satisfied femininity is less than
independent. The sympathetic portrayal of Maria, in fact, is to a large
degree a description of a new kind of patriarchy and an endorsement
of the structures of value and authority undergirding that patriarchy.
Though she successfully resists the authoritarian threats of Lord Velez
and Francesco, she nonetheless remains entirely dependent upon mas-
culine strength or masculine presence; and thus even in her triumph
over her oppressors she does not discover the freedom that Alhadra
is so bold to imagine. The persistence of Maria's dependent mind-set
even at that moment when she rejects prevailing authority (that is,
Lord Velez and Francesco) can be seen in her absolute constancy in
matters of love. One need not suggest that she is wrong to love, and to
love sincerely, to recognize that in the extremity of her commitment to
Albert she entirely negates herself, even to the point of imagining her



p0 / Enls Roani Drm                                                     30 / nls   oatcDaa30/EgihRmni                                                             rm


own death and imagining Albert, finding that she has died, "listening
to my constancy" (I.i.39), "hover[ing] round, as he at midnight ever /
Sits on my grave and gazes at the moon" (I.i.40-41). She describes
her worth here entirely in terms of her own belittlement, her power
in terms of her nonbeing. Though this passage relates only a lover's
dream, it nonetheless contains within it a commentary on a very real
hierarchy of relations, a hierarchy that subordinates women to men.
Feminine desire, at least as it is here expressed by Maria, is incapable
of imagining feminine autonomy.
   The negation of Maria's autonomy and her own approval of that
negation suggest one of the means by which an inchoate bourgeois
patriarchy establishes its control over women. The beliefs and needs
that energize her commitment to Albert are signs of a new world in
which sexual love replaces arranged marriage; dreams and nostalgia
replace real social exchange; and the isolated self develops an iden-
tity over against that assigned to it by the state apparatus. All of this
clearly marks the decline of aristocratic social authority, and it does
so in ways that directly involve gender relations: as the characters of
both Alhadra and Maria attest, women can no longer be controlled
absolutely by the father or the church, for other claims determine the
choices that women make. And yet these claims are often characterized
and given meaning by women's own self-abnegation. Maria never has
autonomy or public authority and integrity; she never wishes for more
than to be released from the power of Lord Velez and allowed to live in
dreams of Albert. And her self-worth is always determined either by
those dreams or by Albert's actual protective presence. In short, Maria
carries within her character the values of a new world, but clearly it is
not a world in which women are equal to men: it is a world in which
women's imaginations and desires are entirely privatized and in which
women themselves valorize that privatization."
   The changing relations of gender, as aristocratic patriarchy, gives
way to bourgeois patriarchy, involve new roles for men as well as for
women, as is seen most readily in the differences between Osorio, the
cold, strong man who stands to inherit the old estate, and Albert, the
sensitive individual whose actions are motivated by compassion and
subjective desire. As with the depiction of a new kind of woman, the
portrayal of the new bourgeois male is invested with integrity and
sincerity, surpassing the stock callousness of the aristocratic characters
whose social authority is threatened. Indeed, the simple presence of a


own death and imagining Albert, finding that she has died, "listening
to my constancy" (I.i.39), "hover[ing] round, as he at midnight ever /
Sits on my grave and gazes at the moon" (I.i.40-41). She describes
her worth here entirely in terms of her own belittlement, her power
in terms of her nonbeing. Though this passage relates only a lover's
dream, it nonetheless contains within it a commentary on a very real
hierarchy of relations, a hierarchy that subordinates women to men.
Feminine desire, at least as it is here expressed by Maria, is incapable
of imagining feminine autonomy.
  The negation of Maria's autonomy and her own approval of that
negation suggest one of the means by which an inchoate bourgeois
patriarchy establishes its control over women. The beliefs and needs
that energize her commitment to Albert are signs of a new world in
which sexual love replaces arranged marriage; dreams and nostalgia
replace real social exchange; and the isolated self develops an iden-
tity over against that assigned to it by the state apparatus. All of this
clearly marks the decline of aristocratic social authority, and it does
so in ways that directly involve gender relations: as the characters of
both Alhadra and Maria attest, women can no longer be controlled
absolutely by the father or the church, for other claims determine the
choices that women make. And yet these claims are often characterized
and given meaning by women's own self-abnegation. Maria never has
autonomy or public authority and integrity; she never wishes for more
than to be released from the power of Lord Velez and allowed to live in
dreams of Albert. And her self-worth is always determined either byi
those dreams or by Albert's actual protective presence. In short, Maria
carries within her character the values of a new world, but clearly it is
not a world in which women are equal to men: it is a world in which
women's imaginations and desires are entirely privatized and in which
women themselves valorize that privatization."
   The changing relations of gender, as aristocratic patriarchy, gives
way to bourgeois patriarchy, involve new roles for men as well as for
women, as is seen most readily in the differences between Osorio, the
cold, strong man who stands to inherit the old estate, and Albert, the
sensitive individual whose actions are motivated by compassion and
subjective desire. As with the depiction of a new kind of woman, the
portrayal of the new bourgeois male is invested with integrity and
sincerity, surpassing the stock callousness of the aristocratic characters
whose social authority is threatened. Indeed, the simple presence of a


own death and imagining Albert, finding that she has died, "listening
to my constancy" (I.i.39), "hover[ing] round, as he at midnight ever /
Sits on my grave and gazes at the moon" (I.i.4o-41). She describes
her worth here entirely in terms of her own belittlement, her power
in terms of her nonbeing. Though this passage relates only a lover's
dream, it nonetheless contains within it a commentary on a very real
hierarchy of relations, a hierarchy that subordinates women to men.
Feminine desire, at least as it is here expressed by Maria, is incapable
of imagining feminine autonomy.
  The negation of Maria's autonomy and her own approval of that
negation suggest one of the means by which an inchoate bourgeois
patriarchy establishes its control over women. The beliefs and needs
that energize her commitment to Albert are signs of a new world in
which sexual love replaces arranged marriage; dreams and nostalgia
replace real social exchange; and the isolated self develops an iden-
tity over against that assigned to it by the state apparatus. All of this
clearly marks the decline of aristocratic social authority, and it does
so in ways that directly involve gender relations: as the characters of
both Alhadra and Maria attest, women can no longer be controlled
absolutely by the father or the church, for other claims determine the
choices that women make. And yet these claims are often characterized
and given meaning by women's own self-abnegation. Maria never has
autonomy or public authority and integrity; she never wishes for more
than to be released from the power of Lord Velez and allowed to live in
dreams of Albert. And her self-worth is always determined either by
those dreams or by Albert's actual protective presence. In short, Maria
carries within her character the values of a new world, but clearly it is
not a world in which women are equal to men: it is a world in which
women's imaginations and desires are entirely privatized and in which
women themselves valorize that privatization."
   The changing relations of gender, as aristocratic patriarchy, gives
way to bourgeois patriarchy, involve new roles for men as well as for
women, as is seen most readily in the differences between Osorio, the
cold, strong man who stands to inherit the old estate, and Albert, the
sensitive individual whose actions are motivated by compassion and
subjective desire. As with the depiction of a new kind of woman, the
portrayal of the new bourgeois male is invested with integrity and
sincerity, surpassing the stock callousness of the aristocratic characters
whose social authority is threatened. Indeed, the simple presence of a



Saue  ayoCleigeO sori / 31Sme Talo Colerig' Osri I/ 31       Saulvylor I ClrdesOoip3


disguised Albert is sufficient to elicit from Maria feelings of sympa-
thetic identification and to make the austere Osorio uncomfortable.
Numerous passing details help to situate Albert, despite his aris-
tocratic birth, among an emergent bourgeoisie and to establish him
as a carrier of modern attitudes and values. Early on, for instance,
it is alleged that he has been kidnapped by a merchant ship (I.66);
later too, after having returned in disguise to his homeland, and when
the evil of his brother and father has become disturbingly apparent,
he contemplates permanent self-exile to the Netherlands (II.184)-a
strong trading nation and perhaps the foremost challenger for eco-
nomic supremacy in the sixteenth century-where he is certain he will
be protected by "the heroic Prince of Orange" (I1.185). In addition to
such small details that distance him from the aristocracy and attach him
symbolically to the middle class, his disguise as an Arab situates him
socially. When he comes home after a three-year absence, he abandons
his native aristocratic dress for the dress of the Moors, thereby reject-
ing not only his inherited social class but also the (Catholic) Christian
values that historically have underwritten that class. By taking on the
dress of a people violently at odds with Spanish aristocracy, he cre-
ates an important emotional and personal space for the development
of an independent identity-an identity that draws energy from the
Arab resistance without actually becoming a part of that resistance and
without becoming ideologically associated with the Arabs.
  Two important and related features of Albert's inchoate bourgeois
sensibility include the reformulation of patriarchy and Christian be-
lief along new social lines. With respect to patriarchy, Albert clearly is
never harsh or cold in the way that Lord Velez and Osorio are; quite
the reverse, he displays great sensitivity and compassion throughout,
even to the point of telling his brother, whose villainy has been thor-
oughly exposed, that "We will invent some tale to save your honour"
(V.244; see also 11.168-77 for an example of the compassion of which
he is capable even in moments of great distress). Despite such shows
of human regard, however, his character is implicated in a patriar-
chal structure of values, as it is through his eyes-not Maria's or
Alhadra's-that the major issues of the crisis-ridden world come to be
seen. The authority with which his character is invested is evident in
the very first exchange between him (in Moorish disguise) and Maria.
Here he relates to Maria and Alhadra a dream, which in fact is the story
of the wrong he has suffered at the hands of Osorio and (he believes)


disguised Albert is sufficient to elicit from Maria feelings of sympa-
thetic identification and to make the austere Osorio uncomfortable.
Numerous passing details help to situate Albert, despite his aris-
tocratic birth, among an emergent bourgeoisie and to establish him
as a carrier of modern attitudes and values. Early on, for instance,
it is alleged that he has been kidnapped by a merchant ship (1.66);
later too, after having returned in disguise to his homeland, and when
the evil of his brother and father has become disturbingly apparent,
he contemplates permanent self-exile to the Netherlands (II. 184)-a
strong trading nation and perhaps the foremost challenger for eco-
nomic supremacy in the sixteenth century-where he is certain he will
be protected by "the heroic Prince of Orange" (II.185). In addition to
such small details that distance him from the aristocracy and attach him
symbolically to the middle class, his disguise as an Arab situates him
socially. When he comes home after a three-year absence, he abandons
his native aristocratic dress for the dress of the Moors, thereby reject-
ing not only his inherited social class but also the (Catholic) Christian
values that historically have underwritten that class. By taking on the
dress of a people violently at odds with Spanish aristocracy, he cre-
ates an important emotional and personal space for the development
of an independent identity-an identity that draws energy from the
Arab resistance without actually becoming a part of that resistance and
without becoming ideologically associated with the Arabs.
  Two important and related features of Albert's inchoate bourgeois
sensibility include the reformulation of patriarchy and Christian be-
lief along new social lines. With respect to patriarchy, Albert clearly is
never harsh or cold in the way that Lord Velez and Osorio are; quite
the reverse, he displays great sensitivity and compassion throughout,
even to the point of telling his brother, whose villainy has been thor-
oughly exposed, that "We will invent some tale to save your honour"
(V.244; see also 11.168-77 for an example of the compassion of which
he is capable even in moments of great distress). Despite such shows
of human regard, however, his character is implicated in a patriar-
chal structure of values, as it is through his eyes-not Maria's or
Alhadra's-that the major issues of the crisis-ridden world come to be
seen. The authority with which his character is invested is evident in
the very first exchange between him (in Moorish disguise) and Maria.
Here he relates to Maria and Alhadra a dream, which in fact is the story
of the wrong he has suffered at the hands of Osorio and (he believes)


disguised Albert is sufficient to elicit from Maria feelings of sympa-
thetic identification and to make the austere Osorio uncomfortable.
Numerous passing details help to situate Albert, despite his aris-
tocratic birth, among an emergent bourgeoisie and to establish him
as a carrier of modern attitudes and values. Early on, for instance,
it is alleged that he has been kidnapped by a merchant ship (I.66);
later too, after having returned in disguise to his homeland, and when
the evil of his brother and father has become disturbingly apparent,
he contemplates permanent self-exile to the Netherlands (II. 184)-a
strong trading nation and perhaps the foremost challenger for eco-
nomic supremacy in the sixteenth century-where he is certain he will
be protected by "the heroic Prince of Orange" (II.185). In addition to
such small details that distance him from the aristocracy and attach him
symbolically to the middle class, his disguise as an Arab situates him
socially. When he comes home after a three-year absence, he abandons
his native aristocratic dress for the dress of the Moors, thereby reject-
ing not only his inherited social class but also the (Catholic) Christian
values that historically have underwritten that class. By taking on the
dress of a people violently at odds with Spanish aristocracy, he cre-
ates an important emotional and personal space for the development
of an independent identity-an identity that draws energy from the
Arab resistance without actually becoming a part of that resistance and
without becoming ideologically associated with the Arabs.
  Two important and related features of Albert's inchoate bourgeois
sensibility include the reformulation of patriarchy and Christian be-
lief along new social lines. With respect to patriarchy, Albert clearly is
never harsh or cold in the way that Lord Velez and Osorio are; quite
the reverse, he displays great sensitivity and compassion throughout,
even to the point of telling his brother, whose villainy has been thor-
oughly exposed, that "We will invent some tale to save your honour"
(V.244; see also 11.168-77 for an example of the compassion of which
he is capable even in moments of great distress). Despite such shows
of human regard, however, his character is implicated in a patriar-
chal structure of values, as it is through his eyes-not Maria's or
Alhadra's-that the major issues of the crisis-ridden world come to be
seen. The authority with which his character is invested is evident in
the very first exchange between him (in Moorish disguise) and Maria.
Here he relates to Maria and Alhadra a dream, which in fact is the story
of the wrong he has suffered at the hands of Osorio and (he believes)



                     32 / English Romantic Drama

Maria. After recounting the dream, and when Alhadra asks whether
he also dreamt of revenge, he remarks of the woman in his dreams
(that is, Maria):
           She would have died
           Died in her sins-perchance, by her own hands!
           And bending o'er her self-inflicted wounds
           I might have met the evil glance of frenzy
           And leapt myself into an unblest grave!
           lpray'ed for the punishment that cleanses hearts,
           For still I loved her! (1.323-29)

While such a comment may honestly reflect his deep love for Maria,
it also displays masculine supremacy, for it uncritically assumes the
integrity and purity of Albert himself, as well as the guilt of Maria.
   Even when he comes to doubt her guilt, as he does almost immedi-
ately (I.351-74), Albert remains the measure of guilt and innocence
and specifically the measure of feminine guilt and innocence. His au-
thority is seen most emphatically in the conjuring scene of Act III,
where he subverts Osorio's scheme to prove his own death. The effect
of this episode is to leave Maria both utterly confused about the fate
of Albert, whom she now believes may in fact be alive, and helplessly
looking to the mysterious Moor (Albert in disguise) for guidance and
explanation, which he does not at this point provide, and in fact does
not provide until near the end of the final act. Two important devel-
opments follow from this scene: first, Maria must wait until Albert
chooses to disclose his identity before she can overcome her alienation
and hardship, a fact that suggests her constant dependency on mas-
culine decisionmaking and conduct; and second, Albert, through his
disguise, is provided with the opportunity to observe Maria from a
position of secrecy and to establish the authority of his own character.
   Viewed in this way, Albert's disguise and Maria's helplessness are
much more than necessary ingredients in the plot-level machinations
set in motion by Osorio. They are a representation of a new set of gen-
der relations under construction. The emergence of Albert from his
disguise, in the presence of both Maria and Osorio, marks the triumph
of these gender relations over aristocratic patriarchy. Following upon
Maria's vicious treatment at the hands of Lord Velez and at the mo-
ment of Osorio's greatest weakness, Albert's unveiling points toward


                     32 / English Romantic Drama

Maria. After recounting the dream, and when Alhadra asks whether
he also dreamt of revenge, he remarks of the woman in his dreams
(that is, Maria):

           She would have died
           Died in her sins-perchance, by her own hands!
           And bending o'er her self-inflicted wounds
           I might have met the evil glance of frenzy
           And leapt myself into an unblest grave!
           I pray'ed for the punishment that cleanses hearts,
           For still I loved her! (1.323-29)

While such a comment may honestly reflect his deep love for Maria,
it also displays masculine supremacy, for it uncritically assumes the
integrity and purity of Albert himself, as well as the guilt of Maria.
   Even when he comes to doubt her guilt, as he does almost immedi-
ately (1.351-74), Albert remains the measure of guilt and innocence
and specifically the measure of feminine guilt and innocence. His au-
thority is seen most emphatically in the conjuring scene of Act III,
where he subverts Osorio's scheme to prove his own death. The effect
of this episode is to leave Maria both utterly confused about the fate
of Albert, whom she now believes may in fact be alive, and helplessly
looking to the mysterious Moor (Albert in disguise) for guidance and
explanation, which he does not at this point provide, and in fact does
not provide until near the end of the final act. Two important devel-
opments follow from this scene: first, Maria must wait until Albert
chooses to disclose his identity before she can overcome her alienation
and hardship, a fact that suggests her constant dependency on mas-
culine decisionmaking and conduct; and second, Albert, through his
disguise, is provided with the opportunity to observe Maria from a
position of secrecy and to establish the authority of his own character.
   Viewed in this way, Albert's disguise and Maria's helplessness are
much more than necessary ingredients in the plot-level machinations
set in motion by Osorio. They are a representation of a new set of gen-
der relations under construction. The emergence of Albert from his
disguise, in the presence of both Maria and Osorio, marks the triumph
of these gender relations over aristocratic patriarchy. Following upon
Maria's vicious treatment at the hands of Lord Velez and at the mo-
ment of Osorio's greatest weakness, Albert's unveiling points toward


                     32 / English Romantic Drama

Maria. After recounting the dream, and when Alhadra asks whether
he also dreamt of revenge, he remarks of the woman in his dreams
(that is, Maria):

           She would have died
           Died in her sins-perchance, by her own hands!
           And bending o'er her self-inflicted wounds
           I might have met the evil glance of frenzy
           And leapt myself into an noblest grave!
           I pray'ed for the punishment that cleanses hearts,
           For still I loved her! (1.323-29)

While such a comment may honestly reflect his deep love for Maria,
it also displays masculine supremacy, for it uncritically assumes the
integrity and purity of Albert himself, as well as the guilt of Maria.
   Even when he comes to doubt her guilt, as he does almost immedi-
ately (I.351-74), Albert remains the measure of guilt and innocence
and specifically the measure of feminine guilt and innocence. His au-
thority is seen most emphatically in the conjuring scene of Act Ill,
where he subverts Osorio's scheme to prove his own death. The effect
of this episode is to leave Maria both utterly confused about the fate
of Albert, whom she now believes may in fact be alive, and helplessly
looking to the mysterious Moor (Albert in disguise) for guidance and
explanation, which he does not at this point provide, and in fact does
not provide until near the end of the final act. Two important devel-
opments follow from this scene: first, Maria must wait until Albert
chooses to disclose his identity before she can overcome her alienation
and hardship, a fact that suggests her constant dependency on mas-
culine decisionmaking and conduct; and second, Albert, through his
disguise, is provided with the opportunity to observe Maria from a
position of secrecy and to establish the authority of his own character.
   Viewed in this way, Albert's disguise and Maria's helplessness are
much more than necessary ingredients in the plot-level machinations
set in motion by Osorio. They are a representation of a new set of gen-
der relations under construction. The emergence of Albert from his
disguise, in the presence of both Maria and Osorio, marks the triumph
of these gender relations over aristocratic patriarchy. Following upon
Maria's vicious treatment at the hands of Lord Velez and at the mo-
ment of Osorio's greatest weakness, Albert's unveiling points toward



          Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio / 33

a new masculine authority: he is the dream come true of Maria and
the compassionate superior of his brother.
The spiritual-ideological side of the masculinity associated with
Albert can be seen in the portrayal of religion. While the many ex-
tremely negative descriptions of Francesco, as noted above, establish a
strong anti-Catholic sentiment in drama, they cannot be equated abso-
lutely with antireligious sentiment. They are rather part of a larger
ideological shift involving the subversion of church authority and its
replacement by a more personal religious sensibility. This shift nec-
essarily involves dislodging Maria and Albert's self-identities from
church authority, as can be seen in Maria's comment to Francesco:
     [I]t is a horrid thing to know
     That each pale wretch, who sits and drops her beads
     Had once a mind, which might have given her wings
     Such as the angels wear. (IV.3o2-5)

Rejecting Francesco's specific claim on them, as well as the more gen-
eral claim of Catholic structures of authority, Albert and Maria be-
come dreamers committed to constancy and idealism in matters of
love, personalizing religious devotion.
  The religious-spiritual dimension of their devotion is made explicit
in a brief scene in Act II, where Albert, having been asked by Osorio
to prove (by means of the mysterious conjuring ceremony described
above) his own death, describes a portrait of Maria in the following
way: "Dear image! rescued from a traitor's keeping, / I will not now
prophane thee, holy image! / To a dark trick!" (I.32t-23). Here Maria
appears as the new Mary, a secularized and personalized version of
the feminine principle idealized by Francesco's Catholicism. She is
the repository of Albert's most sincere spiritual longings, her appeal
deriving at least partly from the fact that her spiritual worth is created
and appropriated by Albert alone. Sexual love is integral to the new
spiritual love, and it is governed by private masculine desire.
  The relationship between Albert and Maria raises yet another com-
plex issue, one governed not so much by patriarchy as by taboo. Incest
is never made an explicit issue in the drama but, as in much Romantic
literature, it hovers in the margins enticingly, even as it threatens to
dissolve upon close inspection. Albert and Maria are not blood brother
and sister, and yet they describe themselves-and are described by


          Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio / 33

a new masculine authority: he is the dream come true of Maria and
the compassionate superior of his brother.
The spiritual-ideological side of the masculinity associated with
Albert can be seen in the portrayal of religion. While the many ex-
tremely negative descriptions of Francesco, as noted above, establish a
strong anti-Catholic sentiment in drama, they cannot be equated abso-
lutely with antireligious sentiment. They are rather part of a larger
ideological shift involving the subversion of church authority and its
replacement by a more personal religious sensibility. This shift nec-
essarily involves dislodging Maria and Albert's self-identities from
church authority, as can be seen in Maria's comment to Francesco:
     [I]t is a horrid thing to know
     That each pale wretch, who sits and drops her beads
     Had once a mind, which might have given her wings
     Such as the angels wear. (IV.o302-5)

Rejecting Francesco's specific claim on them, as well as the more gen-
eral claim of Catholic structures of authority, Albert and Maria be-
come dreamers committed to constancy and idealism in matters of
love, personalizing religious devotion.
  The religious-spiritual dimension of their devotion is made explicit
in a brief scene in Act II, where Albert, having been asked by Osorio
to prove (by means of the mysterious conjuring ceremony described
above) his own death, describes a portrait of Maria in the following
way: "Dear image! rescued from a traitor's keeping, / I will not now
prophane thee, holy image! / To a dark trick!" (II.321-23). Here Maria
appears as the new Mary, a secularized and personalized version of
the feminine principle idealized by Francesco's Catholicism. She is
the repository of Albert's most sincere spiritual longings, her appeal
deriving at least partly from the fact that her spiritual worth is created
and appropriated by Albert alone. Sexual love is integral to the new
spiritual love, and it is governed by private masculine desire.
  The relationship between Albert and Maria raises yet another com-
plex issue, one governed not so much by patriarchy as by taboo. Incest
is never made an explicit issue in the drama but, as in much Romantic
literature, it hovers in the margins enticingly, even as it threatens to
dissolve upon close inspection. Albert and Maria are not blood brother
and sister, and yet they describe themselves-and are described by


          Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio / 33

a new masculine authority: he is the dream come true of Maria and
the compassionate superior of his brother.
The spiritual-ideological side of the masculinity associated with
Albert can be seen in the portrayal of religion. While the many ex-
tremely negative descriptions of Francesco, as noted above, establish a
strong anti-Catholic sentiment in drama, they cannot be equated abso-
lutely with antireligious sentiment. They are rather part of a larger
ideological shift involving the subversion of church authority and its
replacement by a more personal religious sensibility. This shift nec-
essarily involves dislodging Maria and Albert's self-identities from
church authority, as can be seen in Maria's comment to Francesco:
     [I]t is a horrid thing to know
     That each pale wretch, who sits and drops her beads
     Had once a mind, which might have given her wings
     Such as the angels wear. (IV. 302-5)

Rejecting Francesco's specific claim on them, as well as the more gen-
eral claim of Catholic structures of authority, Albert and Maria be-
come dreamers committed to constancy and idealism in matters of
love, personalizing religious devotion.
  The religious-spiritual dimension of their devotion is made explicit
in a brief scene in Act II, where Albert, having been asked by Osorio
to prove (by means of the mysterious conjuring ceremony described
above) his own death, describes a portrait of Maria in the following
way: "Dear image! rescued from a traitor's keeping, / I will not now
prophane thee, holy image! / To a dark trick!" (II.321-23). Here Maria
appears as the new Mary, a secularized and personalized version of
the feminine principle idealized by Francesco's Catholicism. She is
the repository of Albert's most sincere spiritual longings, her appeal
deriving at least partly from the fact that her spiritual worth is created
and appropriated by Albert alone. Sexual love is integral to the new
spiritual love, and it is governed by private masculine desire.
  The relationship between Albert and Maria raises yet another com-
plex issue, one governed not so much by patriarchy as by taboo. Incest
is never made an explicit issue in the drama but, as in much Romantic
literature, it hovers in the margins enticingly, even as it threatens to
dissolve upon close inspection. Albert and Maria are not blood brother
and sister, and yet they describe themselves-and are described by



34 / English Romantic Drama              34 / English Romantic Drama              34 / English Romantic Drama


others-as siblings. As she puts it to Lord Velez, "Were we [Maria
and Albert] not / Born on one day, like twins of the same parent? /
Nursed in one cradle?" (I.97-99). In addition, she commonly refers
to Lord Velez as "father" (for example, I.61), further confusing the
nature of her relationship to Albert. These details, in fact, suggest
that her mature sexual attraction to him derives, at least in part, from
their youthful brotherly and sisterly love, which seems to represent an
innocent and permanent affection-so much so that she cannot think
of marrying Osorio, Albert's brother, toward whom she has never
felt close, and bearing his children without feeling that this would be
incestuous:

     ... O my sire!
     My Albert's sire! if this be wretchedness
     That eats away the life, what were it, think you,
     If in a most assur'd reality
     He [Albert] should return, and see a brother's infant
     Smile at him from my arms? (I.45-50)

 The incestuous suggestiveness of Maria's relationship with Albert,
and the curious feelings of sexual taboo bound up with her rejection
of Osorio, indicate the charged significance of sexual arrangements in
the world of the drama. The estate-represented in the characters of
Lord Velez and Osorio-cannot see where Maria's marriage to Osorio
would constitute a violation of a social-sexual taboo, while Maria can-
not see marriage to Albert, whom she describes as a brother, as a vio-
lation of this same taboo. The contradictions evident in these attitudes
are part of the difficult psychological landscape shaped by the compet-
ing forces of social authority and personal desire. The values attached
to both domestic scenarios presented in the drama-a Maria-Albert
marriage; a Maria-Osorio marriage-reflect the particular needs of the
individuals involved. Maria's desperate, undying love for Albert, for
instance, suggests the extent to which her life has become privatized,
alienated from the mainstream of a world that would make her most
intimate decisions for her; in such a world, intensely personal com-
mitment-even sexual attachment to an individual whose relationship
with her has always been that of a sibling-holds the only possibility
of meaning for her, and any threat to that commitment is a threat to
life itself. For Osorio, on the other hand, marriage to Maria stands as
clear evidence of the stability and continuing authority of aristocratic


others-as siblings. As she puts it to Lord Velez, "Were we [Maria
and Albert] not / Born on one day, like twins of the same parent? /
Nursed in one cradle?" (1.97-99). In addition, she commonly refers
to Lord Velez as "father" (for example, I.61), further confusing the
nature of her relationship to Albert. These details, in fact, suggest
that her mature sexual attraction to him derives, at least in part, from
their youthful brotherly and sisterly love, which seems to represent an
innocent and permanent affection-so much so that she cannot think
of marrying Osorio, Albert's brother, toward whom she has never
felt close, and bearing his children without feeling that this would be
incestuous:

     ... O my sire!
     My Albert's sire! if this be wretchedness
     That eats away the life, what were it, think you,
     If in a most assur'd reality
     He [Albert} should return, and see a brother's infant
     Smile at him from my arms? (1.45-50)

 The incestuous suggestiveness of Maria's relationship with Albert,
and the curious feelings of sexual taboo bound up with her rejection
of Osorio, indicate the charged significance of sexual arrangements in
the world of the drama. The estate-represented in the characters of
Lord Velez and Osorio-cannot see where Maria's marriage to Osorio
would constitute a violation of a social-sexual taboo, while Maria can-
not see marriage to Albert, whom she describes as a brother, as a vio-
lation of this same taboo. The contradictions evident in these attitudes
are part of the difficult psychological landscape shaped by the compet-
ing forces of social authority and personal desire. The values attached
to both domestic scenarios presented in the drama-a Maria-Albert
marriage; a Maria-Osorio marriage-reflect the particular needs of the
individuals involved. Maria's desperate, undying love for Albert, for
instance, suggests the extent to which her life has become privatized,
alienated from the mainstream of a world that would make her most
intimate decisions for her; in such a world, intensely personal com-
mitment-even sexual attachment to an individual whose relationship
with her has always been that of a sibling-holds the only possibility
of meaning for her, and any threat to that commitment is a threat to
life itself. For Osorio, on the other hand, marriage to Maria stands as
clear evidence of the stability and continuing authority of aristocratic


others-as siblings. As she puts it to Lord Velez, "Were we [Maria
and Albert] not / Born on one day, like twins of the same parent? /
Nursed in one cradle?" (I.97-99). In addition, she commonly refers
to Lord Velez as "father" (for example, I.61), further confusing the
nature of her relationship to Albert. These details, in fact, suggest
that her mature sexual attraction to him derives, at least in part, from
their youthful brotherly and sisterly love, which seems to represent an
innocent and permanent affection-so much so that she cannot think
of marrying Osorio, Albert's brother, toward whom she has never
felt close, and bearing his children without feeling that this would be
incestuous:

     ... O my sire!
     My Albert's sire! if this be wretchedness
     That eats away the life, what were it, think you,
     If in a most assur'd reality
     He [Albert] should return, and see a brother's infant
     Smile at him from my arms? (L.45-50)

 The incestuous suggestiveness of Maria's relationship with Albert,
and the curious feelings of sexual taboo bound up with her rejection
of Osorio, indicate the charged significance of sexual arrangements in
the world of the drama. The estate-represented in the characters of
Lord Velez and Osorio-cannot see where Maria's marriage to Osorio
would constitute a violation of a social-sexual taboo, while Maria can-
not see marriage to Albert, whom she describes as a brother, as a vio-
lation of this same taboo. The contradictions evident in these attitudes
are part of the difficult psychological landscape shaped by the compet-
ing forces of social authority and personal desire. The values attached
to both domestic scenarios presented in the drama-a Maria-Albert
marriage; a Maria-Osorio marriage-reflect the particular needs of the
individuals involved. Maria's desperate, undying love for Albert, for
instance, suggests the extent to which her life has become privatized,
alienated from the mainstream of a world that would make her most
intimate decisions for her; in such a world, intensely personal com-
mitment-even sexual attachment to an individual whose relationship
with her has always been that of a sibling-holds the only possibility
of meaning for her, and any threat to that commitment is a threat to
life itself. For Osorio, on the other hand, marriage to Maria stands as
clear evidence of the stability and continuing authority of aristocratic



          Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio / 35

privilege; similarly, his failure to control Maria's youth and beauty, as
the drama bears out in the fall and then the death of Osorio, points
toward the demise of that authority. In short, incest and sexual love
are both a resource of hope and a sign of social debilitation.
Questions of sexual taboo and love are intimately connected to the
issue of family life, an issue that carries within it the anxieties and weak-
ening value structures of aristocracy. Two major plot threads define
family life in the drama and can be sketched briefly. The first involves
the question of a child's responsibility to the father, and is seen most
emphatically in the actions of Maria, who refuses to obey Lord Velez's
command that she marry Osorio. For her disobedience she is decried as
mad and then banished from the house of Lord Velez (IV.235-329). The
second involves Osorio's attempted murder of his brother, Albert, an
effort that leads to the death of Osorio and the disgrace of the house of
Velez. These plot-level matters point toward opposite kinds of pres-
sure on the family. Lord Velez's intervention into Maria's personal life
shows the father's attempt to stabilize the family through the exercise
of his traditional authority over children. Ugly though his actions may
be, especially when we consider them from the point of view of gen-
der, they are culturally acceptable and even necessary within his world
and are meant, quite simply, to secure aristocratic family relations.
Osorio's attempt on Albert's life, however, violently denies the as-
sumptions and possibility of family stability upon which Lord Velez's
actions are based; indeed, Osorio's actions signal the inevitable decline
of aristocratic family life. That Lord Velez does not see this decline
suggests the extent to which he remains ideologically trapped within
aristocratic structures of authority; that Osorio is moved to fratricide
suggests the desperation to which he is driven in trying to control a
shifting world that threatens to exclude him from the authority he
believes rightly belongs to him.
  The death rattle of the aristocracy that has been sketched thus far is
accompanied by repeated references to and instances of extreme vio-
lence. The abusive treatment of Maria by Lord Velez, and seconded
by Father Francesco, the Inquisitor; the murder of Ferdinand by Oso-
rio, who is euphoric after committing his vile deed (IV. 150-51); and
Francesco's vicious persecution ofAlhadra, Ferdinand, and other Mus-
lims: in the context of Osorio's demise and the triumph of Albert
and Maria, these all amount to class anxiety verging on paranoia, as
the various stalwarts of aristocratic patriarchy and class privilege ma-


          Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio / 35

privilege; similarly, his failure to control Maria's youth and beauty, as
the drama bears out in the fall and then the death of Osorio, points
toward the demise of that authority. In short, incest and sexual love
are both a resource of hope and a sign of social debilitation.
Questions of sexual taboo and love are intimately connected to the
issue of family life, an issue that carries within it the anxieties and weak-
ening value structures of aristocracy. Two major plot threads define
family life in the drama and can be sketched briefly. The first involves
the question of a child's responsibility to the father, and is seen most
emphatically in the actions of Maria, who refuses to obey Lord Velez's
command that she marry Osorio. For her disobedience she is decried as
mad and then banished from the house of Lord Velez (IV.235-329). The
second involves Osorio's attempted murder of his brother, Albert, an
effort that leads to the death of Osorio and the disgrace of the house of
Velez. These plot-level matters point toward opposite kinds of pres-
sure on the family. Lord Velez's intervention into Maria's personal life
shows the father's attempt to stabilize the family through the exercise
of his traditional authority over children. Ugly though his actions may
be, especially when we consider them from the point of view of gen-
der, they are culturally acceptable and even necessary within his world
and are meant, quite simply, to secure aristocratic family relations.
Osorio's attempt on Albert's life, however, violently denies the as-
sumptions and possibility of family stability upon which Lord Velez's
actions are based; indeed, Osorio's actions signal the inevitable decline
of aristocratic family life. That Lord Velez does not see this decline
suggests the extent to which he remains ideologically trapped within
aristocratic structures of authority; that Osorio is moved to fratricide
suggests the desperation to which he is driven in trying to control a
shifting world that threatens to exclude him from the authority he
believes rightly belongs to him.
  The death rattle of the aristocracy that has been sketched thus far is
accompanied by repeated references to and instances of extreme vio-
lence. The abusive treatment of Maria by Lord Velez, and seconded
by Father Francesco, the Inquisitor; the murder of Ferdinand by Oso-
rio, who is euphoric after committing his vile deed (IV. 15o-5t); and
Francesco's vicious persecution ofAlhadra, Ferdinand, and other Mus-
lims: in the context of Osorio's demise and the triumph of Albert
and Maria, these all amount to class anxiety verging on paranoia, as
the various stalwarts of aristocratic patriarchy and class privilege ma-


          Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Osorio / 35

privilege; similarly, his failure to control Maria's youth and beauty, as
the drama bears out in the fall and then the death of Osorio, points
toward the demise of that authority. In short, incest and sexual love
are both a resource of hope and a sign of social debilitation.
Questions of sexual taboo and love are intimately connected to the
issue offamily life, an issue that carries within it the anxieties and weak-
ening value structures of aristocracy. Two major plot threads define
family life in the drama and can be sketched briefly. The first involves
the question of a child's responsibility to the father, and is seen most
emphatically in the actions of Maria, who refuses to obey Lord Velez's
command that she marry Osorio. For her disobedience she is decried as
mad and then banished from the house of Lord Velez (IV.235-329). The
second involves Osorio's attempted murder of his brother, Albert, an
effort that leads to the death of Osorio and the disgrace of the house of
Velez. These plot-level matters point toward opposite kinds of pres-
sure on the family. Lord Velez's intervention into Maria's personal life
shows the father's attempt to stabilize the family through the exercise
of his traditional authority over children. Ugly though his actions may
be, especially when we consider them from the point of view of gen-
der, they are culturally acceptable and even necessary within his world
and are meant, quite simply, to secure aristocratic family relations.
Osorio's attempt on Albert's life, however, violently denies the as-
sumptions and possibility of family stability upon which Lord Velez's
actions are based; indeed, Osorio's actions signal the inevitable decline
of aristocratic family life. That Lord Velez does not see this decline
suggests the extent to which he remains ideologically trapped within
aristocratic structures of authority; that Osorio is moved to fratricide
suggests the desperation to which he is driven in trying to control a
shifting world that threatens to exclude him from the authority he
believes rightly belongs to him.
  The death rattle of the aristocracy that has been sketched thus far is
accompanied by repeated references to and instances of extreme vio-
lence. The abusive treatment of Maria by Lord Velez, and seconded
by Father Francesco, the Inquisitor; the murder of Ferdinand by Oso-
rio, who is euphoric after committing his vile deed (IV. 150-51); and
Francesco's vicious persecution of Alhadra, Ferdinand, and other Mus-
lims: in the context of Osorio's demise and the triumph of Albert
and Maria, these all amount to class anxiety verging on paranoia, as
the various stalwarts of aristocratic patriarchy and class privilege ma-



36' /         ~ Engis Roani Drmj6/EgihoatcDaa3                                                                                                 / Enls  oani   rm


neuver desperately to stabilize a world moving out of their control.
The violence to which all three are driven, however, cannot resolve
the contradictions within public and personal life that are manifested
in the antiaristocratic solidarity developed among the Muslims and in
the uncompromising personal commitments of Maria and Albert; vio-
lence in this context, indeed, appears not as strength but as weakness,
as the last desperate efforts of a class unable to claim the authority it
once knew. The extent to which their authority has diminished and to
which their violence shows weakness is suggested in the final scene of
the play, where Alhadra, having led her people successfully against the
house of Velez, announces that none of that house will be executed,
except Osorio. The power of those who were once dispossessed is in
the ascendancy at the end ofthe drama and-once ideological authority
has shifted out of the hands of Velez-does not require violent action
to secure the political and ideological ground that has been earned.
  I want to turn finally to a consideration of the problematic foster-
mother scene in Act IV, which has appeared to some scholars to be out
of place in the drama. Despite its apparent awkwardness, this scene
in some respects ties together all other issues and points toward the
structure of values and beliefs that triumph with the happy union of
Albert and Maria.
  At the suggestion of the disguised Albert, Maria visits her foster
mother (III. 139-43) to learn what she can about Albert. During their
conversation, Maria remarks on a mysterious entrance into the castle of
Velez, which the foster mother proceeds to explain by relating "a peril-
ous tale" (IV. 170) of a foundling who is raised by Leoni, a woodsman
and the father-in-law of the foster mother. The story of this foundling,
simply put, is the story of the birth, struggle, and eventual freedom of
the individual from the constraints of both aristocratic political con-
trol and aristocratic religion; it is a nostalgic story celebrating primi-
tivism-which was popular during the Romantic period-and at the
same time it illustrates that the cult of primitivism was a distinctively
modern and bourgeois phenomenon. As a young boy, the foundling is
both unreachable and resistant to orthodox religion (IV. 182-83). Even-
tually he is taught to read and write by a friar, gaining a knowledge and
intellectual ability that turn him against all accepted structures of au-
thority, including religion. Still he is loved by Lord Velez under whose
protection he lives, until a natural disaster convinces Lord Velez that
the foundling's unorthodox thought and behavior must be punished.


neuver desperately to stabilize a world moving out of their control.
The violence to which all three are driven, however, cannot resolve
the contradictions within public and personal life that are manifested
in the antiaristocratic solidarity developed among the Muslims and in
the uncompromising personal commitments of Maria and Albert; vio-
lence in this context, indeed, appears not as strength but as weakness,
as the last desperate efforts of a class unable to claim the authority it
once knew. The extent to which their authority has diminished and to
which their violence shows weakness is suggested in the final scene of
the play, where Alhadra, having led her people successfully against the
house of Velez, announces that none of that house will be executed,
except Osorio. The power of those who were once dispossessed is in
the ascendancy at the end ofthe drama and-once ideological authority
has shifted out of the hands of Velez-does not require violent action
to secure the political and ideological ground that has been earned.
  I want to turn finally to a consideration of the problematic foster-
mother scene in Act IV, which has appeared to some scholars to be out
of place in the drama. Despite its apparent awkwardness, this scene
in some respects ties together all other issues and points toward the
structure of values and beliefs that triumph with the happy union of
Albert and Maria.
  At the suggestion of the disguised Albert, Maria visits her foster
mother (III. 139-43) to learn what she can about Albert. During their
conversation, Maria remarks on a mysterious entrance into the castle of
Velez, which the foster mother proceeds to explain by relating "a peril-
ous tale" (IV. 170) of a foundling who is raised by Leoni, a woodsman
and the father-in-law of the foster mother. The story of this foundling,
simply put, is the story of the birth, struggle, and eventual freedom of
the individual from the constraints of both aristocratic political con-
trol and aristocratic religion; it is a nostalgic story celebrating primi-
tivism-which was popular during the Romantic period-and at the
same time it illustrates that the cult of primitivism was a distinctively
modern and bourgeois phenomenon. As a young boy, the foundling is
both unreachable and resistant to orthodox religion (IV. 182-83). Even-
tually he is taught to read and write by a friar, gaining a knowledge and
intellectual ability that turn him against all accepted structures of au-
thority, including religion. Still he is loved by Lord Velez under whose
protection he lives, until a natural disaster convinces Lord Velez that
the foundling's unorthodox thought and behavior must be punished.


neuver desperately to stabilize a world moving out of their control.
The violence to which all three are driven, however, cannot resolve
the contradictions within public and personal life that are manifested
in the antiaristocratic solidarity developed among the Muslims and in
the uncompromising personal commitments of Maria and Albert; vio-
lence in this context, indeed, appears not as strength but as weakness,
as the last desperate efforts of a class unable to claim the authority it
once knew. The extent to which their authority has diminished and to
which their violence shows weakness is suggested in the final scene of
the play, where Alhadra, having led her people successfully against the
house of Velez, announces that none of that house will be executed,
except Osorio. The power of those who were once dispossessed is in
the ascendancy at the end of the drama and-once ideological authority
has shifted out of the hands of Velez-does not require violent action
to secure the political and ideological ground that has been earned.
  I want to turn finally to a consideration of the problematic foster-
mother scene in Act IV, which has appeared to some scholars to be out
of place in the drama. Despite its apparent awkwardness, this scene
in some respects ties together all other issues and points toward the
structure of values and beliefs that triumph with the happy union of
Albert and Maria.
  At the suggestion of the disguised Albert, Maria visits her foster
mother (111. 139-43) to learn what she can about Albert. During their
conversation, Maria remarks on a mysterious entrance into the castle of
Velez, which the foster mother proceeds to explain by relating "a peril-
ous tale" (IV. 170) of a foundling who is raised by Leoni, a woodsman
and the father-in-law of the foster mother. The story of this foundling.
simply put, is the story of the birth, struggle, and eventual freedom of
the individual from the constraints of both aristocratic political con-
trol and aristocratic religion; it is a nostalgic story celebrating primi-
tivism-which was popular during the Romantic period-and at the
same time it illustrates that the cult of primitivism was a distinctively
modern and bourgeois phenomenon. As a young boy, the foundling is
both unreachable and resistant to orthodox religion (IV.182-83). Even-
tually he is taught to read and write by a friar, gaining a knowledge and
intellectual ability that turn him against all accepted structures of au-
thority, including religion. Still he is loved by Lord Velez under whose
protection he lives, until a natural disaster convinces Lord Velez that
the foundling's unorthodox thought and behavior must be punished.



Saue TylrCoerdg'sOoro 3        SmelTalo Clriges-soi /n t 37             Saue Tayl t lrdesOoig3


Thrown into the castle dungeon, the foundling occupies his time in
solitary song until Leoni, the woodsman, hears him and, risking death,
digs a secret escape for the boy, who leaves the castle-which has be-
come his prison-joining a group of voyagers who discover "golden
lands" (IV.226) in a "new world" (IV.229). Once in this new world,
the foundling lives out his days "among the savage men" (IV.234).
Given life by a worker, supported within the walls of aristocracy
by traditional authority and values until these become confining, and
finally liberated through the hard labors once again of a worker, the
foundling discovers perfect freedom in a radically new world, one en-
riched by money, voyages of discovery, and individual independence
from institutional codes and definitions of individual and social life.
This is the birth of the bourgeoisie, and it finds its corollary in the
story of Albert and Maria, who are confined and alienated by aristoc-
racy (the story of Albert) while at the same time having been nurtured
by aristocracy (the story of Maria), until the labors of the lower orders
(Alhadra and the Muslims) make possible an escape from the world
that holds and threatens them. While they do not move literally to new
"golden lands," certainly they are associated with such lands through
Albert's affection for the prince of Orange and through his alleged ex-
perience on a merchant ship; and, at least ideologically, they do indeed
move into a new world, one characterized not by aristocratic privilege
and expectation but rather by personal need and desire.

Osorio is a remarkable, progressive story of the struggle for freedom,
powerfully capturing the political energy with which Coleridge in-
vested his poetry in the 1790s. But the progressiveness of the story is
not unmarked by the specific class warfare that characterized both the
1790s and the much larger transition period from the sixteenth to the
nineteenth centuries. What the drama depicts as an abstract and abso-
lute struggle for freedom is in fact a struggle involving its own par-
ticular middle-class agenda. The lower-class Muslims who make the
happiness of Albert and Maria possible, while treated sympathetically,
remain throughout on the margins of the text, entering the action
only to further the aims and to help construct the values of other-
that is, white-characters. While Alhadra is given the final speech of
the drama-a speech that is quite noble in its desire for justice and
freedom and in its condemnation of oppressive state and religious insti-
tutions"--her remarks only provide the necessary hard edge behind


Thrown into the castle dungeon, the foundling occupies his time in
solitary song until Leoni, the woodsman, hears him and, risking death,
digs a secret escape for the boy, who leaves the castle-which has be-
come his prison-joining a group of voyagers who discover "golden
lands" (IV.226) in a "new world" (IV.229). Once in this new world,
the foundling lives out his days "among the savage men" (IV.234).
Given life by a worker, supported within the walls of aristocracy
by traditional authority and values until these become confining, and
finally liberated through the hard labors once again of a worker, the
foundling discovers perfect freedom in a radically new world, one en-
riched by money, voyages of discovery, and individual independence
from institutional codes and definitions of individual and social life.
This is the birth of the bourgeoisie, and it finds its corollary in the
story of Albert and Maria, who are confined and alienated by aristoc-
racy (the story of Albert) while at the same time having been nurtured
by aristocracy (the story of Maria), until the labors of the lower orders
(Alhadra and the Muslims) make possible an escape from the world
that holds and threatens them. While they do not move literally to new
"golden lands," certainly they are associated with such lands through
Albert's affection for the prince of Orange and through his alleged ex-
perience on a merchant ship; and, at least ideologically, they do indeed
move into a new world, one characterized not by aristocratic privilege
and expectation but rather by personal need and desire.

Osorio is a remarkable, progressive story of the struggle for freedom,
powerfully capturing the political energy with which Coleridge in-
vested his poetry in the 1790s. But the progressiveness of the story is
not unmarked by the specific class warfare that characterized both the
1790s and the much larger transition period from the sixteenth to the
nineteenth centuries. What the drama depicts as an abstract and abso-
lute struggle for freedom is in fact a struggle involving its own par-
ticular middle-class agenda. The lower-class Muslims who make the
happiness of Albert and Maria possible, while treated sympathetically,
remain throughout on the margins of the text, entering the action
only to further the aims and to help construct the values of other-
that is, white-characters. While Alhadra is given the final speech of
the drama-a speech that is quite noble in its desire for justice and
freedom and in its condemnation ofoppressive state and religious insti-
tutions "-her remarks only provide the necessary hard edge behind


Thrown into the castle dungeon, the foundling occupies his time in
solitary song until Leoni, the woodsman, hears him and, risking death,
digs a secret escape for the boy, who leaves the castle-which has be-
come his prison-joining a group of voyagers who discover "golden
lands" (IV.226) in a "new world" (IV.229). Once in this new world,
the foundling lives out his days "among the savage men" (IV.234).
Given life by a worker, supported within the walls of aristocracy
by traditional authority and values until these become confining, and
finally liberated through the hard labors once again of a worker, the
foundling discovers perfect freedom in a radically new world, one en-
riched by money, voyages of discovery, and individual independence
from institutional codes and definitions of individual and social life.
This is the birth of the bourgeoisie, and it finds its corollary in the
story of Albert and Maria, who are confined and alienated by aristoc-
racy (the story of Albert) while at the same time having been nurtured
by aristocracy (the story of Maria), until the labors of the lower orders
(Alhadra and the Muslims) make possible an escape from the world
that holds and threatens them. While they do not move literally to new
"golden lands," certainly they are associated with such lands through
Albert's affection for the prince of Orange and through his alleged ex-
perience on a merchant ship; and, at least ideologically, they do indeed
move into a new world, one characterized not by aristocratic privilege
and expectation but rather by personal need and desire.

Osorio is a remarkable, progressive story of the struggle for freedom,
powerfully capturing the political energy with which Coleridge in-
vested his poetry in the 1790s. But the progressiveness of the story is
not unmarked by the specific class warfare that characterized both the
1790s and the much larger transition period from the sixteenth to the
nineteenth centuries. What the drama depicts as an abstract and abso-
lute struggle for freedom is in fact a struggle involving its own par-
ticular middle-class agenda. The lower-class Muslims who make the
happiness of Albert and Maria possible, while treated sympathetically,
remain throughout on the margins of the text, entering the action
only to further the aims and to help construct the values of other-
that is, white-characters. While Alhadra is given the final speech of
the drama-a speech that is quite noble in its desire for justice and
freedom and in its condemnation ofoppressive state and religious insti-
tutions"--her remarks only provide the necessary hard edge behind






            38 / English Romantic Drama

the softer and more appealing characters of Maria and Albert, who
are shown not in politically violent terms, as Alhadra is, but rather
always as figures of compassion and forgiveness. In other words, here,
as throughout the story, people of color and people of the lower classes
perform the unappealing, often ugly, task of clearing away the debris
of a crumbling social order that makes possible the emergence and
apparently unreproachable integrity and sincerity of the new order.
The surge of bourgeois feeling coursing through Osorio, moreover,
helps to explain why the title character is perhaps the least interesting
in the drama. Following the traditions of literary history, Coleridge
constructs the story around an aristocratic figure whose actions lead
to tragedy. And yet that tragedy produces little if any sympathy for
Osorio-who is drawn consistently in cold, callous terms-and still
less for the aristocratic world whose values he is meant to embody.
The story is his in title only; the real interest lies in Albert and Maria
and in the swelling tide of new possibilities that displace Osorio while
carrying the two lovers to happiness and security. While Coleridge's
inability to create an effective hero doubtless damages the dramatic
integrity of the work, it nonetheless enriches it historically by allow-
ing us to glimpse the conflicting social energies competing for his
imaginative allegiance.
To argue in this way about the relative significance of the various
characters and actions is not to insist that the drama-against Cole-
ridge's own intentions-is in fact politically conservative, but rather
to insist that it is marked by a particular class reality: what Coleridge
presents as absolute is historically specific; the triumph of the bour-
geoisie is not the end of history and ideology but rather their transfor-
mation into new class terms. Only when we recognize and begin to
excavate the historically specific nature of the drama, particularly the
deep ideological structures of value, feeling, and authority that define
an emergent bourgeoisie, can we begin to understand the often op-
pressive power relations undergirding bourgeois social life-relations
registered in the drama even as it endorses the bourgeois dismantling
of aristocracy.


            38 / English Romantic Drama

the softer and more appealing characters of Maria and Albert, who
are shown not in politically violent terms, as Alhadra is, but rather
always as figures of compassion and forgiveness. In other words, here,
as throughout the story, people of color and people of the lower classes
perform the unappealing, often ugly, task of clearing away the debris
of a crumbling social order that makes possible the emergence and
apparently unreproachable integrity and sincerity of the new order.
The surge of bourgeois feeling coursing through Osorio, moreover,
helps to explain why the title character is perhaps the least interesting
in the drama. Following the traditions of literary history, Coleridge
constructs the story around an aristocratic figure whose actions lead
to tragedy. And yet that tragedy produces little if any sympathy for
Osorio-who is drawn consistently in cold, callous terms-and still
less for the aristocratic world whose values he is meant to embody.
The story is his in title only; the real interest lies in Albert and Maria
and in the swelling tide of new possibilities that displace Osorio while
carrying the two lovers to happiness and security. While Coleridge's
inability to create an effective hero doubtless damages the dramatic
integrity of the work, it nonetheless enriches it historically by allow-
ing us to glimpse the conflicting social energies competing for his
imaginative allegiance.
To argue in this way about the relative significance of the various
characters and actions is not to insist that the drama-against Cole-
ridge's own intentions-is in fact politically conservative, but rather
to insist that it is marked by a particular class reality: what Coleridge
presents as absolute is historically specific; the triumph of the bour-
geoisie is not the end of history and ideology but rather their transfor-
mation into new class terms. Only when we recognize and begin to
excavate the historically specific nature of the drama, particularly the
deep ideological structures of value, feeling, and authority that define
an emergent bourgeoisie, can we begin to understand the often op-
pressive power relations undergirding bourgeois social life-relations
registered in the drama even as it endorses the bourgeois dismantling
of aristocracy.


            38 / English Romantic Drama

the softer and more appealing characters of Maria and Albert, who
are shown not in politically violent terms, as Alhadra is, but rather
always as figures of compassion and forgiveness. In other words, here,
as throughout the story, people of color and people of the lower classes
perform the unappealing, often ugly, task of clearing away the debris
of a crumbling social order that makes possible the emergence and
apparently unreproachable integrity and sincerity of the new order.
The surge of bourgeois feeling coursing through Osorio, moreover,
helps to explain why the title character is perhaps the least interesting
in the drama. Following the traditions of literary history, Coleridge
constructs the story around an aristocratic figure whose actions lead
to tragedy. And yet that tragedy produces little if any sympathy for
Osorio-who is drawn consistently in cold, callous terms-and still
less for the aristocratic world whose values he is meant to embody.
The story is his in title only; the real interest lies in Albert and Maria
and in the swelling tide of new possibilities that displace Osorio while
carrying the two lovers to happiness and security. While Coleridge's
inability to create an effective hero doubtless damages the dramatic
integrity of the work, it nonetheless enriches it historically by allow-
ing us to glimpse the conflicting social energies competing for his
imaginative allegiance.
To argue in this way about the relative significance of the various
characters and actions is not to insist that the drama-against Cole-
ridge's own intentions-is in fact politically conservative, but rather
to insist that it is marked by a particular class reality: what Coleridge
presents as absolute is historically specific; the triumph of the bour-
geoisie is not the end of history and ideology but rather their transfor-
mation into new class terms. Only when we recognize and begin to
excavate the historically specific nature of the drama, particularly the
deep ideological structures of value, feeling, and authority that define
an emergent bourgeoisie, can we begin to understand the often op-
pressive power relations undergirding bourgeois social life-relations
registered in the drama even as it endorses the bourgeois dismantling
of aristocracy.




CHAPTER


CHAPTER


CHAPTER


3


"The Gait Disturb'd of Wealthy, Honour'd Men"

                  Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort









Recent scholarly work in the area of Romanticism and feminism has
begun to bring Joanna Baillie back from the dead in literary history. We
now have been reminded that, as Stuart Curran states, "two years be-
fore Wordsworth's celebrated preface, {Joanna Baillie] had published
her own seventy-two-page argument for naturalness of language and
situation across all the literary genres," and that, in her capacity as
dramatist, she was often compared to Shakespeare.' Despite the efforts
of Curran and a few other notable scholars, however, the hard labor of
reviving and critically investigating Baillie's literary accomplishment,
particularly her dramas, has barely begun. While the reason for this
no doubt can be found among the masculine biases that continue to
dominate Romantic scholarship and criticism, Baillie herself has con-
tributed to the difficulty of the critical task by writing plays that were
utter failures on stage in her own day and that continue to baffle (and
often bore) would-be sympathizers today. Her plots are frequently
embarrassingly simple, her characterizations subordinated to a fixed
idea, and her handling of emotion compromised by her commitment
to cold logic. Such matters, not surprisingly, overwhelm critical efforts
to place her alongside Coleridge and Wordsworth as one of the great
Romantic writers.'
   These apparent weaknesses notwithstanding, Joanna Baillie is one
of the extremely important (and perhaps great) writers of the Roman-


"The Gait Disturb'd of Wealthy, Honour'd Men"

                  Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort









Recent scholarly work in the area of Romanticism and feminism has
begun to bring Joanna Baillie back from the dead in literary history. We
now have been reminded that, as Stuart Curran states, "two years be-
fore Wordsworth's celebrated preface, [Joanna Baillie] had published
her own seventy-two-page argument for naturalness of language and
situation across all the literary genres," and that, in her capacity as
dramatist, she was often compared to Shakespeare.' Despite the efforts
of Curran and a few other notable scholars, however, the hard labor of
reviving and critically investigating Baillie's literary accomplishment,
particularly her dramas, has barely begun. While the reason for this
no doubt can be found among the masculine biases that continue to
dominate Romantic scholarship and criticism, Baillie herself has con-
tributed to the difficulty of the critical task by writing plays that were
utter failures on stage in her own day and that continue to baffle (and
often bore) would-be sympathizers today. Her plots are frequently
embarrassingly simple, her characterizations subordinated to a fixed
idea, and her handling of emotion compromised by her commitment
to cold logic. Such matters, not surprisingly, overwhelm critical efforts
to place her alongside Coleridge and Wordsworth as one of the great
Romantic writers.'
   These apparent weaknesses notwithstanding, Joanna Baillie is one
of the extremely important (and perhaps great) writers of the Roman-


"The Gait Disturb'd of Wealthy, Honour'd Men"

                  Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort









Recent scholarly work in the area of Romanticism and feminism has
begun to bring Joanna Baillie back from the dead in literary history. We
now have been reminded that, as Stuart Curran states, "two years be-
fore Wordsworth's celebrated preface, [Joanna Baillie] had published
her own seventy-two-page argument for naturalness of language and
situation across all the literary genres," and that, in her capacity as
dramatist, she was often compared to Shakespeare.' Despite the efforts
of Curran and a few other notable scholars, however, the hard labor of
reviving and critically investigating Baillie's literary accomplishment,
particularly her dramas, has barely begun. While the reason for this
no doubt can be found among the masculine biases that continue to
dominate Romantic scholarship and criticism, Baillie herself has con-
tributed to the difficulty of the critical task by writing plays that were
utter failures on stage in her own day and that continue to baffle (and
often bore) would-be sympathizers today. Her plots are frequently
embarrassingly simple, her characterizations subordinated to a fixed
idea, and her handling of emotion compromised by her commitment
to cold logic. Such matters, not surprisingly, overwhelm critical efforts
to place her alongside Coleridge and Wordsworth as one of the great
Romantic writers.'
   These apparent weaknesses notwithstanding, Joanna Baillie is one
of the extremely important (and perhaps great) writers of the Roman-



            4o / English Romantic Drama

tic period. For one thing, she powerfully displays what Curran, in
speaking of women's poetry generally in the period, calls an "alienated
sensibility,"' which gives her critical imagination considerable leverage
in treating certain social structures of value and belief For example,
while her major dramatic effort is suggested in the title of her Series
of Plays: in which it is attempted to delineate the stronger passions of the mind,
she does not treat human passion in the abstract but rather situates it
among social and historical pressures of immense complexity, focusing
a range of highly specific details and material situations that disclose
the inner workings of social life during the Romantic period. Further,
her genre of choice in exploring and articulating these pressures (that
is, drama)-despite her awareness of the limitations of theater in her
day-reveals, in ways that lyric poetry cannot, the ideological con-
flicts disturbing and shaping the passions that constitute her primary
thematic and psychological interest. As a genre in decline, drama in the
Romantic age is at once weighted with nostalgia and desire for the once
powerful social world that had brought it to prominence, and also-at
the same time-pressured by the confidence, individualism, and sheer
defiance of the social energies struggling (like Keats's Apollo) to assert
their newfound power and authority. Baillie's imagination intervenes
powerfully in this social, historical, and formal-generic crisis, track-
ing the complex intersections of psychological, social, and imaginative
motion at an especially intense moment ofhistorical-specifically class
and gender-anxiety, when one structure of authority and belief is on
the verge of displacement by another.
DeMonfort (1798) provides an excellent introduction to the historical
richness of Baillie's work, for it depicts in astonishing detail many of
the specific social problems and issues-ranging from class and domes-
tic life to gender and law-caught in the cross fire of this certain and
radical transformation of society. Written as a psychological drama
about the workings of the passion ofhatred, it is in fact much more than
this, as its psychological interests necessarily draw upon deeper and
broader social, historical, and cultural realities that determine the spe-
cific contours of individual psychological turmoil. In Baillie's hands,
hatred is more than a purely psychological, private, self-generating, or
autonomous passion; it is rather an effect of larger, if submerged, social
forces and conditions, ranging most immediately, for instance, from
the Counter-Revolutionary War that began in 1798, to the fear of a


            4o / English Romantic Drama

tic period. For one thing, she powerfully displays what Curran, in
speaking of women's poetry generally in the period, calls an "alienated
sensibility,"' which gives her critical imagination considerable leverage
in treating certain social structures of value and belief. For example,
while her major dramatic effort is suggested in the title of her Series
of Plays: in which it is attempted to delineate the stronger passions of the mind,
she does not treat human passion in the abstract but rather situates it
among social and historical pressures of immense complexity, focusing
a range of highly specific details and material situations that disclose
the inner workings of social life during the Romantic period. Further,
her genre of choice in exploring and articulating these pressures (that
is, drama)-despite her awareness of the limitations of theater in her
day-reveals, in ways that lyric poetry cannot, the ideological con-
flicts disturbing and shaping the passions that constitute her primary
thematic and psychological interest. As a genre in decline, drama in the
Romantic age is at once weighted with nostalgia and desire for the once
powerful social world that had brought it to prominence, and also-at
the same time-pressured by the confidence, individualism, and sheer
defiance of the social energies struggling (like Keats's Apollo) to assert
their newfound power and authority. Baillie's imagination intervenes
powerfully in this social, historical, and formal-generic crisis, track-
ing the complex intersections of psychological, social, and imaginative
motion at an especially intense moment of historical-specifically class
and gender-anxiety, when one structure of authority and belief is on
the verge of displacement by another.
DeMonfort (1798) provides an excellent introduction to the historical
richness of Baillie's work, for it depicts in astonishing detail many of
the specific social problems and issues-ranging from class and domes-
tic life to gender and law-caught in the cross fire of this certain and
radical transformation of society. Written as a psychological drama
about the workings ofthe passion of hatred, it is in fact much more than
this, as its psychological interests necessarily draw upon deeper and
broader social, historical, and cultural realities that determine the spe-
cific contours of individual psychological turmoil. In Baillie's hands,
hatred is more than a purely psychological, private, self-generating, or
autonomous passion; it is rather an effect of larger, if submerged, social
forces and conditions, ranging most immediately, for instance, from
the Counter-Revolutionary War that began in 1798, to the fear of a


            4a / English Romantic Drama

tic period. For one thing, she powerfully displays what Curran, in
speaking of women's poetry generally in the period, calls an "alienated
sensibility,"t which gives her critical imagination considerable leverage
in treating certain social structures of value and belief. For example,
while her major dramatic effort is suggested in the title of her Series
of Plays: in which it is attempted to delineate the stronger passions of the mind,
she does not treat human passion in the abstract but rather situates it
among social and historical pressures ofimmense complexity, focusing
a range of highly specific details and material situations that disclose
the inner workings of social life during the Romantic period. Further,
her genre of choice in exploring and articulating these pressures (that
is, drama)-despite her awareness of the limitations of theater in her
day-reveals, in ways that lyric poetry cannot, the ideological con-
flicts disturbing and shaping the passions that constitute her primary
thematic and psychological interest. As a genre in decline, drama in the
Romantic age is at once weighted with nostalgia and desire for the once
powerful social world that had brought it to prominence, and also-at
the same time-pressured by the confidence, individualism, and sheer
defiance of the social energies struggling (like Keats's Apollo) to assert
their newfound power and authority. Baillie's imagination intervenes
powerfully in this social, historical, and formal-generic crisis, track-
ing the complex intersections of psychological, social, and imaginative
motion at an especially intense moment of historical-specifically class
and gender-anxiety, when one structure of authority and belief is on
the verge of displacement by another.
DeMonfort (1798) provides an excellent introduction to the historical
richness of Baillie's work, for it depicts in astonishing detail many of
the specific social problems and issues-ranging from class and domes-
tic life to gender and law-caught in the cross fire of this certain and
radical transformation of society. Written as a psychological drama
about the workings of the passion of hatred, it is in fact much more than
this, as its psychological interests necessarily draw upon deeper and
broader social, historical, and cultural realities that determine the spe-
cific contours of individual psychological turmoil. In Baillie's hands,
hatred is more than a purely psychological, private, self-generating, or
autonomous passion; it is rather an effect of larger, if submerged, social
forces and conditions, ranging most immediately, for instance, from
the Counter-Revolutionary War that began in 1798, to the fear of a



           Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 4t

French invasion of England. Nor is it a sign of the essential character
of DeMonfort, the protagonist of the drama, but rather a symptom
of a radically splintered self-a self that presumes social privilege and
autonomy while at the same time suffering from claustrophobic social
transformations that overwhelm, and are utterly unresponsive to, that
presumed privilege and autonomy. Thus even as DeMonfort claims to
be the personal measure of human value in the world of the drama, he
experiences displacement of his personal and psychological authority.
In exploring the deep turmoil and confusion that are seen between
these two extremes, the drama discloses the contingent nature of the
passion of hatred, illuminating its dependence; that is, upon anteced-
ent material conditions (set down in the text of the drama itself) that
constitute the ontological ground upon which psychological issues-
however powerful, or expressive-must be situated.
  The following pages investigate some of the social conditions that
undergird the psychological interests of DeMonfort's character. While
the logical and historical connections between these conditions are
not fully elaborated in my argument, they are shown to be part of
a common social reality within which characterization and dramatic
action are situated, and from which these take their life and draw their
credibility. After sketching these concerns, I will return to a consider-
ation of the psychological dimension of DeMonfort's character, in
an effort to historicize his isolation, alienation, and violence, and to
show thereby that his troubles are not his alone but also those of his
social class.

The largest and most severe crisis described in the drama, and the one
within which all other issues and interests must be situated, is the tran-
sition from an aristocratic to a bourgeois social structure. The primary
spokespersons for these worlds in conflict are DeMonfort and Rezen-
velt, respectively; in them can be seen, on the one hand, the anxieties
and despair resulting from the loss of aristocratic social authority and,
on the other, the energy and defiance arising from the acquisition of
bourgeois energy and authority.' DeMonfort himself recognizes this
social dimension of his personal affliction, as he describes for his sister
how mere contempt for one of a lower social order transmogrifies over
time into obsessive hatred when the lower-class individual begins to
advance socially:


           Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 4t

French invasion of England. Nor is it a sign of the essential character
of DeMonfort, the protagonist of the drama, but rather a symptom
of a radically splintered self-a self that presumes social privilege and
autonomy while at the same time suffering from claustrophobic social
transformations that overwhelm, and are utterly unresponsive to, that
presumed privilege and autonomy. Thus even as DeMonfort claims to
be the personal measure of human value in the world of the drama, he
experiences displacement of his personal and psychological authority.
In exploring the deep turmoil and confusion that are seen between
these two extremes, the drama discloses the contingent nature of the
passion of hatred, illuminating its dependence; that is, upon anteced-
ent material conditions (set down in the text of the drama itself) that
constitute the ontological ground upon which psychological issues-
however powerful, or expressive-must be situated.
  The following pages investigate some of the social conditions that
undergird the psychological interests of DeMonfort's character. While
the logical and historical connections between these conditions are
not fully elaborated in my argument, they are shown to be part of
a common social reality within which characterization and dramatic
action are situated, and from which these take their life and draw their
credibility. After sketching these concerns, I will return to a consider-
ation of the psychological dimension of DeMonfort's character, in
an effort to historicize his isolation, alienation, and violence, and to
show thereby that his troubles are not his alone but also those of his
social class.

The largest and most severe crisis described in the drama, and the one
within which all other issues and interests must be situated, is the tran-
sition from an aristocratic to a bourgeois social structure. The primary
spokespersons for these worlds in conflict are DeMonfort and Rezen-
velt, respectively; in them can be seen, on the one hand, the anxieties
and despair resulting from the loss of aristocratic social authority and,
on the other, the energy and defiance arising from the acquisition of
bourgeois energy and authority.t DeMonfort himself recognizes this
social dimension of his personal affliction, as he describes for his sister
how mere contempt for one of a lower social order transmogrifies over
time into obsessive hatred when the lower-class individual begins to
advance socially:


           Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 4t

French invasion of England. Nor is it a sign of the essential character
of DeMonfort, the protagonist of the drama, but rather a symptom
of a radically splintered self-a self that presumes social privilege and
autonomy while at the same time suffering from claustrophobic social
transformations that overwhelm, and are utterly unresponsive to, that
presumed privilege and autonomy. Thus even as DeMonfort claims to
be the personal measure of human value in the world of the drama, he
experiences displacement of his personal and psychological authority.
In exploring the deep turmoil and confusion that are seen between
these two extremes, the drama discloses the contingent nature of the
passion of hatred, illuminating its dependence; that is, upon anteced-
ent material conditions (set down in the text of the drama itself) that
constitute the ontological ground upon which psychological issues-
however powerful, or expressive-must be situated.
  The following pages investigate some of the social conditions that
undergird the psychological interests of DeMonfort's character. While
the logical and historical connections between these conditions are
not fully elaborated in my argument, they are shown to be part of
a common social reality within which characterization and dramatic
action are situated, and from which these take their life and draw their
credibility. After sketching these concerns, I will return to a consider-
ation of the psychological dimension of DeMonfort's character, in
an effort to historicize his isolation, alienation, and violence, and to
show thereby that his troubles are not his alone but also those of his
social class.

The largest and most severe crisis described in the drama, and the one
within which all other issues and interests must be situated, is the tran-
sition from an aristocratic to a bourgeois social structure. The primary
spokespersons for these worlds in conflict are DeMonfort and Rezen-
velt, respectively; in them can be seen, on the one hand, the anxieties
and despair resulting from the loss of aristocratic social authority and,
on the other, the energy and defiance arising from the acquisition of
bourgeois energy and authority.' DeMonfort himself recognizes this
social dimension of his personal affliction, as he describes for his sister
how mere contempt for one of a lower social order transmogrifies over
time into obsessive hatred when the lower-class individual begins to
advance socially:



42/EgihRmnicDaa4                                                             nls Roani DrIm                                                     2 / gishRmni rm


         ... .As we [DeMonfort and Rezenvelt] onward pass'd
         From youth to man's estate, his narrow art,
         And envious gibing malice, poorly veil'd
         In the affected carelessness of mirth,
         Still more detestable and odious grew.
         There is no living being on this earth
         Who can conceive the malice of his soul,
         With all his gay and damned merriment,
         To those, by fortune, or by merit plac'd
         Above his paltry self. When, low in fortune,
         He look'd upon the state of prosp'rous men,
         As nightly birds, rous'd from their murky holes,
         Do scowl and chatter at the light of day,
         I could endure it: even as we bear
         Th' impotent bite of some half-trodden worm,
         I could endure it. But when honours came,
         And wealth, and new got titles, fed his pride;
         Whilst flatt'ring knaves did trumpet forth his praise,
         And grov'ling idiots grinn'd applauses on him;
         Oh! then I could no longer suffer it!
         It drove me frantic-What, what would I give!
         What would I give to crush the bloated toad,
         So rankly do I loath him! (II.ii)5
Later in the drama this same story is related from the opposite per-
spective by Rezenvelt, who explains to Count Freberg that
         ... Though poor in fortune
         I still would smile at vain-assuming wealth:
         But when unlook'd for fate on me bestow'd
         Riches and splendour equal to his own,
         Tho' I, in truth, despise such poor distinction,
         Feeling inclin'd to be at peace with him,
         And with all men beside, I curb'd my spirit,
         And sought to soothe him. (lll.ii)
The tension evident in these descriptions twice erupts in physical con-
frontation between the two men, with Rezenvelt each time disarming
DeMonfort and then sparing his life, a fact which both personally
humiliates DeMonfort and reverses the social order of privilege, as
DeMonfort comes to owe his life to Rezenvelt.


         ... .As we [DeMonfort and Rezenvelt] onward pass'd
         From youth to man's estate, his narrow art,
         And envious gibing malice, poorly veil'd
         In the affected carelessness of mirth,
         Still more detestable and odious grew.
         There is no living being on this earth
         Who can conceive the malice of his soul,
         With all his gay and damned merriment,
         To those, by fortune, or by merit plac'd
         Above his paltry self. When, low in fortune,
         He look'd upon the state of prosp'rous men,
         As nightly birds, rous'd from their murky holes,
         Do scowl and chatter at the light of day,
         I could endure it: even as we bear
         Th' impotent bite of some half-trodden worm,
         I could endure it. But when honours came,
         And wealth, and new got titles, fed his pride;
         Whilst flatt'ring knaves did trumpet forth his praise,
         And grov'ling idiots grinn'd applauses on him;
         Oh! then I could no longer suffer it!
         It drove me frantic-What, what would I give!
         What would I give to crush the bloated toad,
         So rankly do I loath him! (II.ii)t
Later in the drama this same story is related from the opposite per-
spective by Rezenvelt, who explains to Count Freberg that
         ... Though poor in fortune
         I still would smile at vain-assuming wealth:
         But when unlook'd for fate on me bestow'd
         Riches and splendour equal to his own,
         Tho' I, in truth, despise such poor distinction,
         Feeling inclin'd to be at peace with him,
         And with all men beside, I curb'd my spirit,
         And sought to soothe him. (III.ii)
The tension evident in these descriptions twice erupts in physical con-
frontation between the two men, with Rezenvelt each time disarming
DeMonfort and then sparing his life, a fact which both personally
humiliates DeMonfort and reverses the social order of privilege, as
DeMonfort comes to owe his life to Rezenvelt.


         ... As we (DeMonfort and Rezenvelt] onward pass'd
         From youth to man's estate, his narrow art,
         And envious gibing malice, poorly veil'd
         In the affected carelessness of mirth,
         Still more detestable and odious grew.
         There is no living being on this earth
         Who can conceive the malice of his soul,
         With all his gay and damned merriment,
         To those, by fortune, or by merit plac'd
         Above his paltry self. When, low in fortune,
         He look'd upon the state of prosp'rous men,
         As nightly birds, rous'd from their murky holes,
         Do scowl and chatter at the light of day,
         I could endure it: even as we bear
         Th' impotent bite of some half-trodden worm,
         I could endure it. But when honours came,
         And wealth, and new got titles, fed his pride;
         Whilst flatt'ring knaves did trumpet forth his praise,
         And grov'ling idiots grinn'd applauses on him;
         Oh! then I could no longer suffer it!
         It drove me frantic-What, what would I give!
         What would I give to crush the bloated toad,
         So rankly do I loath him! (ll.ii)5
Later in the drama this same story is related from the opposite per-
spective by Rezenvelt, who explains to Count Freberg that
         ... Though poor in fortune
         I still would smile at vain-assuming wealth:
         But when unlook'd for fate on me bestow'd
         Riches and splendour equal to his own,
         Tho' I, in truth, despise such poor distinction,
         Feeling inclin'd to be at peace with him,
         And with all men beside, I curb'd my spirit,
         And sought to soothe him. (III.ii)
The tension evident in these descriptions twice erupts in physical con-
frontation between the two men, with Rezenvelt each time disarming
DeMonfort and then sparing his life, a fact which both personally
humiliates DeMonfort and reverses the social order of privilege, as
DeMonfort comes to owe his life to Rezenvelt.



           Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 43

 This purely personal dimension of the transformation of social life
is given social significance by developing public responses to indi-
vidual life, as is seen, for instance, in the fact that it is Rezenvelt rather
than DeMonfort who is respected and lauded for social benevolence.
While even DeMonfort's own servant, Manuel, is unhappy with his
increasingly unpredictable master-"for many times is he / So diffi-
cult, capricious, and distrustful, / He galls my nature" (I.i)-and while
DeMonfort's peers and even his sister scold him for his personal con-
duct, the social elite commend and celebrate the character, virtue, and
generosity of Rezenvelt. As Count Freberg remarks to DeMonfort:
      This knight is near a kin to Rezenvelt,
      To whom an old relation, short while dead,
      Bequeath'd a good estate, some leagues distant.
      But Rezenvelt, now rich in fortune's store,
      Disdain'd the sordid love of further gain,
      And, gen'rously the rich bequest resign'd
      To this young man, blood of the same degree
      To the deceas'd, and low in fortune's gifts,
      Who is from hence to take possession of it. (Il.ii)

Such generosity inspires public celebration and respect among the aris-
tocracy itself (excepting DeMonfort)-"For, on my honest, faith,"
Count Freberg says, "of living men / I know not one, for talents,
honour, worth, / That I should rank superior to Rezenvelt" (II.ii)-
creating a social space of privilege and authority for an individual who
was once on the margins of society. DeMonfort knows that his own
aristocratic privilege weakens as this social space enlarges.
  The class conflict exemplified in the tension between DeMonfort
and Rezenvelt provides the structural center of the play. It is a conflict,
as has been suggested, that depicts the inevitable demise of aristocracy
and probable triumph (despite Rezenvelt's eventual death by murder)
of the bourgeoisie. As such, it is a conflict that is constitutive of the
social reality depicted in the drama, embracing and conditioning every
characterization, thematic issue, episode, action, and expression of
belief or value used to construct the dramatic action.
  The pervasive and uneasy deep rumblings in the social world of
the drama can be glimpsed initially in two seemingly minor matters
relating to the tone of the drama: anxiety and claustrophobia. Despite
their immediate plot-level function as tonal details that deepen the


           Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 43

 This purely personal dimension of the transformation of social life
is given social significance by developing public responses to indi-
vidual life, as is seen, for instance, in the fact that it is Rezenvelt rather
than DeMonfort who is respected and lauded for social benevolence.
While even DeMonfort's own servant, Manuel, is unhappy with his
increasingly unpredictable master--"for many times is he / So diffi-
cult, capricious, and distrustful, / He galls my nature" (I.i)-and while
DeMonfort's peers and even his sister scold him for his personal con-
duct, the social elite commend and celebrate the character, virtue, and
generosity of Rezenvelt. As Count Freberg remarks to DeMonfort:
      This knight is near a kin to Rezenvelt,
      To whom an old relation, short while dead,
      Bequeath'd a good estate, some leagues distant.
      But Rezenvelt, now rich in fortune's store,
      Disdain'd the sordid love of further gain,
      And, gen'rously the rich bequest resign'd
      To this young man, blood of the same degree
      To the deceas'd, and low in fortune's gifts,
      Who is from hence to take possession of it. (II.ii)

Such generosity inspires public celebration and respect among the aris-
tocracy itself (excepting DeMonfort)-"For, on my honest, faith,"
Count Freberg says, "of living men / I know not one, for talents,
honour, worth, / That I should rank superior to Rezenvelt" (II.ii)-
creating a social space of privilege and authority for an individual who
was once on the margins of society. DeMonfort knows that his own
aristocratic privilege weakens as this social space enlarges.
  The class conflict exemplified in the tension between DeMonfort
and Rezenvelt provides the structural center of the play. It is a conflict,
as has been suggested, that depicts the inevitable demise of aristocracy
and probable triumph (despite Rezenvelt's eventual death by murder)
of the bourgeoisie. As such, it is a conflict that is constitutive of the
social reality depicted in the drama, embracing and conditioning every
characterization, thematic issue, episode, action, and expression of
belief or value used to construct the dramatic action.
  The pervasive and uneasy deep rumblings in the social world of
the drama can be glimpsed initially in two seemingly minor matters
relating to the tone of the drama: anxiety and claustrophobia. Despite
their immediate plot-level function as tonal details that deepen the


           Joanna Bailie's DeMonfort / 43

 This purely personal dimension of the transformation of social life
is given social significance by developing public responses to indi-
vidual life, as is seen, for instance, in the fact that it is Rezenvelt rather
than DeMonfort who is respected and lauded for social benevolence.
While even DeMonfort's own servant, Manuel, is unhappy with his
increasingly unpredictable master-"for many times is he / So diffi-
cult, capricious, and distrustful, / He galls my nature" (I.i)-and while
DeMonfort's peers and even his sister scold him for his personal con-
duct, the social elite commend and celebrate the character, virtue, and
generosity of Rezenvelt. As Count Freberg remarks to DeMonfort:
      This knight is near a kin to Rezenvelt,
      To whom an old relation, short while dead,
      Bequeath'd a good estate, some leagues distant.
      But Rezenvelt, now rich in fortune's store,
      Disdain'd the sordid love of further gain,
      And, gen'rously the rich bequest resign'd
      To this young man, blood of the same degree
      To the deceas'd, and low in fortune's gifts,
      Who is from hence to take possession of it. (II.ii)

Such generosity inspires public celebration and respect among the aris-
tocracy itself (excepting DeMonfort)-"For, on my honest, faith,"
Count Freberg says, "of living men / I know not one, for talents,
honour, worth, / That I should rank superior to Rezenvelt" (II.ii)-
creating a social space of privilege and authority for an individual who
was once on the margins of society. DeMonfort knows that his own
aristocratic privilege weakens as this social space enlarges.
  The class conflict exemplified in the tension between DeMonfort
and Rezenvelt provides the structural center of the play. It is a conflict,
as has been suggested, that depicts the inevitable demise of aristocracy
and probable triumph (despite Rezenvelt's eventual death by murder)
of the bourgeoisie. As such, it is a conflict that is constitutive of the
social reality depicted in the drama, embracing and conditioning every
characterization, thematic issue, episode, action, and expression of
belief or value used to construct the dramatic action.
  The pervasive and uneasy deep rumblings in the social world of
the drama can be glimpsed initially in two seemingly minor matters
relating to the tone of the drama: anxiety and claustrophobia. Despite
their immediate plot-level function as tonal details that deepen the



44Eglis Roani Dram                                                    44                                                                    * Enls RoatcDaa4 ngihRmnirm


psychological interest of DeMonfort's character, they connect inter-
estingly to the class issues just sketched as signals of the social threat
under which DeMonfort's character is drawn. For DeMonfort the
world is unstable, and that instability extends outward even to a small,
isolated town in Germany where he has sought escape; it no longer
possesses a proper center. At the same time, the world is closing in on
him, denying him even air to breathe, as friends and foes alike pressure
him to conduct himself according to their expectations.
   The most visible sign of anxiety in the plot is the recurrent (real
or imagined) knocking on doors to rooms inhabited by DeMonfort (a
knocking that unsettles and distracts him to the point where peace of
mind is impossible), and on doors behind which the most pious and
spiritually pure segment of society is to be found. This knocking be-
gins almost immediately in Act I, after DeMonfort has arrived at old
Jerome's apartments. At a serious moment, when DeMonfort is com-
miserating with his host whose wife has died two years previously,
there is a loud knocking on the door that so unsettles DeMonfort
that he loses all composure: "What fool comes here, at such untimely
hours, / To make this cursed noise?" (Li). Knocking occurs again in
the following scene at a moment when DeMonfort is not in a mood of
deep sympathy but rather intense rage after a servant has announced
that Rezenvelt has been seen nearby. In the middle of vehemently de-
nouncing his archenemy (calling him such names as "cursed reptile"
[I.ii]), DeMonfort hears a knocking at his door, jolting him from his
frenzy. Much later too, after DeMonfort has murdered Rezenvelt and
the action of the drama has shifted to a convent, nuns and monks are
interrupted twice from their prayers and conversation by loud knock-
ing, which brings news of Rezenvelt's murder.
   This frenetic knocking is complemented at various moments by De-
Monfort's intense listening for activities just beyond his actual notice,
or for events that he believes are about to occur. This activity is seen,
for instance, at one of the soirees he attends where, in the middle of a
lighthearted conversation, he stops abruptly, distracted by a noise that
the others do not hear:

        Lady Freberg: Praise us not rashly, 'tis not always so.
        DeMonfort: He does not rashly praise, who praises you;
          For he were dull indeed-
        [Stopping short, as if he heard something.]


psychological interest of DeMonfort's character, they connect inter-
estingly to the class issues just sketched as signals of the social threat
under which DeMonfort's character is drawn. For DeMonfort the
world is unstable, and that instability extends outward even to a small,
isolated town in Germany where he has sought escape; it no longer
possesses a proper center. At the same time, the world is closing in on
him, denying him even air to breathe, as friends and foes alike pressure
him to conduct himself according to their expectations.
   The most visible sign of anxiety in the plot is the recurrent (real
or imagined) knocking on doors to rooms inhabited by DeMonfort (a
knocking that unsettles and distracts him to the point where peace of
mind is impossible), and on doors behind which the most pious and
spiritually pure segment of society is to be found. This knocking be-
gins almost immediately in Act 1, after DeMonfort has arrived at old
Jerome's apartments. At a serious moment, when DeMonfort is com-
miserating with his host whose wife has died two years previously,
there is a loud knocking on the door that so unsettles DeMonfort
that he loses all composure: "What fool comes here, at such untimely
hours, / To make this cursed noise?" (Li). Knocking occurs again in
the following scene at a moment when DeMonfort is not in a mood of
deep sympathy but rather intense rage after a servant has announced
that Rezenvelt has been seen nearby. In the middle of vehemently de-
nouncing his archenemy (calling him such names as "cursed reptile"
[I.ii]), DeMonfort hears a knocking at his door, jolting him from his
frenzy. Much later too, after DeMonfort has murdered Rezenvelt and
the action of the drama has shifted to a convent, nuns and monks are
interrupted twice from their prayers and conversation by loud knock-
ing, which brings news of Rezenvelt's murder.
   This frenetic knocking is complemented at various moments by De-
Monfort's intense listening for activities just beyond his actual notice,
or for events that he believes are about to occur. This activity is seen,
for instance, at one of the soirees he attends where, in the middle of a
lighthearted conversation, he stops abruptly, distracted by a noise that
the others do not hear:

        Lady Freberg: Praise us not rashly, 'tis not always so.
        DeMonfort: He does not rashly praise, who praises you;
          For he were dull indeed-
        [Stopping short, as if he heard something.]


psychological interest of DeMonfort's character, they connect inter-
estingly to the class issues just sketched as signals of the social threat
under which DeMonfort's character is drawn. For DeMonfort the
world is unstable, and that instability extends outward even to a small,
isolated town in Germany where he has sought escape; it no longer
possesses a proper center. At the same time, the world is closing in on
him, denying him even air to breathe, as friends and foes alike pressure
him to conduct himself according to their expectations.
   The most visible sign of anxiety in the plot is the recurrent (real
or imagined) knocking on doors to rooms inhabited by DeMonfort (a
knocking that unsettles and distracts him to the point where peace of
mind is impossible), and on doors behind which the most pious and
spiritually pure segment of society is to be found. This knocking be-
gins almost immediately in Act I, after DeMonfort has arrived at old
Jerome's apartments. At a serious moment, when DeMonfort is com-
miserating with his host whose wife has died two years previously
there is a loud knocking on the door that so unsettles DeMonfort
that he loses all composure: "What fool comes here, at such untimely
hours, / To make this cursed noise?" (.i). Knocking occurs again in
the following scene at a moment when DeMonfort is not in a mood of
deep sympathy but rather intense rage after a servant has announced
that Rezenvelt has been seen nearby. In the middle of vehemently de-
nouncing his archenemy (calling him such names as "cursed reptile"
[I.ii]), DeMonfort hears a knocking at his door, jolting him from his
frenzy. Much later too, after DeMonfort has murdered Rezenvelt and
the action of the drama has shifted to a convent, nuns and monks are
interrupted twice from their prayers and conversation by loud knock-
ing, which brings news of Rezenvelt's murder.
   This frenetic knocking is complemented at various moments by De-
Monfort's intense listening for activities just beyond his actual notice,
or for events that he believes are about to occur. This activity is seen,
for instance, at one of the soirees he attends where, in the middle of a
lighthearted conversation, he stops abruptly, distracted by a noise that
the others do not hear:

        Lady Freberg: Praise us not rashly, 'tis not always so.
        DeMonfort: He does not rashly praise, who praises you;
          For he were dull indeed-
        [Stopping short, as if he heard something.



Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 45          Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 45          Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 45


    Lady Freberg: How dull, indeed?
    DeMonfort: I should have said-It has escap'd me now.-
    [Listening again, as if he heard something.]
    Jane: What, hear you aught?
    DeMonfort [Hastily]: 'Tis nothing. (II.ii)

What he hears-or imagines that he hears-of course, is the approach
of Rezenvelt, whose real or imagined presence haunts him at every
moment. The anxiety of this scene is repeated in a more pathological
manner later, just before DeMonfort murders Rezenvelt. Alone after
dark on the barren path where Rezenvelt will soon pass, DeMonfort
is described in a stage direction as "looking behind him, and bending
his Ear to the Ground, as if he listened to something" (IV.i). When
Rezenvelt comes on stage, he too is described by the stage direction
as wary, anxiety-ridden, listening: "Enter Rezenvelt, and continues his
way slowly across the Stage, but just as he is going off, the Owl
screams, he stops and listens, and the Owl screams again" (IV.i).
These details are doubtless meant to create suspense or tension on-
stage, though it is arguable that Baillie does not handle them as effec-
tively as she might for this purpose. But whatever their success as de-
vices ofsuspenseful theater, they effectively signal social-psychological
instability. In the various scenes and exchanges just described we are
reminded that retreat from one's community assures no protection
from the troublesome crosscurrents of daily life; that the home itself is
not safe from those crosscurrents; that public and festive exchange is
burdened by external pressures; that nature is alive with the energies of
human struggle and violence; and that religious seclusion cannot keep
the world at bay. In short, the personal anxiety seen on the surface
of these details is deeply saturated in the institutions and conduct of
society itself, constituting a troubled stream that runs through a world
that wants to be-and assumes that it can be-secure in its values,
beliefs, and daily practices.
If the details of anxiety course through the many settings of the
drama in a way that suggests the largeness of the world and the severity
of its troubles, images of claustrophobia pull the opposite direction,
suggesting that the world is not large enough to allow even a single
individual comfortable breathing space. It is worth noting a few of
these images: near the beginning of the play, after learning of Rezen-
velt's presence in the community, DeMonfort remarks to Freberg,


    Lady Freberg: How dull, indeed?
    DeMonfort: I should have said-It has escap'd me now.-
    [Listening again, as ihe heard something.]
    Jane: What, hear you aught?
    DeMonfort [Hastily]: 'Tis nothing. (Il.ii)

What he hears-or imagines that he hears-of course, is the approach
of Rezenvelt, whose real or imagined presence haunts him at every
moment. The anxiety of this scene is repeated in a more pathological
manner later, just before DeMonfort murders Rezenvelt. Alone after
dark on the barren path where Rezenvelt will soon pass, DeMonfort
is described in a stage direction as "looking behind him, and bending
his Ear to the Ground, as if he listened to something" (IV.i). When
Rezenvelt comes on stage, he too is described by the stage direction
as wary, anxiety-ridden, listening: "Enter Rezenvelt, and continues his
way slowly across the Stage, but just as he is going off, the Owl
screams, he stops and listens, and the Owl screams again" (IV.i).
These details are doubtless meant to create suspense or tension on-
stage, though it is arguable that Baillie does not handle them as effec-
tively as she might for this purpose. But whatever their success as de-
vices of suspenseful theater, they effectively signal social-psychological
instability. In the various scenes and exchanges just described we are
reminded that retreat from one's community assures no protection
from the troublesome crosscurrents of daily life; that the home itself is
not safe from those crosscurrents; that public and festive exchange is
burdened by external pressures; that nature is alive with the energies of
human struggle and violence; and that religious seclusion cannot keep
the world at bay. In short, the personal anxiety seen on the surface
of these details is deeply saturated in the institutions and conduct of
society itself, constituting a troubled stream that runs through a world
that wants to be-and assumes that it can be-secure in its values,
beliefs, and daily practices.
  If the details of anxiety course through the many settings of the
drama in a way that suggests the largeness of the world and the severity
of its troubles, images of claustrophobia pull the opposite direction,
suggesting that the world is not large enough to allow even a single
individual comfortable breathing space. It is worth noting a few of
these images: near the beginning of the play, after learning of Rezen-
velt's presence in the community, DeMonfort remarks to Freberg,


    Lady Freberg: How dull, indeed?
    DeMonfort: I should have said-It has escap'd me now.-
    [Listening again, as ifhe heard something.]
    Jane: What, hear you aught?
    DeMonfort [Hastily]: 'Tis nothing. (II.ii)

What he hears-or imagines that he hears-of course, is the approach
of Rezenvelt, whose real or imagined presence haunts him at every
moment. The anxiety of this scene is repeated in a more pathological
manner later, just before DeMonfort murders Rezenvelt. Alone after
dark on the barren path where Rezenvelt will soon pass, DeMonfort
is described in a stage direction as "looking behind him, and bending
his Ear to the Ground, as if he listened to something" (IV.i). When
Rezenvelt comes on stage, he too is described by the stage direction
as wary, anxiety-ridden, listening: "Enter Rezenvelt, and continues his
way slowly across the Stage, but just as he is going off, the Owl
screams, he stops and listens, and the Owl screams again" (IV.i).
These details are doubtless meant to create suspense or tension on-
stage, though it is arguable that Baillie does not handle them as effec-
tively as she might for this purpose. But whatever their success as de-
vices of suspenseful theater, they effectively signal social-psychological
instability. In the various scenes and exchanges just described we are
reminded that retreat from one's community assures no protection
from the troublesome crosscurrents of daily life; that the home itself is
not safe from those crosscurrents; that public and festive exchange is
burdened by external pressures; that nature is alive with the energies of
human struggle and violence; and that religious seclusion cannot keep
the world at bay. In short, the personal anxiety seen on the surface
of these details is deeply saturated in the institutions and conduct of
society itself, constituting a troubled stream that runs through a world
that wants to be-and assumes that it can be-secure in its values,
beliefs, and daily practices.
  If the details of anxiety course through the many settings of the
drama in a way that suggests the largeness of the world and the severity
of its troubles, images of claustrophobia pull the opposite direction,
suggesting that the world is not large enough to allow even a single
individual comfortable breathing space. It is worth noting a few of
these images: near the beginning of the play, after learning of Rezen-
velt's presence in the community, DeMonfort remarks to Freberg,



46 / English Romantic Drama              46 / English Romantic Drama              46 / English Romantic Drama


"Come, let us move: / This chamber is confin'd and airless grown"
(I.ii). One act later, after agreeing to confess the cause of his mental
anguish to his sister, Jane, DeMonfort comments:

       I'll tell thee all-but oh! thou wilt despise me,
       For in my breast, a raging passion burns,
       To which thy soul no sympathy will own.
       A passion, which hath made my nightly couch
       A place of torment; and the light of day,
       With the gay intercourse of social man,
       Feel like th' oppressive airless pestilence. (Il.ii)

Still later, he responds to Freberg's story of Rezenvelt's enormous gen-
erosity with the comment that "This morning is oppressive, warm.
and heavy: / There hangs a foggy closeness in the air; / Dost thou not
feel it?" (II.ii). Finally, upon being informed by Grimald that Rezen-
velt is in love with Jane, DeMonfort responds: "'Tis false! 'tis basely
false! / What wretch could drop from his envenom'd tongue / A tale
so damn'd?-It chokes my breath" (III.iii). These statements are ac-
companied by less direct remarks that nonetheless suggest the stifling
nature ofDeMonfort's social environment. He tellsJane that Rezenvelt
"presses me" (II.ii); in describing his hatred for Rezenvelt, he likens
himself to a plant "whose closing leaves do shrink / At hostile touch"
(Il.ii); and in promising to maintain a noble countenance in Rezen-
velt's presence, he tell his sister: "The crooked curving lip, by instinct
taught, / In imitation of disgustful things, / To pout and swell, I strictly
will repress" (II.ii).
  The obvious social and psychological point here is that because
Rezenvelt is everywhere in society-from DeMonfort's home town to
Amberg, where he has sought refuge; from DeMonfort's apartments
to public gatherings; and from the garden outside DeMonfort's win-
dow to the barren areas outside Amberg-there is literally nowhere for
DeMonfort to situate himself that is free from his enemy's presence.
The two, finally, are even laid side by side in death, a grimly ironic
reminder of the extent to which Rezenvelt presses upon and helps to
define every aspect of DeMonfort's existence. DeMonfort's claustro-
phobia is a psychological response to his particular situation, to be
sure, but it nonetheless clearly reflects at the same time the literally
shrinking world of his social class, at least as that class is represented in
its presumed superiority and autonomy by DeMonfort. As DeMon-


"Come, let us move: / This chamber is confin'd and airless grown"
(I.ii). One act later, after agreeing to confess the cause of his mental
anguish to his sister, Jane, DeMonfort comments:
       I'll tell thee all-but oh! thou wilt despise me,
       For in my breast, a raging passion burns,
       To which thy soul no sympathy will own.
       A passion, which hath made my nightly couch
       A place of torment; and the light of day,
       With the gay intercourse of social man,
       Feel like th' oppressive airless pestilence. (II.ii)

Still later, he responds to Freberg's story of Rezenvelt's enormous gen-
erosity with the comment that "This morning is oppressive, warm,
and heavy: / There hangs a foggy closeness in the air; / Dost thou not
feel it?" (II.ii). Finally, upon being informed by Grimald that Rezen-
velt is in love with Jane, DeMonfort responds: "'Tis false! 'tis basely
false! / What wretch could drop from his envenom'd tongue / A tale
so damn'd?-It chokes my breath" (III.iii). These statements are ac-
companied by less direct remarks that nonetheless suggest the stifling
nature of DeMonfort's social environment. He tells Jane that Rezenvelt
"presses me" (II.ii); in describing his hatred for Rezenvelt, he likens
himself to a plant "whose closing leaves do shrink / At hostile touch"
(II.ii); and in promising to maintain a noble countenance in Rezen-
velt's presence, he tell his sister: "The crooked curving lip, by instinct
taught, / In imitation of disgustful things, / To pout and swell, I strictly
will repress" (II.ii).
  The obvious social and psychological point here is that because
Rezenvelt is everywhere in society-from DeMonfort's home town to
Amberg, where he has sought refuge; from DeMonfort's apartments
to public gatherings; and from the garden outside DeMonfort's win-
dow to the barren areas outside Amberg-there is literally nowhere for
DeMonfort to situate himself that is free from his enemy's presence.
The two, finally, are even laid side by side in death, a grimly ironic
reminder of the extent to which Rezenvelt presses upon and helps to
define every aspect of DeMonfort's existence. DeMonfort's claustro-
phobia is a psychological response to his particular situation, to be
sure, but it nonetheless clearly reflects at the same time the literally
shrinking world of his social class, at least as that class is represented in
its presumed superiority and autonomy by DeMonfort. As DeMon-


"Come, let us move: / This chamber is confin'd and airless grown"
(I.ii). One act later, after agreeing to confess the cause of his mental
anguish to his sister, Jane, DeMonfort comments:

       I'll tell thee all-but oh! thou wilt despise me,
       For in my breast, a raging passion burns,
       To which thy soul no sympathy will own.
       A passion, which hath made my nightly couch
       A place of torment; and the light of day,
       With the gay intercourse of social man,
       Feel like th' oppressive airless pestilence. (II.ii)

Still later, he responds to Freberg's story of Rezenvelt's enormous gen-
erosity with the comment that "This morning is oppressive, warm,
and heavy: / There hangs a foggy closeness in the air; / Dost thou not
feel it?" (II.ii). Finally, upon being informed by Grimald that Rezen-
velt is in love with Jane, DeMonfort responds: "'Tis false! 'tis basely
false! / What wretch could drop from his envenom'd tongue / A tale
so damn'd?-It chokes my breath" (III.iii). These statements are ac-
companied by less direct remarks that nonetheless suggest the stifling
nature of DeMonfort's social environment. He tells Jane that Rezenvelt
"presses me" (II.ii); in describing his hatred for Rezenvelt, he likens
himself to a plant "whose closing leaves do shrink / At hostile touch"
(II.ii); and in promising to maintain a noble countenance in Rezen-
velt's presence, he tell his sister: "The crooked curving lip, by instinct
taught, / In imitation ofdisgustful things, / To pout and swell, I strictly
will repress" (II.ii).
The obvious social and psychological point here is that because
Rezenvelt is everywhere in society-from DeMonfort's home town to
Amberg, where he has sought refuge; from DeMonfort's apartments
to public gatherings; and from the garden outside DeMonfort's win-
dow to the barren areas outside Amberg-there is literally nowhere for
DeMonfort to situate himself that is free from his enemy's presence.
The two, finally, are even laid side by side in death, a grimly ironic
reminder of the extent to which Rezenvelt presses upon and helps to
define every aspect of DeMonfort's existence. DeMonfort's claustro-
phobia is a psychological response to his particular situation, to be
sure, but it nonetheless clearly reflects at the same time the literally
shrinking world of his social class, at least as that class is represented in
its presumed superiority and autonomy by DeMonfort. As DeMon-



           Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 47

fort's world grows smaller, Rezenvelt's grows larger, as Rezenvelt is
literally everywhere that DeMonfort turns, a fact that ultimately pro-
duces a crisis subject to resolution only by passing through the tragic
territories (DeMonfort believes) of violence and death.
  If anxiety and claustrophobia are signs of tense psychological pres-
sure produced by antagonistic class relations, the feasts and parties
described through much of the early part of the drama suggest one
way that the aristocracy deals with that tension. These decadent pas-
times constitute, moreover, an arena of social exchange in which both
the downward negotiation of aristocratic social life and the upward
motion of bourgeois respect and authority become visible.
  In the opening scene, shortly after DeMonfort has arrived at
Jerome's, Count and Lady Freberg enter unannounced, and at an ex-
tremely late hour, to welcome him to town. The Frebergs, DeMon-
fort is told, are on their return "from a midnight mask" (Ii). During
their conversation, Count Freberg, sensing DeMonfort's melancholy
humor, promises to "reestablish" his friend by making available to
him the highest pleasure in life, partying: "Little time so spent, / Doth
far outvalue all our life beside. / This is indeed our life, our waking
life, / The rest dull breathing sleep" (Ii). Before the Frebergs leave,
they make good their promise, inviting the morose DeMonfort to a
party already set for the very next evening that they themselves will
host. The anticipated pleasure of the evening is expressed confidently
by Lady Freberg: "To-morrow night I open wide my doors / To all
the fair and gay; beneath my roof / Music, and dance, and revelry
shall reign" (I.i). Still later in the drama, only shortly after the Freberg
party, DeMonfort is invited to yet another festivity by Count Freberg,
this one to be hosted by old Count Water/an in honor of Rezenvelt
(see II.ii).
  The repeated extravagant parties and planning of future parties
define the public activity of the aristocracy depicted in the drama,
and thus they are a key to its values and direction of social meaning.
Two social realities are fundamentally connected to the enthusiastic
embrace of decadence as a way of life. First, in the conduct of the Fre-
bergs is seen the predictable last fling of a social class that has lost its
commanding position in society. If DeMonfort's extreme sullenness
represents the dark, reactive personal side of class erosion, the Fre-
bergs' party fever represents its cynically indulgent side. While Count
Freberg's hedonistic commitments are in no way cold or malicious,


           Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 47

fort's world grows smaller, Rezenvelt's grows larger, as Rezenvelt is
literally everywhere that DeMonfort turns, a fact that ultimately pro-
duces a crisis subject to resolution only by passing through the tragic
territories (DeMonfort believes) of violence and death.
  If anxiety and claustrophobia are signs of tense psychological pres-
sure produced by antagonistic class relations, the feasts and parties
described through much of the early part of the drama suggest one
way that the aristocracy deals with that tension. These decadent pas-
times constitute, moreover, an arena of social exchange in which both
the downward negotiation of aristocratic social life and the upward
motion of bourgeois respect and authority become visible.
  In the opening scene, shortly after DeMonfort has arrived at
Jerome's, Count and Lady Freberg enter unannounced, and at an ex-
tremely late hour, to welcome him to town. The Frebergs, DeMon-
fort is told, are on their return "from a midnight mask" (Ii). During
their conversation, Count Freberg, sensing DeMonfort's melancholy
humor, promises to "reestablish" his friend by making available to
him the highest pleasure in life, partying: "Little time so spent, / Doth
far outvalue all our life beside. / This is indeed our life, our waking
life, / The rest dull breathing sleep" (Ii). Before the Frebergs leave,
they make good their promise, inviting the morose DeMonfort to a
party already set for the very next evening that they themselves will
host. The anticipated pleasure of the evening is expressed confidently
by Lady Freberg: "To-morrow night I open wide my doors / To all
the fair and gay; beneath my roof / Music, and dance, and revelry
shall reign" (I.i). Still later in the drama, only shortly after the Freberg
party, DeMonfort is invited to yet another festivity by Count Freberg,
this one to be hosted by old Count Waterlan in honor of Rezenvelt
(see II.ii).
  The repeated extravagant parties and planning of future parties
define the public activity of the aristocracy depicted in the drama,
and thus they are a key to its values and direction of social meaning.
Two social realities are fundamentally connected to the enthusiastic
embrace of decadence as a way of life. First, in the conduct of the Fre-
bergs is seen the predictable last fling of a social class that has lost its
commanding position in society. If DeMonfort's extreme sullenness
represents the dark, reactive personal side of class erosion, the Fre-
bergs' party fever represents its cynically indulgent side. While Count
Freberg's hedonistic commitments are in no way cold or malicious,


           Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 47

fort's world grows smaller, Rezenvelt's grows larger, as Rezenvelt is
literally everywhere that DeMonfort turns, a fact that ultimately pro-
duces a crisis subject to resolution only by passing through the tragic
territories (DeMonfort believes) of violence and death.
  If anxiety and claustrophobia are signs of tense psychological pres-
sure produced by antagonistic class relations, the feasts and parties
described through much of the early part of the drama suggest one
way that the aristocracy deals with that tension. These decadent pas-
times constitute, moreover, an arena of social exchange in which both
the downward negotiation of aristocratic social life and the upward
motion of bourgeois respect and authority become visible.
  In the opening scene, shortly after DeMonfort has arrived at
Jerome's, Count and Lady Freberg enter unannounced, and at an ex-
tremely late hour, to welcome him to town. The Frebergs, DeMon-
fort is told, are on their return "from a midnight mask" (Ii). During
their conversation, Count Freberg, sensing DeMonfort's melancholy
humor, promises to "reestablish" his friend by making available to
him the highest pleasure in life, partying: "Little time so spent, / Doth
far outvalue all our life beside. / This is indeed our life, our waking
life, / The rest dull breathing sleep" (Li). Before the Frebergs leave,
they make good their promise, inviting the morose DeMonfort to a
party already set for the very next evening that they themselves will
host. The anticipated pleasure of the evening is expressed confidently
by Lady Freberg: "To-morrow night I open wide my doors / To all
the fair and gay; beneath my roof / Music, and dance, and revelry
shall reign" (Ii). Still later in the drama, only shortly after the Freberg
party, DeMonfort is invited to yet another festivity by Count Freberg,
this one to be hosted by old Count Waterlan in honor of Rezenvelt
(see II.ii).
  The repeated extravagant parties and planning of future parties
define the public activity of the aristocracy depicted in the drama,
and thus they are a key to its values and direction of social meaning.
Two social realities are fundamentally connected to the enthusiastic
embrace of decadence as a way of life. First, in the conduct of the Fre-
bergs is seen the predictable last fling of a social class that has lost its
commanding position in society. If DeMonfort's extreme sullenness
represents the dark, reactive personal side of class erosion, the Fre-
bergs' party fever represents its cynically indulgent side. While Count
Freberg's hedonistic commitments are in no way cold or malicious,



48/ ngis Rmati Dam    /Enlih omntc raa                        8 Eias oati rm


neither are they attuned to social realities outside the scope of his per-
sonal pleasure. For him a party, at its most serious and ambitious,
marks an opportunity to manipulate small events within his personal
sphere of experience, as is evidenced by his good-hearted yet dismally
failed efforts to bring Rezenvelt and DeMonfort (who, in his view,
possess "two minds so much refin'd" [III.ii]) together in friendship. At
their most common level of occurrence, the parties and festivities that
seem to constitute the central portion of Freberg's life are a public dis-
play of obscene wealth and conspicuous consumption, an ugly gesture
refusing all claims of the world beyond aristocratic self-gratification.
  Second, the never ending stream of parties and plans for more
parties provides interesting insight into the actual social and political
compromises that necessarily accompany social transformation. The
difficulty and complexity of these compromises are glimpsed most
readily in the fact that one major difference between DeMonfort and
Count Freberg is that the latter has accepted the rising Rezenvelt as an
equal, and perhaps even as a superior, while the former detests Rezen-
velt literally more than death itself. While the aristocratic DeMonfort
denies completely the social position that has been accorded to Rezen-
velt-thus assuring DeMonfort's increasingly intense alienation from
society-the aristocratic Freberg embraces it enthusiastically and pub-
licly, displaying his acceptance of a new social arrangement in the many
parties and social gatherings around which he has organized his life.
  But Freberg's regard for Rezenvelt signals more than acceptance; it
signals a far-reaching social compromise with presumed social payoffs
for both the aristocracy and the inchoate bourgeoisie. The environ-
ment of the party is socially significant in this regard because in it the
newly rich Rezenvelt finds public support and applause from a social
class whose historical position has been the very definition of cultural
credibility and political authority; that is, he finds himself meeting the
approval not merely of individuals but of a long tradition of social
and cultural privilege, as his leisure is their leisure, his pleasure is their
pleasure. The expensively clad and ostentatiously privileged aristoc-
racy, on the other hand, welcome Rezenvelt into their company both
because of what they perceive as his individual merit and because of
his newly acquired wealth, wealth which (according to the much-
impressed Count Freberg) he displays with all proper decorum and
modesty (see III.i). The fact is, of course, that in honoring Rezenvelt,
Count Freberg and his fellow aristocratic partygoers attach themselves


neither are they attuned to social realities outside the scope of his per-
sonal pleasure. For him a party, at its most serious and ambitious,
marks an opportunity to manipulate small events within his personal
sphere of experience, as is evidenced by his good-hearted yet dismally
failed efforts to bring Rezenvelt and DeMonfort (who, in his view,
possess "two minds so much refin'd" [III.ii]) together in friendship. At
their most common level of occurrence, the parties and festivities that
seem to constitute the central portion of Freberg's life are a public dis-
play of obscene wealth and conspicuous consumption, an ugly gesture
refusing all claims of the world beyond aristocratic self-gratification.
  Second, the never ending stream of parties and plans for more
parties provides interesting insight into the actual social and political
compromises that necessarily accompany social transformation. The
difficulty and complexity of these compromises are glimpsed most
readily in the fact that one major difference between DeMonfort and
Count Freberg is that the latter has accepted the rising Rezenvelt as an
equal, and perhaps even as a superior, while the former detests Rezen-
velt literally more than death itself. While the aristocratic DeMonfort
denies completely the social position that has been accorded to Rezen-
velt-thus assuring DeMonfort's increasingly intense alienation from
society-the aristocratic Freberg embraces it enthusiastically and pub-
licly, displaying his acceptance of a new social arrangement in the many
parties and social gatherings around which he has organized his life.
  But Freberg's regard for Rezenvelt signals more than acceptance; it
signals a far-reaching social compromise with presumed social payoffs
for both the aristocracy and the inchoate bourgeoisie. The environ-
ment of the party is socially significant in this regard because in it the
newly rich Rezenvelt finds public support and applause from a social
class whose historical position has been the very definition of cultural
credibility and political authority; that is, he finds himself meeting the
approval not merely of individuals but of a long tradition of social
and cultural privilege, as his leisure is their leisure, his pleasure is their
pleasure. The expensively clad and ostentatiously privileged aristoc-
racy, on the other hand, welcome Rezenvelt into their company both
because of what they perceive as his individual merit and because of
his newly acquired wealth, wealth which (according to the much-
impressed Count Freberg) he displays with all proper decorum and
modesty (see III.i). The fact is, of course, that in honoring Rezenvelt,
Count Freberg and his fellow aristocratic partygoers attach themselves


neither are they attuned to social realities outside the scope of his per-
sonal pleasure. For him a party, at its most serious and ambitious,
marks an opportunity to manipulate small events within his personal
sphere of experience, as is evidenced by his good-hearted yet dismally
failed efforts to bring Rezenvelt and DeMonfort (who, in his view,
possess "two minds so much refin'd" [IIl. ii) together in friendship. At
their most common level of occurrence, the parties and festivities that
seem to constitute the central portion of Freberg's life are a public dis-
play of obscene wealth and conspicuous consumption, an ugly gesture
refusing all claims of the world beyond aristocratic self-gratification.
Second, the never ending stream of parties and plans for more
parties provides interesting insight into the actual social and political
compromises that necessarily accompany social transformation. The
difficulty and complexity of these compromises are glimpsed most
readily in the fact that one major difference between DeMonfort and
Count Freberg is that the latter has accepted the rising Rezenvelt as an
equal, and perhaps even as a superior, while the former detests Rezen-
velt literally more than death itself. While the aristocratic DeMonfort
denies completely the social position that has been accorded to Rezen-
velt-thus assuring DeMonfort's increasingly intense alienation from
society-the aristocratic Freberg embraces it enthusiastically and pub-
licly, displaying his acceptance of a new social arrangement in the many
parties and social gatherings around which he has organized his life.
  But Freberg's regard for Rezenvelt signals more than acceptance; it
signals a far-reaching social compromise with presumed social payoffs
for both the aristocracy and the inchoate bourgeoisie. The environ-
ment of the party is socially significant in this regard because in it the
newly rich Rezenvelt finds public support and applause from a social
class whose historical position has been the very definition of cultural
credibility and political authority; that is, he finds himself meeting the
approval not merely of individuals but of a long tradition of social
and cultural privilege, as his leisure is their leisure, his pleasure is their
pleasure. The expensively clad and ostentatiously privileged aristoc-
racy, on the other hand, welcome Rezenvelt into their company both
because of what they perceive as his individual merit and because of
his newly acquired wealth, wealth which (according to the much-
impressed Count Freberg) he displays with all proper decorum and
modesty (see II. i). The fact is, of course, that in honoring Rezenvelt,
Count Freberg and his fellow aristocratic partygoers attach themselves



Joanna Bailie's DeMonfort / 49                                          Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 49                                         Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 49


to and gain renewed social identity from one whose privilege and
recognition have surpassed their own. As Count Freberg says bluntly
to DeMonfort: "I know not one, for talents, honour, worth, / That I
should rank superior to Rezenvelt" (IIIi).
  The tensions, compromises, and negotiations caught up in radi-
cal transformation are seen at other levels of social life as well. One
site where they receive their most compelling depiction is the female
body. The social significance attached to women, and specifically to
their physical features, begins to be glimpsed in the comments of Lady
Freberg's page about Lady Jane, who has just arrived at the Freberg
residence but who has not yet been introduced or even identified. In
this young man's eyes, the woman who turns out to be Lady Jane is
a veritable goddess, one who is "So queenly, so commanding, and so
noble, / I shrunk at first, in awe" (II.i). Such descriptions continue
from the page's mouth with no sign of abating until Lady Freberg at
last, in exasperation, interrupts him to say, "Thine eyes deceive thee,
boy, / It is an apparition thou has seen" (II.i). When Count Freberg
interjects that perhaps the page has not seen an apparition but rather
Lady Jane, Lady Freberg coldly responds, "No; such description surely
suits not her" (II.i). Lady Freberg's unease with Jane's presence is seen
again moments later in Count Freberg's admiring comments about
Lady Jane after she has left the room, which prompt Lady Freberg's
cold response that what Count Freberg admires in Jane is in fact her
"pride" (IIi).
   This small, lightly humorous scene most obviously discloses com-
petition between women for the attention of men. But the competition
is by no means only personal, nor is it socially innocent. While Jane
is "no doting mistress," and "No fond, distracted wife" (II.i) of De-
Monfort, she is nonetheless a competitor for his attention and affection
and for the attention and affection of other men; and thus she threat-
ens Lady Freberg's (ostensibly) secure position as a preferred object
of masculine desire, a fact that raises the issue of the cultural value
attached to the female body. Unlike the social position of men, which
is determined largely in terms of class in the world of drama (as can be
seen in the conflict between Rezenvelt and DeMonfort), that of women
is determined in terms of patriarchy, largely irrespective of class. This
means that both bourgeois and aristocratic men stand in positions of
power with respect to women; and thus women in the world of the
drama-as is most clearly seen in the various actions and comments


to and gain renewed social identity from one whose privilege and
recognition have surpassed their own. As Count Freberg says bluntly
to DeMonfort: "I know not one, for talents, honour, worth, / That I
should rank superior to Rezenvelt" (III.i).
   The tensions, compromises, and negotiations caught up in radi-
cal transformation are seen at other levels of social life as well. One
site where they receive their most compelling depiction is the female
body. The social significance attached to women, and specifically to
their physical features, begins to be glimpsed in the comments of Lady
Freberg's page about Lady Jane, who has just arrived at the Freberg
residence but who has not yet been introduced or even identified. In
this young man's eyes, the woman who turns out to be Lady Jane is
a veritable goddess, one who is "So queenly, so commanding, and so
noble, / I shrunk at first, in awe" (II.i). Such descriptions continue
from the page's mouth with no sign of abating until Lady Freberg at
last, in exasperation, interrupts him to say, "Thine eyes deceive thee,
boy, / It is an apparition thou has seen" (II.i). When Count Freberg
interjects that perhaps the page has not seen an apparition but rather
Lady Jane, Lady Freberg coldly responds, "No; such description surely
suits not her" (II.i). Lady Freberg's unease with Jane's presence is seen
again moments later in Count Freberg's admiring comments about
Lady Jane after she has left the room, which prompt Lady Freberg's
cold response that what Count Freberg admires in Jane is in fact her
"pride" (II.i).
   This small, lightly humorous scene most obviously discloses com-
petition between women for the attention of men. But the competition
is by no means only personal, nor is it socially innocent. While Jane
is "no doting mistress," and "No fond, distracted wife" (II.i) of De-
Monfort, she is nonetheless a competitor for his attention and affection
and for the attention and affection of other men; and thus she threat-
ens Lady Freberg's (ostensibly) secure position as a preferred object
of masculine desire, a fact that raises the issue of the cultural value
attached to the female body. Unlike the social position of men, which
is determined largely in terms of class in the world of drama (as can be
seen in the conflict between Rezenvelt and DeMonfort), that of women
is determined in terms of patriarchy, largely irrespective of class. This
means that both bourgeois and aristocratic men stand in positions of
power with respect to women; and thus women in the world of the
drama-as is most clearly seen in the various actions and comments


to and gain renewed social identity from one whose privilege and
recognition have surpassed their own. As Count Freberg says bluntly
to DeMonfort: "I know not one, for talents, honour, worth, / That I
should rank superior to Rezenvelt" (IIIi).
  The tensions, compromises, and negotiations caught up in radi-
cal transformation are seen at other levels of social life as well. One
site where they receive their most compelling depiction is the female
body. The social significance attached to women, and specifically to
their physical features, begins to be glimpsed in the comments of Lady
Freberg's page about Lady Jane, who has just arrived at the Freberg
residence but who has not yet been introduced or even identified. In
this young man's eyes, the woman who turns out to be Lady Jane is
a veritable goddess, one who is "So queenly, so commanding, and so
noble, / I shrunk at first, in awe" (II.i). Such descriptions continue
from the page's mouth with no sign of abating until Lady Freberg at
last, in exasperation, interrupts him to say, "Thine eyes deceive thee,
boy, / It is an apparition thou has seen" (Ili). When Count Freberg
interjects that perhaps the page has not seen an apparition but rather
Lady Jane, Lady Freberg coldly responds, "No; such description surely
suits not her" (ILi). Lady Freberg's unease with Jane's presence is seen
again moments later in Count Freberg's admiring comments about
Lady Jane after she has left the room, which prompt Lady Freberg's
cold response that what Count Freberg admires in Jane is in fact her
"pride" (II.i).
   This small, lightly humorous scene most obviously discloses com-
petition between women for the attention of men. But the competition
is by no means only personal, nor is it socially innocent. While Jane
is "no doting mistress," and "No fond, distracted wife" (ILi) of De-
Monfort, she is nonetheless a competitor for his attention and affection
and for the attention and affection of other men; and thus she threat-
ens Lady Freberg's (ostensibly) secure position as a preferred object
of masculine desire, a fact that raises the issue of the cultural value
attached to the female body. Unlike the social position of men, which
is determined largely in terms of class in the world of drama (as can be
seen in the conflict between Rezenvelt and DeMonfort), that of women
is determined in terms of patriarchy, largely irrespective of class. This
means that both bourgeois and aristocratic men stand in positions of
power with respect to women; and thus women in the world of the
drama-as is most clearly seen in the various actions and comments



So / Englsh Roati raa5 / Engis Roani Drm                                           o/EgihRmni rm


of Lady Freberg-self-consciously transform themselves so that they
might be objects of choice, and thereby attach themselves to some sort
of social authority, be it bourgeois or aristocratic. One sign of the on-
going and shaping power of patriarchy in the midst of class struggle
can be found in Rezenvelt's lengthy, self-satisfied survey of the women
at the Freberg's party:

      . . . [M]en ofev'ry mind
      May in that moving crowd some fair one find,
      To suit their taste, though whimsical and strange,
      As ever fancy own'd.
      Beauty of every cast and shade is there,
      From the perfection of a faultless form,
      Down to the common, brown, unnoted maid,
      Who looks but pretty in her Sunday gown.

      And if the liberality of nature
      Suffices not, there's store of grafted charms,
      Blending in one, the sweets of many plants,
      So obstinately, strangely opposite,
      As would have well defy'd all other art
      But female cultivation. Aged youth,
      With borrow'd locks in rosy chaplets bound,
      Clothes her dim eye, parch'd lip, and skinny cheek
      In most unlovely softness.
      And youthful age, with fat, round, trackless face,
      The downcast look of contemplation deep,
      Most pensively assumes.
      Is it not even so? The native prude,
      With forced laugh, and merriment uncouth,
      Plays off the wild coquet's successful charms
      With most unskilful pains; and the coquet,
      In temporary crust of cold reserve,
      Fixes her studied looks upon the ground
      Forbiddingly demure.

      ' faith, the very dwarfs attempt to charm,
      With lofty airs of puny majesty,
      Whilst potent damsels, of a portly make,


of Lady Freberg-self-consciously transform themselves so that they
might be objects of choice, and thereby attach themselves to some sort
of social authority, be it bourgeois or aristocratic. One sign of the on-
going and shaping power of patriarchy in the midst of class struggle
can be found in Rezenvelt's lengthy, self-satisfied survey of the women
at the Freberg's party:

      ... [M]en of ev'ry mind
      May in that moving crowd some fair one find,
      To suit their taste, though whimsical and strange,
      As ever fancy own'd.
      Beauty of every cast and shade is there,
      From the perfection of a faultless form,
      Down to the common, brown, unnoted maid,
      Who looks but pretty in her Sunday gown.

      And if the liberality of nature
      Suffices not, there's store of grafted charms,
      Blending in one, the sweets of many plants,
      So obstinately, strangely opposite,
      As would have well defy'd all other art
      But female cultivation. Aged youth,
      With borrow'd locks in rosy chaplets bound,
      Clothes her dim eye, parch'd lip, and skinny cheek
      In most unlovely softness.
      And youthful age, with fat, round, trackless face,
      The downcast look of contemplation deep,
      Most pensively assumes.
      Is it not even so? The native prude,
      With forced laugh, and merriment uncouth,
      Plays off the wild coquet's successful charms
      With most unskilful pains; and the coquet,
      In temporary crust of cold reserve,
      Fixes her studied looks upon the ground
      Forbiddingly demure.

      I' faith, the very dwarfs attempt to charm,
      With lofty airs of puny majesty,
      Whilst potent damsels, of a portly make,


of Lady Freberg-self-consciously transform themselves so that they
might be objects of choice, and thereby attach themselves to some sort
of social authority, be it bourgeois or aristocratic. One sign of the on-
going and shaping power of patriarchy in the midst of class struggle
can be found in Rezenvelt's lengthy, self-satisfied survey of the women
at the Freberg's party:

      ... [M]en of ev'ry mind
      May in that moving crowd some fair one find,
      To suit their taste, though whimsical and strange,
      As ever fancy own'd.
      Beauty of every cast and shade is there,
      From the perfection of a faultless form,
      Down to the common, brown, unnoted maid,
      Who looks but pretty in her Sunday gown.

      And if the liberality of nature
      Suffices not, there's store of grafted charms,
      Blending in one, the sweets of many plants,
      So obstinately, strangely opposite,
      As would have well defy'd all other art
      But female cultivation. Aged youth,
      With borrow'd locks in rosy chaplets bound,
      Clothes her dim eye, parch'd lip, and skinny cheek
      In most unlovely softness.
      And youthful age, with fat, round, trackless face,
      The downcast look of contemplation deep,
      Most pensively assumes.
      Is it not even so? The native prude,
      With forced laugh, and merriment uncouth,
      Plays off the wild coquet's successful charms
      With most unskilful pains; and the coquet,
      In temporary crust of cold reserve,
      Fixes her studied looks upon the ground
      Forbiddingly demure.

      [ faith, the very dwarfs attempt to charm,
      With lofty airs of puny majesty,
      Whilst potent damsels, of a portly make,



Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 51                                         Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 51                                         Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 51


             Totter like nurslings, and demand the aid
             Of gentle sympathy.
             From all those diverse modes of dire assault,
             He owns a heart of hardest adamant,
             Who shall escape to-night. (II.i)

According to this cynical view, women are objects to be chosen like
produce by desiring men, and their value as objects is not in the least
class specific, but rather form specific. From native prudes to co-
quets to damsels of a portly make, the women of whom Rezenvelt
here speaks are varieties of Lady Freberg-women who seek to place
themselves in the arena of social value, and to hold their place in that
arena through the use of their bodies. In such a world, friendship and
trust between women are impossible-as they are impossible between
Lady Freberg and Lady Jane-as every woman is a threat to every
other woman
   The most illuminating insight into the social and cultural signifi-
cance of the female body and into the workings of patriarchy can be
found in the scene describing Lady Jane's appearance in disguise at the
Freberg party. In denying even a glimpse of her face, the disguise both
focuses attention on her physical form and inspires masculine fantasy
to create a dream face for that form. As the drooling comments of
Rezenvelt describe the situation: "this way lies attraction" (II.i). Re-
fused access to her face, he (like DeMonfort) quickly constructs in his
imagination a vision of her as far superior to other women in her pres-
ence: "We bid you welcome, and our beauties here, / Will welcome
you the more for such concealment" (lI i).
   Beyond the obvious masculine erotic fantasies about the faceless
(dehumanized) female body, however, is another, more delicate, mat-
ter of sexual politics, one still related to the cultural value of the
female body but charged with a combined class and erotic interest:
incest. The conversation between DeMonfort and his disguised sis-
ter approaches sexual longing, as Jane speaks freely (protected by the
veil that she wears) of one "who has, alas! forsaken me" (II.i), and of
one who shared his life with her entirely: "Within our op'ning minds,
with riper years / The love of praise, and gen'rous virtue sprung: /
Through varied life our pride, our joys, were one" (IIli). DeMonfort,
for his part, responds in kind, remarking first upon his sister's "virtu-
ous worth," and then celebrating her unusual beauty, which, he says,


             Totter like nurslings, and demand the aid
             Of gentle sympathy.
             From all those diverse modes of dire assault,
             He owns a heart of hardest adamant,
             Who shall escape to-night. (II.i)

According to this cynical view, women are objects to be chosen like
produce by desiring men, and their value as objects is not in the least
class specific, but rather form specific. From native prudes to co-
quets to damsels of a portly make, the women of whom Rezenvelt
here speaks are varieties of Lady Freberg-women who seek to place
themselves in the arena of social value, and to hold their place in that
arena through the use of their bodies. In such a world, friendship and
trust between women are impossible-as they are impossible between
Lady Freberg and Lady Jane-as every woman is a threat to every
other woman
   The most illuminating insight into the social and cultural signifi-
cance of the female body and into the workings of patriarchy can be
found in the scene describing Lady Jane's appearance in disguise at the
Freberg party. In denying even a glimpse of her face, the disguise both
focuses attention on her physical form and inspires masculine fantasy
to create a dream face for that form. As the drooling comments of
Rezenvelt describe the situation: "this way lies attraction" (II.i). Re-
fused access to her face, he (like DeMonfort) quickly constructs in his
imagination a vision of her as far superior to other women in her pres-
ence: "We bid you welcome, and our beauties here, / Will welcome
you the more for such concealment" (IIi).
   Beyond the obvious masculine erotic fantasies about the faceless
(dehumanized) female body, however, is another, more delicate, mat-
ter of sexual politics, one still related to the cultural value of the
female body but charged with a combined class and erotic interest:
incest. The conversation between DeMonfort and his disguised sis-
ter approaches sexual longing, as Jane speaks freely (protected by the
veil that she wears) of one "who has, alas! forsaken me" (II.i), and of
one who shared his life with her entirely: "Within our op'ning minds,
with riper years / The love of praise, and gen'rous virtue sprung: /
Through varied life our pride, our joys, were one" (II.i). DeMonfort,
for his part, responds in kind, remarking first upon his sister's "virtu-
ous worth," and then celebrating her unusual beauty, which, he says,


             Totter like nurslings, and demand the aid
             Of gentle sympathy.
             From all those diverse modes of dire assault,
             He owns a heart of hardest adamant,
             Who shall escape to-night. (II.i)
According to this cynical view, women are objects to be chosen like
produce by desiring men, and their value as objects is not in the least
class specific, but rather form specific. From native prudes to co-
quets to damsels of a portly make, the women of whom Rezenvelt
here speaks are varieties of Lady Freberg-women who seek to place
themselves in the arena of social value, and to hold their place in that
arena through the use of their bodies. In such a world, friendship and
trust between women are impossible-as they are impossible between
Lady Freberg and Lady Jane-as every woman is a threat to every
other woman.'
   The most illuminating insight into the social and cultural signifi-
cance of the female body and into the workings of patriarchy can be
found in the scene describing Lady Jane's appearance in disguise at the
Freberg party. In denying even a glimpse of her face, the disguise both
focuses attention on her physical form and inspires masculine fantasy
to create a dream face for that form. As the drooling comments of
Rezenvelt describe the situation: "this way lies attraction" (II.i). Re-
fused access to her face, he (like DeMonfort) quickly constructs in his
imagination a vision of her as far superior to other women in her pres-
ence: "We bid you welcome, and our beauties here, / Will welcome
you the more for such concealment" (II.i).
   Beyond the obvious masculine erotic fantasies about the faceless
(dehumanized) female body, however, is another, more delicate, mat-
ter of sexual politics, one still related to the cultural value of the
female body but charged with a combined class and erotic interest:
incest. The conversation between DeMonfort and his disguised sis-
ter approaches sexual longing, as Jane speaks freely (protected by the
veil that she wears) of one "who has, alas! forsaken me" (Il.i), and of
one who shared his life with her entirely: "Within our op'ning minds,
with riper years / The love of praise, and gen'rous virtue sprung: /
Through varied life our pride, ourjoys, were one" (II.i). DeMonfort,
for his part, responds in kind, remarking first upon his sister's "virtu-
ous worth," and then celebrating her unusual beauty, which, he says,



p2 / Engis Roani Dram                    52/EgihRmni rm                            2/EgihRmni rm


is at least as great as that which he imagines lies behind the veil of his
unknown companion: "And though behind those sable folds were hid /
As fair a face as ever woman own'd, / Still would I say she is as fair
as thee" (Il.i). Furthermore, he remarks with considerable pride that
his sister, in her younger years, declined the offers of many suitors,
preferring to remain devoted to her brother (II.i).
  Their relationship, as it is manifested in this exchange, is distin-
guished by DeMonfort's admiration for Jane's beauty and virtue; by
his recognition of her undying love for him; by Jane's view of the two
of them (at least in earlier days) as soul mates with a single identity;
and by their mutual sense of an absolute faithfulness to one another
that overwhelms all other potential love interests.' The details of this
relationship develop within a complicated web of psychological and
historical interest that charges incest with social significance. Perhaps
most important to an understanding of the larger and determining
contexts of the relationship is the fact that DeMonfort and Jane were
left orphaned very early in life, compelling Jane not only toward close
companionship with her brother but also toward a role as mother to
him. As DeMonfort puts it:

       [W]ithin her house,
       The virgin mother of an orphan race
       Her dying parents left, this noble woman
       Did, like a Roman matron, proudly sit,
       Despising all the blandishments of love. (Ili)

In purely psychological terms, the relationship may thus be seen as
reflecting oedipal and pre-oedipal desires that were shocked by the
death of the parents and then transferred to the sister, where they
were allowed to flourish, as the law of the father had been effectively
removed. This view is reinforced by the descriptions of guilt that De-
Monfort experiences ("My heart upbraids me with a crime like his"
[II.i]), even as his love for Jane expands.
But their love is also socially formed, as the death of the parents
is also, in the larger context of the drama, the death of the parent
class. DeMonfort and Jane are an "orphan race," marginalized from
the main flow of social life, as is evidenced in DeMonfort's extreme
alienation and inJane's disguise. Their love is a kind of mutual support,
a desperate defense against a changing world that has begun to dis-
place their parents' authority and even to isolate the orphaned children


is at least as great as that which he imagines lies behind the veil of his
unknown companion: "And though behind those sable folds were hid /
As fair a face as ever woman own'd, / Still would I say she is as fair
as thee" (II.i). Furthermore, he remarks with considerable pride that
his sister, in her younger years, declined the offers of many suitors,
preferring to remain devoted to her brother (II.i).
  Their relationship, as it is manifested in this exchange, is distin-
guished by DeMonfort's admiration for Jane's beauty and virtue; by
his recognition of her undying love for him; by Jane's view of the two
of them (at least in earlier days) as soul mates with a single identity;
and by their mutual sense of an absolute faithfulness to one another
that overwhelms all other potential love interests.' The details of this
relationship develop within a complicated web of psychological and
historical interest that charges incest with social significance. Perhaps
most important to an understanding of the larger and determining
contexts of the relationship is the fact that DeMonfort and Jane were
left orphaned very early in life, compelling Jane not only toward close
companionship with her brother but also toward a role as mother to
him. As DeMonfort puts it:
       [W]ithin her house,
       The virgin mother of an orphan race
       Her dying parents left, this noble woman
       Did, like a Roman matron, proudly sit,
       Despising all the blandishments of love. (ILi)

In purely psychological terms, the relationship may thus be seen as
reflecting oedipal and pre-oedipal desires that were shocked by the
death of the parents and then transferred to the sister, where they
were allowed to flourish, as the law of the father had been effectively
removed. This view is reinforced by the descriptions of guilt that De-
Monfort experiences ("My heart upbraids me with a crime like his"
[II.i]), even as his love for Jane expands.
But their love is also socially formed, as the death of the parents
is also, in the larger context of the drama, the death of the parent
class. DeMonfort and Jane are an "orphan race," marginalized from
the main flow of social life, as is evidenced in DeMonfort's extreme
alienation and inJane's disguise. Their love is a kind of mutual support,
a desperate defense against a changing world that has begun to dis-
place their parents' authority and even to isolate the orphaned children


is at least as great as that which he imagines lies behind the veil of his
unknown companion: "And though behind those sable folds were hid /
As fair a face as ever woman own'd, / Still would I say she is as fair
as thee" (II.i). Furthermore, he remarks with considerable pride that
his sister, in her younger years, declined the offers of many suitors,
preferring to remain devoted to her brother (II.i).
  Their relationship, as it is manifested in this exchange, is distin-
guished by DeMonfort's admiration for Jane's beauty and virtue; by
his recognition of her undying love for him; by Jane's view of the two
of them (at least in earlier days) as soul mates with a single identity;
and by their mutual sense of an absolute faithfulness to one another
that overwhelms all other potential love interests.' The details of this
relationship develop within a complicated web of psychological and
historical interest that charges incest with social significance. Perhaps
most important to an understanding of the larger and determining
contexts of the relationship is the fact that DeMonfort and Jane were
left orphaned very early in life, compelling Jane not only toward close
companionship with her brother but also toward a role as mother to
him. As DeMonfort puts it:
       [W~ithin her house,
       The virgin mother of an orphan race
       Her dying parents left, this noble woman
       Did, like a Roman matron, proudly sit,
       Despising all the blandishments of love. (II.i)

In purely psychological terms, the relationship may thus be seen as
reflecting oedipal and pre-oedipal desires that were shocked by the
death of the parents and then transferred to the sister, where they
were allowed to flourish, as the law of the father had been effectively
removed. This view is reinforced by the descriptions of guilt that De-
Monfort experiences ("My heart upbraids me with a crime like his"
[II.i]), even as his love for Jane expands.
But their love is also socially formed, as the death of the parents
is also, in the larger context of the drama, the death of the parent
class. DeMonfort and Jane are an "orphan race," marginalized from
the main flow of social life, as is evidenced in DeMonfort's extreme
alienation and inJane's disguise. Their love is a kind of mutual support,
a desperate defense against a changing world that has begun to dis-
place their parents' authority and even to isolate the orphaned children



Jonn ailiesDefor /                                                      Jonn Blli' Deonor /s 53                                                 JonaBile' eof        / 53


from one another. The move to isolate and divide Jane and DeMonfort
from one another is suggested near the end of the disguise scene, when
Rezenvelt steps between Jane and DeMonfort as the latter moves to
unveil his sister; and it is more emphatically depicted in subsequent
scenes, where rumors abound that Rezenvelt and Jane are planning to
marry, which of course would sever the Jane-DeMonfort relationship
entirely. In these ways the psychological explanations of the mutual
affection between Jane and DeMonfort become mediated by histori-
cal and social considerations; the ostensibly self-generating and local
oedipal conflict modulates from an example of purely private psycho-
logical phenomena into an effect of public turmoil and pressure: the
determinants of personal life in this view are to be found not only in
the individual psyche but also in social and historical reality.t
   It should be clear from the cast of this argument that even at this
level of personal and social life the female body, or at least the female
person, is one important site upon which the drama of masculine need,
desire, and demand gets played out. Even as the relationship between
Jane and DeMonfort is characterized by mutual affection, it is Jane's
body and person-as ideal beauty and as mother-that are the re-
pository of DeMonfort's desire. Her role as "other" to a masculine
"subject" is consistent throughout the drama. Whether she appears
disguised (as in this scene) or plainly dressed (as in the scene, described
above, involving Lady Freberg's page) or troubled by deep grief (as
in the final scenes following DeMonfort's death), she is made to bear
the weight of masculine circumstance; she is defined and valued at
the pleasure of both aristocratic and bourgeois patriarchy. Even in the
final scene, when she appears to display her greatest nobility of char-
acter, she fulfills the role of "Roman matron" described much earlier
by DeMonfort; virtually all of the principal male characters gather
around her (along with the abbess and nuns), one supporting her, one
embracing her knees, one holding her robe-her body is literally the
focal point for the expression of collective emotion.
   Two additional issues that are raised only briefly, religion and law,
help to illuminate the social anxiety and historical crisis at the center
of the dramatic action. Both of these issues appear only very late in
the story-after the murder of Rezenvelt-and, in the context of that
murder, they function as markers of the direction of social meaning,
pointing up the social and ideological transformations symbolized by
DeMonfort's tragic deeds.


from one another. The move to isolate and divide Jane and DeMonfort
from one another is suggested near the end of the disguise scene, when
Rezenvelt steps between Jane and DeMonfort as the latter moves to
unveil his sister; and it is more emphatically depicted in subsequent
scenes, where rumors abound that Rezenvelt and Jane are planning to
marry, which of course would sever the Jane-DeMonfort relationship
entirely. In these ways the psychological explanations of the mutual
affection between Jane and DeMonfort become mediated by histori-
cal and social considerations; the ostensibly self-generating and local
oedipal conflict modulates from an example of purely private psycho-
logical phenomena into an effect of public turmoil and pressure: the
determinants of personal life in this view are to be found not only in
the individual psyche but also in social and historical reality.t
   It should be clear from the cast of this argument that even at this
level of personal and social life the female body, or at least the female
person, is one important site upon which the drama of masculine need,
desire, and demand gets played out. Even as the relationship between
Jane and DeMonfort is characterized by mutual affection, it is Jane's
body and person-as ideal beauty and as mother-that are the re-
pository of DeMonfort's desire. Her role as "other" to a masculine
"subject" is consistent throughout the drama' Whether she appears
disguised (as in this scene) or plainly dressed (as in the scene, described
above, involving Lady Freberg's page) or troubled by deep grief (as
in the final scenes following DeMonfort's death), she is made to bear
the weight of masculine circumstance; she is defined and valued at
the pleasure of both aristocratic and bourgeois patriarchy. Even in the
final scene, when she appears to display her greatest nobility of char-
acter, she fulfills the role of "Roman matron" described much earlier
by DeMonfort; virtually all of the principal male characters gather
around her (along with the abbess and nuns), one supporting her, one
embracing her knees, one holding her robe-her body is literally the
focal point for the expression of collective emotion.
   Two additional issues that are raised only briefly, religion and law,
 help to illuminate the social anxiety and historical crisis at the center
 of the dramatic action. Both of these issues appear only very late in
 the story-after the murder of Rezenvelt-and, in the context of that
 murder, they function as markers of the direction of social meaning,
 pointing up the social and ideological transformations symbolized by
 DeMonfort's tragic deeds.


from one another. The move to isolate and divide Jane and DeMonfort
from one another is suggested near the end of the disguise scene, when
Rezenvelt steps between Jane and DeMonfort as the latter moves to
unveil his sister; and it is more emphatically depicted in subsequent
scenes, where rumors abound that Rezenvelt and Jane are planning to
marry, which of course would sever the Jane-DeMonfort relationship
entirely. In these ways the psychological explanations of the mutual
affection between Jane and DeMonfort become mediated by histori-
cal and social considerations; the ostensibly self-generating and local
oedipal conflict modulates from an example of purely private psycho-
logical phenomena into an effect of public turmoil and pressure: the
determinants of personal life in this view are to be found not only in
the individual psyche but also in social and historical reality.t
   It should be clear from the cast of this argument that even at this
level of personal and social life the female body, or at least the female
person, is one important site upon which the drama of masculine need,
desire, and demand gets played out. Even as the relationship between
Jane and DeMonfort is characterized by mutual affection, it is Jane's
body and person-as ideal beauty and as mother-that are the re-
pository of DeMonfort's desire. Her role as "other" to a masculine
"subject" is consistent throughout the drama.t Whether she appears
disguised (as in this scene) or plainly dressed (as in the scene, described
above, involving Lady Freberg's page) or troubled by deep grief (as
in the final scenes following DeMonfort's death), she is made to bear
the weight of masculine circumstance; she is defined and valued at
the pleasure of both aristocratic and bourgeois patriarchy. Even in the
final scene, when she appears to display her greatest nobility of char-
acter, she fulfills the role of "Roman matron" described much earlier
by DeMonfort; virtually all of the principal male characters gather
around her (along with the abbess and nuns), one supporting her, one
embracing her knees, one holding her robe-her body is literally the
focal point for the expression of collective emotion.
   Two additional issues that are raised only briefly, religion and law,
help to illuminate the social anxiety and historical crisis at the center
of the dramatic action. Both of these issues appear only very late in
the story-after the murder of Rezenvelt-and, in the context of that
murder, they function as markers of the direction of social meaning,
pointing up the social and ideological transformations symbolized by
DeMonfort's tragic deeds.



54 / Engis Roani Dram                                                   54/EgihRmni       rm4/EgihRmni                                                            rm


   Immediately after the murder of Rezenvelt in Act IV, the scene shifts
to the inside of a convent chapel, providing the first clear glimpse of
religion in the world of the drama. And, as will be the case nearly
twenty years later in Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram, the world of
the monks and nuns is initially portrayed as suffering from the severe
shock of a storm that "howls along the cloisters" (IV.ii). Amid the
seething and tumultuous energies of nature, the nuns and monks at-
tempt to preserve the integrity of their religious practice, carrying out
a solemn ritual for someone recently deceased. The ritual, however,
is interrupted, first by a hysterical lay sister who has heard a piercing
human cry above the storm blast, and then by frantic knocking at the
chapel door by a monk who has seen the murdered corpse of Rezenvelt
just beyond the chapel. These disturbances are further compounded
by the arrival of yet another shocked monk who has seen the greatest
horror of all: the person of DeMonfort who, following his murder-
ous deed, has come, like Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, to resemble the
living dead.
   These frantic developments in the plot, shifted as they are into the
territory of institutional religion, suggest the threat under which tra-
ditional faith operates in a world marked increasingly by alienation,
decadence, severe class conflict, and tragic violence. The anxiety that is
felt by religious people themselves is indicated by the fact that one nun
sees revenge as the only proper response to the murder: "The good
Saint Francis will direct their search; / The blood so near his holy
convent shed, / For threefold vengeance calls" (IV.iii). This anxiety
gradually modulates through the final scenes of the play into a morbid
fascination with death and dying, as various nuns and monks gather
outside DeMonfort's holding room in the convent, listening intently
as the life of the despair-ridden murderer slowly slips away. Indeed, the
sound of death echoes with growing resonance through the entire con-
vent, disturbing the inhabitants with its nightmarish rumblings. As
one lay sister, unable to sleep and wandering the halls of the convent,
remarks to the monk Bernard and several nuns who also cannot sleep
and who have positioned themselves just outside DeMonfort's room:
          I cannot rest. I hear such dismal sounds,
          Such wailings in the air, such shrilly shrieks,
          As though the cry of murder rose again
          From the deep gloom of night. I cannot rest:
          I pray you let me stay with you, good sisters. (V.iv)


   Immediately after the murder of Rezenvelt in Act IV, the scene shifts
to the inside of a convent chapel, providing the first clear glimpse of
religion in the world of the drama. And, as will be the case nearly
twenty years later in Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram, the world of
the monks and nuns is initially portrayed as suffering from the severe
shock of a storm that "howls along the cloisters" (IV.ii). Amid the
seething and tumultuous energies of nature, the nuns and monks at-
tempt to preserve the integrity of their religious practice, carrying out
a solemn ritual for someone recently deceased. The ritual, however,
is interrupted, first by a hysterical lay sister who has heard a piercing
human cry above the storm blast, and then by frantic knocking at the
chapel door by a monk who has seen the murdered corpse of Rezenvelt
just beyond the chapel. These disturbances are further compounded
by the arrival of yet another shocked monk who has seen the greatest
horror of all: the person of DeMonfort who, following his murder-
ous deed, has come, like Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, to resemble the
living dead.
   These frantic developments in the plot, shifted as they are into the
territory of institutional religion, suggest the threat under which tra-
ditional faith operates in a world marked increasingly by alienation,
decadence, severe class conflict, and tragic violence. The anxiety that is
felt by religious people themselves is indicated by the fact that one nun
sees revenge as the only proper response to the murder: "The good
Saint Francis will direct their search; / The blood so near his holy
convent shed, / For threefold vengeance calls" (IV.iii). This anxiety
gradually modulates through the final scenes of the play into a morbid
fascination with death and dying, as various nuns and monks gather
outside DeMonfort's holding room in the convent, listening intently
as the life of the despair-ridden murderer slowly slips away. Indeed, the
sound of death echoes with growing resonance through the entire con-
vent, disturbing the inhabitants with its nightmarish rumblings. As
one lay sister, unable to sleep and wandering the halls of the convent,
remarks to the monk Bernard and several nuns who also cannot sleep
and who have positioned themselves just outside DeMonfort's room:
          I cannot rest. I hear such dismal sounds,
          Such wailings in the air, such shrilly shrieks,
          As though the cry of murder rose again
          From the deep gloom of night. I cannot rest:
          I pray you let me stay with you, good sisters. (V.iv)


   Immediately after the murder of Rezenvelt in Act IV, the scene shifts
to the inside of a convent chapel, providing the first clear glimpse of
religion in the world of the drama. And, as will be the case nearly
twenty years later in Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram, the world of
the monks and nuns is initially portrayed as suffering from the severe
shock of a storm that "howls along the cloisters" (IV.ii). Amid the
seething and tumultuous energies of nature, the nuns and monks at-
tempt to preserve the integrity of their religious practice, carrying out
a solemn ritual for someone recently deceased. The ritual, however,
is interrupted, first by a hysterical lay sister who has heard a piercing
human cry above the storm blast, and then by frantic knocking at the
chapel door by a monk who has seen the murdered corpse of Rezenvelt
just beyond the chapel. These disturbances are further compounded
by the arrival of yet another shocked monk who has seen the greatest
horror of all: the person of DeMonfort who, following his murder-
ous deed, has come, like Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, to resemble the
living dead.
   These frantic developments in the plot, shifted as they are into the
territory of institutional religion, suggest the threat under which tra-
ditional faith operates in a world marked increasingly by alienation,
decadence, severe class conflict, and tragic violence. The anxiety that is
felt by religious people themselves is indicated by the fact that one nun
sees revenge as the only proper response to the murder: "The good
Saint Francis will direct their search; / The blood so near his holy
convent shed, / For threefold vengeance calls" (IV.iii). This anxiety
gradually modulates through the final scenes of the play into a morbid
fascination with death and dying, as various nuns and monks gather
outside DeMonfort's holding room in the convent, listening intently
as the life of the despair-ridden murderer slowly slips away. Indeed, the
sound of death echoes with growing resonance through the entire con-
vent, disturbing the inhabitants with its nightmarish rumblings. As
one lay sister, unable to sleep and wandering the halls of the convent,
remarks to the monk Bernard and several nuns who also cannot sleep
and who have positioned themselves just outside DeMonfort's room:
          I cannot rest. I hear such dismal sounds,
          Such wailings in the air, such shrilly shrieks,
          As though the cry of murder rose again
          From the deep gloom of night. I cannot rest:
          I pray you let me stay with you, good sisters. (V.iv)


Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 55          Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 55          Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 55


The literal storm that so disturbed the nuns and monks when they
were first introduced into the dramatic action here modulates into a
psychological storm that disturbs their rest with even greater horror
and threatens their very faith.
  The turmoil into which institutional religion has been thrown is set
against the confident authority of the institution of law, which also ap-
pears in the final portions of the story. Though only briefly present, the
officers of the law serve a clear and important function: they provide a
stabilizing presence at a moment of growing instability, asserting firm
control of a situation that is but confusingly handled by an uncertain
and anxious religious authority. Their power, as they themselves de-
scribe it, is absolute, a secular equivalent of-and replacement for-
the divine law that is under siege. As one officer states, in the very
first pronouncement by a representative of law, "we are servants of
the law, / And bear with us a power, which doth constrain / To bind
with fetters this our prisoner" (V.ii). The power of which he speaks
is never identified in practical social terms, except insofar as it is said
to be bolstered by sacred custom, and yet this power is real, and an
unmistakable sign that the world has changed; it is a sign of a world in
which the aristocracy has been overthrown and its religion paralyzed,
both replaced by a firmer and more vibrant authority.
  DeMonfort, at least on some level, recognizing the change signaled
by the presence of a secular authority representing civil life, is grimly
and sarcastically shown in his submission to his accusers:

      Here, officers of law, bind on those shackles,
      And, if they are too light, bring heavier chains.
      Add iron to iron, load, crush me to the ground;
      Nay, heap ten thousand weights upon my breast,
      For that were best of all. (V.ii)

DeMonfort's last best resistance, he knows, is a Manfred-like assertion
of will and integrity that will be followed shortly by death. Whatever
triumph might be enjoyed by his adversaries and their representatives
of social authority must be understood within this purely negative
context. When the officers of the law return in the final scene of the
drama to bear DeMonfort away to punishment, they are told that he
has died, and this news leaves them powerless and looking foolish: "I
am an officer on duty call'd, / And have authority to say, how died?"
(V.iv). DeMonfort's death in the convent marks a personal victory and


The literal storm that so disturbed the nuns and monks when they
were first introduced into the dramatic action here modulates into a
psychological storm that disturbs their rest with even greater horror
and threatens their very faith.
The turmoil into which institutional religion has been thrown is set
against the confident authority of the institution of law, which also ap-
pears in the final portions of the story. Though only briefly present, the
officers of the law serve a clear and important function: they provide a
stabilizing presence at a moment of growing instability, asserting firm
control of a situation that is but confusingly handled by an uncertain
and anxious religious authority. Their power, as they themselves de-
scribe it, is absolute, a secular equivalent of-and replacement for-
the divine law that is under siege. As one officer states, in the very
first pronouncement by a representative of law, "we are servants of
the law, / And bear with us a power, which doth constrain / To bind
with fetters this our prisoner" (V.ii). The power of which he speaks
is never identified in practical social terms, except insofar as it is said
to be bolstered by sacred custom, and yet this power is real, and an
unmistakable sign that the world has changed; it is a sign of a world in
which the aristocracy has been overthrown and its religion paralyzed,
both replaced by a firmer and more vibrant authority.
  DeMonfort, at least on some level, recognizing the change signaled
by the presence of a secular authority representing civil life, is grimly
and sarcastically shown in his submission to his accusers:

      Here, officers of law, bind on those shackles,
      And, if they are too light, bring heavier chains.
      Add iron to iron, load, crush me to the ground;
      Nay, heap ten thousand weights upon my breast,
      For that were best of all. (V.ii)

DeMonfort's last best resistance, he knows, is a Manfred-like assertion
of will and integrity that will be followed shortly by death. Whatever
triumph might be enjoyed by his adversaries and their representatives
of social authority must be understood within this purely negative
context. When the officers of the law return in the final scene of the
drama to bear DeMonfort away to punishment, they are told that he
has died, and this news leaves them powerless and looking foolish: "I
am an officer on duty call'd, / And have authority to say, how died?"
(V.iv). DeMonfort's death in the convent marks a personal victory and


The literal storm that so disturbed the nuns and monks when they
were first introduced into the dramatic action here modulates into a
psychological storm that disturbs their rest with even greater horror
and threatens their very faith.
The turmoil into which institutional religion has been thrown is set
against the confident authority of the institution of law, which also ap-
pears in the final portions ofthe story. Though only briefly present, the
officers of the law serve a clear and important function: they provide a
stabilizing presence at a moment of growing instability, asserting firm
control of a situation that is but confusingly handled by an uncertain
and anxious religious authority. Their power, as they themselves de-
scribe it, is absolute, a secular equivalent of-and replacement for-
the divine law that is under siege. As one officer states, in the very
first pronouncement by a representative of law, "we are servants of
the law, / And bear with us a power, which doth constrain / To bind
with fetters this our prisoner" (V.ii). The power of which he speaks
is never identified in practical social terms, except insofar as it is said
to be bolstered by sacred custom, and yet this power is real, and an
unmistakable sign that the world has changed; it is a sign of a world in
which the aristocracy has been overthrown and its religion paralyzed,
both replaced by a firmer and more vibrant authority.
  DeMonfort, at least on some level, recognizing the change signaled
by the presence of a secular authority representing civil life, is grimly
and sarcastically shown in his submission to his accusers:

      Here, officers of law, bind on those shackles,
      And, if they are too light, bring heavier chains.
      Add iron to iron, load, crush me to the ground;
      Nay, heap ten thousand weights upon my breast,
      For that were best of all. (V.ii)

DeMonfort's last best resistance, he knows, is a Manfred-like assertion
of will and integrity that will be followed shortly by death. Whatever
triumph might be enjoyed by his adversaries and their representatives
of social authority must be understood within this purely negative
context. When the officers of the law return in the final scene of the
drama to bear DeMonfort away to punishment, they are told that he
has died, and this news leaves them powerless and looking foolish: "I
am an officer on duty call'd, / And have authority to say, how died?"
(V.iv). DeMonfort's death in the convent marks a personal victory and



56/EnlshRmatc rma5 /Egls RmntcDrma5                                                                                             ngis Roatcrm


at the same time points to the much larger social defeat of the aristoc-
racy and the institution of religion that once represented its highest
values and strongest authority.
   Before turning to a final set of comments about the social sig-
nificance of DeMonfort's character, I want to touch glancingly, once
more, upon the important role of Lady Jane, this time considering her
character in terms of class as well as of patriarchy. It would seem, with
the death of Rezenvelt and the ensuing despair of DeMonfort, that the
bourgeois elements in the drama are successfully contained, and that
aristocratic values, despite the actions of DeMonfort, come to be re-
stabilized and presented nostalgically in DeMonfort's final anguishing
days as signs of personal and social integrity. The descriptions of De-
Monfort's death, however, are followed by an interesting portrayal
of Jane, which suggests that her character has changed through the
course of the drama in ways that keep a bourgeois sensibility alive.
Indeed, after Rezenvelt's murder and DeMonfort's death, Jane's char-
acter gradually begins to represent, in idealized form, an individualism
and subjectivity over against aristocratic and religious structures of
value-to display bourgeois sensibilities shorn of the ugliness asso-
ciated with Rezenvelt's character. Rezenvelt, as one of the newly rich
rubbing shoulders with the landed aristocracy through much of the
play, must of course be seen as the public example of the ugly embour-
geoisment ofsociety. But Jane comes to embody its personal integrity, its
intensity of personal commitment, and its impeccable personal values.
Rather than Count Freberg or the abbess, it is Jane who becomes the
focal point of social life near the end of the drama; Count Freberg, the
monks and nuns, and even the servants Jerome and Manuel defer to
her. She is one whose "simple word" (V.iv) carries the weight oftruth,
and whose simple conduct expresses respect for the long history of
aristocratic hegemony, acceptance of a changed world, and recognition
of the course that individual conduct must now take.
   It is fitting that Jane becomes an example of bourgeois value be-
cause in the drama women are one primary locus of masculine power
and desire, and hence of social meaning. If in the earlier scenes women
were shown to be malleable, transformed in ways that reflected the
direction of an essentially masculine reality, in the final scenes Jane is
transformed once again, this time moving to the foreground of the dra-
matic action, not as a primary agent of social change or social authority
but rather as an idealized projection of change that has already oc-


at the same time points to the much larger social defeat of the aristoc-
racy and the institution of religion that once represented its highest
values and strongest authority.
   Before turning to a final set of comments about the social sig-
nificance of DeMonfort's character, I want to touch glancingly, once
more, upon the important role of Lady Jane, this time considering her
character in terms ofclass as well as of patriarchy. It would seem, with
the death of Rezenvelt and the ensuing despair of DeMonfort, that the
bourgeois elements in the drama are successfully contained, and that
aristocratic values, despite the actions of DeMonfort, come to be re-
stabilized and presented nostalgically in DeMonfort's final anguishing
days as signs of personal and social integrity. The descriptions of De-
Monfort's death, however, are followed by an interesting portrayal
of Jane, which suggests that her character has changed through the
course of the drama in ways that keep a bourgeois sensibility alive.
Indeed, after Rezenvelt's murder and DeMonfort's death, Jane's char-
acter gradually begins to represent, in idealized form, an individualism
and subjectivity over against aristocratic and religious structures of
value-to display bourgeois sensibilities shorn of the ugliness asso-
ciated with Rezenvelt's character. Rezenvelt, as one of the newly rich
rubbing shoulders with the landed aristocracy through much of the
play, must of course be seen as the public example of the ugly embour-
geoisment ofsociety. ButJane comes to embody its personal integrity, its
intensity of personal commitment, and its impeccable personal values.
Rather than Count Freberg or the abbess, it is Jane who becomes the
focal point of social life near the end of the drama; Count Freberg, the
monks and nuns, and even the servants Jerome and Manuel defer to
her. She is one whose "simple word" (V.iv) carries the weight of truth,
and whose simple conduct expresses respect for the long history of
aristocratic hegemony, acceptance of a changed world, and recognition
of the course that individual conduct must now take.
   It is fitting that Jane becomes an example of bourgeois value be-
cause in the drama women are one primary locus of masculine power
and desire, and hence of social meaning. If in the earlier scenes women
were shown to be malleable, transformed in ways that reflected the
direction of an essentially masculine reality, in the final scenes Jane is
transformed once again, this time moving to the foreground of the dra-
matic action, not as a primary agent of social change or social authority
but rather as an idealized projection of change that has already oc-


at the same time points to the much larger social defeat of the aristoc-
racy and the institution of religion that once represented its highest
values and strongest authority.
   Before turning to a final set of comments about the social sig-
nificance of DeMonfort's character, I want to touch glancingly, once
more, upon the important role of Lady Jane, this time considering her
character in terms of class as well as of patriarchy. It would seem, with
the death of Rezenvelt and the ensuing despair of DeMonfort, that the
bourgeois elements in the drama are successfully contained, and that
aristocratic values, despite the actions of DeMonfort, come to be re-
stabilized and presented nostalgically in DeMonfort's final anguishing
days as signs of personal and social integrity. The descriptions of De-
Monfort's death, however, are followed by an interesting portrayal
of Jane, which suggests that her character has changed through the
course of the drama in ways that keep a bourgeois sensibility alive.
Indeed, after Rezenvelt's murder and DeMonfort's death, Jane's char-
acter gradually begins to represent, in idealized form, an individualism
and subjectivity over against aristocratic and religious structures of
value-to display bourgeois sensibilities shorn of the ugliness asso-
ciated with Rezenvelt's character. Rezenvelt, as one of the newly rich
rubbing shoulders with the landed aristocracy through much of the
play, must of course be seen as the public example of the ugly embour-
geoisment of society. But Jane comes to embody its personal integrity, its
intensity of personal commitment, and its impeccable personal values.
Rather than Count Freberg or the abbess, it is Jane who becomes the
focal point of social life near the end of the drama; Count Freberg, the
monks and nuns, and even the servants Jerome and Manuel defer to
her. She is one whose "simple word" (V.iv) carries the weight of truth,
and whose simple conduct expresses respect for the long history of
aristocratic hegemony, acceptance of a changed world, and recognition
of the course that individual conduct must now take.
   It is fitting that Jane becomes an example of bourgeois value be-
cause in the drama women are one primary locus of masculine power
and desire, and hence of social meaning. If in the earlier scenes women
were shown to be malleable, transformed in ways that reflected the
direction of an essentially masculine reality, in the final scenes Jane is
transformed once again, this time moving to the foreground of the dra-
matic action, not as a primary agent of social change or social authority
but rather as an idealized projection of change that has already oc-



Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 57          Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 57          Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 57


curred, symbolized in the ugly and physical struggles between Rezen-
velt and DeMonfort. With such a view, the integrity evident in her
final speeches is certainly her own, but the meaning of her comments
and actions belongs as well to social currents that, historically, have
positioned and valued women in quite specific ways.
Finally, I want now to consider briefly Baillie's portrayal of De-
Monfort and to suggest, specifically, that the deep psychological pas-
sions seen in his character are best understood against the trajectory
of social transformation that has been sketched thus far. The psycho-
logical confusion and the passion of hatred seen in DeMonfort are, in
the larger context of the dramatic action, signs of a radically divided
subject. From the beginning DeMonfort unyieldingly-and desper-
ately-asserts the authority of an autonomous, stable subject, and he
seeks a reflection of that stability and autonomy in the world around
him. At both the biological and social levels, however, stability has
been denied, as his parents' early death has left him orphaned and
an emergent bourgeoisie has left him socially marginalized. Unable
to discover the stability he desires, either in social life or in the per-
sonal world inhabited by himself and his sister (he fears that she plans
to marry Rezenvelt), he is cast loose upon a stream of ever changing
personal and social events within which he, as subject, is repeatedly
displaced and reconstituted-as generous master, as cold tyrant, as
dignified aristocrat, as old friend, as archenemy, as caring brother, as
betraying brother, as superior noble, and as murderer. The chain of
this movement is suggested in DeMonfort's many literal changes of
scene: upon arriving in Amberg, he is seen at various times in the mea-
ger apartments of old Jerome; in the ostentatious surroundings of the
Freberg estate; in the barren wilderness outside Amberg; and in the
convent. With each new location his character modulates, changing
according to the demands and possibilities of the world within which
he moves.
  Amid these fluctuations, DeMonfort's character never approaches
wholeness or autonomy, despite his repeated claims that his life is
under his command. One of the bleakest and clearest examples of the
contradictions tearing at his character appears in the final scene, in
which he gives himself over, as if by choice, to be placed in chains
by the officers of the law. Even at this moment of absolute physical
defeat he speaks from a position of apparent superiority, explicitly re-
vealing what has been the case from the beginning: personal desire


curred, symbolized in the ugly and physical struggles between Rezen-
velt and DeMonfort. With such a view, the integrity evident in her
final speeches is certainly her own, but the meaning of her comments
and actions belongs as well to social currents that, historically, have
positioned and valued women in quite specific ways.
Finally, I want now to consider briefly Baillie's portrayal of De-
Monfort and to suggest, specifically, that the deep psychological pas-
sions seen in his character are best understood against the trajectory
of social transformation that has been sketched thus far. The psycho-
logical confusion and the passion of hatred seen in DeMonfort are, in
the larger context of the dramatic action, signs of a radically divided
subject. From the beginning DeMonfort unyieldingly-and desper-
ately-asserts the authority of an autonomous, stable subject, and he
seeks a reflection of that stability and autonomy in the world around
him. At both the biological and social levels, however, stability has
been denied, as his parents' early death has left him orphaned and
an emergent bourgeoisie has left him socially marginalized. Unable
to discover the stability he desires, either in social life or in the per-
sonal world inhabited by himself and his sister (he fears that she plans
to marry Rezenvelt), he is cast loose upon a stream of ever changing
personal and social events within which he, as subject, is repeatedly
displaced and reconstituted-as generous master, as cold tyrant, as
dignified aristocrat, as old friend, as archenemy, as caring brother, as
betraying brother, as superior noble, and as murderer. The chain of
this movement is suggested in DeMonfort's many literal changes of
scene: upon arriving in Amberg, he is seen at various times in the mea-
ger apartments of old Jerome; in the ostentatious surroundings of the
Freberg estate; in the barren wilderness outside Amberg; and in the
convent. With each new location his character modulates, changing
according to the demands and possibilities of the world within which
he moves.
  Amid these fluctuations, DeMonfort's character never approaches
wholeness or autonomy, despite his repeated claims that his life is
under his command. One of the bleakest and clearest examples of the
contradictions tearing at his character appears in the final scene, in
which he gives himself over, as if by choice, to be placed in chains
by the officers of the law. Even at this moment of absolute physical
defeat he speaks from a position of apparent superiority, explicitly re-
vealing what has been the case from the beginning: personal desire


curred, symbolized in the ugly and physical struggles between Rezen-
velt and DeMonfort. With such a view, the integrity evident in her
final speeches is certainly her own, but the meaning of her comments
and actions belongs as well to social currents that, historically, have
positioned and valued women in quite specific ways.
Finally, I want now to consider briefly Baillie's portrayal of De-
Monfort and to suggest, specifically, that the deep psychological pas-
sions seen in his character are best understood against the trajectory
of social transformation that has been sketched thus far. The psycho-
logical confusion and the passion of hatred seen in DeMonfort are, in
the larger context of the dramatic action, signs of a radically divided
subject. From the beginning DeMonfort unyieldingly-and desper-
ately-asserts the authority of an autonomous, stable subject, and he
seeks a reflection of that stability and autonomy in the world around
him. At both the biological and social levels, however, stability has
been denied, as his parents' early death has left him orphaned and
an emergent bourgeoisie has left him socially marginalized. Unable
to discover the stability he desires, either in social life or in the per-
sonal world inhabited by himself and his sister (he fears that she plans
to marry Rezenvelt), he is cast loose upon a stream of ever changing
personal and social events within which he, as subject, is repeatedly
displaced and reconstituted-as generous master, as cold tyrant, as
dignified aristocrat, as old friend, as archenemy, as caring brother, as
betraying brother, as superior noble, and as murderer. The chain of
this movement is suggested in DeMonfort's many literal changes of
scene: upon arriving in Amberg, he is seen at various times in the mea-
ger apartments of old Jerome; in the ostentatious surroundings of the
Freberg estate; in the barren wilderness outside Amberg; and in the
convent. With each new location his character modulates, changing
according to the demands and possibilities of the world within which
he moves.
  Amid these fluctuations, DeMonfort's character never approaches
wholeness or autonomy, despite his repeated claims that his life is
under his command. One of the bleakest and clearest examples of the
contradictions tearing at his character appears in the final scene, in
which he gives himself over, as if by choice, to be placed in chains
by the officers of the law. Even at this moment of absolute physical
defeat he speaks from a position of apparent superiority, explicitly re-
vealing what has been the case from the beginning: personal desire



            58 / English Romantic Drama

notwithstanding, his is a character entirely subject to social forces-
Rezenvelt's money, the rumored pending marriage of Rezenvelt and
Jane, and Count Freberg's regard for Rezenvelt-that he has all along
attempted to repress but which always return to haunt him, and with
ever increasing severity, until he finally believes that the only way to
free himself is through a definitive act of extreme violence.
  As this brief explanation makes clear, DeMonfort's troubles are in-
volved with matters of passion and psychology. But passion and psy-
chology are always socially mediated. What might appear to be pure
oedipal and pre-oedipal confusion is connected vitally to DeMonfort's
overwhelming sense of alienation from the specific social configura-
tion of the world around him; what one might prefer to see only as
one man's personal quarrel with another derives fundamentally from
the changing direction of wealth and power in society; what might
be described in pathological terms as one lunatic's violent ambush of
an innocent individual occurs necessarily alongside the demise of an
entire social class. Thus DeMonfort's movements are never his alone;
his is "the gait disturb'd of wealthy, honour'd men" (Lii) generally in
his world. While his specific actions are unique to his character, the
passion of hatred that energizes those actions is fired in the oven of
rapidly increasing social change whose flames are felt not only by De-
Monfort but by everyone-Count Freberg, Rezenvelt, Lady Jane, the
various servants, and the nuns and monks in the convent.

That DeMonfort has been all but forgotten by literary history is no doubt
partly attributable to shortcomings in the play itself-it is long, melo-
dramatic, and ill-suited for the popular stage. But the fate of the drama
(and of Baillie's work generally) is also attributable to the inability-
or unwillingness-of scholarship to probe the deeper structures of a
work whose significance is barely glimpsed on its surface. Like many
of Byron's dramas (which have hardly fared much better), DeMonfort
works not so much through action and dialogue as through ideologi-
cal disclosure, which Baillie achieves by focusing on social relations
rather than individual events. This focus necessarily slows the pace
of dramatic action-and thus damages stageability-but the payoff is
an astonishingly comprehensive and profound picture of personal life
drenched in the many currents of social circumstance.
  More than forty years ago, Bertrand Evans called for a complete re-
evaluation ofJoanna Baillie's works. "When that reevaluation comes-


            58 / English Romantic Drama

notwithstanding, his is a character entirely subject to social forces-
Rezenvelt's money, the rumored pending marriage of Rezenvelt and
Jane, and Count Freberg's regard for Rezenvelt-that he has all along
attempted to repress but which always return to haunt him, and with
ever increasing severity, until he finally believes that the only way to
free himself is through a definitive act of extreme violence.
  As this brief explanation makes clear, DeMonfort's troubles are in-
volved with matters of passion and psychology. But passion and psy-
chology are always socially mediated. What might appear to be pure
oedipal and pre-oedipal confusion is connected vitally to DeMonfort's
overwhelming sense of alienation from the specific social configura-
tion of the world around him; what one might prefer to see only as
one man's personal quarrel with another derives fundamentally from
the changing direction of wealth and power in society; what might
be described in pathological terms as one lunatic's violent ambush of
an innocent individual occurs necessarily alongside the demise of an
entire social class. Thus DeMonfort's movements are never his alone;
his is "the gait disturb'd of wealthy, honour'd men" (Iii) generally in
his world. While his specific actions are unique to his character, the
passion of hatred that energizes those actions is fired in the oven of
rapidly increasing social change whose flames are felt not only by De-
Monfort but by everyone-Count Freberg, Rezenvelt, Lady Jane, the
various servants, and the nuns and monks in the convent.

That DeMonfort has been all but forgotten by literary history is no doubt
partly attributable to shortcomings in the play itself-it is long, melo-
dramatic, and ill-suited for the popular stage. But the fate of the drama
(and of Baillie's work generally) is also attributable to the inability-
or unwillingness-of scholarship to probe the deeper structures of a
work whose significance is barely glimpsed on its surface. Like many
of Byron's dramas (which have hardly fared much better), DeMon fort
works not so much through action and dialogue as through ideologi-
cal disclosure, which Baillie achieves by focusing on social relations
rather than individual events. This focus necessarily slows the pace
of dramatic action-and thus damages stageability-but the payoff is
an astonishingly comprehensive and profound picture of personal life
drenched in the many currents of social circumstance.
  More than forty years ago, Bertrand Evans called for a complete re-
evaluation ofJoanna Baillie's works." When that reevaluation comes-


            58 / English Romantic Drama

notwithstanding, his is a character entirely subject to social forces-
Rezenvelt's money, the rumored pending marriage of Rezenvelt and
Jane, and Count Freberg's regard for Rezenvelt-that he has all along
attempted to repress but which always return to haunt him, and with
ever increasing severity, until he finally believes that the only way to
free himself is through a definitive act of extreme violence.
  As this brief explanation makes clear, DeMonfort's troubles are in-
volved with matters of passion and psychology. But passion and psy-
chology are always socially mediated. What might appear to be pure
oedipal and pre-oedipal confusion is connected vitally to DeMonfort's
overwhelming sense of alienation from the specific social configura-
tion of the world around him; what one might prefer to see only as
one man's personal quarrel with another derives fundamentally from
the changing direction of wealth and power in society; what might
be described in pathological terms as one lunatic's violent ambush of
an innocent individual occurs necessarily alongside the demise of an
entire social class. Thus DeMonfort's movements are never his alone;
his is "the gait disturb'd of wealthy, honour'd men" (Lii) generally in
his world. While his specific actions are unique to his character, the
passion of hatred that energizes those actions is fired in the oven of
rapidly increasing social change whose flames are felt not only by De-
Monfort but by everyone-Count Freberg, Rezenvelt, Lady Jane, the
various servants, and the nuns and monks in the convent.

That DeMonfort has been all but forgotten by literary history is no doubt
partly attributable to shortcomings in the play itself-it is long, melo-
dramatic, and ill-suited for the popular stage. But the fate ofthe drama
(and of Baillie's work generally) is also attributable to the inability-
or unwillingness-of scholarship to probe the deeper structures of a
work whose significance is barely glimpsed on its surface. Like many
of Byron's dramas (which have hardly fared much better), DeMonfort
works not so much through action and dialogue as through ideologi-
cal disclosure, which Baillie achieves by focusing on social relations
rather than individual events. This focus necessarily slows the pace
of dramatic action-and thus damages stageability-but the payoff is
an astonishingly comprehensive and profound picture of personal life
drenched in the many currents of social circumstance.
  More than forty years ago, Bertrand Evans called for a complete re-
evaluation ofJoanna Baillie's works." When that reevaluation comes-






















           Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 59

and the present discussion is meant to encourage it-it will best serve
Baillie by recognizing and emphasizing that the strength of her dra-
matic imagination lies not only in her probings of individual psy-
chology-or in any narrowly defined poetic beauties that she may
have achieved-but also in her wide and deep historical vision. Only
through an exploration of the historical dimensions of her imagination
can the considerable achievement of her dramatic works be recovered.


           Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 59

and the present discussion is meant to encourage it-it will best serve
Baillie by recognizing and emphasizing that the strength of her dra-
matic imagination lies not only in her probings of individual psy-
chology-or in any narrowly defined poetic beauties that she may
have achieved-but also in her wide and deep historical vision. Only
through an exploration of the historical dimensions of her imagination
can the considerable achievement of her dramatic works be recovered.


           Joanna Baillie's DeMonfort / 59

and the present discussion is meant to encourage it-it will best serve
Baillie by recognizing and emphasizing that the strength of her dra-
matic imagination lies not only in her probings of individual psy-
chology-or in any narrowly defined poetic beauties that she may
have achieved-but also in her wide and deep historical vision. Only
through an exploration of the historical dimensions of her imagination
can the considerable achievement of her dramatic works be recovered.




CHAPTER


    4


CHAPTER


CHAPTER


    4


        "These Have Eat into My Old Estates"

                  Charles Lamb's John Woodvil









It is perhaps true, as some scholars have dismissively remarked, that
Charles Lamb's verse drama John Woodvil, despite its subtitle to the
contrary, is not a tragedy, but rather an embarrassing exercise in "silly
sentimentalism," hardly worth critical mention.' Recent Romantic
scholarship and criticism, indeed, have eagerly avoided the work as
though even to acknowledge its existence would be a breach of good
taste. Over the past fifty years scholars have often noted-and have
come increasingly to study-the importance of Lamb's essays and
criticism to Romantic literature, history, and thought, and yet virtu-
ally no critical commentaries onJohn Woodvil of any real seriousness or
length have appeared.' The charge of silly sentimentalism has been ab-
sorbed so completely and uncritically that, like Baillie's DeMonfor, the
drama has been almost entirely erased from literary historical memory.
  While I do not here wish to argue against conventional wisdom
that Lamb's drama is in fact a tragedy, and a good one at that, I do
want to suggest that literary and aesthetic criteria, at least in their
narrow formalist definitions, cannot effectively measure the histori-
cal importance of the work. That importance is great, for, like much
Romantic drama, John Woodvil interestingly engages the material con-
ditions under which it was produced and therefore provides us with
a specific and at times compelling articulation of the historical mo-
ment of Romantic culture and society. Not at the level of plot and


        "These Have Eat into My Old Estates"

                 Charles Lamb'sJohn Woodvil









It is perhaps true, as some scholars have dismissively remarked, that
Charles Lamb's verse drama John Woodvil, despite its subtitle to the
contrary, is not a tragedy, but rather an embarrassing exercise in "silly
sentimentalism," hardly worth critical mention.' Recent Romantic
scholarship and criticism, indeed, have eagerly avoided the work as
though even to acknowledge its existence would be a breach of good
taste. Over the past fifty years scholars have often noted-and have
come increasingly to study-the importance of Lamb's essays and
criticism to Romantic literature, history, and thought, and yet virtu-
ally no critical commentaries onJohn Woodvil of any real seriousness or
length have appeared.' The charge of silly sentimentalism has been ab-
sorbed so completely and uncritically that, like Baillie's DeMonfort, the
drama has been almost entirely erased from literary historical memory.
  While I do not here wish to argue against conventional wisdom
that Lamb's drama is in fact a tragedy, and a good one at that, I do
want to suggest that literary and aesthetic criteria, at least in their
narrow formalist definitions, cannot effectively measure the histori-
cal importance of the work. That importance is great, for, like much
Romantic drama, John Woodvil interestingly engages the material con-
ditions under which it was produced and therefore provides us with
a specific and at times compelling articulation of the historical mo-
ment of Romantic culture and society. Not at the level of plot and


        "These Have Eat into My Old Estates"

                 Charles Lamb'sJohn Woodvil









It is perhaps true, as some scholars have dismissively remarked, that
Charles Lamb's verse drama John Woodvil, despite its subtitle to the
contrary, is not a tragedy, but rather an embarrassing exercise in "silly
sentimentalism," hardly worth critical mention.' Recent Romantic
scholarship and criticism, indeed, have eagerly avoided the work as
though even to acknowledge its existence would be a breach of good
taste. Over the past fifty years scholars have often noted-and have
come increasingly to study-the importance of Lamb's essays and
criticism to Romantic literature, history, and thought, and yet virtu-
ally no critical commentaries onJohn Woodvil of any real seriousness or
length have appeared' The charge of silly sentimentalism has been ab-
sorbed so completely and uncritically that, like Baillie's DeMonfort, the
drama has been almost entirely erased from literary historical memory.
  While I do not here wish to argue against conventional wisdom
that Lamb's drama is in fact a tragedy, and a good one at that, I do
want to suggest that literary and aesthetic criteria, at least in their
narrow formalist definitions, cannot effectively measure the histori-
cal importance of the work. That importance is great, for, like much
Romantic drama, John Woodvil interestingly engages the material con-
ditions under which it was produced and therefore provides us with
a specific and at times compelling articulation of the historical mo-
ment of Romantic culture and society. Not at the level of plot and



Charles Lamb's JohnWoodvil / 61          Charles Lamb's JohnWoodvil / 61          Charles Lamb's JohnWoodvil / 61


theme, which admittedly are handled clumsily, but rather at the level
of its political unconscious the drama discloses an array of historical
tensions and anxieties in the Romantic period that paralyzed a once
powerful literary genre-drama-denying it the voice that, during the
Renaissance, had spoken the values and beliefs of an entire age. At this
deeper level, Lamb's work provides both an example of and an ave-
nue into social and historical crisis, enabling us to glimpse the deep
structural shifts that helped to shape the literature and culture of the
period. Whatever its literary and dramatic shortcomings, John Woodvil
provides an opportunity for understanding that genres in decline (such
as drama during the Romantic period) no less than genres in ascent
(such as lyric during the same period) are important areas of historical
and critical investigation.
  Because Lamb was an avid student of Renaissance literature, and
particularly of the drama of that period,' it is tempting to view John
Woodvil in narrow literary historical terms as the author's unsuccessful
effort to recreate the drama of an earlier age, an effort allegedly marked
by "over-imitation of the antique in plot, characterisation and style."t
But Lamb's personal literary aspirations are much less significant-
and certainly less productive of serious critical commentary-than the
historical anxiety and ideological complexity within which the drama
itself is saturated, and which investigation of literary history, authorial
intention, and formal features alone is incapable of explaining. From
a historical perspective the most immediate critical questions involve
not so much the success or failure of Lamb's attempt to rewrite the
old drama but rather the social and cultural pressures shaping and de-
termining that attempt. Investigation of these pressures in the work
reveals, among other things, tense and problematic relations between
past history and the imaginative reception and representation of that
history in the present.
  W. L. Renwick remarks that the failure ofJohn Woodvil is attributable
largely to the fact that Lamb was unable to balance his general sub-
ject matter-England during the early days of the Restoration-with
the contemporary demands on drama imposed by Drury Lane.' While
Renwick does not pursue this insight, and indeed seems unaware of its
larger historical significance, his comment in raising the issue of past
and present points toward precisely the historical dilemma through
which the meanings of the drama are filtered.John Woodvil was written
during a period of severe national and international political turmoil


theme, which admittedly are handled clumsily, but rather at the level
of its political unconscious the drama discloses an array of historical
tensions and anxieties in the Romantic period that paralyzed a once
powerful literary genre-drama-denying it the voice that, during the
Renaissance, had spoken the values and beliefs of an entire age. At this
deeper level, Lamb's work provides both an example of and an ave-
nue into social and historical crisis, enabling us to glimpse the deep
structural shifts that helped to shape the literature and culture of the
period. Whatever its literary and dramatic shortcomings, John Woodvil
provides an opportunity for understanding that genres in decline (such
as drama during the Romantic period) no less than genres in ascent
(such as lyric during the same period) are important areas of historical
and critical investigation?
  Because Lamb was an avid student of Renaissance literature, and
particularly of the drama of that period,' it is tempting to view John
Woodvil in narrow literary historical terms as the author's unsuccessful
effort to recreate the drama of an earlier age, an effort allegedly marked
by "over-imitation of the antique in plot, characterisation and style."r
But Lamb's personal literary aspirations are much less significant-
and certainly less productive of serious critical commentary-than the
historical anxiety and ideological complexity within which the drama
itself is saturated, and which investigation of literary history, authorial
intention, and formal features alone is incapable of explaining. From
a historical perspective the most immediate critical questions involve
not so much the success or failure of Lamb's attempt to rewrite the
old drama but rather the social and cultural pressures shaping and de-
termining that attempt. Investigation of these pressures in the work
reveals, among other things, tense and problematic relations between
past history and the imaginative reception and representation of that
history in the present.
  W. L. Renwick remarks that the failure ofJohn Woodvil is attributable
largely to the fact that Lamb was unable to balance his general sub-
ject matter-England during the early days of the Restoration-with
the contemporary demands on drama imposed by Drury Lane.' While
Renwick does not pursue this insight, and indeed seems unaware of its
larger historical significance, his comment in raising the issue of past
and present points toward precisely the historical dilemma through
which the meanings of the drama are filtered.John Woodvil was written
during a period of severe national and international political turmoil


theme, which admittedly are handled clumsily, but rather at the level
of its political unconscious the drama discloses an array of historical
tensions and anxieties in the Romantic period that paralyzed a once
powerful literary genre-drama-denying it the voice that, during the
Renaissance, had spoken the values and beliefs of an entire age. At this
deeper level, Lamb's work provides both an example of and an ave-
nue into social and historical crisis, enabling us to glimpse the deep
structural shifts that helped to shape the literature and culture of the
period. Whatever its literary and dramatic shortcomings, John Woodvil
provides an opportunity for understanding that genres in decline (such
as drama during the Romantic period) no less than genres in ascent
(such as lyric during the same period) are important areas of historical
and critical investigation.'
  Because Lamb was an avid student of Renaissance literature, and
particularly of the drama of that period,' it is tempting to view John
Woodvil in narrow literary historical terms as the author's unsuccessful
effort to recreate the drama of an earlier age, an effort allegedly marked
by "over-imitation of the antique in plot, characterisation and style."t
But Lamb's personal literary aspirations are much less significant-
and certainly less productive of serious critical commentary-than the
historical anxiety and ideological complexity within which the drama
itselfis saturated, and which investigation of literary history, authorial
intention, and formal features alone is incapable of explaining. From
a historical perspective the most immediate critical questions involve
not so much the success or failure of Lamb's attempt to rewrite the
old drama but rather the social and cultural pressures shaping and de-
termining that attempt. Investigation of these pressures in the work
reveals, among other things, tense and problematic relations between
past history and the imaginative reception and representation of that
history in the present.
  W. L. Renwick remarks that the failure ofJohn Woodvil is attributable
largely to the fact that Lamb was unable to balance his general sub-
ject matter-England during the early days of the Restoration-with
the contemporary demands on drama imposed by Drury Lane. While
Renwick does not pursue this insight, and indeed seems unaware of its
larger historical significance, his comment in raising the issue of past
and present points toward precisely the historical dilemma through
which the meanings of the drama are filtered. John Woodvil was written
during a period of severe national and international political turmoil



62 / English Romantic Drama              62 / English Romantic Drama              62 / English Romantic Drama


(1798-1802) about a period in the past when turmoil ostensibly hasjust
ended (the Restoration). Not surprisingly, then, it is marked by con-
flicting imaginative tendencies: nostalgia for a time of relative peace,
and a realistic social vision of hardship, struggle, and instability. It
displays at once an intense desire to move back in time to a world of
wholeness and possibility and a disconcerting recognition of pressures
in the historical present that block that desire. Unable to avoid or to
find a workable voice for containing or expressing this conflict-for
example, as Matthew Lewis had done by casting history as spectacle
or as Shelley would do by casting history as psychodrama'-Lamb's
dramatic imagination was left paralyzed, incapable of satisfying the
demands of the theatergoing public or of producing a work that his
age (or ours) would judge to be of real literary quality. John 4aoodvil
is, in short, a virtual parody of Renaissance drama and, for the most
part, an inept expression of Romantic desire.
  If the limitations ofJohn Woodvil as drama are best understood in
terms of the disabling historical double bind just described, so too is
its importance. John Woodvil has a claim on historical scholarship and
criticism today precisely because of its peculiar entanglement in his-
tory. Its desperate effort to escape (or, at the very least, to account
for) present history through the door of past history-that is, to con-
struct a nontranscendental vision of redemption and positive human
meaning-as well as the direction it takes when this effort fails, cre-
ate an intellectual space for examining certain important structures of
authority and belief, historical determinations of desire, and the devel-
oping and changing relations of social life and personal identity during
the Romantic period.
  The opening act, by introducing a variety of characters whose sig-
nificance, explicitly, is socially and ideologically grounded, establishes
some of the national political issues and social values that help to shape
and promote the personal turmoil at the center of the dramatic action.
Beginning with a portrait of the Woodvil estate servants at a moment
shortly after Charles II's restoration-the servants are singing "When
the King enjoys his own again" as the play opens-this act portrays,
on the surface at least, a celebration of Charles's return to England. As
one servant remarks, summarizing the thoughts of his peers: "I think
everything be altered for the better since His Majesty's blessed resto-
ration" (I.i).' Under Charles the restrictions that had been placed on
society by the Commonwealth are loosened, especially those relating


(1798-1802) about a period in the past when turmoil ostensibly has just
ended (the Restoration). Not surprisingly, then, it is marked by con-
flicting imaginative tendencies: nostalgia for a time of relative peace,
and a realistic social vision of hardship, struggle, and instability. It
displays at once an intense desire to move back in time to a world of
wholeness and possibility and a disconcerting recognition of pressures
in the historical present that block that desire. Unable to avoid or to
find a workable voice for containing or expressing this conflict-for
example, as Matthew Lewis had done by casting history as spectacle
or as Shelley would do by casting history as psychodrama'-Lamb's
dramatic imagination was left paralyzed, incapable of satisfying the
demands of the theatergoing public or of producing a work that his
age (or ours) would judge to be of real literary quality. John Woodvil
is, in short, a virtual parody of Renaissance drama and, for the most
part, an inept expression of Romantic desire.
  If the limitations ofJohn Woodvil as drama are best understood in
terms of the disabling historical double bind just described, so too is
its importance. John Woodvil has a claim on historical scholarship and
criticism today precisely because of its peculiar entanglement in his-
tory. Its desperate effort to escape (or, at the very least, to account
for) present history through the door of past history-that is, to con-
struct a nontranscendental vision of redemption and positive human
meaning-as well as the direction it takes when this effort fails, cre-
ate an intellectual space for examining certain important structures of
authority and belief, historical determinations of desire, and the devel-
oping and changing relations of social life and personal identity during
the Romantic period.
  The opening act, by introducing a variety of characters whose sig-
nificance, explicitly, is socially and ideologically grounded, establishes
some of the national political issues and social values that help to shape
and promote the personal turmoil at the center of the dramatic action.
Beginning with a portrait of the Woodvil estate servants at a moment
shortly after Charles II's restoration-the servants are singing "When
the King enjoys his own again" as the play opens-this act portrays,
on the surface at least, a celebration of Charles's return to England. As
one servant remarks, summarizing the thoughts of his peers: "I think
everything be altered for the better since His Majesty's blessed resto-
ration" (Ii).' Under Charles the restrictions that had been placed on
society by the Commonwealth are loosened, especially those relating


(1798-1802) about a period in the past when turmoil ostensibly hasjust
ended (the Restoration). Not surprisingly, then, it is marked by con-
flicting imaginative tendencies: nostalgia for a time of relative peace,
and a realistic social vision of hardship, struggle, and instability. It
displays at once an intense desire to move back in time to a world of
wholeness and possibility and a disconcerting recognition of pressures
in the historical present that block that desire. Unable to avoid or to
find a workable voice for containing or expressing this conflict-for
example, as Matthew Lewis had done by casting history as spectacle
or as Shelley would do by casting history as psychodrama'-Lamb's
dramatic imagination was left paralyzed, incapable of satisfying the
demands of the theatergoing public or of producing a work that his
age (or ours) would judge to be of real literary quality. John Woodvil
is, in short, a virtual parody of Renaissance drama and, for the most
part, an inept expression of Romantic desire.
  If the limitations ofJohn Woodvil as drama are best understood in
terms of the disabling historical double bind just described, so too is
its importance. John Woodvil has a claim on historical scholarship and
criticism today precisely because of its peculiar entanglement in his-
tory. Its desperate effort to escape (or, at the very least, to account
for) present history through the door of past history-that is, to con-
struct a nontranscendental vision of redemption and positive human
meaning-as well as the direction it takes when this effort fails, cre-
ate an intellectual space for examining certain important structures of
authority and belief, historical determinations of desire, and the devel-
oping and changing relations of social life and personal identity during
the Romantic period.
  The opening act, by introducing a variety of characters whose sig-
nificance, explicitly, is socially and ideologically grounded, establishes
some of the national political issues and social values that help to shape
and promote the personal turmoil at the center of the dramatic action.
Beginning with a portrait of the Woodvil estate servants at a moment
shortly after Charles II's restoration-the servants are singing "When
the King enjoys his own again" as the play opens-this act portrays,
on the surface at least, a celebration of Charles's return to England. As
one servant remarks, summarizing the thoughts of his peers: "I think
everything be altered for the better since His Majesty's blessed resto-
ration" (.i).' Under Charles the restrictions that had been placed on
society by the Commonwealth are loosened, especially those relating



Charles Lamb's John Woodvil / 63         Charles Lamb's John Woodvil / 63         Charles Lamb's John Woodvil / 63


to personal conduct, and the servants commend the king for pro-
moting greater individual freedom, while at the same time exercising
their newfound freedoms by getting drunk.
The levity of this scene, with its praise of Charles and its celebra-
tion of an apparent return of social harmony, is obviously an awkward
and simplistic foil for the real conflict and instability which follow,
whenJohn Woodvil is forced to confront the weaknesses of his charac-
ter. Despite its inept dramatic presentation, however, it is not entirely
a transparent picture of happiness to be set against a later picture of
tragedy; in fact, the servants' various comments cut across a difficult
ideological landscape of personal and social life, displaying traces of
uncertainty and anxiety even at a moment of celebrating an apparent
national triumph. Tangled in the nets of radical social change, the ser-
vants readily embrace the views of the state while drinking themselves
into a stupor-a fact in itself that ironically undercuts expressions of
social harmony and social possibility. Worse, their views, while pre-
sented loudly and in song, are not at all authentic but rather follow the
lead of the master who provides their employment. The servant Daniel
states this point explicitly, when he remarks that he has learned his
loyalist song about Charles's return to England "where thou learnest
thy oaths and thy politics-at our master's table.-Where else should
a serving-man pick up his poor accomplishments?" (Ii). Even as he
sings Charles's praises, he knows that political support is bought with
the promise of employment; in such a world, a logical corollary is
that (as his conduct emphatically attests) social goals or ideals are mea-
sured in terms of the availability of liquor. From a servant's point of
view, the Restoration is good inasmuch as it promises an opportunity,
through drink and easy labor, to become oblivious to real politics.
  The powerful impact of changes at the national level on domestic life
evident here is seen as well in the servant's comments on the Woodvil
estate. The rightful master, Sir Walter Woodvil, a longtime supporter
of Cromwell, is said to have gone into hiding to avoid prosecution
by the recently returned Charles II, leaving the everyday affairs of the
estate to his eldest son, John, who is (at least ostensibly) a loyalist.
While much needs to be said about Sir Walter's unswerving support for
Cromwell and his son's support for Charles, we should note first that
this information, following as it does upon the celebration of Charles's
restoration, calls attention to inextricable connections between the
various and multiple threads of social life, from royalty to aristoc-


to personal conduct, and the servants commend the king for pro-
moting greater individual freedom, while at the same time exercising
their newfound freedoms by getting drunk.
The levity of this scene, with its praise of Charles and its celebra-
tion of an apparent return of social harmony, is obviously an awkward
and simplistic foil for the real conflict and instability which follow,
when John Woodvil is forced to confront the weaknesses of his charac-
ter. Despite its inept dramatic presentation, however, it is not entirely
a transparent picture of happiness to be set against a later picture of
tragedy; in fact, the servants' various comments cut across a difficult
ideological landscape of personal and social life, displaying traces of
uncertainty and anxiety even at a moment of celebrating an apparent
national triumph. Tangled in the nets of radical social change, the ser-
vants readily embrace the views of the state while drinking themselves
into a stupor-a fact in itself that ironically undercuts expressions of
social harmony and social possibility. Worse, their views, while pre-
sented loudly and in song, are not at all authentic but rather follow the
lead of the master who provides their employment. The servant Daniel
states this point explicitly, when he remarks that he has learned his
loyalist song about Charles's return to England "where thou learnest
thy oaths and thy politics-at our master's table.-Where else should
a serving-man pick up his poor accomplishments?" (Ii). Even as he
sings Charles's praises, he knows that political support is bought with
the promise of employment; in such a world, a logical corollary is
that (as his conduct emphatically attests) social goals or ideals are mea-
sured in terms of the availability of liquor. From a servant's point of
view, the Restoration is good inasmuch as it promises an opportunity,
through drink and easy labor, to become oblivious to real politics.
  The powerful impact of changes at the national level on domestic life
evident here is seen as well in the servant's comments on the Woodvil
estate. The rightful master, Sir Walter Woodvil, a longtime supporter
of Cromwell, is said to have gone into hiding to avoid prosecution
by the recently returned Charles II, leaving the everyday affairs of the
estate to his eldest son, John, who is (at least ostensibly) a loyalist.
While much needs to be said about Sir Walter's unswerving support for
Cromwell and his son's support for Charles, we should note first that
this information, following as it does upon the celebration of Charles's
restoration, calls attention to inextricable connections between the
various and multiple threads of social life, from royalty to aristoc-


to personal conduct, and the servants commend the king for pro-
moting greater individual freedom, while at the same time exercising
their newfound freedoms by getting drunk.
The levity of this scene, with its praise of Charles and its celebra-
tion of an apparent return of social harmony, is obviously an awkward
and simplistic foil for the real conflict and instability which follow,
when John Woodvil is forced to confront the weaknesses of his charac-
ter. Despite its inept dramatic presentation, however, it is not entirely
a transparent picture of happiness to be set against a later picture of
tragedy; in fact, the servants' various comments cut across a difficult
ideological landscape of personal and social life, displaying traces of
uncertainty and anxiety even at a moment of celebrating an apparent
national triumph. Tangled in the nets of radical social change, the ser-
vants readily embrace the views of the state while drinking themselves
into a stupor-a fact in itself that ironically undercuts expressions of
social harmony and social possibility. Worse, their views, while pre-
sented loudly and in song, are not at all authentic but rather follow the
lead of the master who provides their employment. The servant Daniel
states this point explicitly, when he remarks that he has learned his
loyalist song about Charles's return to England "where thou learnest
thy oaths and thy politics-at our master's table.-Where else should
a serving-man pick up his poor accomplishments?" (Ii). Even as he
sings Charles's praises, he knows that political support is bought with
the promise of employment; in such a world, a logical corollary is
that (as his conduct emphatically attests) social goals or ideals are mea-
sured in terms of the availability of liquor. From a servant's point of
view, the Restoration is good inasmuch as it promises an opportunity,
through drink and easy labor, to become oblivious to real politics.
  The powerful impact of changes at the national level on domestic life
evident here is seen as well in the servant's comments on the Woodvil
estate. The rightful master, Sir Walter Woodvil, a longtime supporter
of Cromwell, is said to have gone into hiding to avoid prosecution
by the recently returned Charles II, leaving the everyday affairs of the
estate to his eldest son, John, who is (at least ostensibly) a loyalist.
While much needs to be said about Sir Walter's unswerving support for
Cromwell and his son's support for Charles, we should note first that
this information, following as it does upon the celebration of Charles's
restoration, calls attention to inextricable connections between the
various and multiple threads of social life, from royalty to aristoc-



64 / English Romantic Drama              64 / English Romantic Drama              64 / English Romantic Drama


racy to the serving class. Displaying a consistent interest in questions,
issues, and gossip bearing on those individuals who control society,
the servants' conversation is given coherence by its understanding that
John Woodvil's newfound authority is equivalent to Charles's new-
found authority, just as Walter's exile finds its political equivalent in the
collapse of the Commonwealth. Amid these radical political changes
are smaller but no less significant domestic changes, suggested above,
as the serving people nervously shift their allegiances and celebrate
the latest rulers-both Charles II and John Woodvil, in this case-in
an effort to assure themselves material security; that debauchery fuels
their political songs and that cynicism marks their political attitudes
are clear signs that social stability, for them, is more a dream (or hol-
low rhetoric) than reality, for they are at the mercy of a world that
itself has been severely shaken.
  The politics of Sir Walter and John Woodvil, as described by the
drunken but politically attuned servants, point toward yet another
social complexity in the world of the drama. That the progressive,
antimonarchist spokesperson-Sir Walter-is exiled while the loyal-
ist spokesperson-John-is triumphant, produces the appearance of
a world at ease with monarchist or absolutist politics. Indeed, one
complaint that the servants have against the way Sir Walter governed
his estate is that he was too puritanical, not allowing servants to get
drunk before 2 P.m.; John is the preferred master because he allows
servants to begin drinking as soon as they arise in the morning. At
the same time, however, the servants are pleased that Sir Walter has
eluded his political enemies, and in fact they retain a curious sense of
loyalty to him. Though there is a Lane reward for their old master,
though they know his place of exile, and though they suspect that
they are subject to penalty under the treason act for withholding this
information, they nonetheless drink a toast to his safety. If their loy-
alty to Charles (and John) is coated with cynicism, their memory of
Sir Walter is tinged with nostalgia. No political element of Restora-
tion society, at least as the servants see it, is easily compartmentalized
or characterized, though all elements are politically intertwined: they
recognize that the various structures of authority and belief embrace a
single social reality.
  The servants' drunken political analysis of monarchy, aristocracy,
and labor is interestingly complicated by Sandford, the old steward of
Sir Walter. Coming upon the servants as they discuss the whereabouts


racy to the serving class. Displaying a consistent interest in questions,
issues, and gossip bearing on those individuals who control society,
the servants' conversation is given coherence by its understanding that
John Woodvil's newfound authority is equivalent to Charles's new-
found authority, just as Walter's exile finds its political equivalent in the
collapse of the Commonwealth. Amid these radical political changes
are smaller but no less significant domestic changes, suggested above,
as the serving people nervously shift their allegiances and celebrate
the latest rulers-both Charles II and John Woodvil, in this case-in
an effort to assure themselves material security; that debauchery fuels
their political songs and that cynicism marks their political attitudes
are clear signs that social stability, for them, is more a dream (or hol-
low rhetoric) than reality, for they are at the mercy of a world that
itself has been severely shaken.
  The politics of Sir Walter and John Woodvil, as described by the
drunken but politically attuned servants, point toward yet another
social complexity in the world of the drama. That the progressive,
antimonarchist spokesperson-Sir Walter-is exiled while the loyal-
ist spokesperson-John-is triumphant, produces the appearance of
a world at ease with monarchist or absolutist politics. Indeed, one
complaint that the servants have against the way Sir Walter governed
his estate is that he was too puritanical, not allowing servants to get
drunk before a e.M.; John is the preferred master because he allows
servants to begin drinking as soon as they arise in the morning. At
the same time, however, the servants are pleased that Sir Walter has
eluded his political enemies, and in fact they retain a curious sense of
loyalty to him. Though there is a Lane reward for their old master,
though they know his place of exile, and though they suspect that
they are subject to penalty under the treason act for withholding this
information, they nonetheless drink a toast to his safety.t If their loy-
alty to Charles (and John) is coated with cynicism, their memory of
Sir Walter is tinged with nostalgia. No political element of Restora-
tion society, at least as the servants see it, is easily compartmentalized
or characterized, though all elements are politically intertwined: they
recognize that the various structures of authority and belief embrace a
single social reality.
  The servants' drunken political analysis of monarchy, aristocracy,
and labor is interestingly complicated by Sandford, the old steward of
Sir Walter. Coming upon the servants as they discuss the whereabouts


racy to the serving class. Displaying a consistent interest in questions,
issues, and gossip bearing on those individuals who control society,
the servants' conversation is given coherence by its understanding that
John Woodvil's newfound authority is equivalent to Charles's new-
found authority, just as Walter's exile finds its political equivalent in the
collapse of the Commonwealth. Amid these radical political changes
are smaller but no less significant domestic changes, suggested above,
as the serving people nervously shift their allegiances and celebrate
the latest rulers-both Charles II and John Woodvil, in this case-in
an effort to assure themselves material security; that debauchery fuels
their political songs and that cynicism marks their political attitudes
are clear signs that social stability, for them, is more a dream (or hol-
low rhetoric) than reality, for they are at the mercy of a world that
itself has been severely shaken.
  The politics of Sir Walter and John Woodvil, as described by the
drunken but politically attuned servants, point toward yet another
social complexity in the world of the drama. That the progressive,
antimonarchist spokesperson-Sir Walter-is exiled while the loyal-
ist spokesperson-John-is triumphant, produces the appearance of
a world at ease with monarchist or absolutist politics. Indeed, one
complaint that the servants have against the way Sir Walter governed
his estate is that he was too puritanical, not allowing servants to get
drunk before a P.m.; John is the preferred master because he allows
servants to begin drinking as soon as they arise in the morning. At
the same time, however, the servants are pleased that Sir Walter has
eluded his political enemies, and in fact they retain a curious sense of
loyalty to him. Though there is a Lane reward for their old master,
though they know his place of exile, and though they suspect that
they are subject to penalty under the treason act for withholding this
information, they nonetheless drink a toast to his safety.' If their loy-
alty to Charles (and John) is coated with cynicism, their memory of
Sir Walter is tinged with nostalgia. No political element of Restora-
tion society, at least as the servants see it, is easily compartmentalized
or characterized, though all elements are politically intertwined: they
recognize that the various structures of authority and belief embrace a
single social reality.
  The servants' drunken political analysis of monarchy, aristocracy,
and labor is interestingly complicated by Sandford, the old steward of
Sir Walter. Coming upon the servants as they discuss the whereabouts



           Charles Lamb's John Woodvil / 65

of Sir Walter, Sandford bitterly lashes out at them for their drunken-
ness and political wavering, claiming that their expressions of political
loyalty are merely occasions to drink, as is evidenced, he says, by their
earlier expressions of loyalty to Sir Walter: "How often in old times /
Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober ears, / Carousing full
cups to Sir Walter's health?" (I.i). In his view, their political spineless-
ness is combined with a complete ignorance of and disregard for true
social and personal integrity. Once bound to the loom and plough for
their livelihood, Sandford reminds them, they were brought by Sir
Walter into a better world where they were fed, clothed, and enter-
tained "in a worthy service, / Where your best wages was the world's
repute" (Ii). This benevolent paternalism is repaid with debauchery
that threatens society at its core, as worthwhile labor is replaced by
empty expressions of personal satisfaction. As Sandford puts it, these
opportunistic servants are little more than

        Well-fed and unprofitable grooms,
        Maintain'd for state, not use;
        You lazy feasters at another's cost,
        ... [E]at like maggots into an estate. (Ii)

  Besides offering a powerful example of absolute loyalty, Sandford's
scathing comments (which entirely break the drunken confidence of
the servants) point to one of the central social problems in the drama,
namely the relative stability of the estate and the importance of that
stability to social and human value. The conduct and statements of
the drunken servants, the exile of Sir Walter, and the restoration of
Charles II all mark for Sandford the moment of social collapse, the
destruction of "a well-order'd family" (I i). What for others is an op-
portunity for personal advancement, or at least for personal leisure
and self-indulgence, is for him the eruption of chaos into the world,
a chaos characterized by treachery, villainy, and loss of commitment.
The absolute quality of his loyalty to Sir Walter focuses the social issues
at stake in the changing world of the Restoration and thus helps to
clarify the extremity and multiplicity of response to those changes.
  The introduction of one additional character in the opening act
helps to elucidate the social anxiety and the direction of social meaning
in the world of the drama. As the servants depart, breaking up what
Sandford calls their "atheist riot and profane excess" (I.i), Sir Walter's
orphan ward, Margaret, enters. In many respects she is a stereotypi-


           Charles Lamb's John Woodvil / 65

of Sir Walter, Sandford bitterly lashes out at them for their drunken-
ness and political wavering, claiming that their expressions of political
loyalty are merely occasions to drink, as is evidenced, he says, by their
earlier expressions of loyalty to Sir Walter: "How often in old times /
Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober ears, / Carousing full
cups to Sir Walter's health?" (Ii). In his view, their political spineless-
ness is combined with a complete ignorance of and disregard for true
social and personal integrity. Once bound to the loom and plough for
their livelihood, Sandford reminds them, they were brought by Sir
Walter into a better world where they were fed, clothed, and enter-
tained "in a worthy service, / Where your best wages was the world's
repute" (I.i). This benevolent paternalism is repaid with debauchery
that threatens society at its core, as worthwhile labor is replaced by
empty expressions of personal satisfaction. As Sandford puts it, these
opportunistic servants are little more than
        Well-fed and unprofitable grooms,
        Maintain'd for state, not use;
        You lazy feasters at another's cost,
        ... [E]at like maggots into an estate. (Ii)

  Besides offering a powerful example of absolute loyalty, Sandford's
scathing comments (which entirely break the drunken confidence of
the servants) point to one of the central social problems in the drama,
namely the relative stability of the estate and the importance of that
stability to social and human value. The conduct and statements of
the drunken servants, the exile of Sir Walter, and the restoration of
Charles I all mark for Sandford the moment of social collapse, the
destruction of "a well-order'd family" (Ii). What for others is an op-
portunity for personal advancement, or at least for personal leisure
and self-indulgence, is for him the eruption of chaos into the world,
a chaos characterized by treachery, villainy, and loss of commitment.
The absolute quality of his loyalty to Sir Walter focuses the social issues
at stake in the changing world of the Restoration and thus helps to
clarify the extremity and multiplicity of response to those changes.
  The introduction of one additional character in the opening act
helps to elucidate the social anxiety and the direction of social meaning
in the world of the drama. As the servants depart, breaking up what
Sandford calls their "atheist riot and profane excess" (.i), Sir Walter's
orphan ward, Margaret, enters. In many respects she is a stereotypi-


           Charles Lamb's John Woodvil / 65

of Sir Walter, Sandford bitterly lashes out at them for their drunken-
ness and political wavering, claiming that their expressions of political
loyalty are merely occasions to drink, as is evidenced, he says, by their
earlier expressions of loyalty to Sir Walter: "How often in old times /
Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober ears, / Carousing full
cups to Sir Walter's health?" (Ii). In his view, their political spineless-
ness is combined with a complete ignorance of and disregard for true
social and personal integrity. Once bound to the loom and plough for
their livelihood, Sandford reminds them, they were brought by Sir
Walter into a better world where they were fed, clothed, and enter-
tained "in a worthy service, / Where your best wages was the world's
repute" (Ii). This benevolent paternalism is repaid with debauchery
that threatens society at its core, as worthwhile labor is replaced by
empty expressions of personal satisfaction. As Sandford puts it, these
opportunistic servants are little more than

        Well-fed and unprofitable grooms,
        Maintain'd for state, not use;
        You lazy feasters at another's cost,
        ... [E]at like maggots into an estate. (Li)

  Besides offering a powerful example of absolute loyalty, Sandford's
scathing comments (which entirely break the drunken confidence of
the servants) point to one of the central social problems in the drama,
namely the relative stability of the estate and the importance of that
stability to social and human value. The conduct and statements of
the drunken servants, the exile of Sir Walter, and the restoration of
Charles II all mark for Sandford the moment of social collapse, the
destruction of "a well-order'd family" (.i). What for others is an op-
portunity for personal advancement, or at least for personal leisure
and self-indulgence, is for him the eruption of chaos into the world,
a chaos characterized by treachery, villainy, and loss of commitment.
The absolute quality of his loyalty to Sir Walter focuses the social issues
at stake in the changing world of the Restoration and thus helps to
clarify the extremity and multiplicity of response to those changes.
  The introduction of one additional character in the opening act
helps to elucidate the social anxiety and the direction of social meaning
in the world of the drama. As the servants depart, breaking up what
Sandford calls their "atheist riot and profane excess" (I.i), Sir Walter's
orphan ward, Margaret, enters. In many respects she is a stereotypi-



66/EgihRmniUrm                                                          66 / nlis oatcDaa6                                                        / nlis Roatc rm


cal female character in Romantic literature, particularly the drama. We
see very similar characters, for instance, in Coleridge's Osorio (Maria),
in Matthew Lewis's Castle Spectre (Angela), in Mary Shelley's novel
Frankenstein (Elizabeth), and elsewhere. Like the female characters in
these works, Margaret is an orphan who depends entirely upon the
charity of men for her well-being and social status; she is character-
ized in highly sentimental terms; her primary role in the plot is as a
love interest and as a supporter of a man in distress (as she puts it, she
has always been John Woodvil's "conscience, his religion" [I.i]); her
sexual desires have a quasi-incestuous dimension to them ("I was his
favourite once, his playfellow in infancy" [I.i]).
   Despite the derivative or stock nature of her character, however,
Margaret is an example of real alienation experienced at a moment de-
scribed by those loyal to the existing social authority as a triumph of
justice and human possibility. That she would rather "trust for food to
the earth and Providence" (Ii) than to the Woodvil estate in its current
condition-that is, in its celebration of debauchery by everyone from
John Woodvil to the servants-suggests the extent of that alienation,
as well as the instability, or inadequacy, of the world of the Restora-
tion. More importantly, in her decision to leave the Woodvil estate for
the purpose of searching out Sir Walter Woodvil, and in the manner
she designs to do this (by disguising herself as a boy), she brings the
issue of gender into prominence. John Woodvil has become a "cold
protector" (I.i), and in leaving him to search for Sir Walter, she knows
she will pass along a dangerous way; thus she dons "boy's apparel"
(I.i). With this scheme she focuses two kinds of escape that are neces-
sary and, for her, desirable: from a morally hollow social situation and
from a gender that is the first to be compromised by that situation.
Her character is never developed along what might be called feminist
lines, and yet her actions and comments encourage a feminist critique
of her world. For her, liberty is not possible under John Woodvil nor
under Charles II, but is possible only, if at all, in Sherwood Forest, to
which Sir Walter has fled.
   The introduction of characters in Act I, clearly, is at the same time
an introduction to a variety of social issues that provide the drama
with its primary intellectual unity; these issues range from political
struggle at the national level, to family disputes at the domestic level,
to personal hardship at the level of gender, and to security questions
at the level of the serving class. While they are distinguished by their


cal female character in Romantic literature, particularly the drama. We
see very similar characters, for instance, in Coleridge's Osorio (Maria),
in Matthew Lewis's Castle Spectre (Angela), in Mary Shelley's novel
Frankenstein (Elizabeth), and elsewhere. Like the female characters in
these works, Margaret is an orphan who depends entirely upon the
charity of men for her well-being and social status; she is character-
ized in highly sentimental terms; her primary role in the plot is as a
love interest and as a supporter of a man in distress (as she puts it, she
has always been John Woodvil's "conscience, his religion" [I.i]); her
sexual desires have a quasi-incestuous dimension to them ("I was his
favourite once, his playfellow in infancy" [Ii]).
   Despite the derivative or stock nature of her character, however,
Margaret is an example ofreal alienation experienced at a moment de-
scribed by those loyal to the existing social authority as a triumph of
justice and human possibility. That she would rather "trust for food to
the earth and Providence" (I.i) than to the Woodvil estate in its current
condition-that is, in its celebration of debauchery by everyone from
John Woodvil to the servants-suggests the extent of that alienation,
as well as the instability, or inadequacy, of the world of the Restora-
tion. More importantly, in her decision to leave the Woodvil estate for
the purpose of searching out Sir Walter Woodvil, and in the manner
she designs to do this (by disguising herself as a boy), she brings the
issue of gender into prominence. John Woodvil has become a "cold
protector" (Ii), and in leaving him to search for Sir Walter, she knows
she will pass along a dangerous way; thus she dons "boy's apparel"
(Ii). With this scheme she focuses two kinds of escape that are neces-
sary and, for her, desirable: from a morally hollow social situation and
from a gender that is the first to be compromised by that situation.
Her character is never developed along what might be called feminist
lines, and yet her actions and comments encourage a feminist critique
of her world. For her, liberty is not possible under John Woodvil nor
under Charles II, but is possible only, if at all, in Sherwood Forest, to
which Sir Walter has fled.
   The introduction of characters in Act I, clearly, is at the same time
an introduction to a variety of social issues that provide the drama
with its primary intellectual unity; these issues range from political
struggle at the national level, to family disputes at the domestic level,
to personal hardship at the level of gender, and to security questions
at the level of the serving class. While they are distinguished by their


cal female character in Romantic literature, particularly the drama. We
see very similar characters, for instance, in Coleridge's Osorio (Maria),
in Matthew Lewis's Castle Spectre (Angela), in Mary Shelley's novel
Frankenstein (Elizabeth), and elsewhere. Like the female characters in
these works, Margaret is an orphan who depends entirely upon the
charity of men for her well-being and social status; she is character-
ized in highly sentimental terms; her primary role in the plot is as a
love interest and as a supporter of a man in distress (as she puts it, she
has always been John Woodvil's "conscience, his religion" [Ii]); her
sexual desires have a quasi-incestuous dimension to them ("I was his
favourite once, his playfellow in infancy" [Ii]).
   Despite the derivative or stock nature of her character, however,
Margaret is an example of real alienation experienced at a moment de-
scribed by those loyal to the existing social authority as a triumph of
justice and human possibility. That she would rather "trust for food to
the earth and Providence" (Li) than to the Woodvil estate in its current
condition-that is, in its celebration of debauchery by everyone from
John Woodvil to the servants-suggests the extent of that alienation,
as well as the instability, or inadequacy, of the world of the Restora-
tion. More importantly, in her decision to leave the Woodvil estate for
the purpose of searching out Sir Walter Woodvil, and in the manner
she designs to do this (by disguising herself as a boy), she brings the
issue of gender into prominence. John Woodvil has become a "cold
protector" (Ii), and in leaving him to search for Sir Walter, she knows
she will pass along a dangerous way; thus she dons "boy's apparel"
(I.i). With this scheme she focuses two kinds of escape that are neces-
sary and, for her, desirable: from a morally hollow social situation and
from a gender that is the first to be compromised by that situation.
Her character is never developed along what might be called feminist
lines, and yet her actions and comments encourage a feminist critique
of her world. For her, liberty is not possible under John Woodvil nor
under Charles II, but is possible only, if at all, in Sherwood Forest, to
which Sir Walter has fled.
   The introduction of characters in Act I, clearly, is at the same time
an introduction to a variety of social issues that provide the drama
with its primary intellectual unity; these issues range from political
struggle at the national level, to family disputes at the domestic level,
to personal hardship at the level of gender, and to security questions
at the level of the serving class. While they are distinguished by their



Charles Lamb's JohnWoodvil / 67          Charles Lamb's JohnWoodvil / 67          Charles Lamb's John Woodvil / 67


association with specific characters or sets of characters, they are ulti-
mately linked as parts of a single social reality that pressures and shapes
each. And while that social reality is awkwardly handled, it is nonethe-
less identifiable, its underlying features compressed into a father-son
conflict between John and Sir Walter. In this conflict, presented most
directly and compellingly in Act II, can be seen the crisis of social class
that stands behind both the English civil wars (which the Restoration
unsuccessfully attempted to put to rest) and the England of Lamb's
day.The drama shows in its final acts that out of this conflict emerged
a set of social values and a structure of authority and belief that came
to maturation during the Romantic period.
  To understand the direction of social change that is being suggested
here, it is necessary to understand first that Lamb assigns social value
to his principal characters in an odd and confusing manner. Put simply,
John Woodvil, as a loyalist and supporter of Charles II, would seem
most appropriately to be associated with a retrogressive set of social
values, while Sir Walter, a staunch Cromwellian, would seem to be
most suitably aligned with progressive politics. In fact, however, the
characters display slightly different, more complex, values, which can-
not be easily or reductively assigned to the political allegiance that each
character expresses.
  The social realities underlying the political and domestic conflicts
can be glimpsed in John Woodvil's long, drunken soliloquy, spoken
after he learns that Margaret has left him, and after observing the dissi-
pated gentry who remain as his only company, surrounding him as
permanent but worthless fixtures on his estate." In this speech John
Woodvil's character is shown to be formed neither by his father nor
by the politics of Charles II but rather by the isolating and alienating
struggles of the age, struggles that have ruined all possibilities and de-
stroyed all dreams of social stability and that have thus deadened his
regard for political authority and his desire to be socially responsible.
Because this speech is the most socially revealing in the drama, I want
to quote it at length:

      Now Universal England getteth drunk
      For joy, that Charles, her monarch, is restored:
      And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask,
      The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck,
      And weareth now a suit of morris bells.


association with specific characters or sets of characters, they are ulti-
mately linked as parts of a single social reality that pressures and shapes
each. And while that social reality is awkwardly handled, it is nonethe-
less identifiable, its underlying features compressed into a father-son
conflict between John and Sir Walter. In this conflict, presented most
directly and compellingly in Act II, can be seen the crisis of social class
that stands behind both the English civil wars (which the Restoration
unsuccessfully attempted to put to rest) and the England of Lamb's
day.The drama shows in its final acts that out of this conflict emerged
a set of social values and a structure of authority and belief that came
to maturation during the Romantic period.
  To understand the direction of social change that is being suggested
here, it is necessary to understand first that Lamb assigns social value
to his principal characters in an odd and confusing manner. Put simply,
John Woodvil, as a loyalist and supporter of Charles II, would seem
most appropriately to be associated with a retrogressive set of social
values, while Sir Walter, a staunch Cromwellian, would seem to be
most suitably aligned with progressive politics. In fact, however, the
characters display slightly different, more complex, values, which can-
not be easily or reductively assigned to the political allegiance that each
character expresses.
  The social realities underlying the political and domestic conflicts
can be glimpsed in John Woodvil's long, drunken soliloquy, spoken
after he learns that Margaret has left him, and after observing the dissi-
pated gentry who remain as his only company, surrounding him as
permanent but worthless fixtures on his estate."' In this speech John
Woodvil's character is shown to be formed neither by his father nor
by the politics of Charles II but rather by the isolating and alienating
struggles of the age, struggles that have ruined all possibilities and de-
stroyed all dreams of social stability and that have thus deadened his
regard for political authority and his desire to be socially responsible.
Because this speech is the most socially revealing in the drama, I want
to quote it at length:

      Now Universal England getteth drunk
      Forjoy, that Charles, her monarch, is restored:
      And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask,
      The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck,
      And weareth now a suit of morris bells.


association with specific characters or sets of characters, they are ulti-
mately linked as parts of a single social reality that pressures and shapes
each. And while that social reality is awkwardly handled, it is nonethe-
less identifiable, its underlying features compressed into a father-son
conflict between John and Sir Walter. In this conflict, presented most
directly and compellingly in Act II, can be seen the crisis of social class
that stands behind both the English civil wars (which the Restoration
unsuccessfully attempted to put to rest) and the England of Lamb's
day.The drama shows in its final acts that out of this conflict emerged
a set of social values and a structure of authority and belief that came
to maturation during the Romantic period.
  To understand the direction of social change that is being suggested
here, it is necessary to understand first that Lamb assigns social value
to his principal characters in an odd and confusing manner. Put simply,
John Woodvil, as a loyalist and supporter of Charles II, would seem
most appropriately to be associated with a retrogressive set of social
values, while Sir Walter, a staunch Cromwellian, would seem to be
most suitably aligned with progressive politics. In fact, however, the
characters display slightly different, more complex, values, which can-
not be easily or reductively assigned to the political allegiance that each
character expresses.
  The social realities underlying the political and domestic conflicts
can be glimpsed in John Woodvil's long, drunken soliloquy, spoken
after he learns that Margaret has left him, and after observing the dissi-
pated gentry who remain as his only company, surrounding him as
permanent but worthless fixtures on his estate."' In this speech John
Woodvil's character is shown to be formed neither by his father nor
by the politics of Charles II but rather by the isolating and alienating
struggles of the age, struggles that have ruined all possibilities and de-
stroyed all dreams of social stability and that have thus deadened his
regard for political authority and his desire to be socially responsible.
Because this speech is the most socially revealing in the drama, I want
to quote it at length:

      Now Universal England getteth drunk
      For joy, that Charles, her monarch, is restored:
      And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask,
      The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck,
      And weareth now a suit of morris bells.



U8 / Enls oatcrm                                                        68 / EnglRmani DrIm 68                                                        * / nls omni rm


    With which she jingling goes through all her towns and villages.
    The baffled factions in their houses skulk;
    The commonwealthsman, and state machinist,
    The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man,
    Who heareth of these visionaries now?
    They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing,
    Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits,
    Who live by observation, note these changes
    Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends.
    Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver,
    But as my own advancement hangs on one of them?
    I to myself am chief.-I know,
    Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit
    With the gauds and show of state, the point of place,
    And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods
    Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit
    In place of worship at the royal masques,
    Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings,
    For none of these,
    Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one,
    Do I affect the favours of the court.
    I would be great, for greatness hath great power,
    And that's the fruit I reach at.-
    Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit,
    With these prophetic swellings in my breast,
    That prick and goad me on, and never cease,
    To the fortunes something tells me I was born to?
    Who, with such monitors within to stir him,
    Would sit him down, with lazy arms across,
    A unit, a thing without a name in the state,
    A something to be govern'd, not to govern,
    A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman? (II.i)

In this speech John Woodvil reveals fully not only his alienation and
loneliness, which he has tried to hide through debauchery, but also
an inchoate bourgeois sensibility. At this early point in the drama
that sensibility is portrayed in rather ugly and selfish terms. Woodvil
avows allegiance to no authority greater than himself-"I to myself
am chief"-and claims to support the return of Charles II only because


    With which shejingling goes through all her towns and villages.
    The baffled factions in their houses skulk;
    The commonwealthsman, and state machinist,
    The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man,
    Who heareth of these visionaries now?
    They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing,
    Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits,
    Who live by observation, note these changes
    Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends.
    Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver,
    But as my own advancement hangs on one of them?
    I to myself am chief -I know,
    Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit
    With the gauds and show of state, the point of place,
    And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods
    Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit
    In place of worship at the royal masques,
    Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings,
    For none ofthese,
    Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one,
    Do I affect the favours of the court.
    I would be great, for greatness hath great power,
    And that's the fruit I reach at.-
    Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit,
    With these prophetic swellings in my breast,
    That prick and goad me on, and never cease,
    To the fortunes something tells me I was born to?
    Who, with such monitors within to stir him,
    Would sit him down, with lazy arms across,
    A unit, a thing without a name in the state,
    A something to be govern'd, not to govern,
    A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman? (II.i)

In this speech John Woodvil reveals fully not only his alienation and
loneliness, which he has tried to hide through debauchery, but also
an inchoate bourgeois sensibility. At this early point in the drama
that sensibility is portrayed in rather ugly and selfish terms. Woodvil
avows allegiance to no authority greater than himself-"I to myself
am chief"-and claims to support the return of Charles II only because


    With which she jingling goes through all her towns and villages.
    The bafled factions in their houses skulk;
    The commonwealthsman, and state machinist,
    The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man,
    Who heareth of these visionaries now?
    They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing,
    Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits,
    Who live by observation, note these changes
    Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends.
    Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver,
    But as my own advancement hangs on one of them?
    I to myself am chief.-I know,
    Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit
    With the gauds and show of state, the point of place,
    And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods
    Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit
    In place of worship at the royal masques,
    Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings,
    For none of these,
    Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one,
    Do I affect the favours of the court.
    I would be great, for greatness hath great power,
    And that's the fruit I reach at.-
    Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit,
    With these prophetic swellings in my breast,
    That prick and goad me on, and never cease,
    To the fortunes something tells me I was born to?
    Who, with such monitors within to stir him,
    Would sit him down, with lazy arms across,
    A unit, a thing without a name in the state,
    A something to be govern'd, not to govern,
    A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman? (IIi)

In this speech John Woodvil reveals fully not only his alienation and
loneliness, which he has tried to hide through debauchery, but also
an inchoate bourgeois sensibility. At this early point in the drama
that sensibility is portrayed in rather ugly and selfish terms. Woodvil
avows allegiance to no authority greater than himself-"I to myself
am chief"-and claims to support the return of Charles II only because



Charles Lamb's John Woodvil / 6g         Charles Lamb's John Woodvil / 69         Charles Lamb's John Woodvil / 69


that support will enable him to advance socially and politically. His
only real interest, he confesses, is in power, and power in its most per-
sonal form; all of his actions and activities revolve around this single
concern. Disdainful of "Universal England," of Charles II, and of the
state-at least in their social definition-he sees only himself, and uses
his personal ambitions and desires as the single measure of the worth
of the world.
Ideologically, this passage displays the dislodgment of the individual
from all frames of social reference, replacing these with private inter-
est. This is the necessary first step ofan emergent bourgeois sensibility
or identity. Father, king, lover, friends: all become insignificant in the
face of Woodvil's personal ambition, an ambition to avoid being just
another nameless "country gentleman," "A something to be govern'd."
The power he seeks is the power to establish an identity over-and
against-society. All other goals, in his view, are foolish, whether
they are in the cause of Charles, Cromwell, the fifth-monarchy-men,
or even God. The extremity of his commitment to himself is seen in
his willingness, ultimately, to reveal the hiding place of Sir Walter to
Lovel, effectively sentencing his own father to certain death, appar-
ently in a cynical effort to assure his own absolute personal control
over the Woodvil estate.
  After this violent and ugly dislodgment ofJohn Woodvil from every
conventional social tie, all that has been cut away gets recovered and
reestablished through subsequent scenes, but in bourgeois rather than
aristocratic terms. Having remarked, in his most cynical moment, that
his father remains in England out of "A child-like cleaving to the land
that gave him birth" (III.i), John Woodvil comes to love and respect
"my native village / In the sweet shire of Devon" (Vii); having lost
Margaret during the days of his drunken self-indulgence, he welcomes
her return as though she were a virtual angel, "Whose suit hath drawn
this softness from my eyes" (V.ii); having doomed his own father to
death through his own malice and self-interest, he recovers his father
in memory, entering the family church, recalling "Where I so oft had
kneel'd, / A docile infant by Sir Walter's side" (V.ii); and having de-
nied the promise of religious comfort, he meekly attends church to
find "the guilt of blood was passing from me, / Even in the act of
agony of tears, / And all my sins forgiven" (V.ii). John is a changed
person at the end of the drama, and yet the frames of reference are the
same, only defined in more palatable terms than in the long confes-


that support will enable him to advance socially and politically. His
only real interest, he confesses, is in power, and power in its most per-
sonal form; all of his actions and activities revolve around this single
concern. Disdainful of "Universal England," of Charles II, and of the
state-at least in their social definition-he sees only himself, and uses
his personal ambitions and desires as the single measure of the worth
of the world.
Ideologically, this passage displays the dislodgment of the individual
from all frames of social reference, replacing these with private inter-
est. This is the necessary first step of an emergent bourgeois sensibility
or identity. Father, king, lover, friends: all become insignificant in the
face of Woodvil's personal ambition, an ambition to avoid being just
another nameless "country gentleman," "A something to be govern'd."
The power he seeks is the power to establish an identity over-and
against-society. All other goals, in his view, are foolish, whether
they are in the cause of Charles, Cromwell, the fifth-monarchy-men,
or even God. The extremity of his commitment to himself is seen in
his willingness, ultimately, to reveal the hiding place of Sir Walter to
Lovel, effectively sentencing his own father to certain death, appar-
ently in a cynical effort to assure his own absolute personal control
over the Woodvil estate.
  After this violent and ugly dislodgment ofJohn Woodvil from every
conventional social tie, all that has been cut away gets recovered and
reestablished through subsequent scenes, but in bourgeois rather than
aristocratic terms. Having remarked, in his most cynical moment, that
his father remains in England out of "A child-like cleaving to the land
that gave him birth" (IILli), John Woodvil comes to love and respect
"my native village / In the sweet shire of Devon" (V.ii); having lost
Margaret during the days of his drunken self-indulgence, he welcomes
her return as though she were a virtual angel, "Whose suit hath drawn
this softness from my eyes" (V.ii); having doomed his own father to
death through his own malice and self-interest, he recovers his father
in memory, entering the family church, recalling "Where I so oft had
kneel'd, / A docile infant by Sir Walter's side" (V.ii); and having de-
nied the promise of religious comfort, he meekly attends church to
find "the guilt of blood was passing from me, / Even in the act of
agony of tears, / And all my sins forgiven" (V.ii). John is a changed
person at the end of the drama, and yet the frames of reference are the
same, only defined in more palatable terms than in the long confes-


that support will enable him to advance socially and politically. His
only real interest, he confesses, is in power, and power in its most per-
sonal form; all of his actions and activities revolve around this single
concern. Disdainful of "Universal England," of Charles II, and of the
state-at least in their social definition-he sees only himself, and uses
his personal ambitions and desires as the single measure of the worth
of the world.
Ideologically, this passage displays the dislodgment ofthe individual
from all frames of social reference, replacing these with private inter-
est. This is the necessary first step of an emergent bourgeois sensibility
or identity. Father, king, lover, friends: all become insignificant in the
face of Woodvil's personal ambition, an ambition to avoid being just
another nameless "country gentleman," "A something to be govern'd."
The power he seeks is the power to establish an identity over-and
against-society. All other goals, in his view, are foolish, whether
they are in the cause of Charles, Cromwell, the fifth-monarchy-men,
or even God. The extremity of his commitment to himself is seen in
his willingness, ultimately, to reveal the hiding place of Sir Walter to
Lovel, effectively sentencing his own father to certain death, appar-
ently in a cynical effort to assure his own absolute personal control
over the Woodvil estate.
  After this violent and ugly dislodgment ofJohn Woodvil from every
conventional social tie, all that has been cut away gets recovered and
reestablished through subsequent scenes, but in bourgeois rather than
aristocratic terms. Having remarked, in his most cynical moment, that
his father remains in England out of "A child-like cleaving to the land
that gave him birth" (IIIi), John Woodvil comes to love and respect
"my native village / In the sweet shire of Devon" (V.ii); having lost
Margaret during the days of his drunken self-indulgence, he welcomes
her return as though she were a virtual angel, "Whose suit hath drawn
this softness from my eyes" (V.ii); having doomed his own father to
death through his own malice and self-interest, he recovers his father
in memory, entering the family church, recalling "Where I so oft had
kneel'd, / A docile infant by Sir Walter's side" (V.ii); and having de-
nied the promise of religious comfort, he meekly attends church to
find "the guilt of blood was passing from me, / Even in the act of
agony of tears, / And all my sins forgiven" (V.ii). John is a changed
person at the end of the drama, and yet the frames of reference are the
same, only defined in more palatable terms than in the long confes-



70 / English Romantic Drama              70 / English Romantic Drama              70 / English Romantic Drama


sional speech, presented above: personal life-or individual desire-
still takes precedence over social life.
To put this issue in somewhat different and more abstract terms,
we might say that the drama traces the growth of a bourgeois struc-
ture of values and feelings through the portrayal of a single character.
The emergence of those values on the social scene is at first cynical
and violent, as they are values that attempt to carve a social space for
themselves by denying absolutely the claims that any segment of the
existing social structure may try to make on the individual. As the old
order dies-in this instance, in the form of Sir Walter-the new order,
no longer threatened, begins to manifest itself in more positive terms.
Indeed, this new order, in the form ofJohn Woodvil, attempts to re-
trieve the memory of the old order, in the form of tradition, as a neces-
sary ballast for the present. After Sir Walter's death, for instance, John
Woodvil is described looking nostalgically upon the historical paint-
ings in the Woodvil estate (at portraits "of our most ancient family"
[V.i]), using them as a prod to his memory of Sir Walter's stories about
the "worthy histories" (V.i) contained in the paintings. But, as John
Woodvil's musings here show, the reference point for history itself is
personal rather than public and, like the religion described in the final
act of the drama, is intended to reflect individual desire rather than
social good or social responsibility.
  One additional question bears consideration here: namely, if the
character of John Woodvil is to be associated with the emergence of
the bourgeoisie in British history, then why is he presented as a sup-
porter of Charles II and, more broadly, why is the dramatic action
set at the moment of the Restoration rather than, for example, during
the English Civil Wars? The answer to this question is contained, at
least partly, in John Woodvil's comment to Lovel, after Lovel has been
disarmed in a fight with Woodvil:

       Stay, sir.
       I hope you have made your will.
       If not, 'tis no great matter.
       A broken cavalier has seldom much
       He can bequeath: an old worn peruke,
       A snuff-box with a picture of Prince Rupert,
       A rusty sword he'll swear was used at Naseby,


sional speech, presented above: personal life-or individual desire-
still takes precedence over social life.
To put this issue in somewhat different and more abstract terms,
we might say that the drama traces the growth of a bourgeois struc-
ture of values and feelings through the portrayal of a single character.
The emergence of those values on the social scene is at first cynical
and violent, as they are values that attempt to carve a social space for
themselves by denying absolutely the claims that any segment of the
existing social structure may try to make on the individual. As the old
order dies-in this instance, in the form of Sir Walter-the new order,
no longer threatened, begins to manifest itself in more positive terms.
Indeed, this new order, in the form ofJohn Woodvil, attempts to re-
trieve the memory of the old order, in the form of tradition, as a neces-
sary ballast for the present. After Sir Walter's death, for instance, John
Woodvil is described looking nostalgically upon the historical paint-
ings in the Woodvil estate (at portraits "of our most ancient family"
[V.i]), using them as a prod to his memory of Sir Walter's stories about
the "worthy histories" (V.i) contained in the paintings. But, as John
Woodvil's musings here show, the reference point for history itself is
personal rather than public and, like the religion described in the final
act of the drama, is intended to reflect individual desire rather than
social good or social responsibility.
  One additional question bears consideration here: namely, if the
character ofJohn Woodvil is to be associated with the emergence of
the bourgeoisie in British history, then why is he presented as a sup-
porter of Charles II and, more broadly, why is the dramatic action
set at the moment of the Restoration rather than, for example, during
the English Civil Wars? The answer to this question is contained, at
least partly, in John Woodvil's comment to Lovel, after Lovel has been
disarmed in a fight with Woodvil:

       Stay, sir.
       I hope you have made your will.
       If not, 'tis no great matter.
       A broken cavalier has seldom much
       He can bequeath: an old worn peruke,
       A snuff-box with a picture of Prince Rupert,
       A rusty sword he'll swear was used at Naseby,


sional speech, presented above: personal life-or individual desire-
still takes precedence over social life.
To put this issue in somewhat different and more abstract terms,
we might say that the drama traces the growth of a bourgeois struc-
ture of values and feelings through the portrayal of a single character.
The emergence of those values on the social scene is at first cynical
and violent, as they are values that attempt to carve a social space for
themselves by denying absolutely the claims that any segment of the
existing social structure may try to make on the individual. As the old
order dies-in this instance, in the form of Sir Walter-the new order,
no longer threatened, begins to manifest itself in more positive terms.
Indeed, this new order, in the form ofJohn Woodvil, attempts to re-
trieve the memory of the old order, in the form of tradition, as a neces-
sary ballast for the present. After Sir Walter's death, for instance, John
Woodvil is described looking nostalgically upon the historical paint-
ings in the Woodvil estate (at portraits "of our most ancient family"
[V.i]), using them as a prod to his memory of Sir Walter's stories about
the "worthy histories" (V.i) contained in the paintings. But, as John
Woodvil's musings here show, the reference point for history itself is
personal rather than public and, like the religion described in the final
act of the drama, is intended to reflect individual desire rather than
social good or social responsibility.
  One additional question bears consideration here: namely, if the
character of John Woodvil is to be associated with the emergence of
the bourgeoisie in British history, then why is he presented as a sup-
porter of Charles I and, more broadly, why is the dramatic action
set at the moment of the Restoration rather than, for example, during
the English Civil Wars? The answer to this question is contained, at
least partly, in John Woodvil's comment to Lovel, after Lovel has been
disarmed in a fight with Woodvil:

       Stay, sir.
       I hope you have made your will.
       If not, 'tis no great matter.
       A broken cavalier has seldom much
       He can bequeath: an old worn peruke,
       A snuff-box with a picture of Prince Rupert,
       A rusty sword he'll swear was used at Naseby,



Chrlsam'JohnWoovi / 71                   C hare Lm'sJhSooviC 7ra                  Chsm' S Wodi 7


     Though it ne'er came within ten miles of the place,
     And, if he's very rich,
     A cheap edition of the Icon Basilike,
     Is mostly all the wealth he dies possest of (III.i)

Woodvil's comments here show that his values, as well as his actions,
are not at all those of the loyalist, but rather those of one violently op-
posed to monarchy. He knows the old order has little wealth, though
much in the way of fond memories of past greatness (Woodvil him-
self, on the other hand, has acquired money, as is evidenced in "the
Vandyke I have purchased" [Il.i]), and his every effort is to deny the
claim of that empty order on his life. In this view, the Restoration is no
restoration at all but rather a desperate last effort to assert the authority
of a hollow and dying order. John's presence in the midst of that order,
as a loyalist only insofar as loyalty provides him with control of the
Woodvil estate, demonstrates the aggressive and cynical denial of it.
Just as the references to Charles II do not accurately reflect the di-
rection of social value in the world of the drama, the depiction of
Sir Walter does not constitute a viable alternative to the world that
Charles would rule. While the lives of the loyalists in the drama are
characterized by debauchery and self-indulgence, Walter's character is
defined by a nostalgic regard for domestic stability, by commitment
to a public cause, and, most of all, by respect for land. These values
are not marked by movement toward a future world of private inter-
est but toward a past world of public responsibility and action, and
therefore they too are denied by John Woodvil. The actions against
the loyalist Lovel lead to the demise of the traditionalist Sir Walter,
leaving John Woodvil in a position to reconstruct his own character
along independent and, for him, positive lines.
  I want now to turn briefly to a consideration of Sir Walter, in an
attempt to establish his place and significance in the changing social
world that this chapter describes. Like his old steward, Sandford, Sir
Walter knows that the domestic world he once governed has been ir-
reparably damaged by a new order of "riotous men," who "have eat
into my old estates" (II ii). These men owe their positions to a "jeal-
ous court" (II.ii) that extorts loyalty by both threat and promise of
advancement. Sir Walter's personal integrity recoils from such cold
political maneuverings, which, he says, are entirely ignorant of "what


     Though it ne'er came within ten miles of the place,
     And, if he's very rich,
     A cheap edition of the Icon Basilike,
     Is mostly all the wealth he dies possest of. (IILi)

Woodvil's comments here show that his values, as well as his actions,
are not at all those of the loyalist, but rather those of one violently op-
posed to monarchy. He knows the old order has little wealth, though
much in the way of fond memories of past greatness (Woodvil him-
self, on the other hand, has acquired money, as is evidenced in "the
Vandyke I have purchased" [IIi]), and his every effort is to deny the
claim of that empty order on his life. In this view, the Restoration is no
restoration at all but rather a desperate last effort to assert the authority
of a hollow and dying order. John's presence in the midst of that order,
as a loyalist only insofar as loyalty provides him with control of the
Woodvil estate, demonstrates the aggressive and cynical denial of it.
Just as the references to Charles II do not accurately reflect the di-
rection of social value in the world of the drama, the depiction of
Sir Walter does not constitute a viable alternative to the world that
Charles would rule. While the lives of the loyalists in the drama are
characterized by debauchery and self-indulgence, Walter's character is
defined by a nostalgic regard for domestic stability, by commitment
to a public cause, and, most of all, by respect for land. These values
are not marked by movement toward a future world of private inter-
est but toward a past world of public responsibility and action, and
therefore they too are denied by John Woodvil. The actions against
the loyalist Lovel lead to the demise of the traditionalist Sir Walter,
leaving John Woodvil in a position to reconstruct his own character
along independent and, for him, positive lines.
  I want now to turn briefly to a consideration of Sir Walter, in an
attempt to establish his place and significance in the changing social
world that this chapter describes. Like his old steward, Sandford, Sir
Walter knows that the domestic world he once governed has been ir-
reparably damaged by a new order of "riotous men," who "have eat
into my old estates" (II.ii). These men owe their positions to a "jeal-
ous court" (II.ii) that extorts loyalty by both threat and promise of
advancement. Sir Walter's personal integrity recoils from such cold
political maneuverings, which, he says, are entirely ignorant of "what


     Though it ne'er came within ten miles of the place,
     And, if he's very rich,
     A cheap edition of the Icon Basilike,
     Is mostly all the wealth he dies possest of. (Ill.i)

Woodvil's comments here show that his values, as well as his actions,
are not at all those of the loyalist, but rather those of one violently op-
posed to monarchy. He knows the old order has little wealth, though
much in the way of fond memories of past greatness (Woodvil him-
self, on the other hand, has acquired money, as is evidenced in "the
Vandyke I have purchased" [Ili]), and his every effort is to deny the
claim of that empty order on his life. In this view, the Restoration is no
restoration at all but rather a desperate last effort to assert the authority
of a hollow and dying order. John's presence in the midst of that order,
as a loyalist only insofar as loyalty provides him with control of the
Woodvil estate, demonstrates the aggressive and cynical denial of it.
Just as the references to Charles II do not accurately reflect the di-
rection of social value in the world of the drama, the depiction of
Sir Walter does not constitute a viable alternative to the world that
Charles would rule. While the lives of the loyalists in the drama are
characterized by debauchery and self-indulgence, Walter's character is
defined by a nostalgic regard for domestic stability, by commitment
to a public cause, and, most of all, by respect for land. These values
are not marked by movement toward a future world of private inter-
est but toward a past world of public responsibility and action, and
therefore they too are denied by John Woodvil. The actions against
the loyalist Lovel lead to the demise of the traditionalist Sir Walter,
leaving John Woodvil in a position to reconstruct his own character
along independent and, for him, positive lines.
  I want now to turn briefly to a consideration of Sir Walter, in an
attempt to establish his place and significance in the changing social
world that this chapter describes. Like his old steward, Sandford, Sir
Walter knows that the domestic world he once governed has been ir-
reparably damaged by a new order of "riotous men," who "have eat
into my old estates" (II.ii). These men owe their positions to a "jeal-
ous court" (II.ii) that extorts loyalty by both threat and promise of
advancement. Sir Walter's personal integrity recoils from such cold
political maneuverings, which, he says, are entirely ignorant of "what



72 / English Romantic Drama              72 / English Romantic Drama              72 / English Romantic Drama


free grace or mercy mean" (II.ii), and for this reason he refuses "To
beg or bargain with the court for my life" (II.ii), preferring exile and
isolation to subservience and hypocrisy.
It is interesting that the place of Sir Walter's exile is a stereotypically
Romantic setting: the Sherwood Forest once inhabited by the noble
outlaw, Robert, Earl of Huntington (Robin Hood). In this setting Sir
Walter and his younger son, Simon, idealize the past, speak nostalgi-
cally of Robin Hood as an earlier outlaw aristocrat, and generally com-
mend the beautiful, natural landscape that they inhabit. If the servants
in the opening act welcomed the changes that Charles's restoration
promised, Sir Walter and Simon celebrate a primitive Rousseauistic
and Godwinian world oblivious to change:

      Sir Walter: How quietly we live here,
      Unread in the world's business,
      And take no note of all its slippery changes.
      'Twere best we make a world among ourselves,
      A little world,
      Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater;
      We too being all the inhabitants of ours,
      And kings and subjects both in one.
      Simon: Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits,
      Which make the business of that greater world,
      Must have no place in ours. (II.ii)

The small commune, individually governed and inspired by the natu-
ral beauties within which it is situated, marks a radical alternative to
what Margaret will later call "the politics of state revenge" (II.ii). It
offers a world ofintegrity, personal freedom, and (ostensibly) security;
it offers a world limited only by the individual imagination.
  Margaret's discovery of Sir Walter's hiding place reinforces the ide-
ology of Romantic escape just described. After speaking at some length
of Simon and Sir Walter's exile, which has cost them their personal
wealth, as well as the "manners, laws, ... [and] customs" (II.ii) of their
homeland, Margaret (who until now has been disguised as a boy) re-
veals her true identity and requests tojoin them amid the "Free liberty
of Sherwood" (II.ii). As a member of this primitive band of outlaws,
she not only happily abandons the customs of her world, which have
become abhorrent to her, but even her "Sweet mother-tongue, old
English speech"-"Margaret has got new name and language new"


free grace or mercy mean" (II.ii), and for this reason he refuses "To
beg or bargain with the court for my life" (Il ii), preferring exile and
isolation to subservience and hypocrisy.
It is interesting that the place of Sir Walter's exile is a stereotypically
Romantic setting: the Sherwood Forest once inhabited by the noble
outlaw, Robert, Earl of Huntington (Robin Hood). In this setting Sir
Walter and his younger son, Simon, idealize the past, speak nostalgi-
cally of Robin Hood as an earlier outlaw aristocrat, and generally com-
mend the beautiful, natural landscape that they inhabit. If the servants
in the opening act welcomed the changes that Charles's restoration
promised, Sir Walter and Simon celebrate a primitive Rousseauistic
and Godwinian world oblivious to change:
      Sir Walter: How quietly we live here,
      Unread in the world's business,
      And take no note of all its slippery changes.
      'Twere best we make a world among ourselves,
      A little world,
      Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater;
      We too being all the inhabitants of ours,
      And kings and subjects both in one.
      Simon: Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits,
      Which make the business of that greater world,
      Must have no place in ours. (II.ii)

The small commune, individually governed and inspired by the natu-
ral beauties within which it is situated, marks a radical alternative to
what Margaret will later call "the politics of state revenge" (Il.ii). It
offers a world ofintegrity, personal freedom, and (ostensibly) security;
it offers a world limited only by the individual imagination.
  Margaret's discovery of Sir Walter's hiding place reinforces the ide-
ology of Romantic escapejust described. After speaking at some length
of Simon and Sir Walter's exile, which has cost them their personal
wealth, as well as the "manners, laws, . . . [and] customs" (II.ii) of their
homeland, Margaret (who until now has been disguised as a boy) re-
veals her true identity and requests tojoin them amid the "Free liberty
of Sherwood" (II.ii). As a member of this primitive band of outlaws,
she not only happily abandons the customs of her world, which have
become abhorrent to her, but even her "Sweet mother-tongue, old
English speech"-"Margaret has got new name and language new"


free grace or mercy mean" (II.ii), and for this reason he refuses "To
beg or bargain with the court for my life" (II.ii), preferring exile and
isolation to subservience and hypocrisy.
It is interesting that the place of Sir Walter's exile is a stereotypically
Romantic setting: the Sherwood Forest once inhabited by the noble
outlaw, Robert, Earl of Huntington (Robin Hood). In this setting Sir
Walter and his younger son, Simon, idealize the past, speak nostalgi-
cally of Robin Hood as an earlier outlaw aristocrat, and generally com-
mend the beautiful, natural landscape that they inhabit. If the servants
in the opening act welcomed the changes that Charles's restoration
promised, Sir Walter and Simon celebrate a primitive Rousseauistic
and Godwinian world oblivious to change:
      Sir Walter: How quietly we live here,
      Unread in the world's business,
      And take no note of all its slippery changes.
      'Twere best we make a world among ourselves,
      A little world,
      Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater;
      We too being all the inhabitants of ours,
      And kings and subjects both in one.
      Simon: Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits,
      Which make the business of that greater world,
      Must have no place in ours. (II.ii)

The small commune, individually governed and inspired by the natu-
ral beauties within which it is situated, marks a radical alternative to
what Margaret will later call "the politics of state revenge" (II.ii). It
offers a world of integrity, personal freedom, and (ostensibly) security;
it offers a world limited only by the individual imagination.
  Margaret's discovery of Sir Walter's hiding place reinforces the ide-
ology of Romantic escapejust described. After speaking at some length
of Simon and Sir Walter's exile, which has cost them their personal
wealth, as well as the "manners, laws, . . . [and] customs" (II.ii) oftheir
homeland, Margaret (who until now has been disguised as a boy) re-
veals her true identity and requests tojoin them amid the "Free liberty
of Sherwood" (II.ii). As a member of this primitive band of outlaws,
she not only happily abandons the customs of her world, which have
become abhorrent to her, but even her "Sweet mother-tongue, old
English speech"-"Margaret has got new name and language new"



Charles Lamb's JohnWoodvil / 73          Charles Lamb's JohnWoodvil / 73          Charles Lamb's JohnWoodvil / 73


(II ii)-and, as Sir Walter puts it, prepares to spend her days in the
forest, "expecting better times" (II.ii).
The rejection of the world, where fortune is but "A light-hell'd
strumpet" (II.ii), where "young men's flatteries cozen young maids'
beauty" (II.ii), and where "sweet humility withers" (II.ii), is accom-
panied by the imaginative construction of a new set of values, which
revolve not around the court, ambition, and politics but rather around
nature. Love, for example, is not narrowly defined in terms of selfish
and aggressive pursuit of the opposite sex, but is seen as love of "all
things that live, / From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form"
(II.ii): the "sunbeam," the "feeble bird," the "fish," and the "tall and
elegant stag" (II.ii)-all ofnature is an object of human love. Similarly,
the sports and customs of a primitive society are radically different
from the narrow pursuits of court life. Time is happily passed seeing
"the sun to bed" and watching it rise; observing the moon rest on soft
clouds; idly watching the leaves dance in the wind, or the birds eat
corn in the fields, or the deer passing by; or noting the structure of
plants and trees (II.ii).
  Human conduct in Sir Walter's adopted world is modeled perfectly
on Wordsworth's philosophy of "wise passiveness"-that is, on the
patient willingness and ability to absorb nature into one's being-and
as such it tells us a great deal about human society. For the nature
that is idealized by the alienated and exiled individual is not a posi-
tive value; rather, it is a refuge from society, and as such receives its
particular definition in opposition to the world that is being denied.
As the world of Charles II becomes increasingly cold and impersonal,
the idyllic world of Sherwood Forest becomes ever more warm and
inviting; as love and daily activities come to be defined by deception in
Charles's world, they come to be seen as wholesome in Sir Walter's; as
life inside the court consumes the supporters of Charles, life in the out-
of-doors takes on absolute value for Sir Walter and his compatriots.
Nature, in other words, is, as Raymond Williams describes it (writ-
ing in a different context), "a place of healing, a solace, a retreat,""
and as such its value is contingent rather than essential, determined in
significant ways by the direction of change in Restoration England.
  Clearly, what I have been describing here is what Marxists from
Caudwell to Fekete have identified as the explicit bourgeois dimension
of Romanticism.0 Sir Walter's primitivism, his rejection of a sordid
social life, and his embracement of natural beauty constitute a struc-


(II.ii)-and, as Sir Walter puts it, prepares to spend her days in the
forest, "expecting better times" (II.ii).
The rejection of the world, where fortune is but "A light-hell'd
strumpet" (II.ii), where "young men's flatteries cozen young maids'
beauty" (II.ii), and where "sweet humility withers" (II.ii), is accom-
panied by the imaginative construction of a new set of values, which
revolve not around the court, ambition, and politics but rather around
nature. Love, for example, is not narrowly defined in terms of selfish
and aggressive pursuit of the opposite sex, but is seen as love of "all
things that live, / From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form"
(II.ii): the "sunbeam," the "feeble bird," the "fish," and the "tall and
elegant stag" (II.ii)-all ofnature is an object of human love. Similarly,
the sports and customs of a primitive society are radically different
from the narrow pursuits of court life. Time is happily passed seeing
"the sun to bed" and watching it rise; observing the moon rest on soft
clouds; idly watching the leaves dance in the wind, or the birds eat
corn in the fields, or the deer passing by; or noting the structure of
plants and trees (II.ii).
  Human conduct in Sir Walter's adopted world is modeled perfectly
on Wordsworth's philosophy of "wise passiveness"-that is, on the
patient willingness and ability to absorb nature into one's being-and
as such it tells us a great deal about human society. For the nature
that is idealized by the alienated and exiled individual is not a posi-
tive value; rather, it is a refuge from society, and as such receives its
particular definition in opposition to the world that is being denied.
As the world of Charles II becomes increasingly cold and impersonal,
the idyllic world of Sherwood Forest becomes ever more warm and
inviting; as love and daily activities come to be defined by deception in
Charles's world, they come to be seen as wholesome in Sir Walter's; as
life inside the court consumes the supporters of Charles, life in the out-
of-doors takes on absolute value for Sir Walter and his compatriots.
Nature, in other words, is, as Raymond Williams describes it (writ-
ing in a different context), "a place of healing, a solace, a retreat,""
and as such its value is contingent rather than essential, determined in
significant ways by the direction of change in Restoration England.
  Clearly, what I have been describing here is what Marxists from
Caudwell to Fekete have identified as the explicit bourgeois dimension
of Romanticism." Sir Walter's primitivism, his rejection of a sordid
social life, and his embracement of natural beauty constitute a struc-


(II.ii)-and, as Sir Walter puts it, prepares to spend her days in the
forest, "expecting better times" (II.ii).
The rejection of the world, where fortune is but "A light-hell'd
strumpet" (II.ii), where "young men's flatteries cozen young maids'
beauty" (II.ii), and where "sweet humility withers" (II.ii), is accom-
panied by the imaginative construction of a new set of values, which
revolve not around the court, ambition, and politics but rather around
nature. Love, for example, is not narrowly defined in terms of selfish
and aggressive pursuit of the opposite sex, but is seen as love of "all
things that live, / From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form"
(II.ii): the "sunbeam," the "feeble bird," the "fish," and the "tall and
elegant stag" (II.ii)-all ofnature is an object ofhuman love. Similarly,
the sports and customs of a primitive society are radically different
from the narrow pursuits of court life. Time is happily passed seeing
"the sun to bed" and watching it rise; observing the moon rest on soft
clouds; idly watching the leaves dance in the wind, or the birds eat
corn in the fields, or the deer passing by; or noting the structure of
plants and trees (II.ii).
  Human conduct in Sir Walter's adopted world is modeled perfectly
on Wordsworth's philosophy of "wise passiveness"-that is, on the
patient willingness and ability to absorb nature into one's being-and
as such it tells us a great deal about human society. For the nature
that is idealized by the alienated and exiled individual is not a posi-
tive value; rather, it is a refuge from society, and as such receives its
particular definition in opposition to the world that is being denied.
As the world of Charles II becomes increasingly cold and impersonal,
the idyllic world of Sherwood Forest becomes ever more warm and
inviting; as love and daily activities come to be defined by deception in
Charles's world, they come to be seen as wholesome in Sir Walter's; as
life inside the court consumes the supporters of Charles, life in the out-
of-doors takes on absolute value for Sir Walter and his compatriots.
Nature, in other words, is, as Raymond Williams describes it (writ-
ing in a different context), "a place of healing, a solace, a retreat,""
and as such its value is contingent rather than essential, determined in
significant ways by the direction of change in Restoration England.
  Clearly, what I have been describing here is what Marxists from
Caudwell to Fekete have identified as the explicit bourgeois dimension
of Romanticism." Sir Walter's primitivism, his rejection of a sordid
social life, and his embracement of natural beauty constitute a struc-



            74 / English Romantic Drama

ture of values that are essential to the bourgeois sensibility that comes
to be embodied inJohn Woodvil. From this perspective it might seem
contradictory that Sir Walter dies and that his compatriots abandon
Sherwood Forest, apparently having lost their bid to construct an alter-
native world. In fact, however, these plot-level actions are not signs of
the destruction of bourgeois life but rather are a necessary step toward
their incorporation into society. Sherwood Forest is an idealization, or
projection, of bourgeois life, not a manifestation of its social reality;
it is a device that lays bare certain underlying values that get fed into
the social world inhabited by John Woodvil. As such, its values are
not abandoned but simply brought, primarily in the character of Mar-
garet, into John's world, where he embraces them wholly, transform-
ing them into their social definitions: his love is directed to Margaret;
his spiritual needs are met by the institution of religion; and his family
is reconstructed in memory as he observes pictures of family history
and then occupies the family pew in church. Like Coleridge's Ancient
Mariner, John Woodvil comes to believe that the greatest social act is
"To go to church and pray with Christian people" (Vii), which washes
"the guilt of blood" (V.ii) from his soul and leaves him prepared for
life in "my native village / In the sweet shire of Devon" (V.ii).
I want now to touch glancingly, once more, upon the character of
Margaret, who plays an important role in the changing class and social
relations depicted in the drama, and whose portrayal helps to elucidate
the vital connections between class and gender in the transition from
an aristocratic to a bourgeois world. First, as noted above, that she is
an orphaned female places her in a position of absolute dependence on
men, who hold all real social power and wealth in the drama. But the
significance of her orphan status extends much farther than this. By
making Margaret an orphan, Lamb cuts her loose from a fixed social
location, enabling her to serve as a carrier of values from one world to
another: from the Woodvil estate to Sherwood Forest and back again.
In this way she serves a major unifying function in the drama, con-
necting the world ofJohn Woodvil to that of his father, hence enabling
Lamb to ground John Woodvil's character within a continuous tra-
dition of domestic and social life, without compromising the social
dimension of the bourgeois values that John Woodvil embodies.
  While serving as a central unifying device, the characterization of
Margaret at the same time allows us to see the continuation and modu-


            74 / English Romantic Drama

ture of values that are essential to the bourgeois sensibility that comes
to be embodied in John Woodvil. From this perspective it might seem
contradictory that Sir Walter dies and that his compatriots abandon
Sherwood Forest, apparently having lost their bid to construct an alter-
native world. In fact, however, these plot-level actions are not signs of
the destruction of bourgeois life but rather are a necessary step toward
their incorporation into society. Sherwood Forest is an idealization, or
projection, of bourgeois life, not a manifestation of its social reality;
it is a device that lays bare certain underlying values that get fed into
the social world inhabited by John Woodvil. As such, its values are
not abandoned but simply brought, primarily in the character of Mar-
garet, into John's world, where he embraces them wholly, transform-
ing them into their social definitions: his love is directed to Margaret;
his spiritual needs are met by the institution ofreligion; and his family
is reconstructed in memory as he observes pictures of family history
and then occupies the family pew in church. Like Coleridge's Ancient
Mariner, John Woodvil comes to believe that the greatest social act is
"To go to church and pray with Christian people" (V.ii), which washes
"the guilt of blood" (V.ii) from his soul and leaves him prepared for
life in "my native village / In the sweet shire of Devon" (V.ii).
I want now to touch glancingly, once more, upon the character of
Margaret, who plays an important role in the changing class and social
relations depicted in the drama, and whose portrayal helps to elucidate
the vital connections between class and gender in the transition from
an aristocratic to a bourgeois world. First, as noted above, that she is
an orphaned female places her in a position of absolute dependence on
men, who hold all real social power and wealth in the drama. But the
significance of her orphan status extends much farther than this. By
making Margaret an orphan, Lamb cuts her loose from a fixed social
location, enabling her to serve as a carrier of values from one world to
another: from the Woodvil estate to Sherwood Forest and back again.
In this way she serves a major unifying function in the drama, con-
necting the world ofJohn Woodvil to that of his father, hence enabling
Lamb to ground John Woodvil's character within a continuous tra-
dition of domestic and social life, without compromising the social
dimension of the bourgeois values that John Woodvil embodies.
While serving as a central unifying device, the characterization of
Margaret at the same time allows us to see the continuation and modu-


            74 / English Romantic Drama

ture of values that are essential to the bourgeois sensibility that comes
to be embodied in John Woodvil. From this perspective it might seem
contradictory that Sir Walter dies and that his compatriots abandon
Sherwood Forest, apparently having lost their bid to construct an alter-
native world. In fact, however, these plot-level actions are not signs of
the destruction of bourgeois life but rather are a necessary step toward
their incorporation into society. Sherwood Forest is an idealization, or
projection, of bourgeois life, not a manifestation of its social reality;
it is a device that lays bare certain underlying values that get fed into
the social world inhabited by John Woodvil. As such, its values are
not abandoned but simply brought, primarily in the character of Mar-
garet, into John's world, where he embraces them wholly, transform-
ing them into their social definitions: his love is directed to Margaret;
his spiritual needs are met by the institution of religion; and his family
is reconstructed in memory as he observes pictures of family history
and then occupies the family pew in church. Like Coleridge's Ancient
Mariner, John Woodvil comes to believe that the greatest social act is
"To go to church and pray with Christian people" (V.ii), which washes
"the guilt of blood" (V.ii) from his soul and leaves him prepared for
life in "my native village / In the sweet shire of Devon" (V.ii).
I want now to touch glancingly, once more, upon the character of
Margaret, who plays an important role in the changing class and social
relations depicted in the drama, and whose portrayal helps to elucidate
the vital connections between class and gender in the transition from
an aristocratic to a bourgeois world. First, as noted above, that she is
an orphaned female places her in a position of absolute dependence on
men, who hold all real social power and wealth in the drama. But the
significance of her orphan status extends much farther than this. By
making Margaret an orphan, Lamb cuts her loose from a fixed social
location, enabling her to serve as a carrier of values from one world to
another: from the Woodvil estate to Sherwood Forest and back again.
In this way she serves a major unifying function in the drama, con-
necting the world ofJohn Woodvil to that of his father, hence enabling
Lamb to ground John Woodvil's character within a continuous tra-
dition of domestic and social life, without compromising the social
dimension of the bourgeois values that John Woodvil embodies.
While serving as a central unifying device, the characterization of
Margaret at the same time allows us to see the continuation and modu-



Charles Lamb's John Woodvil / 75         Charles Lamb's John Woodvil / 75         Charles Lamb's John Woodvil / 75


lation of patriarchy from one social order to another. In her first ap-
pearance (in Act I) she is clearly a marginal figure, physically pursued
by the drunken companions ofJohn Woodvil and ignored by John, to
whom she is betrothed. As a woman, an orphan, and dependent, she is
at the mercy of an aristocratic patriarchy incapable of seeing her, except
perhaps as a nuisance or as an object of sexual desire. WithJohn's trans-
formation and her return to the Woodvil estate, her situation changes
radically, and yet patriarchal relations are not overthrown. Rather,
they are redefined in such a way that Margaret becomes now angelic-
as opposed to the whore role she was identified with earlier"-the
repository ofJohn Woodvil's highest spiritual imaginings. He lowers
himself-"These your submissions to my low estate" (V.i)-and exalts
her; and yet she still serves him, only now as a personal and idealized
love whose supporting presence affords him the opportunity to carve
out his personal identity. Her presence in the final scene of the play
gives substance to an essentially protestant formulation of personal life,
guilt, and redemption, and as such it focuses the continuing subservi-
ent role of women within bourgeois social relations: the world remains
a masculine construction and the role of women, though changed from
what it once was, remains defined by masculine need.
  Although it is weakened by poor dialogue, characterization, and
plot construction, John Woodvil is, with The Borderers, Osorio, and De-
Monfort, a historically revealing drama, for it provides a glimpse of
the complexity of social life during the 1790s and during the larger
period embracing the decline of aristocracy and the gradual, ineluct-
able emergence of the bourgeoisie. While at certain points the drama
appears destined to collapse under the weight of historical and ideo-
logical contradictions-and expository ineptitude-it finally negoti-
ates successfully the various threads of social interest that direct it. The
Restoration was not a period marking a return to feudalism and aristoc-
racy but rather, as the drama correctly shows, a period of realignment
for the bourgeoisie; further, the valorization of nature so common
in the Romantic period does not constitute an absolute alternative to
a sordid social world, but rather an imaginative means of express-
ing certain social values; finally, the class conflict tearing at England
and at the creative imagination from the seventeenth to the nineteenth
centuries involved important questions about gender relations. The
drama discloses the social significance ofall of these matters, and it dis-


lation of patriarchy from one social order to another. In her first ap-
pearance (in Act I) she is clearly a marginal figure, physically pursued
by the drunken companions ofJohn Woodvil and ignored by John, to
whom she is betrothed. As a woman, an orphan, and dependent, she is
at the mercy of an aristocratic patriarchy incapable of seeing her, except
perhaps as a nuisance or as an object of sexual desire. WithJohn's trans-
formation and her return to the Woodvil estate, her situation changes
radically, and yet patriarchal relations are not overthrown. Rather,
they are redefined in such a way that Margaret becomes now angelic-
as opposed to the whore role she was identified with earlier"-the
repository ofJohn Woodvil's highest spiritual imaginings. He lowers
himself-"These your submissions to my low estate" (V.i)-and exalts
her; and yet she still serves him, only now as a personal and idealized
love whose supporting presence affords him the opportunity to carve
out his personal identity. Her presence in the final scene of the play
gives substance to an essentially protestant formulation ofpersonal life,
guilt, and redemption, and as such it focuses the continuing subservi-
ent role ofwomen within bourgeois social relations: the world remains
a masculine construction and the role of women, though changed from
what it once was, remains defined by masculine need.
  Although it is weakened by poor dialogue, characterization, and
plot construction, John Woodvil is, with The Borderers, Osorio, and De-
Monfort, a historically revealing drama, for it provides a glimpse of
the complexity of social life during the 179os and during the larger
period embracing the decline of aristocracy and the gradual, ineluct-
able emergence of the bourgeoisie. While at certain points the drama
appears destined to collapse under the weight of historical and ideo-
logical contradictions-and expository ineptitude-it finally negoti-
ates successfully the various threads of social interest that direct it. The
Restoration was not a period marking a return to feudalism and aristoc-
racy but rather, as the drama correctly shows, a period of realignment
for the bourgeoisie; further, the valorization of nature so common
in the Romantic period does not constitute an absolute alternative to
a sordid social world, but rather an imaginative means of express-
ing certain social values; finally, the class conflict tearing at England
and at the creative imagination from the seventeenth to the nineteenth
centuries involved important questions about gender relations. The
drama discloses the social significance of all ofthese matters, and it dis-


lation of patriarchy from one social order to another. In her first ap-
pearance (in Act 1) she is clearly a marginal figure, physically pursued
by the drunken companions ofJohn Woodvil and ignored by John, to
whom she is betrothed. As a woman, an orphan, and dependent, she is
at the mercy of an aristocratic patriarchy incapable of seeing her, except
perhaps as a nuisance or as an object ofsexual desire. With John's trans-
formation and her return to the Woodvil estate, her situation changes
radically, and yet patriarchal relations are not overthrown. Rather,
they are redefined in such a way that Margaret becomes now angelic-
as opposed to the whore role she was identified with earlier"-the
repository ofJohn Woodvil's highest spiritual imaginings. He lowers
himself-"These your submissions to my low estate" (V.i)-and exalts
her; and yet she still serves him, only now as a personal and idealized
love whose supporting presence affords him the opportunity to carve
out his personal identity. Her presence in the final scene of the play
gives substance to an essentially protestant formulation of personal life,
guilt, and redemption, and as such it focuses the continuing subservi-
ent role of women within bourgeois social relations: the world remains
a masculine construction and the role of women, though changed from
what it once was, remains defined by masculine need.
  Although it is weakened by poor dialogue, characterization, and
plot construction, John Woodvil is, with The Borderers, Osorio, and De-
Monfort, a historically revealing drama, for it provides a glimpse of
the complexity of social life during the 179os and during the larger
period embracing the decline of aristocracy and the gradual, ineluct-
able emergence of the bourgeoisie. While at certain points the drama
appears destined to collapse under the weight of historical and ideo-
logical contradictions-and expository ineptitude-it finally negoti-
ates successfully the various threads of social interest that direct it. The
Restoration was not a period marking a return to feudalism and aristoc-
racy but rather, as the drama correctly shows, a period of realignment
for the bourgeoisie; further, the valorization of nature so common
in the Romantic period does not constitute an absolute alternative to
a sordid social world, but rather an imaginative means of express-
ing certain social values; finally, the class conflict tearing at England
and at the creative imagination from the seventeenth to the nineteenth
centuries involved important questions about gender relations. The
drama discloses the social significance of all of these matters, and it dis-























            76 / English Romantic Drama

plays as well their central shaping influence on the poetic imagination.
ThoughJohn Woodvil is less successful than we might wish as drama,
it is nonetheless more than silly sentimentalism. It is a document of
considerable social historical significance that must be accounted for
in any historical definition and description of Romanticism.


            76 / English Romantic Drama

plays as well their central shaping influence on the poetic imagination.
Though John Woodvil is less successful than we might wish as drama,
it is nonetheless more than silly sentimentalism. It is a document of
considerable social historical significance that must be accounted for
in any historical definition and description of Romanticism.


            76 / English Romantic Drama

plays as well their central shaping influence on the poetic imagination.
ThoughJohn Woodvil is less successful than we might wish as drama,
it is nonetheless more than silly sentimentalism. It is a document of
considerable social historical significance that must be accounted for
in any historical definition and description of Romanticism.




CHAPTER
  v;yu

  5


CHAPTER


CHAPTER


        "In These Degenerate Days"

          Henry Hart Milman's Fazio









In the prefaces to his lengthy histories of the Jews (1830) and Latin
Christianity (1854-55) that he wrote in his mature years, Henry Hart
Milman describes his desire to avoid all bias and to present, as accu-
rately and objectively as possible, the actual events of history.' He
believed this goal could be accomplished only if he refused to become
embroiled in questionable points of interpretation debated by other
historians and, instead, offered a single historical narrative of clearly
connected and readily verifiable facts. That he felt compelled to state
this common objective in the prefaces to works written twenty-five
years apart says something about Milman's admirable respect for his-
torical accuracy; but it also says something about his sensitivity to the
problems of historical writing in the nineteenth century. Despite his
expressed desire for objectivity, he seems to have understood what
other historians of the period had learned: that matters of historical
circumstance and situation were not settled, and that selections of de-
tails and descriptions of events constituted not only a record but also a
judgment.a For someone of Milman's temperament, recognition of an
elusive, complex, and apparently unstable past generated considerable
personal anxiety that seems to have been compensated for by explicit
statements ofallegiance to the objective and neutral recording of events
in his historical writings.
  In a much earlier and very different work, the verse drama Fazio


        "In These Degenerate Days"

          Henry Hart Milman's Fazio









In the prefaces to his lengthy histories of the Jews (1830) and Latin
Christianity (1854-55) that he wrote in his mature years, Henry Hart
Milman describes his desire to avoid all bias and to present, as accu-
rately and objectively as possible, the actual events of history.' He
believed this goal could be accomplished only ifhe refused to become
embroiled in questionable points of interpretation debated by other
historians and, instead, offered a single historical narrative of clearly
connected and readily verifiable facts. That he felt compelled to state
this common objective in the prefaces to works written twenty-five
years apart says something about Milman's admirable respect for his-
torical accuracy; but it also says something about his sensitivity to the
problems of historical writing in the nineteenth century. Despite his
expressed desire for objectivity, he seems to have understood what
other historians of the period had learned: that matters of historical
circumstance and situation were not settled, and that selections of de-
tails and descriptions of events constituted not only a record but also a
judgment.' For someone of Milman's temperament, recognition of an
elusive, complex, and apparently unstable past generated considerable
personal anxiety that seems to have been compensated for by explicit
statements of allegiance to the objective and neutral recording ofevents
in his historical writings.
  In a much earlier and very different work, the verse drama Fazio


        "In These Degenerate Days"

          Henry Hart Milman's Fazio









In the prefaces to his lengthy histories of the Jews (183o) and Latin
Christianity (1854-55) that he wrote in his mature years, Henry Hart
Milman describes his desire to avoid all bias and to present, as accu-
rately and objectively as possible, the actual events of history.' He
believed this goal could be accomplished only if he refused to become
embroiled in questionable points of interpretation debated by other
historians and, instead, offered a single historical narrative of clearly
connected and readily verifiable facts. That he felt compelled to state
this common objective in the prefaces to works written twenty-five
years apart says something about Milman's admirable respect for his-
torical accuracy; but it also says something about his sensitivity to the
problems of historical writing in the nineteenth century. Despite his
expressed desire for objectivity, he seems to have understood what
other historians of the period had learned: that matters of historical
circumstance and situation were not settled, and that selections of de-
tails and descriptions of events constituted not only a record but also a
judgment.' For someone of Milman's temperament, recognition of an
elusive, complex, and apparently unstable past generated considerable
personal anxiety that seems to have been compensated for by explicit
statements ofallegiance to the objective and neutral recording of events
in his historical writings.
  In a much earlier and very different work, the verse drama Fazio



78 / English Romantic Drama              78 / English Romantic Drama              78 / English Romantic Drama


(1815), Milman interestingly displays-perhaps more vividly than he
would have known-some of the kinds ofunstable historical and social
details that might cause the later historian moments of anxiety. Set in
Italy, presumably at the time of the Renaissance, the drama registers
certain broad and deep structural changes wrought by the emergence
of money as capital onto the stage of Western culture. While the focus
of the dramatic action is on purely personal and domestic affairs, those
affairs are shown to unfold within quite specific contexts of social life
that are, almost without exception, shaped by the pervasive influence
of new money and by the individual desire, approaching obsession,
to possess that money. Marriage, law, family life, the state, mother-
ing, class position, and religion: these social relations are at every turn
energized or besieged by the fact of invested money, and in them
can be seen the turbulence, anxiety, and desires that defined not only
the early emergence of capitalism during the Italian Renaissance but
also, and more pressingly, the bourgeois structures of social life that
were radically redefining English culture during the early nineteenth
century.
The single most important plot detail, which governs the political
significance of all other actions in the drama, concerns Fazio's obses-
sion with alchemy as a means of overcoming his poverty. That obses-
sion appears to be rewarded when Fazio's miserly neighbor, Bartolo,
is murdered by unknown assailants, who are then unable to discover
the whereabouts of the old miser's money. Fazio, who knows where
it is hidden, suddenly finds himself with access to considerable wealth,
which, after very little soul-searching, he steals. He then proclaims
to a believing public that he has successfully transformed iron into
gold, giving the impression that through his own initiative he has be-
come a wealthy man. By his own account, the stark and utter isolation
into which his alchemical researches have directed him is repaid with
material security, public status, and respect.
Fazio's dedication to alchemy, and the public's willingness to be-
lieve in the great rewards of that dedication, cut across the personal
and social landscape of the drama in interesting ways. Most obviously,
alchemy is an expression of Fazio's desire to relieve his straitened cir-
cumstances and to overcome his alienation, which is produced by his
poverty. But, while the expression of that desire by someone in Fazio's
situation is perfectly sensible, its formulation is contradictory, calcu-


(1815), Milman interestingly displays-perhaps more vividly than he
would have known-some of the kinds of unstable historical and social
details that might cause the later historian moments of anxiety. Set in
Italy, presumably at the time of the Renaissance, the drama registers
certain broad and deep structural changes wrought by the emergence
of money as capital onto the stage of Western culture. While the focus
of the dramatic action is on purely personal and domestic affairs, those
affairs are shown to unfold within quite specific contexts of social life
that are, almost without exception, shaped by the pervasive influence
of new money and by the individual desire, approaching obsession,
to possess that money. Marriage, law, family life, the state, mother-
ing, class position, and religion: these social relations are at every turn
energized or besieged by the fact of invested money, and in them
can be seen the turbulence, anxiety, and desires that defined not only
the early emergence of capitalism during the Italian Renaissance but
also, and more pressingly, the bourgeois structures of social life that
were radically redefining English culture during the early nineteenth
century.
The single most important plot detail, which governs the political
significance of all other actions in the drama, concerns Fazio's obses-
sion with alchemy as a means of overcoming his poverty. That obses-
sion appears to be rewarded when Fazio's miserly neighbor, Bartolo,
is murdered by unknown assailants, who are then unable to discover
the whereabouts of the old miser's money. Fazio, who knows where
it is hidden, suddenly finds himself with access to considerable wealth,
which, after very little soul-searching, he steals. He then proclaims
to a believing public that he has successfully transformed iron into
gold, giving the impression that through his own initiative he has be-
come a wealthy man. By his own account, the stark and utter isolation
into which his alchemical researches have directed him is repaid with
material security, public status, and respect.
Fazio's dedication to alchemy, and the public's willingness to be-
lieve in the great rewards of that dedication, cut across the personal
and social landscape of the drama in interesting ways. Most obviously,
alchemy is an expression of Fazio's desire to relieve his straitened cir-
cumstances and to overcome his alienation, which is produced by his
poverty. But, while the expression of that desire by someone in Fazio's
situation is perfectly sensible, its formulation is contradictory, calcu-


(1815), Milman interestingly displays-perhaps more vividly than he
would have known-some of the kinds ofunstable historical and social
details that might cause the later historian moments of anxiety. Set in
Italy, presumably at the time of the Renaissance, the drama registers
certain broad and deep structural changes wrought by the emergence
of money as capital onto the stage of Western culture. While the focus
of the dramatic action is on purely personal and domestic affairs, those
affairs are shown to unfold within quite specific contexts of social life
that are, almost without exception, shaped by the pervasive influence
of new money and by the individual desire, approaching obsession,
to possess that money. Marriage, law, family life, the state, mother-
ing, class position, and religion: these social relations are at every turn
energized or besieged by the fact of invested money, and in them
can be seen the turbulence, anxiety, and desires that defined not only
the early emergence of capitalism during the Italian Renaissance but
also, and more pressingly, the bourgeois structures of social life that
were radically redefining English culture during the early nineteenth
century.
  The single most important plot detail, which governs the political
significance of all other actions in the drama, concerns Fazio's obses-
sion with alchemy as a means of overcoming his poverty. That obses-
sion appears to be rewarded when Fazio's miserly neighbor, Bartolo,
is murdered by unknown assailants, who are then unable to discover
the whereabouts of the old miser's money. Fazio, who knows where
it is hidden, suddenly finds himself with access to considerable wealth,
which, after very little soul-searching, he steals. He then proclaims
to a believing public that he has successfully transformed iron into
gold, giving the impression that through his own initiative he has be-
come a wealthy man. By his own account, the stark and utter isolation
into which his alchemical researches have directed him is repaid with
material security, public status, and respect.
  Fazio's dedication to alchemy, and the public's willingness to be-
lieve in the great rewards of that dedication, cut across the personal
and social landscape of the drama in interesting ways. Most obviously,
alchemy is an expression of Fazio's desire to relieve his straitened cir-
cumstances and to overcome his alienation, which is produced by his
poverty. But, while the expression of that desire by someone in Fazio's
situation is perfectly sensible, its formulation is contradictory, calcu-



Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 79           Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 79           Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 79


lated finally to intensify rather than relieve alienation and hardship.
For alchemy is emphatically a nonsocial solution to a social difficulty;
that is, Fazio's poverty is both a product and a sign of the structures
of social life in his world, while alchemy is a narrowly scientific or
philosophical pursuit that would alter the natural order. While Fazio
believes that changes in the natural order will automatically bring posi-
tive changes in the social order, the reverse in fact is the case, as is
seen not only in the direction that the dramatic action takes-Fazio is
ultimately executed-but also in more local or specific episodes, such
as Fazio's refusal every evening to accompany his wife to bed, for fear
that time spent with her is time lost in his pursuit of pure happiness.
The desire for nonsocial solutions to hardships that are fundamentally
social leads Fazio ever farther into a dark world of alienation, isolation,
and ultimately death.
  But the tragedy that arises from Fazio's wrongheaded dedication to
alchemy is not merely the result of his personal shortcomings, nor is
it only the result of his belief that social reality is controlled on some
deep level by natural phenomena, which can be personally mastered.
For in an important respect the values associated with alchemy are
simply a sign of the larger structures of value governing the world
depicted in the drama. That the public, for instance, readily believes
Fazio's lie that he has found the magical key to wealth and that that key
lies on a path outside society, suggests that his personal desires are also
the desires of his world: everyone wants to believe that untold wealth
is within individual reach. The drama suggests that such an attitude is
a sign of social ill health, as is clearly seen in the actions of various
characters-from Aldabella to the sycophantic Philario, Falsetto, and
Dandello-all ofwhomjockey shamelessly to get closer to money that
has magically appeared and thereby (they believe) get closer to true
human happiness.
  To recognize the larger social significance of Fazio's personal de-
sires and tribulations is to understand that his tragedy is not reduced
to his fascination with alchemy, but rather involves the structures and
relations of social life within which that fascination emerges and takes
shape. Alchemy is but one particular sign of a more elusive, but no
less determining, set of social concerns, and in fact it helps to specify,
and finds a crucially important social corollary in, a different magical
key to wealth, namely usury or capitalism. To put the matter bluntly,


lated finally to intensify rather than relieve alienation and hardship.
For alchemy is emphatically a nonsocial solution to a social difficulty;
that is, Fazio's poverty is both a product and a sign of the structures
of social life in his world, while alchemy is a narrowly scientific or
philosophical pursuit that would alter the natural order. While Fazio
believes that changes in the natural order will automatically bring posi-
tive changes in the social order, the reverse in fact is the case, as is
seen not only in the direction that the dramatic action takes-Fazio is
ultimately executed-but also in more local or specific episodes, such
as Fazio's refusal every evening to accompany his wife to bed, for fear
that time spent with her is time lost in his pursuit of pure happiness.
The desire for nonsocial solutions to hardships that are fundamentally
social leads Fazio ever farther into a dark world of alienation, isolation,
and ultimately death.
  But the tragedy that arises from Fazio's wrongheaded dedication to
alchemy is not merely the result of his personal shortcomings, nor is
it only the result of his belief that social reality is controlled on some
deep level by natural phenomena, which can be personally mastered.
For in an important respect the values associated with alchemy are
simply a sign of the larger structures of value governing the world
depicted in the drama. That the public, for instance, readily believes
Fazio's lie that he has found the magical key to wealth and that that key
lies on a path outside society, suggests that his personal desires are also
the desires of his world: everyone wants to believe that untold wealth
is within individual reach. The drama suggests that such an attitude is
a sign of social ill health, as is clearly seen in the actions of various
characters-from Aldabella to the sycophantic Philario, Falsetto, and
Dandello-all of whom jockey shamelessly to get closer to money that
has magically appeared and thereby (they believe) get closer to true
human happiness.
  To recognize the larger social significance of Fazio's personal de-
sires and tribulations is to understand that his tragedy is not reduced
to his fascination with alchemy, but rather involves the structures and
relations of social life within which that fascination emerges and takes
shape. Alchemy is but one particular sign of a more elusive, but no
less determining, set of social concerns, and in fact it helps to specify,
and finds a crucially important social corollary in, a different magical
key to wealth, namely usury or capitalism. To put the matter bluntly,


lated finally to intensify rather than relieve alienation and hardship.
For alchemy is emphatically a nonsocial solution to a social difficulty;
that is, Fazio's poverty is both a product and a sign of the structures
of social life in his world, while alchemy is a narrowly scientific or
philosophical pursuit that would alter the natural order. While Fazio
believes that changes in the natural order will automatically bring posi-
tive changes in the social order, the reverse in fact is the case, as is
seen not only in the direction that the dramatic action takes-Fazio is
ultimately executed-but also in more local or specific episodes, such
as Fazio's refusal every evening to accompany his wife to bed, for fear
that time spent with her is time lost in his pursuit of pure happiness.
The desire for nonsocial solutions to hardships that are fundamentally
social leads Fazio ever farther into a dark world of alienation, isolation,
and ultimately death.
  But the tragedy that arises from Fazio's wrongheaded dedication to
alchemy is not merely the result of his personal shortcomings, nor is
it only the result of his belief that social reality is controlled on some
deep level by natural phenomena, which can be personally mastered.
For in an important respect the values associated with alchemy are
simply a sign of the larger structures of value governing the world
depicted in the drama. That the public, for instance, readily believes
Fazio's lie that he has found the magical key to wealth and that that key
lies on a path outside society, suggests that his personal desires are also
the desires of his world: everyone wants to believe that untold wealth
is within individual reach. The drama suggests that such an attitude is
a sign of social ill health, as is clearly seen in the actions of various
characters-from Aldabella to the sycophantic Philario, Falsetto, and
Dandello-all of whomjockey shamelessly to get closer to money that
has magically appeared and thereby (they believe) get closer to true
human happiness.
  To recognize the larger social significance of Fazio's personal de-
sires and tribulations is to understand that his tragedy is not reduced
to his fascination with alchemy, but rather involves the structures and
relations of social life within which that fascination emerges and takes
shape. Alchemy is but one particular sign of a more elusive, but no
less determining, set of social concerns, and in fact it helps to specify,
and finds a crucially important social corollary in, a different magical
key to wealth, namely usury or capitalism. To put the matter bluntly,



8o / English Romantic Drama              8o / English Romantic Drama              8o / English Romantic Drama


the money in Fazio's possession that appears to derive from alchemy
in fact derives from usury by means of theft. That is, it derives from
specific economic relations of social life.
Following the money trail backward to its source for the purpose
of explaining the social meaning of alchemy requires at the same time
that the explanation be explained. For just as the apparent magic of
alchemy is in fact dependent upon real social relations-usury-those
relations are subject to specific determinations that are not transparent.
We can begin to penetrate the mystery ofusury-and thereby the mys-
tery and tragedy of Fazio's character-by considering the important
role of Bartolo in the dramatic action. Bartolo, of course, is the real
immediate source of wealth behind Fazio and, as a source of wealth,
holds the key to the economic dynamic of social life in the world that
Fazio inhabits.
The most important and emphatically drawn feature of Bartolo's
character is that he is not only defined in the stereotypical terms
of squint-eyed, nasty miserliness-though certainly these details are
readily present in Bartolo-but he is also drawn in terms of the larger
economic relations of society. If the friendless and hermit-like Bartolo
"looks as he were stain'd / with watching his own gold" (I.i),' at the
same time that gold derives from Bartolo's very real interactions with
his world. As Fazio tells Bianca,
      There's not a galliot on the sea, but bears
      A venture of Bartolo's; not an acre,
      Nay, not a villa of our proudest princes,
      But he hath cramp'd it with a mortgage; he,
      He only stocks our prisons with his debtors. (Ii)

In his dying moments the fatally wounded Bartolo, who has stumbled
onto Fazio's premises, reveals even more explicitly one of the sources
of his money, lamenting that "My ducats and my ingots [are] scarcely
cold / From the hot Indies" (Ii). And much later, as state authori-
ties sort out the circumstances of Bartolo's disappearance, one of the
duke's council remarks that all that was found in Bartolo's apartments
were "piles indeed of parchments, / Mortgages, deeds, and lawsuits
heaped to the roof" (III.ii). The duke also notes that Bartolo's
      ... argosies encumber all our ports,
      His unsold bales rot in the crowded wharfs;


the money in Fazio's possession that appears to derive from alchemy
in fact derives from usury by means of theft. That is, it derives from
specific economic relations of social life.
Following the money trail backward to its source for the purpose
of explaining the social meaning of alchemy requires at the same time
that the explanation be explained. For just as the apparent magic of
alchemy is in fact dependent upon real social relations-usury-those
relations are subject to specific determinations that are not transparent.
We can begin to penetrate the mystery ofusury-and thereby the mys-
tery and tragedy of Fazio's character-by considering the important
role of Bartolo in the dramatic action. Bartolo, of course, is the real
immediate source of wealth behind Fazio and, as a source of wealth,
holds the key to the economic dynamic of social life in the world that
Fazio inhabits.
The most important and emphatically drawn feature of Bartolo's
character is that he is not only defined in the stereotypical terms
of squint-eyed, nasty miserliness-though certainly these details are
readily present in Bartolo-but he is also drawn in terms of the larger
economic relations of society. If the friendless and hermit-like Bartolo
"looks as he were stain'd / with watching his own gold" (I.i), at the
same time that gold derives from Bartolo's very real interactions with
his world. As Fazio tells Bianca,
      There's not a galliot on the sea, but bears
      A venture of Bartolo's; not an acre,
      Nay, not a villa of our proudest princes,
      But he hath cramp'd it with a mortgage; he,
      He only stocks our prisons with his debtors. (.i)

In his dying moments the fatally wounded Bartolo, who has stumbled
onto Fazio's premises, reveals even more explicitly one of the sources
of his money, lamenting that "My ducats and my ingots [are] scarcely
cold / From the hot Indies" (I.i). And much later, as state authori-
ties sort out the circumstances of Bartolo's disappearance, one of the
duke's council remarks that all that was found in Bartolo's apartments
were "piles indeed of parchments, / Mortgages, deeds, and lawsuits
heaped to the roof" (III.ii). The duke also notes that Bartolo's
      ... argosies encumber all our ports,
      His unsold bales rot in the crowded wharfs;


the money in Fazio's possession that appears to derive from alchemy
in fact derives from usury by means of theft. That is, it derives from
specific economic relations of social life.
Following the money trail backward to its source for the purpose
of explaining the social meaning of alchemy requires at the same time
that the explanation be explained. For just as the apparent magic of
alchemy is in fact dependent upon real social relations-usury-those
relations are subject to specific determinations that are not transparent.
We can begin to penetrate the mystery ofusury-and thereby the mys-
tery and tragedy of Fazio's character-by considering the important
role of Bartolo in the dramatic action. Bartolo, of course, is the real
immediate source of wealth behind Fazio and, as a source of wealth,
holds the key to the economic dynamic of social life in the world that
Fazio inhabits.
The most important and emphatically drawn feature of Bartolo's
character is that he is not only defined in the stereotypical terms
of squint-eyed, nasty miserliness-though certainly these details are
readily present in Bartolo-but he is also drawn in terms of the larger
economic relations of society. If the friendless and hermit-like Bartolo
"looks as he were stain'd / with watching his own gold" (I.i),3 at the
same time that gold derives from Bartolo's very real interactions with
his world. As Fazio tells Bianca,
      There's not a galliot on the sea, but bears
      A venture of Bartolo's; not an acre,
      Nay, not a villa of our proudest princes,
      But he hath cramp'd it with a mortgage; he,
      He only stocks our prisons with his debtors. (Ii)

In his dying moments the fatally wounded Bartolo, who has stumbled
onto Fazio's premises, reveals even more explicitly one of the sources
of his money, lamenting that "My ducats and my ingots [are] scarcely
cold / From the hot Indies" (Ii). And much later, as state authori-
ties sort out the circumstances of Bartolo's disappearance, one of the
duke's council remarks that all that was found in Bartolo's apartments
were "piles indeed of parchments, / Mortgages, deeds, and lawsuits
heaped to the roof" (III.ii). The duke also notes that Bartolo's
      ... argosies encumber all our ports,
      His unsold bales rot in the crowded wharfs;



Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 81           Henry Har Milman's Fazio / 81            Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 81


      The interest of a hundred usuries
      Lieth Unclaim'd. (III.ii)

 Not just any miser, Bartolo is a usurer, and specifically a capitalist
with national and international investments and returns. His wealth
and influence, indeed, are so great that they have direct claims upon
state authority and even upon the international economic scene. His is
the kind of money that is changing the world and that, however ugly
it may be in Bartolo's possession, defines personal power and personal
worth and makes social prestige possible in the world of Florence.
That he keeps entirely to himself, therefore, is not a sign of his denial
of society but rather of his extreme self-interest in his many financial
dealings with society. This self-interest, moreover, is not entirely a
matter of Bartolo's personality but also of social necessity. That is, his
particular character and conduct are constituent features of the push
for economic power defining his world, and they find corollaries in
other individuals seeking wealth and power. Bartolo's self-interest, in
other words, derives in large measure from an encompassing structure
of values that enliven and shape the whole social fabric.
  The socially pervasive nature of self-interest is seen everywhere,
both in Aldabella's obsessive drive to attach herself to big money and
prestigious social position and in the spineless, self-serving charac-
ters of Dandello, Philario, and Falsetto. But the smothering grip of
self-interest on individuals is seen most emphatically in Fazio's conver-
sation with himself about whether to take the dead Bartolo's money.
With the rare opportunity for untold wealth immediately before him,
Fazio remarks:

      'Tis a bad deed to rob-and whom? the dead!
      Ay, of their winding-sheets and coffin nails.
      'Tis but a quit-rent for the land I sold him,
      Almost two yards to house him and his worms:
      Somewhat usurious in the main, but that
      Is honest thrift to your keen usurer.
      Had he a kinsman, nay a friend, 'twere devilish.
      But now whom rob I? why the state-In sooth
      Marvellous little owe I this same state,
      That I should be so dainty of its welfare.
      Methinks our Duke hath pomp enough. (I.ii)


      The interest of a hundred usuries
      Lieth Unclaim'd. (Ill.ii)

 Not just any miser, Bartolo is a usurer, and specifically a capitalist
with national and international investments and returns. His wealth
and influence, indeed, are so great that they have direct claims upon
state authority and even upon the international economic scene. His is
the kind of money that is changing the world and that, however ugly
it may be in Bartolo's possession, defines personal power and personal
worth and makes social prestige possible in the world of Florence.
That he keeps entirely to himself, therefore, is not a sign of his denial
of society but rather of his extreme self-interest in his many financial
dealings with society. This self-interest, moreover, is not entirely a
matter of Bartolo's personality but also of social necessity. That is, his
particular character and conduct are constituent features of the push
for economic power defining his world, and they find corollaries in
other individuals seeking wealth and power. Bartolo's self-interest, in
other words, derives in large measure from an encompassing structure
of values that enliven and shape the whole social fabric.
  The socially pervasive nature of self-interest is seen everywhere,
both in Aldabella's obsessive drive to attach herself to big money and
prestigious social position and in the spineless, self-serving charac-
ters of Dandello, Philario, and Falsetto. But the smothering grip of
self-interest on individuals is seen most emphatically in Fazio's conver-
sation with himself about whether to take the dead Bartolo's money.
With the rare opportunity for untold wealth immediately before him,
Fazio remarks:

      'Tis a bad deed to rob-and whom? the dead!
      Ay, of their winding-sheets and coffin nails.
      'Tis but a quit-rent for the land I sold him,
      Almost two yards to house him and his worms:
      Somewhat usurious in the main, but that
      Is honest thrift to your keen usurer.
      Had he a kinsman, nay a friend, 'twere devilish.
      But now whom rob I? why the state-In sooth
      Marvellous little owe I this same state,
      That I should be so dainty of its welfare.
      Methinks our Duke hath pomp enough. (Iii)


      The interest of a hundred usuries
      Lieth Unclaim'd. (II.ii)

 Not just any miser, Bartolo is a usurer, and specifically a capitalist
with national and international investments and returns. His wealth
and influence, indeed, are so great that they have direct claims upon
state authority and even upon the international economic scene. His is
the kind of money that is changing the world and that, however ugly
it may be in Bartolo's possession, defines personal power and personal
worth and makes social prestige possible in the world of Florence.
That he keeps entirely to himself, therefore, is not a sign of his denial
of society but rather of his extreme self-interest in his many financial
dealings with society. This self-interest, moreover, is not entirely a
matter of Bartolo's personality but also of social necessity. That is, his
particular character and conduct are constituent features of the push
for economic power defining his world, and they find corollaries in
other individuals seeking wealth and power. Bartolo's self-interest, in
other words, derives in large measure from an encompassing structure
of values that enliven and shape the whole social fabric.
  The socially pervasive nature of self-interest is seen everywhere,
both in Aldabella's obsessive drive to attach herself to big money and
prestigious social position and in the spineless, self-serving charac-
ters of Dandello, Philario, and Falsetto. But the smothering grip of
self-interest on individuals is seen most emphatically in Fazio's conver-
sation with himself about whether to take the dead Bartolo's money.
With the rare opportunity for untold wealth immediately before him,
Fazio remarks:

      'Tis a bad deed to rob-and whom? the dead!
      Ay, of their winding-sheets and coffin nails.
      'Tis but a quit-rent for the land I sold him,
      Almost two yards to house him and his worms:
      Somewhat usurious in the main, but that
      Is honest thrift to your keen usurer.
      Had he a kinsman, nay a friend, 'twere devilish.
      But now whom rob I? why the state-In sooth
      Marvellous little owe I this same state,
      That I should be so dainty of its welfare.
      Methinks our Duke hath pomp enough. (I.ii)



82 / English Romantic Drama              82 / English Romantic Drama              82 / English Romantic Drama


This passage reveals the extent to which human values can become
transformed by economic drive. Fazio is a man of individual integrity
who cannot conceive of robbery as an acceptable means of relieving
his poverty. And yet the temptation of Bartolo's money is too great
to be avoided. He thus rationalizes taking the money by viewing it as
payment, with exorbitant interest, for burying his murdered neigh-
bor, reminding himself that in his world usury is not theft but rather
honest financial dealing. As for his obligation to turn the money over
to the state, Fazio surmises first that the state has no need for addi-
tional wealth and second, that, in the state's hands, the money would
be dispersed among many individuals and its brilliance thus destroyed.
The just response to found money, in his view, is thus to take it for
himself, and in so doing to liberate it so that it may achieve its full
greatness:

     With a deliverer's, not a tyrant's hand
     Invade I thus your dull and peaceful slumbers
     And give ye light and liberty. Ye shall not
     Moulder and rust in pale and pitiful darkness,
     But front the sun with light bright as his own. (I.ii)

 Before moving to other matters, I want to pause here briefly to make
several concluding assertions about the nature and role of alchemy,
usury, and money in the drama. First, as the above passage makes
clear, the reification of money explains an important dimension of its
authority in Fazio's world. In literally burying Bartolo and asserting
the magical creation of gold through the devices of alchemy, Fazio
gives to his money an apparently transhuman status; it is an object, a
thing, that is ostensibly free of human relations. This reification both
gives money added authority and greatness and hides the human ac-
tivity that determines its real significance. Second, and relatedly, just
as Fazio conceals the source of his money, so does Bartolo conceal
from public view the full scope of his public economic life. Appar-
ently a filthy, isolated, and mean-spirited miser, Bartolo in fact is a
shrewd businessman with large international investments and high-
stake deals with figures and organizations in government. The gaping
disparity between his personal appearance and his public investments
has the effect of obscuring the real relations that govern the world and
people's lives, so that his money, no less than Fazio's, seems to come


This passage reveals the extent to which human values can become
transformed by economic drive. Fazio is a man of individual integrity
who cannot conceive of robbery as an acceptable means of relieving
his poverty. And yet the temptation of Bartolo's money is too great
to be avoided. He thus rationalizes taking the money by viewing it as
payment, with exorbitant interest, for burying his murdered neigh-
bor, reminding himself that in his world usury is not theft but rather
honest financial dealing. As for his obligation to turn the money over
to the state, Fazio surmises first that the state has no need for addi-
tional wealth and second, that, in the state's hands, the money would
be dispersed among many individuals and its brilliance thus destroyed.
The just response to found money, in his view, is thus to take it for
himself, and in so doing to liberate it so that it may achieve its full
greatness:

     With a deliverer's, not a tyrant's hand
     Invade I thus your dull and peaceful slumbers
     And give ye light and liberty. Ye shall not
     Moulder and rust in pale and pitiful darkness,
     But front the sun with light bright as his own. (I.ii)

 Before moving to other matters, I want to pause here briely to make
several concluding assertions about the nature and role of alchemy,
usury, and money in the drama. First, as the above passage makes
clear, the reification of money explains an important dimension of its
authority in Fazio's world. In literally burying Bartolo and asserting
the magical creation of gold through the devices of alchemy, Fazio
gives to his money an apparently transhuman status; it is an object, a
thing, that is ostensibly free of human relations. This reification both
gives money added authority and greatness and hides the human ac-
tivity that determines its real significance. Second, and relatedly, just
as Fazio conceals the source of his money, so does Bartolo conceal
from public view the full scope of his public economic life. Appar-
ently a filthy, isolated, and mean-spirited miser, Bartolo in fact is a
shrewd businessman with large international investments and high-
stake deals with figures and organizations in government. The gaping
disparity between his personal appearance and his public investments
has the effect of obscuring the real relations that govern the world and
people's lives, so that his money, no less than Fazio's, seems to come


This passage reveals the extent to which human values can become
transformed by economic drive. Fazio is a man of individual integrity
who cannot conceive of robbery as an acceptable means of relieving
his poverty. And yet the temptation of Bartolo's money is too great
to be avoided. He thus rationalizes taking the money by viewing it as
payment, with exorbitant interest, for burying his murdered neigh-
bor, reminding himself that in his world usury is not theft but rather
honest financial dealing. As for his obligation to turn the money over
to the state, Fazio surmises first that the state has no need for addi-
tional wealth and second, that, in the state's hands, the money would
be dispersed among many individuals and its brilliance thus destroyed.
The just response to found money, in his view, is thus to take it for
himself, and in so doing to liberate it so that it may achieve its full
greatness:

     With a deliverer's, not a tyrant's hand
     Invade I thus your dull and peaceful slumbers
     And give ye light and liberty. Ye shall not
     Moulder and rust in pale and pitiful darkness,
     But front the sun with light bright as his own. (I.ii)

 Before moving to other matters, I want to pause here briefly to make
several concluding assertions about the nature and role of alchemy,
usury, and money in the drama. First, as the above passage makes
clear, the reification of money explains an important dimension of its
authority in Fazio's world. In literally burying Bartolo and asserting
the magical creation of gold through the devices of alchemy, Fazio
gives to his money an apparently transhuman status; it is an object, a
thing, that is ostensibly free of human relations. This reification both
gives money added authority and greatness and hides the human ac-
tivity that determines its real significance. Second, and relatedly, just
as Fazio conceals the source of his money, so does Bartolo conceal
from public view the full scope of his public economic life. Appar-
ently a filthy, isolated, and mean-spirited miser, Bartolo in fact is a
shrewd businessman with large international investments and high-
stake deals with figures and organizations in government. The gaping
disparity between his personal appearance and his public investments
has the effect of obscuring the real relations that govern the world and
people's lives, so that his money, no less than Fazio's, seems to come



           Henry Han Milman's Fazio / 83

from nowhere and to be unattached to the extremely public activities,
for example, of the state.
Viewing the plot-level details in this way helps to elucidate the
drama's emphasis on the distance between the apparent innocence of
money and the very real relations of social life that charge it with
significance. Money is a social hieroglyphic, containing within it the
secret of social life in Fazio's world Never innocent, it derives from
thievery of one sort or another, whether of the dead Bartolo or of
the people of the Indies. And yet it would escape these guilty associa-
tions by drawing together and eliding the contradictions of social life,
both by its alignment with public displays of greatness and by its less
glamorous behind-the-scenes financial machinations-represented by
the character of Bartolo-that control the quality and nature of every-
day human life. Not a power in itself, though Fazio mistakes it for
power, money is a sign within which are enfolded the complex rela-
tions of social power and personal life that touch upon every action in
the drama.
  The pervasive and controlling social authority of money, and the
anxieties that often are associated with that authority, are seen most
immediately in the relationship between Fazio and Bianca who are
described in the drama's opening lines as enjoying a blissful, entirely
harmonious marriage. As Fazio tells his wife of two years, his love
for her has never diminished, nor has he ever been tempted to stray
from the domestic arena; all stories claiming that a husband must ulti-
mately grow tired of marriage, he says, are utterly false: "My own
Bianca, / With what delicious scorn we laugh away / Such sorry satire!"
(Ii). Immediately, however, Bianca corrects his idealizing statements,
reminding him that he leaves their bed every evening to pore over
his alchemical texts and to experiment with "Drugs and elixirs" (Ii).
Alchemy, in Bianca's eyes, is Fazio's "mistress" (Ii), tempting him
away from her and thus threatening to destroy the real domestic rela-
tion that stands behind his idealized description of it. Far from being
the key to human happiness, alchemy is a "wondrous secret" (Ii) of a
world apart, a world unknown to Bianca except insofar as it tears at
her daily life with Fazio.
  The more explicitly social side of the money-generated troubles
in the Fazio-Bianca marriage is seen in Fazio's continuing infatuation
with Aldabella, the high-society woman who once spurned him be-


           Henry Han Milman's Fazio / 83

from nowhere and to be unattached to the extremely public activities,
for example, of the state.
Viewing the plot-level details in this way helps to elucidate the
drama's emphasis on the distance between the apparent innocence of
money and the very real relations of social life that charge it with
significance. Money is a social hieroglyphic, containing within it the
secret of social life in Fazio's world.' Never innocent, it derives from
thievery of one sort or another, whether of the dead Bartolo or of
the people of the Indies. And yet it would escape these guilty associa-
tions by drawing together and eliding the contradictions of social life,
both by its alignment with public displays of greatness and by its less
glamorous behind-the-scenes financial machinations-represented by
the character of Bartolo-that control the quality and nature of every-
day human life. Not a power in itself, though Fazio mistakes it for
power, money is a sign within which are enfolded the complex rela-
tions of social power and personal life that touch upon every action in
the drama.
  The pervasive and controlling social authority of money, and the
anxieties that often are associated with that authority, are seen most
immediately in the relationship between Fazio and Bianca who are
described in the drama's opening lines as enjoying a blissful, entirely
harmonious marriage. As Fazio tells his wife of two years, his love
for her has never diminished, nor has he ever been tempted to stray
from the domestic arena; all stories claiming that a husband must ulti-
mately grow tired of marriage, he says, are utterly false: "My own
Bianca, / With what delicious scorn we laugh away / Such sorry satire!"
(Ii). Immediately, however, Bianca corrects his idealizing statements,
reminding him that he leaves their bed every evening to pore over
his alchemical texts and to experiment with "Drugs and elixirs" (Li).
Alchemy, in Bianca's eyes, is Fazio's "mistress" (Ii), tempting him
away from her and thus threatening to destroy the real domestic rela-
tion that stands behind his idealized description of it. Far from being
the key to human happiness, alchemy is a "wondrous secret" (Ii) of a
world apart, a world unknown to Bianca except insofar as it tears at
her daily life with Fazio.
  The more explicitly social side of the money-generated troubles
in the Fazio-Bianca marriage is seen in Fazio's continuing infatuation
with Aldabella, the high-society woman who once spurned him be-


           Henry Han Milman's Fazio / 83

from nowhere and to be unattached to the extremely public activities,
for example, of the state.
Viewing the plot-level details in this way helps to elucidate the
drama's emphasis on the distance between the apparent innocence of
money and the very real relations of social life that charge it with
significance. Money is a social hieroglyphic, containing within it the
secret of social life in Fazio's world.t Never innocent, it derives from
thievery of one sort or another, whether of the dead Bartolo or of
the people of the Indies. And yet it would escape these guilty associa-
tions by drawing together and eliding the contradictions of social life,
both by its alignment with public displays of greatness and by its less
glamorous behind-the-scenes financial machinations-represented by
the character of Bartolo-that control the quality and nature of every-
day human life. Not a power in itself, though Fazio mistakes it for
power, money is a sign within which are enfolded the complex rela-
tions of social power and personal life that touch upon every action in
the drama.
  The pervasive and controlling social authority of money, and the
anxieties that often are associated with that authority, are seen most
immediately in the relationship between Fazio and Bianca who are
described in the drama's opening lines as enjoying a blissful, entirely
harmonious marriage. As Fazio tells his wife of two years, his love
for her has never diminished, nor has he ever been tempted to stray
from the domestic arena; all stories claiming that a husband must ulti-
mately grow tired of marriage, he says, are utterly false: "My own
Bianca, / With what delicious scorn we laugh away / Such sorry satire!"
(I.i). Immediately, however, Bianca corrects his idealizing statements,
reminding him that he leaves their bed every evening to pore over
his alchemical texts and to experiment with "Drugs and elixirs" (Ii).
Alchemy, in Bianca's eyes, is Fazio's "mistress" (Ii), tempting him
away from her and thus threatening to destroy the real domestic rela-
tion that stands behind his idealized description of it. Far from being
the key to human happiness, alchemy is a "wondrous secret" (Ii) of a
world apart, a world unknown to Bianca except insofar as it tears at
her daily life with Fazio.
  The more explicitly social side of the money-generated troubles
in the Fazio-Bianca marriage is seen in Fazio's continuing infatuation
with Aldabella, the high-society woman who once spurned him be-



84/Egis oati rm                          84l /I English Roani Drm4/EgihRmni                  rm


cause he lacked wealth. Aldabella, in fact, is the human representation
of the range of personal and sexual issues caught up with alchemy,
much as Bartolo is the human representation of the range of economic
issues associated with alchemy. This connection is suggested in the odd
exchange between Fazio and Bianca in which Fazio lauds his former
lover and chastises his wife for speaking ill of her. Like the gold that
he would produce from his secret investigations, for him, Aldabella is
absolutely pure: "If she be spotted, oh, unholiness / Hath never been
so delicately lodged / Since that bad devil walk'd fair Paradise" (Ii).
Like alchemy itself, in Fazio's mind Aldabella is a pure edenic world
of superior beauty and worth, and it is precisely this dream of a trans-
human redemptive power, Bianca fears, that constitutes the greatest
threat to her daily existence.
The plot-level jealousy that Bianca articulates and the seductive
power of Aldabella's beauty and social position are connected to a
much larger social issue, namely patriarchy.t While on the level of plot,
Bianca and Aldabella play very clear roles-Bianca is the poor but vir-
tuous wife, while Aldabella is the beautiful but evil, family threatening
temptress-within the larger structures of social life their significance
becomes more complex. Despite very real differences of social position
and personal character, they share a similar relation to the capitalist
power structure. Not only do both women lack real social authority;
in various ways they are objects of that authority as well as vehicles for
its extension and stability. As wife and mother, for instance, Bianca is a
public example of Fazio's personal accomplishment and responsibility
as a citizen; her virtues are in large measure idealizations presented by
Fazio himself. Similarly, as a mistress of the richest and most promi-
nent men in Florence and as a hostess of lavish feasts for various people
of social importance and political authority-she hosts an extravagant
party for the duke even as Fazio is being executed-Aldabella stands
as a public example of the prestige of money and government.
That these roles do not allow Aldabella and Bianca individual au-
thority is seen in the facts that both women are finally objects of
exchange within the prevailing relations of economic and ideological
life, and that, as objects of exchange, both are ultimately dispensable:
once he has gained wealth, Fazio would exchange Bianca for Aldabella,
hence winning (in his view) social status by publicly demonstrating
his newly won power; and in the final scenes of the drama, when
she is no longer useful to any men with public power, Aldabella is


cause he lacked wealth. Aldabella, in fact, is the human representation
of the range of personal and sexual issues caught up with alchemy,
much as Bartolo is the human representation of the range of economic
issues associated with alchemy. This connection is suggested in the odd
exchange between Fazio and Bianca in which Fazio lauds his former
lover and chastises his wife for speaking ill of her. Like the gold that
he would produce from his secret investigations, for him, Aldabella is
absolutely pure: "If she be spotted, oh, unholiness / Hath never been
so delicately lodged / Since that bad devil walk'd fair Paradise" (Ii).
Like alchemy itself, in Fazio's mind Aldabella is a pure edenic world
of superior beauty and worth, and it is precisely this dream of a trans-
human redemptive power, Bianca fears, that constitutes the greatest
threat to her daily existence.
The plot-level jealousy that Bianca articulates and the seductive
power of Aldabella's beauty and social position are connected to a
much larger social issue, namely patriarchy. While on the level of plot,
Bianca and Aldabella play very clear roles-Bianca is the poor but vir-
tuous wife, while Aldabella is the beautiful but evil, family threatening
temptress-within the larger structures of social life their significance
becomes more complex. Despite very real differences ofsocial position
and personal character, they share a similar relation to the capitalist
power structure. Not only do both women lack real social authority;
in various ways they are objects of that authority as well as vehicles for
its extension and stability. As wife and mother, for instance, Bianca is a
public example of Fazio's personal accomplishment and responsibility
as a citizen; her virtues are in large measure idealizations presented by
Fazio himself. Similarly, as a mistress of the richest and most promi-
nent men in Florence and as a hostess of lavish feasts for various people
of social importance and political authority-she hosts an extravagant
party for the duke even as Fazio is being executed-Aldabella stands
as a public example of the prestige of money and government.
That these roles do not allow Aldabella and Bianca individual au-
thority is seen in the facts that both women are finally objects of
exchange within the prevailing relations of economic and ideological
life, and that, as objects of exchange, both are ultimately dispensable:
once he has gained wealth, Fazio would exchange Bianca for Aldabella,
hence winning (in his view) social status by publicly demonstrating
his newly won power; and in the final scenes of the drama, when
she is no longer useful to any men with public power, Aldabella is


cause he lacked wealth. Aldabella, in fact, is the human representation
of the range of personal and sexual issues caught up with alchemy,
much as Bartolo is the human representation of the range of economic
issues associated with alchemy. This connection is suggested in the odd
exchange between Fazio and Bianca in which Fazio lauds his former
lover and chastises his wife for speaking ill of her. Like the gold that
he would produce from his secret investigations, for him, Aldabella is
absolutely pure: "If she be spotted, oh, unholiness / Hath never been
so delicately lodged / Since that bad devil walk'd fair Paradise" (Ii).
Like alchemy itself, in Fazio's mind Aldabella is a pure edenic world
of superior beauty and worth, and it is precisely this dream of a trans-
human redemptive power, Bianca fears, that constitutes the greatest
threat to her daily existence.
The plot-level jealousy that Bianca articulates and the seductive
power of Aldabella's beauty and social position are connected to a
much larger social issue, namely patriarchy. While on the level of plot,
Bianca and Aldabella play very clear roles-Bianca is the poor but vir-
tuous wife, while Aldabella is the beautiful but evil, family threatening
temptress-within the larger structures of social life their significance
becomes more complex. Despite very real differences of social position
and personal character, they share a similar relation to the capitalist
power structure. Not only do both women lack real social authority;
in various ways they are objects of that authority as well as vehicles for
its extension and stability. As wife and mother, for instance, Bianca is a
public example of Fazio's personal accomplishment and responsibility
as a citizen; her virtues are in large measure idealizations presented by
Fazio himself. Similarly, as a mistress of the richest and most promi-
nnet men in Florence and as a hostess of lavish feasts for various people
of social importance and political authority-she hosts an extravagant
party for the duke even as Fazio is being executed-Aldabella stands
as a public example of the prestige of money and government.
That these roles do not allow Aldabella and Bianca individual au-
thority is seen in the facts that both women are finally objects of
exchange within the prevailing relations of economic and ideological
life, and that, as objects of exchange, both are ultimately dispensable:
once he has gained wealth, Fazio would exchange Bianca for Aldabella,
hence winning (in his view) social status by publicly demonstrating
his newly won power; and in the final scenes of the drama, when
she is no longer useful to any men with public power, Aldabella is



Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 85           Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 85           Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 85


swiftly and mercilessly relegated from her high-profile position as state
beauty. Both women, as is borne out in these two plot-level matters,
are useful and socially acceptable only within the constraints of com-
modity exchange and patriarchal power politics. When Fazio advances
economically to the point where he is able to purchase a high-prestige
love relation, he does so, quickly and without guilt abandoning his
wife and children; when the state reaches the point where one of its
symbols of success and stability (that is, Aldabella) has become socially
compromised, it discards her without hesitation. The differences be-
tween Bianca and Aldabella, in terms of patriarchy at least, are only
apparent, as both have social credibility only in terms that are set down
for them by a masculine power structure, and both are individually
expendable within the workings of that power structure.
  I am not suggesting here, of course, that there are nopersonal differ-
ences between Aldabella and Bianca-Milman very clearly draws one
as villainous and the other as virtuous-but rather that personal differ-
ences do not determine the social significance of the characters. That
significance derives from capitalist patriarchal relations that not only
subordinate women to men (Bianca to Fazio; Aldabella to the duke)
but also transforms them into objects of consumption and objects of
exchange. The particular details of their subordinate roles cannot be
separated from capitalist exploitation generally (represented obliquely,
as I have shown, in Bartolo's usury). To cite only one additional ex-
ample of the way exploitation of women works in the drama: in the
Fazio-Aldabella relationship, Aldabella clearly appears to control her
situation; Fazio is driven by lust and seems to shape his every action
around his desire for Aldabella, who repeatedly toys with his affec-
tions. In fact, however, Aldabella's responses to Fazio are not a sign of
her authority but rather of her lack of authority. Once Fazio has money,
for instance, she sets about making herself desirable to him in an effort
to attach herself to his newly acquired wealth and power; she converts
herself into an object to be consumed, for only her consumability can
give her social identity.
  In this view, patriarchy cuts across class lines, as both the lower-
class Bianca and the upper-class Aldabella are subordinate to and op-
pressed by men. But, although it does not discriminate along class
lines, patriarchy is nevertheless socially situated in quite specific ways:
it does not escape the determining economic authority of capitalism.
Lower and upper classes alike, as seen in the characters of Bianca and


swiftly and mercilessly relegated from her high-profile position as state
beauty. Both women, as is borne out in these two plot-level matters,
are useful and socially acceptable only within the constraints of com-
modity exchange and patriarchal power politics. When Fazio advances
economically to the point where he is able to purchase a high-prestige
love relation, he does so, quickly and without guilt abandoning his
wife and children; when the state reaches the point where one of its
symbols of success and stability (that is, Aldabella) has become socially
compromised, it discards her without hesitation. The differences be-
tween Bianca and Aldabella, in terms of patriarchy at least, are only
apparent, as both have social credibility only in terms that are set down
for them by a masculine power structure, and both are individually
expendable within the workings of that power structure.
  I am not suggesting here, of course, that there are no personal differ-
ences between Aldabella and Bianca-Milman very clearly draws one
as villainous and the other as virtuous-but rather that personal differ-
ences do not determine the social significance of the characters. That
significance derives from capitalist patriarchal relations that not only
subordinate women to men (Bianca to Fazio; Aldabella to the duke)
but also transforms them into objects of consumption and objects of
exchange. The particular details of their subordinate roles cannot be
separated from capitalist exploitation generally (represented obliquely,
as I have shown, in Bartolo's usury). To cite only one additional ex-
ample of the way exploitation of women works in the drama: in the
Fazio-Aldabella relationship, Aldabella clearly appears to control her
situation; Fazio is driven by lust and seems to shape his every action
around his desire for Aldabella, who repeatedly toys with his affec-
tions. In fact, however, Aldabella's responses to Fazio are not a sign of
her authority but rather of her lack ofauthority. Once Fazio has money,
for instance, she sets about making herself desirable to him in an effort
to attach herself to his newly acquired wealth and power; she converts
herself into an object to be consumed, for only her consumability can
give her social identity.
  In this view, patriarchy cuts across class lines, as both the lower-
class Bianca and the upper-class Aldabella are subordinate to and op-
pressed by men. But, although it does not discriminate along class
lines, patriarchy is nevertheless socially situated in quite specific ways:
it does not escape the determining economic authority of capitalism.
Lower and upper classes alike, as seen in the characters of Bianca and


swiftly and mercilessly relegated from her high-profile position as state
beauty. Both women, as is borne out in these two plot-level matters,
are useful and socially acceptable only within the constraints of com-
modity exchange and patriarchal power politics. When Fazio advances
economically to the point where he is able to purchase a high-prestige
love relation, he does so, quickly and without guilt abandoning his
wife and children; when the state reaches the point where one of its
symbols of success and stability (that is, Aldabella) has become socially
compromised, it discards her without hesitation. The differences be-
tween Bianca and Aldabella, in terms of patriarchy at least, are only
apparent, as both have social credibility only in terms that are set down
for them by a masculine power structure, and both are individually
expendable within the workings of that power structure.
  I am not suggesting here, of course, that there are no personal differ-
ences between Aldabella and Bianca-Milman very clearly draws one
as villainous and the other as virtuous-but rather that personal differ-
ences do not determine the social significance of the characters. That
significance derives from capitalist patriarchal relations that not only
subordinate women to men (Bianca to Fazio; Aldabella to the duke)
but also transforms them into objects of consumption and objects of
exchange. The particular details of their subordinate roles cannot be
separated from capitalist exploitation generally (represented obliquely,
as I have shown, in Bartolo's usury). To cite only one additional ex-
ample of the way exploitation of women works in the drama: in the
Fazio-Aldabella relationship, Aldabella clearly appears to control her
situation; Fazio is driven by lust and seems to shape his every action
around his desire for Aldabella, who repeatedly toys with his affec-
tions. In fact, however, Aldabella's responses to Fazio are not a sign of
her authority but rather ofher lack ofauthority. Once Fazio has money,
for instance, she sets about making herself desirable to him in an effort
to attach herself to his newly acquired wealth and power; she converts
herself into an object to be consumed, for only her consumability can
give her social identity.
  In this view, patriarchy cuts across class lines, as both the lower-
class Bianca and the upper-class Aldabella are subordinate to and op-
pressed by men. But, although it does not discriminate along class
lines, patriarchy is nevertheless socially situated in quite specific ways:
it does not escape the determining economic authority of capitalism.
Lower and upper classes alike, as seen in the characters of Bianca and



            86 / English Romantic Drama

Aldabella, function within a common economic constraint, one which
also controls relations of gender. That is, within the capitalist world
depicted in the drama, relations of gender are formulated along patri-
archal lines that not only serve men but, more to the point, serve
the prevailing structures of social life, structures that reduce neither
to men nor to classes but rather answer the needs of capital. For this
reason, it matters socially that Bianca feels the need to preserve her
family and her relationship with Fazio, just as it matters socially that
Aldabella attaches herself to men of power and position and publicly
displays herself as an object of their desire: while meeting deeply per-
sonal needs, these desires at the same time serve the cause of social
stability by providing both a nucleus for its growth and a public image
of its pleasures and greatness.
That these different roles ultimately come into conflict, producing
violence and tragedy, is not only a sign of character difference but also
of deep-seated social contradictions. As suggested by the elaborate
parties attended by the duke, by the self-interested maneuverings of
Dandello, Falsetto, and Philario, by the shrewd financial dealings of
Bartolo, and by the obsession of Fazio with alchemy, the absolute key
to human meaning in the Florence of the play is money. But, as be-
comes emphatically clear, money follows its own path and will not be
harnessed by personal virtue or by public expressions of stability and
happiness. In fact, the domestic stability upon which Florence would
build its public life inevitably collides with the unquestioned equation
of financial value with human value. Bianca and Aldabella are enemies;
but more importantly they embrace mutually exclusive values within
a single structure of social life, and as their respective situations unfold
they bring into clear view the dilemma with which the entire culture
of Florence is faced.
  The general point I am making here may become clearer by refer-
ence to the one encounter between Bianca and Aldabella, after Fazio
has been sentenced by the duke to be executed. In a desperate effort to
save her husband, Bianca visits Aldabella in the mistaken belief that
Aldabella can (and would want to) intervene with the duke on Fazio's
behalf. In an act of complete self-abnegation that, she believes, might
save her husband's life and thus create the possibility of resolving the
contradictions that are on the brink of destroying her, she offers not
only to "give" Fazio to Aldabella but, in addition, to become Alda-
bella's "handmaid." Moreover, she remarks:


            86 / English Romantic Drama

Aldabella, function within a common economic constraint, one which
also controls relations of gender. That is, within the capitalist world
depicted in the drama, relations of gender are formulated along patri-
archal lines that not only serve men but, more to the point, serve
the prevailing structures of social life, structures that reduce neither
to men nor to classes but rather answer the needs of capital. For this
reason, it matters socially that Bianca feels the need to preserve her
family and her relationship with Fazio, just as it matters socially that
Aldabella attaches herself to men of power and position and publicly
displays herself as an object of their desire: while meeting deeply per-
sonal needs, these desires at the same time serve the cause of social
stability by providing both a nucleus for its growth and a public image
of its pleasures and greatness.
That these different roles ultimately come into conflict, producing
violence and tragedy, is not only a sign of character difference but also
of deep-seated social contradictions. As suggested by the elaborate
parties attended by the duke, by the self-interested maneuverings of
Dandello, Falsetto, and Philario, by the shrewd financial dealings of
Bartolo, and by the obsession of Fazio with alchemy, the absolute key
to human meaning in the Florence of the play is money. But, as be-
comes emphatically clear, money follows its own path and will not be
harnessed by personal virtue or by public expressions of stability and
happiness. In fact, the domestic stability upon which Florence would
build its public life inevitably collides with the unquestioned equation
of financial value with human value. Bianca and Aldabella are enemies;
but more importantly they embrace mutually exclusive values within
a single structure of social life, and as their respective situations unfold
they bring into clear view the dilemma with which the entire culture
of Florence is faced.
  The general point I am making here may become clearer by refer-
ence to the one encounter between Bianca and Aldabella, after Fazio
has been sentenced by the duke to be executed. In a desperate effort to
save her husband, Bianca visits Aldabella in the mistaken belief that
Aldabella can (and would want to) intervene with the duke on Fazio's
behalf. In an act of complete self-abnegation that, she believes, might
save her husband's life and thus create the possibility of resolving the
contradictions that are on the brink of destroying her, she offers not
only to "give" Fazio to Aldabella but, in addition, to become Alda-
bella's "handmaid." Moreover, she remarks:


            86 / English Romantic Drama

Aldabella, function within a common economic constraint, one which
also controls relations of gender. That is, within the capitalist world
depicted in the drama, relations of gender are formulated along patri-
archal lines that not only serve men but, more to the point, serve
the prevailing structures of social life, structures that reduce neither
to men nor to classes but rather answer the needs of capital. For this
reason, it matters socially that Bianca feels the need to preserve her
family and her relationship with Fazio, just as it matters socially that
Aldabella attaches herself to men of power and position and publicly
displays herself as an object of their desire: while meeting deeply per-
sonal needs, these desires at the same time serve the cause of social
stability by providing both a nucleus for its growth and a public image
of its pleasures and greatness.
That these different roles ultimately come into conflict, producing
violence and tragedy, is not only a sign of character difference but also
of deep-seated social contradictions. As suggested by the elaborate
parties attended by the duke, by the self-interested maneuverings of
Dandello, Falsetto, and Philario, by the shrewd financial dealings of
Bartolo, and by the obsession of Fazio with alchemy, the absolute key
to human meaning in the Florence of the play is money. But, as be-
comes emphatically clear, money follows its own path and will not be
harnessed by personal virtue or by public expressions of stability and
happiness. In fact, the domestic stability upon which Florence would
build its public life inevitably collides with the unquestioned equation
of financial value with human value. Bianca and Aldabella are enemies;
but more importantly they embrace mutually exclusive values within
a single structure of social life, and as their respective situations unfold
they bring into clear view the dilemma with which the entire culture
of Florence is faced.
The general point I am making here may become clearer by refer-
ence to the one encounter between Bianca and Aldabella, after Fazio
has been sentenced by the duke to be executed. In a desperate effort to
save her husband, Bianca visits Aldabella in the mistaken belief that
Aldabella can (and would want to) intervene with the duke on Fazio's
behalf. In an act of complete self-abnegation that, she believes, might
save her husband's life and thus create the possibility of resolving the
contradictions that are on the brink of destroying her, she offers not
only to "give" Fazio to Aldabella but, in addition, to become Alda-
bella's "handmaid." Moreover, she remarks:



Henry Han Milman's Fazio / 87            Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 87           Henry Han Milman's Fazio / 87


     . . . [I]f ye see a pale or envious motion
     Upon my cheek, a quivering on my lips,
     Like to complaint-then strike him dead before me.
     Thou shalt enjoy all-all that I enjoy'd:
     His love, his life, his sense, his soul be thine;
     And I will bless thee, in my misery bless thee. (IV.iii)

Completely deaf to these desperate pleadings, Aldabella sees only the
great social distance between herself and Bianca-as she asks chidingly
of Bianca, "Know'st thou to whom and where thou play'st the raver?"
(IV.iii)-and the more Bianca pleads from personal hardship the more
Aldabella insists that her world is untouched by the tribulations of
poor individuals: "I but debase myself to lend free hearing / To such
coarse fancies-I must hence: tonight / I feast the lords of Florence"
(IV.iii). It is precisely the world of the lords and the world of feasting
that lured Fazio into alchemy and then theft, and then Fazio's money
that lured Aldabella to him; yet she adamantly refuses the personal
baggage that these facts bring with them, just as Bianca, in the passage
quoted above, refuses to see that her personal integrity or life could
not be salvaged by her groveling subservience to Aldabella. In this
awkward, painful scene it becomes clear that both characters stand on
a common, determining social ground-one shaped by the authority
of money and social position-and yet that ground is so torn with
contradiction and has hammered individual life into such privatized
particles that neither character can do more than press on doggedly
toward further isolation, an isolation which means madness and death
in Bianca's case, and, in Aldabella's case, public ridicule and relegation
to a convent.
  One final gender-related issue can be briefly noted, and it involves
Bianca's descent into madness. During her conversation with Alda-
bella, Bianca becomes increasingly distraught and desperate, to the
point where Aldabella finally states that she should be taken "to th'
hospital for the lunatics" (IV.iii). Later, when Bianca interrupts the
feast to tell the duke of Aldabella's destructive affair with Fazio, Alda-
bella pleads with the duke not to listen "to the tale / Of a mad woman,
venting her sick fancies / Upon a lady of my state and honour!" (V.iii).
Whether Bianca is actually mad, of course, is a difficult matter to de-
termine-she insists that "I am not mad" (V.iii)-but certainly the
madness associated with her character is revealing for at least two


     . . . [I]f ye see a pale or envious motion
     Upon my cheek, a quivering on my lips,
     Like to complaint-then strike him dead before me.
     Thou shalt enjoy all-all that I enjoy'd:
     His love, his life, his sense, his soul be thine;
     And I will bless thee, in my misery bless thee. (IV.iii)

Completely deaf to these desperate pleadings, Aldabella sees only the
great social distance between herself and Bianca-as she asks chidingly
of Bianca, "Know'st thou to whom and where thou play'st the raver?"
(IV.iii)-and the more Bianca pleads from personal hardship the more
Aldabella insists that her world is untouched by the tribulations of
poor individuals: "I but debase myself to lend free hearing / To such
coarse fancies-I must hence: tonight / I feast the lords of Florence"
(IV.iii). It is precisely the world of the lords and the world of feasting
that lured Fazio into alchemy and then theft, and then Fazio's money
that lured Aldabella to him; yet she adamantly refuses the personal
baggage that these facts bring with them, just as Bianca, in the passage
quoted above, refuses to see that her personal integrity or life could
not be salvaged by her groveling subservience to Aldabella. In this
awkward, painful scene it becomes clear that both characters stand on
a common, determining social ground-one shaped by the authority
of money and social position-and yet that ground is so torn with
contradiction and has hammered individual life into such privatized
particles that neither character can do more than press on doggedly
toward further isolation, an isolation which means madness and death
in Bianca's case, and, in Aldabella's case, public ridicule and relegation
to a convent.
  One final gender-related issue can be briefly noted, and it involves
Bianca's descent into madness. During her conversation with Alda-
bella, Bianca becomes increasingly distraught and desperate, to the
point where Aldabella finally states that she should be taken "to th'
hospital for the lunatics" (IV.iii). Later, when Bianca interrupts the
feast to tell the duke of Aldabella's destructive affair with Fazio, Alda-
bella pleads with the duke not to listen "to the tale / Of a mad woman,
venting her sick fancies / Upon a lady of my state and honour!" (V.iii).
Whether Bianca is actually mad, of course, is a difficult matter to de-
termine-she insists that "I am not mad" (V.iii)-but certainly the
madness associated with her character is revealing for at least two


     ... [I]f ye see a pale or envious motion
     Upon my cheek, a quivering on my lips,
     Like to complaint-then strike him dead before me.
     Thou shalt enjoy all-all that I enjoy'd:
     His love, his life, his sense, his soul be thine;
     And I will bless thee, in my misery bless thee. (lV.iii)

Completely deaf to these desperate pleadings, Aldabella sees only the
great social distance between herself and Bianca-as she asks chidingly
of Bianca, "Know'st thou to whom and where thou play'st the raver?"
(IV.iii)-and the more Bianca pleads from personal hardship the more
Aldabella insists that her world is untouched by the tribulations of
poor individuals: "I but debase myself to lend free hearing / To such
coarse fancies-I must hence: tonight / I feast the lords of Florence"
(IV.iii). It is precisely the world of the lords and the world of feasting
that lured Fazio into alchemy and then theft, and then Fazio's money
that lured Aldabella to him; yet she adamantly refuses the personal
baggage that these facts bring with them, just as Bianca, in the passage
quoted above, refuses to see that her personal integrity or life could
not be salvaged by her groveling subservience to Aldabella. In this
awkward, painful scene it becomes clear that both characters stand on
a common, determining social ground-one shaped by the authority
of money and social position-and yet that ground is so torn with
contradiction and has hammered individual life into such privatized
particles that neither character can do more than press on doggedly
toward further isolation, an isolation which means madness and death
in Bianca's case, and, in Aldabella's case, public ridicule and relegation
to a convent.
  One final gender-related issue can be briefly noted, and it involves
Bianca's descent into madness. During her conversation with Alda-
bella, Bianca becomes increasingly distraught and desperate, to the
point where Aldabella finally states that she should be taken "to th'
hospital for the lunatics" (IV.iii). Later, when Bianca interrupts the
feast to tell the duke of Aldabella's destructive affair with Fazio, Alda-
bella pleads with the duke not to listen "to the tale / Of a mad woman,
venting her sick fancies / Upon a lady of my state and honour!" (V.iii).
Whether Bianca is actually mad, of course, is a difficult matter to de-
termine-she insists that "I am not mad" (V.iii)-but certainly the
madness associated with her character is revealing for at least two



88 / English Romantic Drama              88 / English Romantic Drama              88 / English Romantic Drama


very different reasons. On one level her ostensible madness is the one
moment in the play of absolute sanity; in her desperate situation she
describes clearly and in no uncertain terms the actual social relations
governing her world that have compromised her personal happiness
and domestic stability. As she says to the duke:
     I'll tell my tale
     Simply and clearly.-Fazio, my poor Fazio-
     He murder'd not-he found Bartolo dead.
     The wealth did shine in his eyes, and he was dazzled.
     And when that he was gaily gilded up,
     She, she, I say (nay, keep away from her,
     For she hath witchcraft all around her), she
     Did take him to her chamber-Fie, my liege!
     What should my husband in her chamber? (V.iii)

The thread of this sad story begins with the lure of money and trails
upward toward social prestige and purchased pleasure, the exchange
and consumption of objects gradually replacing human sharing and
responsibility. Aldabella's alleged witchcraft, like Fazio's alchemy, is
the magic lure (in Bianca's mind) that equates self-gratification, the
acquisition of money, and individual worth.
  On another level the madness associated with Bianca's individual
character is actually the madness of society that becomes crystallized
in her tragic situation; much like Ludolph in Keats's Otho the Great,
Bianca's inability to hold her life together is a reflection of the contra-
dictions within the state that have destabilized it to the point where
even the ruling elite become alarmed for its security. Once convinced
of the truth of Bianca's story, the duke turns angrily to Aldabella, see-
ing in her very character these debilitating contradictions. She is, he
says, "high-born baseness! beautiful deformity! / Dishonour'd hon-
our!" (Viii), and her character and actions feed "this world's misery,
this world's sin" (V.iii).
  Although the interesting exchanges between Aldabella and Bianca
help to illuminate the structures and relations of social life, they do
not change them, and in fact one significant effect of concentrating the
social analysis of the drama so heavily in the characters of women is
to leave the state and patriarchy just as they are. Both women, despite
their class differences, are expendable-Bianca dies and Aldabella is
relegated to a convent-and their removal from the growing social


very different reasons. On one level her ostensible madness is the one
moment in the play of absolute sanity; in her desperate situation she
describes clearly and in no uncertain terms the actual social relations
governing her world that have compromised her personal happiness
and domestic stability. As she says to the duke:
     I'll tell my tale
     Simply and clearly.-Fazio, my poor Fazio-
     He murder'd not-he found Bartolo dead.
     The wealth did shine in his eyes, and he was dazzled.
     And when that he was gaily gilded up,
     She, she, I say (nay, keep away from her,
     For she hath witchcraft all around her), she
     Did take him to her chamber-Fie, my liege!
     What should my husband in her chamber? (V.iii)

The thread of this sad story begins with the lure of money and trails
upward toward social prestige and purchased pleasure, the exchange
and consumption of objects gradually replacing human sharing and
responsibility. Aldabella's alleged witchcraft, like Fazio's alchemy, is
the magic lure (in Bianca's mind) that equates self-gratification, the
acquisition of money, and individual worth.
  On another level the madness associated with Bianca's individual
character is actually the madness of society that becomes crystallized
in her tragic situation; much like Ludolph in Keats's Otho the Great,
Bianca's inability to hold her life together is a reflection of the contra-
dictions within the state that have destabilized it to the point where
even the ruling elite become alarmed for its security. Once convinced
of the truth of Bianca's story, the duke turns angrily to Aldabella, see-
ing in her very character these debilitating contradictions. She is, he
says, "high-born baseness! beautiful deformity! / Dishonour'd hon-
our!" (Viii), and her character and actions feed "this world's misery,
this world's sin" (V.iii).
  Although the interesting exchanges between Aldabella and Bianca
help to illuminate the structures and relations of social life, they do
not change them, and in fact one significant effect of concentrating the
social analysis of the drama so heavily in the characters of women is
to leave the state and patriarchy just as they are. Both women, despite
their class differences, are expendable-Bianca dies and Aldabella is
relegated to a convent-and their removal from the growing social


very different reasons. On one level her ostensible madness is the one
moment in the play of absolute sanity; in her desperate situation she
describes clearly and in no uncertain terms the actual social relations
governing her world that have compromised her personal happiness
and domestic stability. As she says to the duke:

     I'll tell my tale
     Simply and clearly.-Fazio, my poor Fazio-
     He murder'd not-he found Bartolo dead.
     The wealth did shine in his eyes, and he was dazzled.
     And when that he was gaily gilded up,
     She, she, I say (nay, keep away from her,
     For she hath witchcraft all around her), she
     Did take him to her chamber-Fie, my liege!
     What should my husband in her chamber? (V.iii)

The thread of this sad story begins with the lure of money and trails
upward toward social prestige and purchased pleasure, the exchange
and consumption of objects gradually replacing human sharing and
responsibility. Aldabella's alleged witchcraft, like Fazio's alchemy, is
the magic lure (in Bianca's mind) that equates self-gratification, the
acquisition of money, and individual worth.
  On another level the madness associated with Bianca's individual
character is actually the madness of society that becomes crystallized
in her tragic situation; much like Ludolph in Keats's Otho the Great,
Bianca's inability to hold her life together is a reflection of the contra-
dictions within the state that have destabilized it to the point where
even the ruling elite become alarmed for its security. Once convinced
of the truth of Bianca's story, the duke turns angrily to Aldabella, see-
ing in her very character these debilitating contradictions. She is, he
says, "high-born baseness! beautiful deformity! / Dishonour'd hon-
our!" (V.iii), and her character and actions feed "this world's misery,
this world's sin" (V.iii).
  Although the interesting exchanges between Aldabella and Bianca
help to illuminate the structures and relations of social life, they do
not change them, and in fact one significant effect of concentrating the
social analysis of the drama so heavily in the characters of women is
to leave the state and patriarchy just as they are. Both women, despite
their class differences, are expendable-Bianca dies and Aldabella is
relegated to a convent-and their removal from the growing social



Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 89           Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 89           Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 89


tensions depicted in the world of the play helps to restabilize prevailing
social authority. At the end of the drama the duke emerges with abso-
lute command over his world, and this command is given credibility
both by his swift and strong punishment of Aldabella, a woman of
rank, and by his sympathetic attitude toward to the poor and victim-
ized, but dying, Bianca. Although nothing has changed with respect
to the economic relations that have produced the specific tragedy-in
fact, in punishing Fazio with death earlier in the drama the duke moves
mercilessly (and within the law) to protect those relations-the duke
gives the appearance of rectifying a specific human wrong and in so
doing he leaves the relations of gender, law, and capital unexamined
and unchanged. In fact, one of his final promises to Bianca, which
passes for compassion, actually assures that her children will always
be poor (V.iii).
  I want briefly to consider now a slightly different matter involving
Fazio's response to the crisis-ridden world of Florence. Fazio's driving
desire is to possess wealth and thereby to possess happiness and social
prestige. His motivating concern is to overcome or to allay the contra-
dictions of daily life that besiege him. From his alienated position,
however, the society that has assigned him a life of poverty cannot be
trusted, and thus the only way that he can fully realize his desires is to
anchor his identity within a completely private domain of individual
freedom even as he seeks social advancement. For this reason, even
the money necessary to social advancement should be independent of
social definition, and for this reason he studies alchemy. That such
money, in fact, is never to be found intensifies his desire for individual
autonomy, even as he uses Bartolo's money to purchase the recogni-
tion and respect of society. Like Byron's Manfred, Fazio never loses
sight of the challenges and threats posed by his world, and he seeks
to master them completely through philosophy or some other means
(Li). At the same time, however, he is deeply anxious about his pros-
pects for success, and therefore desires a pure, contextless, alternative
world of individual freedom alongside the world of social exchange,
challenge, and hardship.
  Put differently, Fazio's pursuit of "This wondrous secret" (as Bianca
describes his obsession with alchemy) must be seen on one level as
a means of giving him position in the world and at the same time
should be perceived as an activity that would deny the claims of the
world, even the claims of domestic life. Further, once he secures wealth


tensions depicted in the world of the play helps to restabilize prevailing
social authority. At the end of the drama the duke emerges with abso-
lute command over his world, and this command is given credibility
both by his swift and strong punishment of Aldabella, a woman of
rank, and by his sympathetic attitude toward to the poor and victim-
ized, but dying, Bianca. Although nothing has changed with respect
to the economic relations that have produced the specific tragedy-in
fact, in punishing Fazio with death earlier in the drama the duke moves
mercilessly (and within the law) to protect those relations-the duke
gives the appearance of rectifying a specific human wrong and in so
doing he leaves the relations of gender, law, and capital unexamined
and unchanged. In fact, one of his final promises to Bianca, which
passes for compassion, actually assures that her children will always
be poor (Viii).
  I want briefly to consider now a slightly different matter involving
Fazio's response to the crisis-ridden world of Florence. Fazio's driving
desire is to possess wealth and thereby to possess happiness and social
prestige. His motivating concern is to overcome or to allay the contra-
dictions of daily life that besiege him. From his alienated position,
however, the society that has assigned him a life of poverty cannot be
trusted, and thus the only way that he can fully realize his desires is to
anchor his identity within a completely private domain of individual
freedom even as he seeks social advancement. For this reason, even
the money necessary to social advancement should be independent of
social definition, and for this reason he studies alchemy. That such
money, in fact, is never to be found intensifies his desire for individual
autonomy, even as he uses Bartolo's money to purchase the recogni-
tion and respect of society. Like Byron's Manfred, Fazio never loses
sight of the challenges and threats posed by his world, and he seeks
to master them completely through philosophy or some other means
(Li). At the same time, however, he is deeply anxious about his pros-
pects for success, and therefore desires a pure, contextless, alternative
world of individual freedom alongside the world of social exchange,
challenge, and hardship.
  Put differently, Fazio's pursuit of "This wondrous secret" (as Bianca
describes his obsession with alchemy) must be seen on one level as
a means of giving him position in the world and at the same time
should be perceived as an activity that would deny the claims of the
world, even the claims of domestic life. Further, once he secures wealth


tensions depicted in the world of the play helps to restabilize prevailing
social authority. At the end of the drama the duke emerges with abso-
lute command over his world, and this command is given credibility
both by his swift and strong punishment of Aldabella, a woman of
rank, and by his sympathetic attitude toward to the poor and victim-
ized, but dying, Bianca. Although nothing has changed with respect
to the economic relations that have produced the specific tragedy-in
fact, in punishing Fazio with death earlier in the drama the duke moves
mercilessly (and within the law) to protect those relations-the duke
gives the appearance of rectifying a specific human wrong and in so
doing he leaves the relations of gender, law, and capital unexamined
and unchanged. In fact, one of his final promises to Bianca, which
passes for compassion, actually assures that her children will always
be poor (Viii).
  I want briefly to consider now a slightly different matter involving
Fazio's response to the crisis-ridden world of Florence. Fazio's driving
desire is to possess wealth and thereby to possess happiness and social
prestige. His motivating concern is to overcome or to allay the contra-
dictions of daily life that besiege him. From his alienated position,
however, the society that has assigned him a life of poverty cannot be
trusted, and thus the only way that he can fully realize his desires is to
anchor his identity within a completely private domain of individual
freedom even as he seeks social advancement. For this reason, even
the money necessary to social advancement should be independent of
social definition, and for this reason he studies alchemy. That such
money, in fact, is never to be found intensifies his desire for individual
autonomy, even as he uses Bartolo's money to purchase the recogni-
tion and respect of society. Like Byron's Manfred, Fazio never loses
sight of the challenges and threats posed by his world, and he seeks
to master them completely through philosophy or some other means
(I.i). At the same time, however, he is deeply anxious about his pros-
pects for success, and therefore desires a pure, contextless, alternative
world of individual freedom alongside the world of social exchange,
challenge, and hardship.
  Put differently, Fazio's pursuit of "This wondrous secret" (as Bianca
describes his obsession with alchemy) must be seen on one level as
a means of giving him position in the world and at the same time
should be perceived as an activity that would deny the claims of the
world, even the claims ofdomestic life. Further, once he secures wealth



o / English Romantic Drama               go / English Romantic Drama              9p / English Romantic Drama


for himself and redirects his affections from Bianca to Aldabella, he
laments the social codes that would prevent fulfillment of his personal
desire by remarking: "Why should that pale and clinging consequence /
Thrust itself ever 'twixt us and our joys?" (II.iv). He needs and desires
domestic responsibility, and yet is driven to distraction by a greater
need for secret knowledge beyond that responsibility; he dedicates
himself to the quest for social recognition and yet rejects the codes of
conduct and value that accompany that recognition. He is, in short, a
near perfect example of the Romantic divided subject: alienated from
the world, he seeks social integration; at the same time, his loneliness
and desperation are a product of that very world into which he seeks
integration, and for this reason he denies its claim on him even as he
voices his need for it.
  Such mutually exclusive desires are not far removed from the plot-
level conflict between Aldabella and Bianca-between the socially
prominent aristocrat and the sentimental, isolated, and poor indi-
vidual. And just as the Aldabella-Bianca relationship is defined fun-
damentally by a single, contradictory structure of social values, so are
Fazio's confusing, opposing articulations of his situation. The values
of Aldabella and the duke control society, among other ways, through
their presentation of the world as an arena of self-gratification; at the
same time, however, the real ugliness and degrading character of that
world (as seen, for instance, in the lechery of Aldabella, the conspicu-
ous consumption of the aristocrats attending the feast in Act V, and in
the toadyism of Philario, Falsetto, and Dandello) encourage individu-
als to hope for private, nonsocial spaces where human fulfillment is
possible. But no private world exists, either above or outside society, as
is emphatically and tragically seen in the execution of Fazio, the death
of Bianca, and even in the punishment of Aldabella, all of which leave
the duke and the state in complete control of all personal, economic,
and social relations.
A final set of general remarks about the state, and particularly
about the role of the duke, may help to draw the foregoing discus-
sion together. In virtually all of the characters depicted as inhabitants
of Florence, two mutually exclusive tendencies are seen: a desire for
wholeness or fullness of being, and the fact of social contradiction that
prevents that wholeness. Bianca desires domestic stability but experi-
ences personal tragedy; Aldabella desires social prestige but ultimately
finds public disgrace; Fazio desires individual autonomy but is sen-


for himself and redirects his affections from Bianca to Aldabella, he
laments the social codes that would prevent fulfillment of his personal
desire by remarking: "Why should that pale and clinging consequence /
Thrust itself ever 'twixt us and our joys?" (II.iv). He needs and desires
domestic responsibility, and yet is driven to distraction by a greater
need for secret knowledge beyond that responsibility; he dedicates
himself to the quest for social recognition and yet rejects the codes of
conduct and value that accompany that recognition. He is, in short, a
near perfect example of the Romantic divided subject: alienated from
the world, he seeks social integration; at the same time, his loneliness
and desperation are a product of that very world into which he seeks
integration, and for this reason he denies its claim on him even as he
voices his need for it.
  Such mutually exclusive desires are not far removed from the plot-
level conflict between Aldabella and Bianca-between the socially
prominent aristocrat and the sentimental, isolated, and poor indi-
vidual. And just as the Aldabella-Bianca relationship is defined fun-
damentally by a single, contradictory structure of social values, so are
Fazio's confusing, opposing articulations of his situation. The values
of Aldabella and the duke control society, among other ways, through
their presentation of the world as an arena of self-gratification; at the
same time, however, the real ugliness and degrading character of that
world (as seen, for instance, in the lechery of Aldabella, the conspicu-
ous consumption of the aristocrats attending the feast in Act V, and in
the toadyism of Philario, Falsetto, and Dandello) encourage individu-
als to hope for private, nonsocial spaces where human fulfillment is
possible. But no private world exists, either above or outside society, as
is emphatically and tragically seen in the execution of Fazio, the death
of Bianca, and even in the punishment of Aldabella, all of which leave
the duke and the state in complete control of all personal, economic,
and social relations.
A final set of general remarks about the state, and particularly
about the role of the duke, may help to draw the foregoing discus-
sion together. In virtually all of the characters depicted as inhabitants
of Florence, two mutually exclusive tendencies are seen: a desire for
wholeness or fullness of being, and the fact of social contradiction that
prevents that wholeness. Bianca desires domestic stability but experi-
ences personal tragedy; Aldabella desires social prestige but ultimately
finds public disgrace; Fazio desires individual autonomy but is sen-


for himself and redirects his affections from Bianca to Aldabella, he
laments the social codes that would prevent fulfillment of his personal
desire by remarking: "Why should that pale and clinging consequence /
Thrust itself ever 'twixt us and our joys?" (II.iv). He needs and desires
domestic responsibility, and yet is driven to distraction by a greater
need for secret knowledge beyond that responsibility; he dedicates
himself to the quest for social recognition and yet rejects the codes of
conduct and value that accompany that recognition. He is, in short, a
near perfect example of the Romantic divided subject: alienated from
the world, he seeks social integration; at the same time, his loneliness
and desperation are a product of that very world into which he seeks
integration, and for this reason he denies its claim on him even as he
voices his need for it.
  Such mutually exclusive desires are not far removed from the plot-
level conflict between Aldabella and Bianca-between the socially
prominent aristocrat and the sentimental, isolated, and poor indi-
vidual. And just as the Aldabella-Bianca relationship is defined fun-
damentally by a single, contradictory structure of social values, so are
Fazio's confusing, opposing articulations of his situation. The values
of Aldabella and the duke control society, among other ways, through
their presentation of the world as an arena of self-gratification; at the
same time, however, the real ugliness and degrading character of that
world (as seen, for instance, in the lechery of Aldabella, the conspicu-
ous consumption of the aristocrats attending the feast in Act V, and in
the toadyism of Philario, Falsetto, and Dandello) encourage individu-
als to hope for private, nonsocial spaces where human fulfillment is
possible. But no private world exists, either above or outside society, as
is emphatically and tragically seen in the execution of Fazio, the death
of Bianca, and even in the punishment of Aldabella, all of which leave
the duke and the state in complete control of all personal, economic,
and social relations.
A final set of general remarks about the state, and particularly
about the role of the duke, may help to draw the foregoing discus-
sion together. In virtually all of the characters depicted as inhabitants
of Florence, two mutually exclusive tendencies are seen: a desire for
wholeness or fullness of being, and the fact of social contradiction that
prevents that wholeness. Bianca desires domestic stability but experi-
ences personal tragedy; Aldabella desires social prestige but ultimately
finds public disgrace; Fazio desires individual autonomy but is sen-



Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 91           Henry Har Milman's Fazio / 9p            Henry Hart Milman's Fazio / 9p


tenced to public execution. These portrayals of character suggest the
irreconcilability of certain wide-ranging elements within Florentine
society. That these elements seem never to pose a serious threat to
Florence is attributable not only to the commonly shared structures of
value binding culture but also to the state apparatus-particularly its
legal mechanisms-that provides both ideological and practical con-
trol over daily life. The contradictions that manifest themselves in the
actions of the characters are drawn up and at least ostensibly settled at
the level of the state, even as the state adamantly protects the economic
and property relations that, as I have shown, are largely responsible
for those contradictions.
The workings of state authority are seen clearly in the duke's inves-
tigation of Bartolo's disappearance. His purpose in the investigation is
to discover what has happened to the old miser and, what proves to be
of more pressing concern, to account for the "Mortgages, deeds, and
lawsuits" (III.ii) that, he knows, Bartolo must control. Once he dis-
covers that Fazio has taken Bartolo's money, the duke then unleashes
"The bloodhounds of the law upon his track" (III.ii) and condemns
him to death for "thy evil-gotten wealth" (Ill.ii). And even when the
duke learns that Fazio is not responsible for Bartolo's murder, the
sentence is not lifted or even modified. As the duke tells Fazio:
       Robbery, by the laws of Florence,
       Is sternly coded as a deadly crime:
       Therefore, I say again, Giraldi Fazio,
       The Lord have mercy on thy sinful soul! (IIL.ii)

With the money accounted for and confiscated by the state (Ill.ii), the
murder is entirely forgotten, not to be mentioned again by the duke.
From the state's point of view, the financial and property rights of
Florence have been entirely vindicated, with the punishment of Fazio
offered as a public example of both state authority and integrity in
protecting individual rights.
  A second example of state authority occurs at the very end of the
drama, when the duke learns that Aldabella has lured Fazio to her bed
and thus condemns her, "by the warrant / Of this my ducal diadem,
to put on thee / The rigid convent vows" (V.iii). The duke's judgment
here is politically significant, for it is a protection of personal rights-
in this case the right of Bianca to sole enjoyment of her husband's per-
son. Further, it suggests that the poor, no less than the wealthy, possess


tenced to public execution. These portrayals of character suggest the
irreconcilability of certain wide-ranging elements within Florentine
society. That these elements seem never to pose a serious threat to
Florence is attributable not only to the commonly shared structures of
value binding culture but also to the state apparatus-particularly its
legal mechanisms-that provides both ideological and practical con-
trol over daily life. The contradictions that manifest themselves in the
actions of the characters are drawn up and at least ostensibly settled at
the level of the state, even as the state adamantly protects the economic
and property relations that, as I have shown, are largely responsible
for those contradictions.
The workings of state authority are seen clearly in the duke's inves-
tigation of Bartolo's disappearance. His purpose in the investigation is
to discover what has happened to the old miser and, what proves to be
of more pressing concern, to account for the "Mortgages, deeds, and
lawsuits" (IIl.ii) that, he knows, Bartolo must control. Once he dis-
covers that Fazio has taken Bartolo's money, the duke then unleashes
"The bloodhounds of the law upon his track" (II.ii) and condemns
him to death for "thy evil-gotten wealth" (III.ii). And even when the
duke learns that Fazio is not responsible for Bartolo's murder, the
sentence is not lifted or even modified. As the duke tells Fazio:
       Robbery, by the laws of Florence,
       Is sternly coded as a deadly crime:
       Therefore, I say again, Giraldi Fazio,
       The Lord have mercy on thy sinful soul! (III.ii)

With the money accounted for and confiscated by the state (III.ii), the
murder is entirely forgotten, not to be mentioned again by the duke.
From the state's point of view, the financial and property rights of
Florence have been entirely vindicated, with the punishment of Fazio
offered as a public example of both state authority and integrity in
protecting individual rights.
  A second example of state authority occurs at the very end of the
drama, when the duke learns that Aldabella has lured Fazio to her bed
and thus condemns her, "by the warrant / Of this my ducal diadem,
to put on thee / The rigid convent vows" (V.iii). The duke's judgment
here is politically significant, for it is a protection of personal rights-
in this case the right of Bianca to sole enjoyment of her husband's per-
son. Further, it suggests that the poor, no less than the wealthy, possess


tenced to public execution. These portrayals of character suggest the
irreconcilability of certain wide-ranging elements within Florentine
society. That these elements seem never to pose a serious threat to
Florence is attributable not only to the commonly shared structures of
value binding culture but also to the state apparatus-particularly its
legal mechanisms-that provides both ideological and practical con-
trol over daily life. The contradictions that manifest themselves in the
actions of the characters are drawn up and at least ostensibly settled at
the level of the state, even as the state adamantly protects the economic
and property relations that, as I have shown, are largely responsible
for those contradictions.
The workings of state authority are seen clearly in the duke's inves-
tigation of Bartolo's disappearance. His purpose in the investigation is
to discover what has happened to the old miser and, what proves to be
of more pressing concern, to account for the "Mortgages, deeds, and
lawsuits" (III.ii) that, he knows, Bartolo must control. Once he dis-
covers that Fazio has taken Bartolo's money, the duke then unleashes
"The bloodhounds of the law upon his track" (III.ii) and condemns
him to death for "thy evil-gotten wealth" (III.ii). And even when the
duke learns that Fazio is not responsible for Bartolo's murder, the
sentence is not lifted or even modified. As the duke tells Fazio:
       Robbery, by the laws of Florence,
       Is sternly coded as a deadly crime:
       Therefore, I say again, Giraldi Fazio,
       The Lord have mercy on thy sinful soul! (III.ii)

With the money accounted for and confiscated by the state (III.ii), the
murder is entirely forgotten, not to be mentioned again by the duke.
From the state's point of view, the financial and property rights of
Florence have been entirely vindicated, with the punishment of Fazio
offered as a public example of both state authority and integrity in
protecting individual rights.
  A second example of state authority occurs at the very end of the
drama, when the duke learns that Aldabella has lured Fazio to her bed
and thus condemns her, "by the warrant / Of this my ducal diadem,
to put on thee / The rigid convent vows" (V.iii). The duke's judgment
here is politically significant, for it is a protection of personal rights-
in this case the right of Bianca to sole enjoyment of her husband's per-
son. Further, it suggests that the poor, no less than the wealthy, possess



92 / English Romantic Drama              92 / English Romantic Drama              92 / English Romantic Drama


absolute rights that warrant protection by the state, even against as-
saults by those of the privileged classes. Finally, the duke's harsh judg-
ment of Aldabella complements his earlier judgment against Fazio;
that is, the earlier judgment was made in defense of economic and
property rights, while this judgment is made in defense of personal,
individual rights. Together, these judgments, while in fact protecting
the specific structures of social life under its control-structures that,
as the dramatic action vividly illustrates, are torn with contradiction
and viciously destroy individual potential and social harmony-ap-
pear to represent the best interests of individual and society alike. All
contradictions are apparently resolved and human tragedy reconciled
by the strong hand of the state. That the real concerns of the state are
with the protection of property and money, and with keeping the dis-
enfranchised segment of the population in its place, is entirely elided
by its forceful rhetoric ofjustice and display of absolute authority.'
  Fazio interestingly presents an array of issues and concerns that elu-
cidate the structures of social life in the modern world. First, it em-
phasizes that wealth is never socially pure but arises from a complex
and often unjust arrangement of social relations; relatedly, it shows
that wealth necessarily is connected to a specific economic system, in
this case capitalism, whose internal operations are often hidden from
society. Further, it portrays the alienation and contradictions in social
and personal life that are associated, often in vitally significant ways,
with the driving economic interests of capitalism. Finally, it suggests,
at least in passing, some of the roles of the state in mediating the often
conflicting interests, needs, and desires of the individual on the one
hand, and of economic and social privilege on the other. In short, the
world of Fazio's Florence desires stability and certainty but is in fact
defined in fundamental ways by conflict and hardship.
  If in his later historical writings Milman felt compelled to announce
his respect for objectivity in his narratives of the past, at least one of
his earlier works of the imagination shows how scarce real objectivity
can be, as both the past and the writing about the past are ineluctably
bound to operations of power that always, and disturbingly, seek to
advance specific interests. In Fazio the very subject matter defies ob-
jectivity, for inherent in it are the strange contradictions of an entire
world. These contradictions generate extreme anxiety among the char-
acters of the drama-most notably Bianca and Fazio-and also pro-
mote an even deeper anxiety associated with the writing of the story,


absolute rights that warrant protection by the state, even against as-
saults by those of the privileged classes. Finally, the duke's harsh judg-
ment of Aldabella complements his earlier judgment against Fazio;
that is, the earlier judgment was made in defense of economic and
property rights, while this judgment is made in defense of personal,
individual rights. Together, these judgments, while in fact protecting
the specific structures of social life under its control-structures that,
as the dramatic action vividly illustrates, are torn with contradiction
and viciously destroy individual potential and social harmony-ap-
pear to represent the best interests of individual and society alike. All
contradictions are apparently resolved and human tragedy reconciled
by the strong hand of the state. That the real concerns of the state are
with the protection of property and money, and with keeping the dis-
enfranchised segment of the population in its place, is entirely elided
by its forceful rhetoric of justice and display of absolute authority.'
  Fazio interestingly presents an array of issues and concerns that elu-
cidate the structures of social life in the modern world. First, it em-
phasizes that wealth is never socially pure but arises from a complex
and often unjust arrangement of social relations; relatedly, it shows
that wealth necessarily is connected to a specific economic system, in
this case capitalism, whose internal operations are often hidden from
society. Further, it portrays the alienation and contradictions in social
and personal life that are associated, often in vitally significant ways,
with the driving economic interests of capitalism. Finally, it suggests,
at least in passing, some of the roles of the state in mediating the often
conflicting interests, needs, and desires of the individual on the one
hand, and of economic and social privilege on the other. In short, the
world of Fazio's Florence desires stability and certainty but is in fact
defined in fundamental ways by conflict and hardship.
  If in his later historical writings Milman felt compelled to announce
his respect for objectivity in his narratives of the past, at least one of
his earlier works of the imagination shows how scarce real objectivity
can be, as both the past and the writing about the past are ineluctably
bound to operations of power that always, and disturbingly, seek to
advance specific interests. In Fazio the very subject matter defies ob-
jectivity, for inherent in it are the strange contradictions of an entire
world. These contradictions generate extreme anxiety among the char-
acters of the drama-most notably Bianca and Fazio-and also pro-
mote an even deeper anxiety associated with the writing of the story.


absolute rights that warrant protection by the state, even against as-
saults by those of the privileged classes. Finally, the duke's harsh judg-
ment of Aldabella complements his earlier judgment against Fazio;
that is, the earlier judgment was made in defense of economic and
property rights, while this judgment is made in defense of personal,
individual rights. Together, these judgments, while in fact protecting
the specific structures of social life under its control-structures that,
as the dramatic action vividly illustrates, are torn with contradiction
and viciously destroy individual potential and social harmony-ap-
pear to represent the best interests of individual and society alike. All
contradictions are apparently resolved and human tragedy reconciled
by the strong hand of the state. That the real concerns of the state are
with the protection of property and money, and with keeping the dis-
enfranchised segment of the population in its place, is entirely elided
by its forceful rhetoric of justice and display of absolute authority.'
  Fazio interestingly presents an array of issues and concerns that elu-
cidate the structures of social life in the modern world. First, it em-
phasizes that wealth is never socially pure but arises from a complex
and often unjust arrangement of social relations; relatedly, it shows
that wealth necessarily is connected to a specific economic system, in
this case capitalism, whose internal operations are often hidden from
society. Further, it portrays the alienation and contradictions in social
and personal life that are associated, often in vitally significant ways,
with the driving economic interests of capitalism. Finally, it suggests,
at least in passing, some of the roles of the state in mediating the often
conflicting interests, needs, and desires of the individual on the one
hand, and of economic and social privilege on the other. In short, the
world of Fazio's Florence desires stability and certainty but is in fact
defined in fundamental ways by conflict and hardship.
  If in his later historical writings Milman felt compelled to announce
his respect for objectivity in his narratives of the past, at least one of
his earlier works of the imagination shows how scarce real objectivity
can be, as both the past and the writing about the past are ineluctably
bound to operations of power that always, and disturbingly, seek to
advance specific interests. In Fazio the very subject matter defies ob-
jectivity, for inherent in it are the strange contradictions of an entire
world. These contradictions generate extreme anxiety among the char-
acters of the drama-most notably Bianca and Fazio-and also pro-
mote an even deeper anxiety associated with the writing of the story,






















as Milman seems committed to transforming certain economic issues
into purely personal issues, even as economic issues repeatedly raise
their ugly head as necessary components of the story: in the portrayal
of alchemy; in the portrayal of usury; in the portrayal of Aldabella's
conspicuous consumption; in the portrayal of the state's vicious effort
to claim loose wealth for itself; and in the portrayal ofthe hardships and
desires arising from poverty and low prestige. That the later Milman,
much like the later Coleridge, sought ways to contain such matters in
his writing of history is one indication of the difficulty of writing his-
tory-and of writing imaginative works about historically significant
subjects-during the nineteenth century.


as Milman seems committed to transforming certain economic issues
into purely personal issues, even as economic issues repeatedly raise
their ugly head as necessary components of the story: in the portrayal
of alchemy; in the portrayal of usury; in the portrayal of Aldabella's
conspicuous consumption; in the portrayal of the state's vicious effort
to claim loose wealth for itself; and in the portrayal of the hardships and
desires arising from poverty and low prestige. That the later Milman,
much like the later Coleridge, sought ways to contain such matters in
his writing of history is one indication of the difficulty of writing his-
tory-and of writing imaginative works about historically significant
subjects-during the nineteenth century.


as Milman seems committed to transforming certain economic issues
into purely personal issues, even as economic issues repeatedly raise
their ugly head as necessary components of the story: in the portrayal
of alchemy; in the portrayal of usury; in the portrayal of Aldabella's
conspicuous consumption; in the portrayal of the state's vicious effort
to claim loose wealth for itself; and in the portrayal ofthe hardships and
desires arising from poverty and low prestige. That the later Milman,
much like the later Coleridge, sought ways to contain such matters in
his writing of history is one indication of the difficulty of writing his-
tory-and of writing imaginative works about historically significant
subjects-during the nineteenth century.




               CHAPTER

                  6


        "Tenants of a Blasted World"

        Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram









Despite the fact that literary historians have always acknowledged
Charles Maturin's Bertram (1816) as "a document of the taste of the
Byronic period,"' very few serious attempts have been made to explain
and elaborate its critical importance to English Romanticism. The few
discussions of the play to appear during this century have been brief
and usually descriptive rather than interpretive and critical. Bertrand
Evans has situated it within a tradition of Gothic drama dating from
the eighteenth century, helpfully cataloguing its themes, plots, char-
acter types, and so on, and paying particular attention to what have
been called its Byronic elements in order to assert that Byronism itself
is part of Gothic tradition. Joseph W. Donohue, Jr., follows Evans's
strategy of placing Bertram in Gothic tradition, but goes farther than
Evans in describing the development of Bertram as a character type.
As Donohue states, "the predisposition of the age was such that, as the
agonies of the villain became more obvious and more detailed, greater
sympathy was elicited for him. So by degrees the villain turned a hero
who, through circumstances beyond his control, had become pos-
sessed by some evil force which drew him on to sin and despair, a force
against which his conscience struggled valiantly but ineffectually."'
Dale Kramer also acknowledges the importance of Evans's work, but
departs from the explanation of Bertram as merely a type, arguing
instead that the hero of the play has a psychological complexity that


               CHAPTER

                  6


        "Tenants of a Blasted World"

        Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram









Despite the fact that literary historians have always acknowledged
Charles Maturin's Bertram (1816) as "a document of the taste of the
Byronic period,"' very few serious attempts have been made to explain
and elaborate its critical importance to English Romanticism. The few
discussions of the play to appear during this century have been brief
and usually descriptive rather than interpretive and critical. Bertrand
Evans has situated it within a tradition of Gothic drama dating from
the eighteenth century, helpfully cataloguing its themes, plots, char-
acter types, and so on, and paying particular attention to what have
been called its Byronic elements in order to assert that Byronism itself
is part of Gothic tradition? Joseph W. Donohue, Jr., follows Evans's
strategy of placing Bertram in Gothic tradition, but goes farther than
Evans in describing the development of Bertram as a character type.
As Donohue states, "the predisposition of the age was such that, as the
agonies of the villain became more obvious and more detailed, greater
sympathy was elicited for him. So by degrees the villain turned a hero
who, through circumstances beyond his control, had become pos-
sessed by some evil force which drew him on to sin and despair, a force
against which his conscience struggled valiantly but ineffectually."'
Dale Kramer also acknowledges the importance of Evans's work, but
departs from the explanation of Bertram as merely a type, arguing
instead that the hero of the play has a psychological complexity that


               CHAPTER

                  6


        "Tenants of a Blasted World"

        Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram









Despite the fact that literary historians have always acknowledged
Charles Maturin's Bertram (1816) as "a document of the taste of the
Byronic period,"' very few serious attempts have been made to explain
and elaborate its critical importance to English Romanticism. The few
discussions of the play to appear during this century have been brief
and usually descriptive rather than interpretive and critical. Bertrand
Evans has situated it within a tradition of Gothic drama dating from
the eighteenth century, helpfully cataloguing its themes, plots, char-
acter types, and so on, and paying particular attention to what have
been called its Byronic elements in order to assert that Byronism itself
is part of Gothic tradition.' Joseph W. Donohue, Jr., follows Evans's
strategy of placing Bertram in Gothic tradition, but goes farther than
Evans in describing the development of Bertram as a character type.
As Donohue states, "the predisposition of the age was such that, as the
agonies of the villain became more obvious and more detailed, greater
sympathy was elicited for him. So by degrees the villain turned a hero
who, through circumstances beyond his control, had become pos-
sessed by some evil force which drew him on to sin and despair, a force
against which his conscience struggled valiantly but ineffectually."'
Dale Kramer also acknowledges the importance of Evans's work, but
departs from the explanation of Bertram as merely a type, arguing
instead that the hero of the play has a psychological complexity that



Chre Rb a tuietrm / 99                   ChaortktrnsBrm /I9Chre Roer Maa                   rn'Beta / 95


distinguishes him "from his ancestors in the Gothic drama."5 While
these and a few other commentaries have helped to keep alive our
awareness of the play's existence,' they have done little more than this
because they rely primarily on plot summary, description of literary
tradition, and character sketch as an expository strategy, leaving un-
considered many conceptual matters that are central to the meaning of
the drama. Thus Bertram remains little more than a literary curiosity,
an example of a work that was tremendously popular in its day but
that seems to possess no real literary merit, intellectual substance, or
critical interest.
  Even if critical investigations of Bertram have been lacking in our
own day, at least one contemporary of Maturin saw the impor-
tance of the work and produced a serious and sustained commentary
upon it that gives us a clue to its profound significance for Roman-
tic studies. In Biographia Literaria Coleridge gives an entire chapter of
vilification to Maturin's drama because, in his view, it was an ex-
treme example of certain British literary sensibilities-"bloated style,"
"strained thoughts," "figurative metaphysics," and "horrific incidents,
and mysterious villains"-that had traveled to Germany, been refor-
mulated in dramatic form, and then returned to England to the em-
barrassment and detriment of all that was good and proper in British
culture. The works in this tradition, Coleridge pronounced, were "the
mere cramps of weakness, and orgasms of a sickly imagination, on
the part of the author, and the lowest provocation of torpid feeling on
that of the readers."
  For Coleridge the problem with such works as Bertram was not
simply that they were examples of bad literature (which seems to
be our reason for excluding the drama from critical consideration)
but rather that they were an exceptionally dangerous kind of litera-
ture, a literature reflective of a commitment to "godless nature, as
the sole ground and efficient cause not only of all things, events, and
appearances, but likewise of all our thoughts, sensations, impulses,
and actions. Obedience to nature is the only virtue: the gratification
of the passions and appetites her only dictate: each individual's self-
will the sole organ through which nature utters her commands" (213).
Coleridge feared that such materialism "may influence the characters
and actions of individuals, and even of communities, to a degree that
almost does away [with] the distinction between men and devils, and
will make the page of the future historian resemble the narration of a


distinguishes him "from his ancestors in the Gothic drama."t While
these and a few other commentaries have helped to keep alive our
awareness of the play's existence,5 they have done little more than this
because they rely primarily on plot summary, description of literary
tradition, and character sketch as an expository strategy, leaving un-
considered many conceptual matters that are central to the meaning of
the drama. Thus Bertram remains little more than a literary curiosity,
an example of a work that was tremendously popular in its day but
that seems to possess no real literary merit, intellectual substance, or
critical interest.
  Even if critical investigations of Bertram have been lacking in our
own day, at least one contemporary of Maturin saw the impor-
tance of the work and produced a serious and sustained commentary
upon it that gives us a clue to its profound significance for Roman-
tic studies. In Biographia Literaria Coleridge gives an entire chapter of
vilification to Maturin's drama because, in his view, it was an ex-
treme example of certain British literary sensibilities-"bloated style,"
"strained thoughts," "figurative metaphysics," and "horrific incidents,
and mysterious villains"-that had traveled to Germany, been refor-
mulated in dramatic form, and then returned to England to the em-
barrassment and detriment of all that was good and proper in British
culture. The works in this tradition, Coleridge pronounced, were "the
mere cramps of weakness, and orgasms of a sickly imagination, on
the part of the author, and the lowest provocation of torpid feeling on
that of the readers."'
  For Coleridge the problem with such works as Bertram was not
simply that they were examples of bad literature (which seems to
be our reason for excluding the drama from critical consideration)
but rather that they were an exceptionally dangerous kind of litera-
ture, a literature reflective of a commitment to "godless nature, as
the sole ground and efficient cause not only of all things, events, and
appearances, but likewise of all our thoughts, sensations, impulses,
and actions. Obedience to nature is the only virtue: the gratification
of the passions and appetites her only dictate: each individual's self-
will the sole organ through which nature utters her commands" (213).
Coleridge feared that such materialism "may influence the characters
and actions of individuals, and even of communities, to a degree that
almost does away [with] the distinction between men and devils, and
will make the page of the future historian resemble the narration of a


distinguishes him "from his ancestors in the Gothic drama."' While
these and a few other commentaries have helped to keep alive our
awareness of the play's existence, they have done little more than this
because they rely primarily on plot summary, description of literary
tradition, and character sketch as an expository strategy, leaving un-
considered many conceptual matters that are central to the meaning of
the drama. Thus Bertram remains little more than a literary curiosity,
an example of a work that was tremendously popular in its day but
that seems to possess no real literary merit, intellectual substance, or
critical interest.
  Even if critical investigations of Bertram have been lacking in our
own day, at least one contemporary of Maturin saw the impor-
tance of the work and produced a serious and sustained commentary
upon it that gives us a clue to its profound significance for Roman-
tic studies. In Biographia Literaria Coleridge gives an entire chapter of
vilification to Maturin's drama because, in his view, it was an ex-
treme example of certain British literary sensibilities-"bloated style,"
"strained thoughts," "figurative metaphysics," and "horrific incidents,
and mysterious villains"-that had traveled to Germany, been refor-
mulated in dramatic form, and then returned to England to the em-
barrassment and detriment of all that was good and proper in British
culture. The works in this tradition, Coleridge pronounced, were "the
mere cramps of weakness, and orgasms of a sickly imagination, on
the part of the author, and the lowest provocation of torpid feeling on
that of the readers."t
  For Coleridge the problem with such works as Bertram was not
simply that they were examples of bad literature (which seems to
be our reason for excluding the drama from critical consideration)
but rather that they were an exceptionally dangerous kind of litera-
ture, a literature reflective of a commitment to "godless nature, as
the sole ground and efficient cause not only of all things, events, and
appearances, but likewise of all our thoughts, sensations, impulses,
and actions. Obedience to nature is the only virtue: the gratification
of the passions and appetites her only dictate: each individual's self-
will the sole organ through which nature utters her commands" (213).
Coleridge feared that such materialism "may influence the characters
and actions of individuals, and even of communities, to a degree that
almost does away [with] the distinction between men and devils, and
will make the page of the future historian resemble the narration of a



96 / English Romantic Drama              96 / English Romantic Drama              96 / English Romantic Drama


madman's dreams" (214). In Bertram, Coleridge found a perfect and,
in his view, particularly ugly example of such madness, for it was a
play that combined "robbery, adultery, murder, and cowardly assassi-
nation" (233) into a general, misanthropic portrayal of human experi-
ence. It displayed "confusion and subversion of the natural order of
things" (221), threatening all "law, reason, and religion" (221). It was,
in short, a "jacobinical drama" (221), without "moral sense" (225), pro-
viding "melancholy proof of the depravation of the public mind. The
shocking spirit ofjacobinism seemed [in Bertram] no longer confned
to politics" (229).
The importance of Coleridge's denunciation of the play resides not
so much in his personal moral outrage-though this in itself is inter-
esting-as in his correct recognition of a literature entangled in quite
specific historical crises. The moral stance that Coleridge takes is deeply
situated in a nostalgic vision of history as stable, ordered, and hier-
archical, and the thrust of his moral argument is on behalf of this
historical vision. The "Satanic hatred of Imogine's lord" that he con-
demns in the drama, as well as his condemnation of Maturin's failure
to bring his characters before "thejust vengeance of the law" (227) are
condemnations of a literary imagination capable of displacing lords
from the center of social life; such an imagination subverts human
order and purpose (as Coleridge would define them) and thus must be
described as mad. Coleridge's large and serious critical effort in dis-
cussing Bertram, in short, is nothing less than an effort to define the
proper bounds of historical and social order, and to ward off all threats
(such as Bertram) to that order.
  In the analysis of Bertram that follows, I assume that Coleridge was
correct in arguing that the play's importance extends beyond literary
history into social history and beyond character portrayal into ideol-
ogy. This is not to say, however, that I wish to endorse Coleridge's
plea for a return to a preindustrial, pre-Jacobinical, Burkean past of
chivalry and aristocratic rule, or that I believe the play to represent
a species of madness. Rather, I want to provide an explanation that
unfolds in historical terms the ideological forces behind Coleridge's
denunciations of the play, his desire to retreat to a past (imagined),
edenical world and his blunt accusation that literary imaginings of the
demise of that world are simply mad. Such an explanation takes for
granted that the popular excitement and moral revulsion inspired by
Bertram arise from the play's distillation and articulation of power-


madman's dreams" (214). In Bertram, Coleridge found a perfect and,
in his view, particularly ugly example of such madness, for it was a
play that combined "robbery, adultery, murder, and cowardly assassi-
nation" (233) into a general, misanthropic portrayal of human experi-
ence. It displayed "confusion and subversion of the natural order of
things" (221), threatening all "law, reason, and religion" (221). It was,
in short, a "jacobinical drama" (221), without "moral sense" (225), pro-
viding "melancholy proof of the depravation of the public mind. The
shocking spirit ofjacobinism seemed [in Bertram] no longer confined
to politics" (229).
The importance of Coleridge's denunciation of the play resides not
so much in his personal moral outrage-though this in itself is inter-
esting-as in his correct recognition of a literature entangled in quite
specific historical crises. The moral stance that Coleridge takes is deeply
situated in a nostalgic vision of history as stable, ordered, and hier-
archical, and the thrust of his moral argument is on behalf of this
historical vision. The "Satanic hatred of Imogine's lord" that he con-
demns in the drama, as well as his condemnation of Maturin's failure
to bring his characters before "the just vengeance of the law" (227) are
condemnations of a literary imagination capable of displacing lords
from the center of social life; such an imagination subverts human
order and purpose (as Coleridge would define them) and thus must be
described as mad. Coleridge's large and serious critical effort in dis-
cussing Bertram, in short, is nothing less than an effort to define the
proper bounds ofhistorical and social order, and to ward off all threats
(such as Bertram) to that order.
  In the analysis of Bertram that follows, I assume that Coleridge was
correct in arguing that the play's importance extends beyond literary
history into social history and beyond character portrayal into ideol-
ogy. This is not to say, however, that I wish to endorse Coleridge's
plea for a return to a preindustrial, pre-Jacobinical, Burkean past of
chivalry and aristocratic rule, or that I believe the play to represent
a species of madness. Rather, I want to provide an explanation that
unfolds in historical terms the ideological forces behind Coleridge's
denunciations of the play, his desire to retreat to a past (imagined),
edenical world and his blunt accusation that literary imaginings of the
demise of that world are simply mad. Such an explanation takes for
granted that the popular excitement and moral revulsion inspired by
Bertram arise from the play's distillation and articulation of power-


madman's dreams" (214). In Bertram, Coleridge found a perfect and,
in his view, particularly ugly example of such madness, for it was a
play that combined "robbery, adultery, murder, and cowardly assassi-
nation" (233) into a general, misanthropic portrayal of human experi-
ence. It displayed "confusion and subversion of the natural order of
things" (221), threatening all "law, reason, and religion" (221). It was,
in short, a "jacobinical drama" (221), without "moral sense" (225), pro-
viding "melancholy proof of the depravation of the public mind. The
shocking spirit ofjacobinism seemed [in Bertram] no longer confined
to politics" (229).
The importance of Coleridge's denunciation of the play resides not
so much in his personal moral outrage-though this in itself is inter-
esting-as in his correct recognition of a literature entangled in quite
specific historical crises. The moral stance that Coleridge takes is deeply
situated in a nostalgic vision of history as stable, ordered, and hier-
archical, and the thrust of his moral argument is on behalf of this
historical vision. The "Satanic hatred of Imogine's lord" that he con-
demns in the drama, as well as his condemnation of Maturin's failure
to bring his characters before "the just vengeance of the law" (227) are
condemnations of a literary imagination capable of displacing lords
from the center of social life; such an imagination subverts human
order and purpose (as Coleridge would define them) and thus must be
described as mad. Coleridge's large and serious critical effort in dis-
cussing Bertram, in short, is nothing less than an effort to define the
proper bounds of historical and social order, and to ward off all threats
(such as Bertram) to that order.
  In the analysis of Bertram that follows, I assume that Coleridge was
correct in arguing that the play's importance extends beyond literary
history into social history and beyond character portrayal into ideol-
ogy. This is not to say, however, that I wish to endorse Coleridge's
plea for a return to a preindustrial, pre-Jacobinical, Burkean past of
chivalry and aristocratic rule, or that I believe the play to represent
a species of madness. Rather, I want to provide an explanation that
unfolds in historical terms the ideological forces behind Coleridge's
denunciations of the play, his desire to retreat to a past (imagined),
edenical world and his blunt accusation that literary imaginings of the
demise of that world are simply mad. Such an explanation takes for
granted that the popular excitement and moral revulsion inspired by
Bertram arise from the play's distillation and articulation of power-



Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 97    Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 97    Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 97


ful, contradictory historical forces. The various shocks, desires, fears,
social relations, and structures of authority presented in the drama are
inscriptions of the Romantic historical moment, both of the immedi-
ate post-Waterloo situation and of the larger historical crisis involving
the transition of British society from an aristocratic to a bourgeois
ruling class and worldview. It is the play's historical imagination that
provides its particular power and claim to our critical attention.
The central historical feature of the drama is derivative, borrow-
ing a stock plot device that had become commonplace to the Gothic
imagination in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries-the use of
cross-class marriage as a basis for psychological tension and unrest.' In
this case, Imogine, a woman "of humble birth" (I.v),t marries Saint
Aldobrand, a wealthy, bold, and powerful lord, against her will to
save her destitute father:
       ... .What could I do but wed-
       Hast seen the sinking fortunes of thy house-
       Hast felt the gripe of bitter shameful want-
       Hast seen a father on the cold cold earth,
       Hast read his eye of silent agony,
       That asked relief, but would not look reproach
       Upon his child unkind-
       I would have wed disease, deformity. (I.v)

This detail, more than Bertram's Byronic character, provides the key
to the dramatic action. As a plot device, it explains Imogine's loneli-
ness and Bertram's alienation, and also provides stimulus for the vari-
ous atrocities in the play that were so popular in its staging. Married
against her will to someone she does not love, Imogine is emotionally
distracted and driven to the point of violating at a fundamental level
the authority represented by her aristocratic husband (that is, she suc-
cumbs to Bertram's advances), thus making possible everything that
follows in the way of psychological turmoil, physical violence, and,
ultimately, social collapse.
  But the detail is more than a plot device. It takes on broad historical
significance when it is viewed as a sign of weakening aristocratic au-
thority. Imogine's marriage to Saint Aldobrand is presented in such a
way that it must be regarded not so much as an extension of aristocratic
power, or as a show of aristocratic generosity, or even as just another
aristocratic action; rather, the blatantly unjust conduct surrounding


ful, contradictory historical forces. The various shocks, desires, fears,
social relations, and structures of authority presented in the drama are
inscriptions of the Romantic historical moment, both of the immedi-
ate post-Waterloo situation and of the larger historical crisis involving
the transition of British society from an aristocratic to a bourgeois
ruling class and worldview. It is the play's historical imagination that
provides its particular power and claim to our critical attention.
  The central historical feature of the drama is derivative, borrow-
ing a stock plot device that had become commonplace to the Gothic
imagination in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries-the use of
cross-class marriage as a basis for psychological tension and unrest.' In
this case, Imogine, a woman "of humble birth" (I. v),' marries Saint
Aldobrand, a wealthy, bold, and powerful lord, against her will to
save her destitute father:
       ... What could I do but wed-
       Hast seen the sinking fortunes of thy house-
       Hast felt the gripe of bitter shameful want-
       Hast seen a father on the cold cold earth,
       Hast read his eye of silent agony,
       That asked relief, but would not look reproach
       Upon his child unkind-
       I would have wed disease, deformity. (L.v)

This detail, more than Bertram's Byronic character, provides the key
to the dramatic action. As a plot device, it explains Imogine's loneli-
ness and Bertram's alienation, and also provides stimulus for the vari-
ous atrocities in the play that were so popular in its staging. Married
against her will to someone she does not love, Imogine is emotionally
distracted and driven to the point of violating at a fundamental level
the authority represented by her aristocratic husband (that is, she suc-
cumbs to Bertram's advances), thus making possible everything that
follows in the way of psychological turmoil, physical violence, and,
ultimately, social collapse.
  But the detail is more than a plot device. It takes on broad historical
significance when it is viewed as a sign of weakening aristocratic au-
thority. Imogine's marriage to Saint Aldobrand is presented in such a
way that it must be regarded not so much as an extension of aristocratic
power, or as a show of aristocratic generosity, or even as just another
aristocratic action; rather, the blatantly unjust conduct surrounding


ful, contradictory historical forces. The various shocks, desires, fears,
social relations, and structures of authority presented in the drama are
inscriptions of the Romantic historical moment, both of the immedi-
ate post-Waterloo situation and of the larger historical crisis involving
the transition of British society from an aristocratic to a bourgeois
ruling class and worldview. It is the play's historical imagination that
provides its particular power and claim to our critical attention.
The central historical feature of the drama is derivative, borrow-
ing a stock plot device that had become commonplace to the Gothic
imagination in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries-the use of
cross-class marriage as a basis for psychological tension and unrest.' In
this case, Imogine, a woman "of humble birth" (I.v),t marries Saint
Aldobrand, a wealthy, bold, and powerful lord, against her will to
save her destitute father:
       ... What could I do but wed-
       Hast seen the sinking fortunes of thy house-
       Hast felt the gripe of bitter shameful want-
       Hast seen a father on the cold cold earth,
       Hast read his eye of silent agony,
       That asked relief, but would not look reproach
       Upon his child unkind-
       I would have wed disease, deformity. (I.v)

This detail, more than Bertram's Byronic character, provides the key
to the dramatic action. As a plot device, it explains Imogine's loneli-
ness and Bertram's alienation, and also provides stimulus for the vari-
ous atrocities in the play that were so popular in its staging. Married
against her will to someone she does not love, Imogine is emotionally
distracted and driven to the point of violating at a fundamental level
the authority represented by her aristocratic husband (that is, she suc-
cumbs to Bertram's advances), thus making possible everything that
follows in the way of psychological turmoil, physical violence, and,
ultimately, social collapse.
  But the detail is more than a plot device. It takes on broad historical
significance when it is viewed as a sign of weakening aristocratic au-
thority. Imogine's marriage to Saint Aldobrand is presented in such a
way that it must be regarded not so much as an extension of aristocratic
power, or as a show of aristocratic generosity, or even as just another
aristocratic action; rather, the blatantly unjust conduct surrounding



            98 / English Romantic Drama

the marriage (the poverty of Imogine's father is held over her to force
her hand) is one sign that aristocracy, however personally generous
and admirable Saint Aldobrand may be, needs desperately to rejuve-
nate itself, and hence looks to outside human resources (Imogine) for
renewed energy and meaning. From the perspective of social class, the
marriage stands at the center of the drama as a sign of social instability,
representing a fracture in the structure of aristocratic social relations,
a small break from tradition that, through the course of the play,
becomes a rupture, multiplying into violence, deceit, and madness,
promoting the decay of the aristocratic world. Traditional character
concerns-the relative goodness of Aldobrand, the amoral actions of
Bertram, and the extreme emotionalism of Imogine-are, in this view,
less significant than the social effect of the marriage, which is to satisfy
the immediate needs of aristocracy while at the same time generating
alienation and loneliness (as is seen in the characters of Bertram and
Imogine), so that the world becomes divided as individuals are thrown
out of the main flow of social life. The result is the loss of integrity
and personal regard and the refusal to accept social responsibility. The
seed of social corruption is planted from the very beginning in the
marriage of Imogine and Saint Aldobrand, and the actions of Bertram
and Imogine are merely its fruits.0
  One ideological consequence of the cross-class marriage is the pri-
vatization of human experience, the socially enforced reliance of indi-
viduals on their own personal (and ever narrowing) resources, a reli-
ance that perpetuates and intensifies the divisions between individuals
and their social worlds. Both Imogine and (for reasons not entirely
identical with Imogine's) Bertram exemplify the loss of public life
and the concomitant construction of private values that express both
human need and human failure. Imogine, who for much of the play
functions, at least superficially, within public life as daughter, wife,
and mother, finds completeness in none of her roles, preferring the
privacy of her room to the company of people in Saint Aldobrand's
castle; treasuring the secretly kept picture of Bertram over the flesh
of her husband; and ultimately following the secret passion of a meet-
ing with Bertram to the peril of domestic stability with her husband
and child.
  More telling here than the eventual liaison with Bertram is the fact
that for all of her previous married life, and through almost the entire
play, she never crosses the lines of social responsibility, carrying out


            98 / English Romantic Drama

the marriage (the poverty of Imogine's father is held over her to force
her hand) is one sign that aristocracy, however personally generous
and admirable Saint Aldobrand may be, needs desperately to rejuve-
nate itself, and hence looks to outside human resources (Imogine) for
renewed energy and meaning. From the perspective of social class, the
marriage stands at the center of the drama as a sign of social instability,
representing a fracture in the structure of aristocratic social relations,
a small break from tradition that, through the course of the play,
becomes a rupture, multiplying into violence, deceit, and madness,
promoting the decay of the aristocratic world. Traditional character
concerns-the relative goodness of Aldobrand, the amoral actions of
Bertram, and the extreme emotionalism of lmogine-are, in this view,
less significant than the social effect of the marriage, which is to satisfy
the immediate needs of aristocracy while at the same time generating
alienation and loneliness (as is seen in the characters of Bertram and
Imogine), so that the world becomes divided as individuals are thrown
out of the main flow of social life. The result is the loss of integrity
and personal regard and the refusal to accept social responsibility. The
seed of social corruption is planted from the very beginning in the
marriage of Imogine and Saint Aldobrand, and the actions of Bertram
and Imogine are merely its fruits."0
  One ideological consequence of the cross-class marriage is the pri-
vatization of human experience, the socially enforced reliance of indi-
viduals on their own personal (and ever narrowing) resources, a reli-
ance that perpetuates and intensifies the divisions between individuals
and their social worlds. Both Imogine and (for reasons not entirely
identical with Imogine's) Bertram exemplify the loss of public life
and the concomitant construction of private values that express both
human need and human failure. Imogine, who for much of the play
functions, at least superficially, within public life as daughter, wife,
and mother, finds completeness in none of her roles, preferring the
privacy of her room to the company of people in Saint Aldobrand's
castle; treasuring the secretly kept picture of Bertram over the flesh
of her husband; and ultimately following the secret passion of a meet-
ing with Bertram to the peril of domestic stability with her husband
and child.
  More telling here than the eventual liaison with Bertram is the fact
that for all of her previous married life, and through almost the entire
play, she never crosses the lines of social responsibility, carrying out


            98 / English Romantic Drama

the marriage (the poverty of Imogine's father is held over her to force
her hand) is one sign that aristocracy, however personally generous
and admirable Saint Aldobrand may be, needs desperately to rejuve-
nate itself, and hence looks to outside human resources (Imogine) for
renewed energy and meaning. From the perspective of social class, the
marriage stands at the center of the drama as a sign of social instability,
representing a fracture in the structure of aristocratic social relations,
a small break from tradition that, through the course of the play,
becomes a rupture, multiplying into violence, deceit, and madness,
promoting the decay of the aristocratic world. Traditional character
concerns-the relative goodness of Aldobrand, the amoral actions of
Bertram, and the extreme emotionalism of Imogine-are, in this view,
less significant than the social effect of the marriage, which is to satisfy
the immediate needs of aristocracy while at the same time generating
alienation and loneliness (as is seen in the characters of Bertram and
Imogine), so that the world becomes divided as individuals are thrown
out of the main flow of social life. The result is the loss of integrity
and personal regard and the refusal to accept social responsibility.' The
seed of social corruption is planted from the very beginning in the
marriage of Imogine and Saint Aldobrand, and the actions of Bertram
and Imogine are merely its fruits.0
  One ideological consequence of the cross-class marriage is the pri-
vatization of human experience, the socially enforced reliance of indi-
viduals on their own personal (and ever narrowing) resources, a reli-
ance that perpetuates and intensifies the divisions between individuals
and their social worlds. Both Imogine and (for reasons not entirely
identical with Imogine's) Bertram exemplify the loss of public life
and the concomitant construction of private values that express both
human need and human failure. Imogine, who for much of the play
functions, at least superficially, within public life as daughter, wife,
and mother, finds completeness in none of her roles, preferring the
privacy of her room to the company of people in Saint Aldobrand's
castle; treasuring the secretly kept picture of Bertram over the flesh
of her husband; and ultimately following the secret passion of a meet-
ing with Bertram to the peril of domestic stability with her husband
and child.
  More telling here than the eventual liaison with Bertram is the fact
that for all of her previous married life, and through almost the entire
play, she never crosses the lines of social responsibility, carrying out



          Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 99

her domestic and public role as though she were happy. As she tells
her servant:

      Mark me, Clotilda,
      And mark me well, I am no desperate wretch
      Who borrows an excuse from shameful passion
      To make its shame more vile-
      I am a wretched, but a spotless wife,
      I've been a daughter but too dutiful. (l.v)

Such a statement is remarkable for at least two reasons. First, it con-
fesses to a hollow, pointless individual existence, whose sole function
is to support a domestic and class situation that offers little in return
that can meet Imogine's personal needs and desires. Her own spotless-
ness in such a situation reflects the vileness and smothering authority
of the class that brought her into its ranks against her will. Every com-
passionate gesture of her husband thus necessarily becomes "a blow
on th' heart" (I.v), for it is also a gesture of domination, a show of
compassion for a thing possessed. Even her child's love is a sign of her
oppression, for she has given birth under conditions ofalienation rather
than freedom. Second, that Imogine, a woman of rank, confesses such
serious and sad realities to Clotilda, a servant, suggests that power
and class relations in her world are such that aristocracy silences oppo-
sitional or even questioning voices from within its own ranks. The
bond of confidence between Imogine and Clotilda, a woman socially
beneath her, discloses this rigid aristocratic structure of authority and
at the same time exposes the hard, unhappy conditions of sacrifice and
alienation that such authority produces.
  While not class-determined in the same way as Imogine's situation,
Bertram's experiences that lead to his outlaw status are equally en-
tangled with the machinations of an anxious and uncertain aristocracy,
and his character in this respect is the Romantic masculine equivalent
of Imogine's. Bertram is from the aristocracy and in his youth had
been a favorite of his sovereign, but, for reasons never made entirely
clear, he is turned into "an exiled outcast, houseless, nameless, abject"
(I.v). Two (apparently inconsistent) explanations of Bertram's change
in fortune-one given implicitly in Imogine's confession to Clotilda,
the other stated explicitly by Saint Aldobrand-are provided in the
drama, and both bespeak anxiety and instability among the aristoc-
racy. Imogine's account is enigmatic, stating only that the once noble


          Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 99

her domestic and public role as though she were happy. As she tells
her servant:
      Mark me, Clotilda,
      And mark me well, I am no desperate wretch
      Who borrows an excuse from shameful passion
      To make its shame more vile-
      I am a wretched, but a spotless wife,
      I've been a daughter but too dutiful. (I.v)

Such a statement is remarkable for at least two reasons. First, it con-
fesses to a hollow, pointless individual existence, whose sole function
is to support a domestic and class situation that offers little in return
that can meet Imogine's personal needs and desires. Her own spotless-
ness in such a situation reflects the vileness and smothering authority
of the class that brought her into its ranks against her will. Every com-
passionate gesture of her husband thus necessarily becomes "a blow
on th' heart" (I.v), for it is also a gesture of domination, a show of
compassion for a thing possessed. Even her child's love is a sign of her
oppression, for she has given birth under conditions of alienation rather
than freedom. Second, that Imogine, a woman of rank, confesses such
serious and sad realities to Clotilda, a servant, suggests that power
and class relations in her world are such that aristocracy silences oppo-
sitional or even questioning voices from within its own ranks. The
bond of confidence between Imogine and Clotilda, a woman socially
beneath her, discloses this rigid aristocratic structure of authority and
at the same time exposes the hard, unhappy conditions of sacrifice and
alienation that such authority produces.
  While not class-determined in the same way as Imogine's situation,
Bertram's experiences that lead to his outlaw status are equally en-
tangled with the machinations of an anxious and uncertain aristocracy,
and his character in this respect is the Romantic masculine equivalent
of Imogine's. Bertram is from the aristocracy and in his youth had
been a favorite of his sovereign, but, for reasons never made entirely
clear, he is turned into "an exiled outcast, houseless, nameless, abject"
(I.v). Two (apparently inconsistent) explanations of Bertram's change
in fortune-one given implicitly in Imogine's confession to Clotilda,
the other stated explicitly by Saint Aldobrand-are provided in the
drama, and both bespeak anxiety and instability among the aristoc-
racy. Imogine's account is enigmatic, stating only that the once noble


          Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 99

her domestic and public role as though she were happy. As she tells
her servant:
      Mark me, Clotilda,
      And mark me well, I am no desperate wretch
      Who borrows an excuse from shameful passion
      To make its shame more vile-
      I am a wretched, but a spotless wife,
      I've been a daughter but too dutiful. (I.v)

Such a statement is remarkable for at least two reasons. First, it con-
fesses to a hollow, pointless individual existence, whose sole function
is to support a domestic and class situation that offers little in return
that can meet Imogine's personal needs and desires. Her own spotless-
ness in such a situation reflects the vileness and smothering authority
of the class that brought her into its ranks against her will. Every com-
passionate gesture of her husband thus necessarily becomes "a blow
on th' heart" (I.v), for it is also a gesture of domination, a show of
compassion for a thing possessed. Even her child's love is a sign of her
oppression, for she has given birth under conditions ofalienation rather
than freedom. Second, that Imogine, a woman of rank, confesses such
serious and sad realities to Clotilda, a servant, suggests that power
and class relations in her world are such that aristocracy silences oppo-
sitional or even questioning voices from within its own ranks. The
bond of confidence between Imogine and Clotilda, a woman socially
beneath her, discloses this rigid aristocratic structure of authority and
at the same time exposes the hard, unhappy conditions of sacrifice and
alienation that such authority produces.
  While not class-determined in the same way as Imogine's situation,
Bertram's experiences that lead to his outlaw status are equally en-
tangled with the machinations of an anxious and uncertain aristocracy,
and his character in this respect is the Romantic masculine equivalent
of Imogine's. Bertram is from the aristocracy and in his youth had
been a favorite of his sovereign, but, for reasons never made entirely
clear, he is turned into "an exiled outcast, houseless, nameless, abject"
(I.v). Two (apparently inconsistent) explanations of Bertram's change
in fortune-one given implicitly in Imogine's confession to Clotilda,
the other stated explicitly by Saint Aldobrand-are provided in the
drama, and both bespeak anxiety and instability among the aristoc-
racy. Imogine's account is enigmatic, stating only that the once noble



to- E~ngls RoatcDrmo / Engls Roani Drm                                            o  nlshRmni rm


Bertram abruptly became an enemy of the sovereign. The only pos-
sible explanation for this change of fortune, based on textual evidence,
is that Bertram's sovereign opposed his union with the lower-class
Imogine. As Imogine describes Bertram's situation:
    [G~lory blazed
    Around his path-yet did he smile on her [Imogine]-
    Oh then, what visions were that blessed one's!
    His sovereign's frown came next. (Ilv)

The implication here is that the ruling class is absolute in its authority
over all individuals, even those within its own ranks, obligating them
to follow the dictates not of their own conscience and emotions but
rather of the class that they serve. To view the situation in this way
is to recognize that class authority does not reduce to individual au-
thority-even if the individual is from the ruling class-but rather
possesses a life and identity of its own that assign and define individual
possibilities and limitation. In this respect Bertram's situation is quali-
tatively no different from Imogine's: both are denied the freedom to
choose an independent life based on their own needs and desires, and
both are assigned a fate by the ruling class that is radically inconsistent
with those needs and desires."
At least on the surface, Saint Aldobrand's account departs widely
from Imogine's, offering a loyalist explanation that uncritically accepts
the authority and integrity of the state and casts Bertram as an abso-
lute villain who opposes the state. In a condescending, patriotic, and
self-aggrandizing lecture to Imogine, Saint Aldobrand explains:
    Thou knowest the banished Bertram-his mad ambition
    Strove with the crown itself for sovereignty-
    The craven monarch was his subject's slave-
    In that dread hour my country's guard I stood,
    From the state's vitals tore the coiled serpent,
    First hung him writhing up to public scorn,
    Then flung him forth to ruin. (IV.ii)

Imogine does not contest this account of the past, but neither does
she ask Saint Aldobrand to recall for her the cause for Bertram's "mad
ambition" that led to his alleged treasonous actions, thus leaving open
the possibility that her own confession to Clotilda is accurate, only
emphasizing an earlier (and more immediately personal) phase of the


Bertram abruptly became an enemy of the sovereign. The only pos-
sible explanation for this change of fortune, based on textual evidence,
is that Bertram's sovereign opposed his union with the lower-class
Imogine. As Imogine describes Bertram's situation:
    [G]lory blazed
    Around his path-yet did he smile on her [Imogine]-
    Oh then, what visions were that blessed one's!
    His sovereign's frown came next. (l.v)

The implication here is that the ruling class is absolute in its authority
over all individuals, even those within its own ranks, obligating them
to follow the dictates not of their own conscience and emotions but
rather of the class that they serve. To view the situation in this way
is to recognize that class authority does not reduce to individual au-
thority-even if the individual is from the ruling class-but rather
possesses a life and identity of its own that assign and define individual
possibilities and limitation. In this respect Bertram's situation is quali-
tatively no different from Imogine's: both are denied the freedom to
choose an independent life based on their own needs and desires, and
both are assigned a fate by the ruling class that is radically inconsistent
with those needs and desires."
At least on the surface, Saint Aldobrand's account departs widely
from Imogine's, offering a loyalist explanation that uncritically accepts
the authority and integrity of the state and casts Bertram as an abso-
lute villain who opposes the state. In a condescending, patriotic, and
self-aggrandizing lecture to Imogine, Saint Aldobrand explains:
    Thou knowest the banished Bertram-his mad ambition
    Strove with the crown itself for sovereignty-
    The craven monarch was his subject's slave-
    In that dread hour my country's guard I stood,
    From the state's vitals tore the coiled serpent,
    First hung him writhing up to public scorn,
    Then flung him forth to ruin. (IV.ii)

Imogine does not contest this account of the past, but neither does
she ask Saint Aldobrand to recall for her the cause for Bertram's "mad
ambition" that led to his alleged treasonous actions, thus leaving open
the possibility that her own confession to Clotilda is accurate, only
emphasizing an earlier (and more immediately personal) phase of the


Bertram abruptly became an enemy of the sovereign. The only pos-
sible explanation for this change of fortune, based on textual evidence,
is that Bertram's sovereign opposed his union with the lower-class
Imogine. As Imogine describes Bertram's situation:
    [G]lory blazed
    Around his path-yet did he smile on her [Imogine]-
    Oh then, what visions were that blessed one's!
    His sovereign's frown came next. (l.v)

The implication here is that the ruling class is absolute in its authority
over all individuals, even those within its own ranks, obligating them
to follow the dictates not of their own conscience and emotions but
rather of the class that they serve. To view the situation in this way
is to recognize that class authority does not reduce to individual au-
thority-even if the individual is from the ruling class-but rather
possesses a life and identity of its own that assign and define individual
possibilities and limitation. In this respect Bertram's situation is quali-
tatively no different from Imogine's: both are denied the freedom to
choose an independent life based on their own needs and desires, and
both are assigned a fate by the ruling class that is radically inconsistent
with those needs and desires."
At least on the surface, Saint Aldobrand's account departs widely
from Imogine's, offering a loyalist explanation that uncritically accepts
the authority and integrity of the state and casts Bertram as an abso-
lute villain who opposes the state. In a condescending, patriotic, and
self-aggrandizing lecture to Imogine, Saint Aldobrand explains:

    Thou knowest the banished Bertram-his mad ambition
    Strove with the crown itself for sovereignty-
    The craven monarch was his subject's slave-
    In that dread hour my country's guard I stood,
    From the state's vitals tore the coiled serpent,
    First hung him writhing up to public scorn,
    Then flung him forth to ruin. (IV.ii)

Imogine does not contest this account of the past, but neither does
she ask Saint Aldobrand to recall for her the cause for Bertram's "mad
ambition" that led to his alleged treasonous actions, thus leaving open
the possibility that her own confession to Clotilda is accurate, only
emphasizing an earlier (and more immediately personal) phase of the



          Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 1ot

history. To raise the possibility of compatibility between the two ac-
counts of Bertram's exile is not to excuse what is clearly a weakness in
Maturin's handling ofplot and motivation but to stress that the various
accounts of Bertram's past are not necessarily mutually exclusive, and
to argue that, in either case, the political and ideological point remains
the same: under aristocracy, authority ultimately resides at the level
of class rather than at the level of the individual, and any challenge to
this reality is punishable by absolute exclusion from the main flow of
human social life. Interpretations of the past, though they emphasize
different details, unfold within an identical context of class authority.
  One additional question bears consideration with respect to Ber-
tram's past and those who have had a role in it: if Bertram is punished
with exile for his affection for a lower-class woman, then why has
Saint Aldobrand, who marries Imogine, been exempted from the scorn
of his sovereign? The answer to this question, once again, resides in
the fact that actions in the drama are not depicted as being individu-
ally chosen but rather as class determined. In Bertram's case love for
Imogine entailed defying his sovereign and following his own personal
course of action. It is in this sense that Saint Aldobrand's remark that
Bertram "strove with the crown" is accurate; Bertram did not neces-
sarily desire-and Saint Aldobrand does not suggest this-to become
the new sovereign but rather, as Imogine's remarks to Clotilda suggest,
to make his own decisions about his personallife. Saint Aldobrand, on
the other hand, does not move against but with the grain of aristocracy
in marrying Imogine; that is, the marriage is not portrayed in terms
of mutual affection but rather in terms of Saint Aldobrand's conquest
over Imogine and her destitute family. Likewise, his regard for her,
as noted above, derives not from love but from possession. In short,
as Maturin handles it, Saint Aldobrand's marriage to Imogine, unlike
Bertram's love for this same woman, is a class rather than an individual
action, calculated to invigorate rather than challenge the prevailing
structures of authority. That it ultimately has the reverse effect is one
sign of the destabilized context within which it has taken place.
  The drama, however, is not simply the story of social anxiety and
decay but also ofemergent social energies. Bertram's defiance and exile
contain within them the seeds of an antiaristocratic ethos, even while
Bertram himself retains his leadership position and posture of nobility
among a group of banditti. Moreover, this antiaristocratic ethos is
clearly more powerful than the aristocratic claim to authority presented


          Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 1ot

history. To raise the possibility of compatibility between the two ac-
counts of Bertram's exile is not to excuse what is clearly a weakness in
Maturin's handling of plot and motivation but to stress that the various
accounts of Bertram's past are not necessarily mutually exclusive, and
to argue that, in either case, the political and ideological point remains
the same: under aristocracy, authority ultimately resides at the level
of class rather than at the level of the individual, and any challenge to
this reality is punishable by absolute exclusion from the main flow of
human social life. Interpretations of the past, though they emphasize
different details, unfold within an identical context of class authority.
  One additional question bears consideration with respect to Ber-
tram's past and those who have had a role in it: if Bertram is punished
with exile for his affection for a lower-class woman, then why has
Saint Aldobrand, who marries Imogine, been exempted from the scorn
of his sovereign? The answer to this question, once again, resides in
the fact that actions in the drama are not depicted as being individu-
ally chosen but rather as class determined. In Bertram's case love for
Imogine entailed defying his sovereign and following his own personal
course of action. It is in this sense that Saint Aldobrand's remark that
Bertram "strove with the crown" is accurate; Bertram did not neces-
sarily desire-and Saint Aldobrand does not suggest this-to become
the new sovereign but rather, as Imogine's remarks to Clotilda suggest,
to make his own decisions about his personal life. Saint Aldobrand, on
the other hand, does not move against but with the grain of aristocracy
in marrying Imogine; that is, the marriage is not portrayed in terms
of mutual affection but rather in terms of Saint Aldobrand's conquest
over Imogine and her destitute family. Likewise, his regard for her,
as noted above, derives not from love but from possession. In short,
as Maturin handles it, Saint Aldobrand's marriage to Imogine, unlike
Bertram's love for this same woman, is a class rather than an individual
action, calculated to invigorate rather than challenge the prevailing
structures of authority. That it ultimately has the reverse effect is one
sign of the destabilized context within which it has taken place.
  The drama, however, is not simply the story of social anxiety and
decay but also ofemergent social energies. Bertram's defiance and exile
contain within them the seeds of an antiaristocratic ethos, even while
Bertram himself retains his leadership position and posture of nobility
among a group of banditti. Moreover, this antiaristocratic ethos is
clearly more powerful than the aristocratic claim to authority presented


          Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 1o1

history. To raise the possibility of compatibility between the two ac-
counts of Bertram's exile is not to excuse what is clearly a weakness in
Maturin's handling of plot and motivation but to stress that the various
accounts of Bertram's past are not necessarily mutually exclusive, and
to argue that, in either case, the political and ideological point remains
the same: under aristocracy, authority ultimately resides at the level
of class rather than at the level of the individual, and any challenge to
this reality is punishable by absolute exclusion from the main flow of
human social life. Interpretations of the past, though they emphasize
different details, unfold within an identical context of class authority.
  One additional question bears consideration with respect to Ber-
tram's past and those who have had a role in it: if Bertram is punished
with exile for his affection for a lower-class woman, then why has
Saint Aldobrand, who marries Imogine, been exempted from the scorn
of his sovereign? The answer to this question, once again, resides in
the fact that actions in the drama are not depicted as being individu-
ally chosen but rather as class determined. In Bertram's case love for
Imogine entailed defying his sovereign and following his own personal
course of action. It is in this sense that Saint Aldobrand's remark that
Bertram "strove with the crown" is accurate; Bertram did not neces-
sarily desire-and Saint Aldobrand does not suggest this-to become
the new sovereign but rather, as Imogine's remarks to Clotilda suggest,
to make his own decisions about his personal life. Saint Aldobrand, on
the other hand, does not move against but with the grain of aristocracy
in marrying Imogine; that is, the marriage is not portrayed in terms
of mutual affection but rather in terms of Saint Aldobrand's conquest
over Imogine and her destitute family. Likewise, his regard for her,
as noted above, derives not from love but from possession. In short,
as Maturin handles it, Saint Aldobrand's marriage to Imogine, unlike
Bertram's love for this same woman, is a class rather than an individual
action, calculated to invigorate rather than challenge the prevailing
structures of authority. That it ultimately has the reverse effect is one
sign of the destabilized context within which it has taken place.
  The drama, however, is not simply the story of social anxiety and
decay but also of emergent social energies. Bertram's defiance and exile
contain within them the seeds of an antiaristocratic ethos, even while
Bertram himself retains his leadership position and posture of nobility
among a group of banditti. Moreover, this antiaristocratic ethos is
clearly more powerful than the aristocratic claim to authority presented



-o / Enls Roani Drm                      to                                       - nls oani rm / Enls oani rm


in the drama. Both of these facts (stock features of the Byronic hero)
certainly were as critical to the play's immediate popularity as the stock
of Gothic machinery that Maturin and Drury Lane hauled before the
public for twenty-one consecutive nights, for they articulate, however
melodramatically and subliminally, the triumphant bourgeois defiance
of aristocracy.
  The inchoate bourgeois ethos attached to Bertram's character is
visible most immediately in his individualism. On one level, of course,
the individualism described in the drama is not bourgeois at all but
rather, like the individualism presented in Byron's Manfred, a last ex-
treme assertion of aristocratic authority in the face of a changing world.
But behind this aristocratic assertion stand the assumption of the au-
tonomy of the individual subject and the strong sense of self-identity
that became culturally prevalent with the rise of the bourgeoisie. Re-
jecting absolutely the institutional expression of aristocratic codes and
values (for instance, Catholic religion"), Bertram in exile actively
subverts the world from which he has been thrown, engaging, like
Byron's Corsair, in a career of invasion and robbery of the aristoc-
racy. Giving form and definition to his defiant personality are such
sentimental traits as absolute devotion to and love for Imogine (just as
Byron's Corsair idealizes Medora), personal physical strength, and a
moody disregard for what others think of him, regardless of the social
status they carry with them. These, combined with his refusal even
to submit to the punishment that has been allotted to him (he takes
his own life instead), mark him as a personal identity rather than as a
social figure-and this provides one context for Coleridge's condem-
nation of the play. In Bertram what matters are not codes and systems
of belief passed down by tradition, nor even the continuing thread of
lineage itself (compare, for instance, Aldobrand's dying remark, "Oh
save my boy" [IV.ii], to Bertram's unflinching defiance of all socially
sanctioned values), but rather the determination of life and value by
one's own personal needs, desires, and experiences. Such a spirit of
individualism does not die with Bertram's suicide at the end of the
play but rather lives as the very spirit of the dramatic action and of the
culture that made the drama tremendously popular.
  Related to Bertram's individualism-and to his suicide-is another
feature telling the instability and ultimate demise of aristocracy,
namely Maturin's handling of forms of punishment. What is sought by
the society against which Bertram has sinned, and specifically by the


in the drama. Both of these facts (stock features of the Byronic hero)
certainly were as critical to the play's immediate popularity as the stock
of Gothic machinery that Maturin and Drury Lane hauled before the
public for twenty-one consecutive nights, for they articulate, however
melodramatically and subliminally, the triumphant bourgeois defiance
of aristocracy.
  The inchoate bourgeois ethos attached to Bertram's character is
visible most immediately in his individualism. On one level, of course,
the individualism described in the drama is not bourgeois at all but
rather, like the individualism presented in Byron's Manfred, a last ex-
treme assertion ofaristocratic authority in the face ofa changing world.
But behind this aristocratic assertion stand the assumption of the au-
tonomy of the individual subject and the strong sense of self-identity
that became culturally prevalent with the rise of the bourgeoisie. Re-
jecting absolutely the institutional expression of aristocratic codes and
values (for instance, Catholic religion"), Bertram in exile actively
subverts the world from which he has been thrown, engaging, like
Byron's Corsair, in a career of invasion and robbery of the aristoc-
racy. Giving form and definition to his defiant personality are such
sentimental traits as absolute devotion to and love for Imogine (just as
Byron's Corsair idealizes Medora), personal physical strength, and a
moody disregard for what others think of him, regardless of the social
status they carry with them. These, combined with his refusal even
to submit to the punishment that has been allotted to him (he takes
his own life instead), mark him as a personal identity rather than as a
social figure-and this provides one context for Coleridge's condem-
nation of the play. In Bertram what matters are not codes and systems
of belief passed down by tradition, nor even the continuing thread of
lineage itself (compare, for instance, Aldobrand's dying remark, "Oh
save my boy" [IV.ii], to Bertram's unflinching defiance of all socially
sanctioned values), but rather the determination of life and value by
one's own personal needs, desires, and experiences. Such a spirit of
individualism does not die with Bertram's suicide at the end of the
play but rather lives as the very spirit of the dramatic action and of the
culture that made the drama tremendously popular.
  Related to Bertram's individualism-and to his suicide-is another
feature telling the instability and ultimate demise of aristocracy,
namely Maturin's handling of forms of punishment. What is sought by
the society against which Bertram has sinned, and specifically by the


in the drama. Both of these facts (stock features of the Byronic hero)
certainly were as critical to the play's immediate popularity as the stock
of Gothic machinery that Maturin and Drury Lane hauled before the
public for twenty-one consecutive nights, for they articulate, however
melodramatically and subliminally, the triumphant bourgeois defiance
of aristocracy.
  The inchoate bourgeois ethos attached to Bertram's character is
visible most immediately in his individualism. On one level, of course,
the individualism described in the drama is not bourgeois at all but
rather, like the individualism presented in Byron's Manfred, a last ex-
treme assertion ofaristocratic authority in the face of a changing world.
But behind this aristocratic assertion stand the assumption of the au-
tonomy of the individual subject and the strong sense of self-identity
that became culturally prevalent with the rise of the bourgeoisie. Re-
jecting absolutely the institutional expression of aristocratic codes and
values (for instance, Catholic religion"), Bertram in exile actively
subverts the world from which he has been thrown, engaging, like
Byron's Corsair, in a career of invasion and robbery of the aristoc-
racy. Giving form and definition to his defiant personality are such
sentimental traits as absolute devotion to and love for Imogine (just as
Byron's Corsair idealizes Medora), personal physical strength, and a
moody disregard for what others think of him, regardless of the social
status they carry with them. These, combined with his refusal even
to submit to the punishment that has been allotted to him (he takes
his own life instead), mark him as a personal identity rather than as a
social figure-and this provides one context for Coleridge's condem-
nation of the play. In Bertram what matters are not codes and systems
of belief passed down by tradition, nor even the continuing thread of
lineage itself (compare, for instance, Aldobrand's dying remark, "Oh
save my boy" [IV.ii], to Bertram's unflinching defiance of all socially
sanctioned values), but rather the determination of life and value by
one's own personal needs, desires, and experiences. Such a spirit of
individualism does not die with Bertram's suicide at the end of the
play but rather lives as the very spirit of the dramatic action and of the
culture that made the drama tremendously popular.
  Related to Bertram's individualism-and to his suicide-is another
feature telling the instability and ultimate demise of aristocracy,
namely Maturin's handling offorms of punishment. What is sought by
the society against which Bertram has sinned, and specifically by the



Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / i3                                   Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 103                                  Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 103


military and religious authorities controlling this world, are Bertram's
public confession of guilt and plea for mercy, followed by public exe-
cution. Such a course of events, while doing nothing to bring Saint
Aldobrand back from the dead or Imogine from madness, would effec-
tively demonstrate the stability and continuing authority of the social
order by casting Bertram's actions as an aberration from a social stan-
dard of propriety and by publicly demonstrating the sanctity and just-
ness of the prevailing social authority. The actual course of events,
however, has the reverse effect of throwing into relief the weakening
of society and the changing nature of human pain and understanding
of crime. When asked why he has murdered Saint Aldobrand, Bertram
provides a simple, cold, and painfully narrow answer: "He wronged
me, and I slew him" (V.i). This is followed immediately by Bertram's
warning that public punishment cannot touch him for his crime, for
his pain is immune to social judgment:
         Be most ingenious in your cruelty-
         Let rack and pincer do their full work on me-
         'Twill rouse me from that dread unnatural sleep,
         In which my soul hath dreamt its dreams of agony-
         This is my prayer, ye'll not refuse it to me. (V.i)

At the end of the same scene, when the prior encourages him to pray
for mercy, Bertram makes a similar remark: "Give me your racks and
tortures, spare me words" (V.i). One major point here, of course, is
clear even at the level of plot, namely that Bertram's crime and pain
are so deeply personal that they cannot be publicly defined and dealt
with. The ideological dimension of his comments, however, are more
complex. The utter privatization of value and judgment implicit in his
explanation of his conduct is staggering, rendering meaningless the
authority of the prior and of the military. As Bertram himself knows,
he can be executed but not conquered (V.i), and this means that the ex-
ample of his conduct permanently defies authority, leaving the horror
of his deeds to echo through a hollow world."
   The shattering significance of Bertram's actions and comments is
suggested by numerous passing comments and details in the later
scenes that tend to describe individual situations in a language of social
or public life, so that individual fates are made to appear as the fate of
aristocratic social order itself. The prior, for instance, intimates that
the violence and powerful, awe-inspiring criminality of Bertram re-


military and religious authorities controlling this world, are Bertram's
public confession of guilt and plea for mercy, followed by public exe-
cution. Such a course of events, while doing nothing to bring Saint
Aldobrand back from the dead or Imogine from madness, would effec-
tively demonstrate the stability and continuing authority of the social
order by casting Bertram's actions as an aberration from a social stan-
dard of propriety and by publicly demonstrating the sanctity and just-
ness of the prevailing social authority. The actual course of events,
however, has the reverse effect of throwing into relief the weakening
of society and the changing nature of human pain and understanding
of crime. When asked why he has murdered Saint Aldobrand, Bertram
provides a simple, cold, and painfully narrow answer: "He wronged
me, and I slew him" (V.i). This is followed immediately by Bertram's
warning that public punishment cannot touch him for his crime, for
his pain is immune to social judgment:
         Be most ingenious in your cruelty-
         Let rack and pincer do their full work on me-
         'Twill rouse me from that dread unnatural sleep,
         In which my soul hath dreamt its dreams of agony-
         This is my prayer, ye'll not refuse it to me. (V.i)

At the end of the same scene, when the prior encourages him to pray
for mercy, Bertram makes a similar remark: "Give me your racks and
tortures, spare me words" (V.i). One major point here, of course, is
clear even at the level of plot, namely that Bertram's crime and pain
are so deeply personal that they cannot be publicly defined and dealt
with. The ideological dimension of his comments, however, are more
complex. The utter privatization of value and judgment implicit in his
explanation of his conduct is staggering, rendering meaningless the
authority of the prior and of the military. As Bertram himself knows,
he can be executed but not conquered (V.i), and this means that the ex-
ample of his conduct permanently defies authority, leaving the horror
of his deeds to echo through a hollow world."
   The shattering significance of Bertram's actions and comments is
suggested by numerous passing comments and details in the later
scenes that tend to describe individual situations in a language ofsocial
or public life, so that individual fates are made to appear as the fate of
aristocratic social order itself. The prior, for instance, intimates that
the violence and powerful, awe-inspiring criminality of Bertram re-


military and religious authorities controlling this world, are Bertram's
public confession of guilt and plea for mercy, followed by public exe-
cution. Such a course of events, while doing nothing to bring Saint
Aldobrand back from the dead or Imogine from madness, would effec-
tively demonstrate the stability and continuing authority of the social
order by casting Bertram's actions as an aberration from a social stan-
dard of propriety and by publicly demonstrating the sanctity and just-
ness of the prevailing social authority. The actual course of events,
however, has the reverse effect of throwing into relief the weakening
of society and the changing nature of human pain and understanding
of crime. When asked why he has murdered Saint Aldobrand, Bertram
provides a simple, cold, and painfully narrow answer: "He wronged
me, and I slew him" (V.i). This is followed immediately by Bertram's
warning that public punishment cannot touch him for his crime, for
his pain is immune to social judgment:
         Be most ingenious in your cruelty-
         Let rack and pincer do their full work on me-
         'Twill rouse me from that dread unnatural sleep,
         In which my soul hath dreamt its dreams of agony-
         This is my prayer, ye'll not refuse it to me. (V.i)

At the end of the same scene, when the prior encourages him to pray
for mercy, Bertram makes a similar remark: "Give me your racks and
tortures, spare me words" (V.i). One major point here, of course, is
clear even at the level of plot, namely that Bertram's crime and pain
are so deeply personal that they cannot be publicly defined and dealt
with. The ideological dimension of his comments, however, are more
complex. The utter privatization of value and judgment implicit in his
explanation of his conduct is staggering, rendering meaningless the
authority of the prior and of the military. As Bertram himself knows,
he can be executed but not conquered (V.i), and this means that the ex-
ample of his conduct permanently defies authority, leaving the horror
of his deeds to echo through a hollow world."
   The shattering significance of Bertram's actions and comments is
suggested by numerous passing comments and details in the later
scenes that tend to describe individual situations in a language of social
or public life, so that individual fates are made to appear as the fate of
aristocratic social order itself. The prior, for instance, intimates that
the violence and powerful, awe-inspiring criminality of Bertram re-



ioq/ Eglsh         omnti Damat-                          / Enls Roani Drm                                                     to   nls Rmni      rm


verberate through the social order. His sense-or fear-that Bertram's
deeds carry more than personal meaning is seen not only in his des-
perate, failed attempts to convince Bertram to accept the mercy-and
hence judgment-of the church and state, but also in his several re-
marks identifying the immediate tragedy with the larger structure of
social life. In response to Bertram's comment that
             I deemed that when I struck the final blow
             Mankind expired, and we were left alone,
             The corse and I were left alone together,
             The only tenants of a blasted world (V.i)

the prior commands the knights attending the prisoner to "Advance,
and seize him, ere his voice of blasphemy / Shall pile the roof in ruins
o'er our heads" (V.i). In an earlier moment he also remarks about
Saint Aldobrand that "his halls are desolate-the lonely walls / Echo
my single tread" (V.i). Clotilda's sad comment that, after murder-
ing Saint Aldobrand, Bertram "sat in dread society, / The corse and
murderer . . . there together" (V.i) bears testimony that the necessary
vocabulary for describing the ugly situation is social rather than per-
sonal, and it is a vocabulary that echoes Bertram's own tendency to
see social decay and death around him. Within such a context, where
murder echoes through the "halls," "society," and the "world," even
the prior's final, short, and chilling descriptions about Imogine's fatal
struggle with madness ("'Tis past" [V.iii]) and about Bertram's sui-
cide ("He dies, he dies" [V.iii]) become a description too of the larger
social order. The lord of the castle, Lord Aldobrand, is dead; Imogine
and her child are dead, the former from madness and the latter pre-
sumably by his mother's hand; and Bertram, a once glorious and noble
youth, is dead by his own hand: the military is unable to prevent any
of this, and the prior is unable to rationalize or explain it in terms of
any existing codes and values.
   Bertram's internalization and privatization of pain to the point
where socialjudgment is impossible is complemented interestingly by
the portrayal of Imogine's madness. Maturin's decision to thrust the
heroine into madness, while giving the hero the more socially respect-
able conduct of defiance, noble speeches, and suicide, is a sign of the
patriarchal ideology governing gender relations in the drama, and as
such it provides an important insight into yet another dimension of
social conflict that is borne and acted out by individuals. Imogine's


verberate through the social order. His sense-or fear-that Bertram's
deeds carry more than personal meaning is seen not only in his des-
perate, failed attempts to convince Bertram to accept the mercy-and
hence judgment-of the church and state, but also in his several re-
marks identifying the immediate tragedy with the larger structure of
social life. In response to Bertram's comment that

             Ideemed that when I struck the final blow
             Mankind expired, and we were left alone,
             The corse and I were left alone together,
             The only tenants of a blasted world (V.i)

the prior commands the knights attending the prisoner to "Advance,
and seize him, ere his voice of blasphemy / Shall pile the roof in ruins
o'er our heads" (V.i). In an earlier moment he also remarks about
Saint Aldobrand that "his halls are desolate-the lonely walls / Echo
my single tread" (V.i). Clotilda's sad comment that, after murder-
ing Saint Aldobrand, Bertram "sat in dread society, / The corse and
murderer . . . there together" (V.i) bears testimony that the necessary
vocabulary for describing the ugly situation is social rather than per-
sonal, and it is a vocabulary that echoes Bertram's own tendency to
see social decay and death around him. Within such a context, where
murder echoes through the "halls," "society," and the "world," even
the prior's final, short, and chilling descriptions about Imogine's fatal
struggle with madness ("'Tis past" [V.iii]) and about Bertram's sui-
cide ("He dies, he dies" [V.iii]) become a description too of the larger
social order. The lord of the castle, Lord Aldobrand, is dead; Imogine
and her child are dead, the former from madness and the latter pre-
sumably by his mother's hand; and Bertram, a once glorious and noble
youth, is dead by his own hand: the military is unable to prevent any
of this, and the prior is unable to rationalize or explain it in terms of
any existing codes and values.
   Bertram's internalization and privatization of pain to the point
where social judgment is impossible is complemented interestingly by
the portrayal of Imogine's madness. Maturin's decision to thrust the
heroine into madness, while giving the hero the more socially respect-
able conduct of defiance, noble speeches, and suicide, is a sign of the
patriarchal ideology governing gender relations in the drama, and as
such it provides an important insight into yet another dimension of
social conflict that is borne and acted out by individuals. Imogine's


verberate through the social order. His sense-or fear-that Bertram's
deeds carry more than personal meaning is seen not only in his des-
perate, failed attempts to convince Bertram to accept the mercy-and
hence judgment-of the church and state, but also in his several re-
marks identifying the immediate tragedy with the larger structure of
social life. In response to Bertram's comment that
             I deemed that when I struck the final blow
             Mankind expired, and we were left alone,
             The corse and I were left alone together,
             The only tenants of a blasted world (V.i)

the prior commands the knights attending the prisoner to "Advance,
and seize him, ere his voice of blasphemy / Shall pile the roof in ruins
o'er our heads" (V.i). In an earlier moment he also remarks about
Saint Aldobrand that "his halls are desolate-the lonely walls / Echo
my single tread" (V.i). Clotilda's sad comment that, after murder-
ing Saint Aldobrand, Bertram "sat in dread society, / The corse and
murderer . . . there together" (V.i) bears testimony that the necessary
vocabulary for describing the ugly situation is social rather than per-
sonal, and it is a vocabulary that echoes Bertram's own tendency to
see social decay and death around him. Within such a context, where
murder echoes through the "halls," "society," and the "world," even
the prior's final, short, and chilling descriptions about Imogine's fatal
struggle with madness ("'Tis past" [V.iii]) and about Bertram's sui-
cide ("He dies, he dies" [V.iii]) become a description too of the larger
social order. The lord of the castle, Lord Aldobrand, is dead; Imogine
and her child are dead, the former from madness and the latter pre-
sumably by his mother's hand; and Bertram, a once glorious and noble
youth, is dead by his own hand: the military is unable to prevent any
of this, and the prior is unable to rationalize or explain it in terms of
any existing codes and values.
   Bertram's internalization and privatization of pain to the point
where social judgment is impossible is complemented interestingly by
the portrayal of Imogine's madness. Maturin's decision to thrust the
heroine into madness, while giving the hero the more socially respect-
able conduct of defiance, noble speeches, and suicide, is a sign of the
patriarchal ideology governing gender relations in the drama, and as
such it provides an important insight into yet another dimension of
social conflict that is borne and acted out by individuals. Imogine's



          Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 105

madness in the final act carries to an extreme the withdrawal and isola-
tion that she had been identified with earlier. Caught from the begin-
ning between the pull of her own heart and the oppressive demands of
a patriarchal society and family, she is, as a woman, powerless to act.
At various moments she is subject to a lover, a husband, a father, and
a monk-all men who make claims on her and assume responsibility
for giving her an identity, so that, even more than Bertram, she never
has a real home other than the nebulous and precarious dream world
of her own mind. As she is pushed and pulled through the world of
the drama, she finds ever fewer resources in society or within herself
to draw on.
To cite only one example of her marginalization, at a moment of
extreme crisis, when she is torn between her passion for Bertram and
her sense of obligation to her husband, Imogine confesses her anguish
to the prior:

     Last night, oh! last night told a dreadful secret-
     The moon went down, its sinking ray shut out
     The parting form of one beloved too well.-
     With nought that lov'd me, and with nought to love
     I stood upon the desart earth alone-
     I stood and wondered at my desolation-
     And in that deep and utter agony,
     Though then, than ever most unfit to die,
     I fell upon my knees, and prayed for death. (III.ii)

Her need and her plea to the prior are for human compassion and spiri-
tual comfort, for a support, in other words, which will provide her
with an enabling basis for her identity. The response she gets from the
prior, however, is entirely deaf to these pleas, insisting instead that all
she needs to remember are her responsibilities to a situation and role
she has not chosen:

     Art thou a wife and mother, and canst speak
     Of life rejected by the desperate passion-
     These bursting tears, wrung hands, and burning words
     Are these the signs of penitence or passion?
     Thou comest to me, for to my ear alone
     May the deep secret of thy heart be told,
     And fancy riot in the luscious poison-


          Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / ao5

madness in the final act carries to an extreme the withdrawal and isola-
tion that she had been identified with earlier. Caught from the begin-
ning between the pull of her own heart and the oppressive demands of
a patriarchal society and family, she is, as a woman, powerless to act.
At various moments she is subject to a lover, a husband, a father, and
a monk-all men who make claims on her and assume responsibility
for giving her an identity, so that, even more than Bertram, she never
has a real home other than the nebulous and precarious dream world
of her own mind. As she is pushed and pulled through the world of
the drama, she finds ever fewer resources in society or within herself
to draw on.
To cite only one example of her marginalization, at a moment of
extreme crisis, when she is torn between her passion for Bertram and
her sense of obligation to her husband, Imogine confesses her anguish
to the prior:

    Last night, oh! last night told a dreadful secret-
    The moon went down, its sinking ray shut out
    The parting form of one beloved too well.-
    With nought that lov'd me, and with nought to love
    I stood upon the desart earth alone-
    I stood and wondered at my desolation-
    And in that deep and utter agony,
    Though then, than ever most unfit to die,
    I fell upon my knees, and prayed for death. (Ill.ii)

Her need and her plea to the prior are for human compassion and spiri-
tual comfort, for a support, in other words, which will provide her
with an enabling basis for her identity. The response she gets from the
prior, however, is entirely deaf to these pleas, insisting instead that all
she needs to remember are her responsibilities to a situation and role
she has not chosen:

     Art thou a wife and mother, and cant speak
     Of life rejected by the desperate passion-
     These bursting tears, wrung hands, and burning words
     Are these the signs of penitence or passion?
     Thou comest to me, for to my ear alone
     May the deep secret of thy heart be told,
     And fancy riot in the luscious poison-


          Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 105

madness in the final act carries to an extreme the withdrawal and isola-
tion that she had been identified with earlier. Caught from the begin-
ning between the pull of her own heart and the oppressive demands of
a patriarchal society and family, she is, as a woman, powerless to act.
At various moments she is subject to a lover, a husband, a father, and
a monk-all men who make claims on her and assume responsibility
for giving her an identity, so that, even more than Bertram, she never
has a real home other than the nebulous and precarious dream world
of her own mind. As she is pushed and pulled through the world of
the drama, she finds ever fewer resources in society or within herself
to draw on.
To cite only one example of her marginalization, at a moment of
extreme crisis, when she is torn between her passion for Bertram and
her sense of obligation to her husband, Imogine confesses her anguish
to the prior:

    Last night, oh! last night told a dreadful secret-
    The moon went down, its sinking ray shut out
    The parting form of one beloved too well.-
    With nought that lov'd me, and with nought to love
    I stood upon the desart earth alone-
    I stood and wondered at my desolation-
    And in that deep and utter agony,
    Though then, than ever most unfit to die,
    I fell upon my knees, and prayed for death. (IIl.ii)

Her need and her plea to the prior are for human compassion and spiri-
tual comfort, for a support, in other words, which will provide her
with an enabling basis for her identity. The response she gets from the
prior, however, is entirely deaf to these pleas, insisting instead that all
she needs to remember are her responsibilities to a situation and role
she has not chosen:

     Art thou a wife and mother, and canst speak
     Of life rejected by the desperate passion-
     These bursting tears, wrung hands, and burning words
     Are these the signs of penitence or passion?
     Thou comest to me, for to my ear alone
     May the deep secret of thy heart be told,
     And fancy riot in the luscious poison-



            se6 / English Romantic Drama

  Fond of the misery we paint so well,
  Proud of the sacrifice of broken hearts,
  We pour on heaven's dread ear, what man's would shrink from-
  Yea, make a merit of the impious insult,
  And wrest the function of mine holy office
  To the foul ministry of earthly passion. (III.ii)

The human ugliness of this speech is staggering, surpassed only by the
prior's subsequent condemnations of Imogine ("Thou art a wretch";
"I do pronounce unto thy soul-despair" [V.i]). While he is respectful
of, and deferential toward, Bertram, a criminal who never displays the
slightest regard for religious belief, the prior refuses Imogine any pos-
sibility of integrity or even identity outside the narrow social roles that
have been allotted to her, and when her own personal needs take her
away from these roles he simply discards her as a blot on society. To put
the matter somewhat differently and much more bluntly, the prior's
handling of Imogine suggests that, under aristocratic patriarchy, a
woman who needs compassion and personal support amid social and
individual turmoil is worse than a man who commits murder.
The effect of the prior's accusing response, of course, is to drive
Imogine farther back into the darkest regions ofher own mind-rather
than drawing her into the world of social exchange-and to pave the
way for her eventual mad wanderings in the forest. While at this late
moment in the drama the prior pleads with "all-pitying Heaven" to
"release her from this misery" (V.iii) of madness, Imogine is utterly
lost, voicing pain and horror that expose an opposite side of social
deterioration from that which Bertram's conduct discloses. When the
prior approaches the mad Imogine, for instance, and takes hold of
her, she shrilly responds, "Oh, spare the torture-and I will confess"
(V.iii). This statement reverses Bertram's desire for physical torture as
a way of awakening his soul from an unnatural sleep, and in doing
so again suggests the distance between masculine and feminine life in
the world depicted in the drama. That is, Bertram's mind, like that of
Milton's Satan and Byron's Manfred, is its own place, enclosing a will
and spirit that are perdurable, active, and set, stone-like, against all
social sensibility. Imogine's inner world, on the other hand, is entirely
hollow and passive, her withdrawal into a subjective realm of desire
grounded upon nothing more than dreams that have been shaped and
defined by one sort or another of masculine authority. The passive


            re6 / English Romantic Drama

  Fond of the misery we paint so well,
  Proud of the sacrifice of broken hearts,
  We pour on heaven's dread ear, what man's would shrink from-
  Yea, make a merit of the impious insult,
  And wrest the function of mine holy office
  To the foul ministry of earthly passion. (Ill.ii)

The human ugliness of this speech is staggering, surpassed only by the
prior's subsequent condemnations of Imogine ("Thou art a wretch";
"I do pronounce unto thy soul-despair" [V.i]). While he is respectful
of, and deferential toward, Bertram, a criminal who never displays the
slightest regard for religious belief, the prior refuses Imogine any pos-
sibility of integrity or even identity outside the narrow social roles that
have been allotted to her, and when her own personal needs take her
away from these roles he simply discards her as a blot on society. To put
the matter somewhat differently and much more bluntly, the prior's
handling of Imogine suggests that, under aristocratic patriarchy, a
woman who needs compassion and personal support amid social and
individual turmoil is worse than a man who commits murder.
The effect of the prior's accusing response, of course, is to drive
Imogine farther back into the darkest regions of her own mind-rather
than drawing her into the world of social exchange-and to pave the
way for her eventual mad wanderings in the forest. While at this late
moment in the drama the prior pleads with "all-pitying Heaven" to
"release her from this misery" (V.iii) of madness, Imogine is utterly
lost, voicing pain and horror that expose an opposite side of social
deterioration from that which Bertram's conduct discloses. When the
prior approaches the mad Imogine, for instance, and takes hold of
her, she shrilly responds, "Oh, spare the torture-and I will confess"
(V.iii). This statement reverses Bertram's desire for physical torture as
a way of awakening his soul from an unnatural sleep, and in doing
so again suggests the distance between masculine and feminine life in
the world depicted in the drama. That is, Bertram's mind, like that of
Milton's Satan and Byron's Manfred, is its own place, enclosing a will
and spirit that are perdurable, active, and set, stone-like, against all
social sensibility. Imogine's inner world, on the other hand, is entirely
hollow and passive, her withdrawal into a subjective realm of desire
grounded upon nothing more than dreams that have been shaped and
defined by one sort or another of masculine authority. The passive


            ra6 / English Romantic Drama

  Fond of the misery we paint so well,
  Proud of the sacrifice of broken hearts,
  We pour on heaven's dread ear, what man's would shrink from-
  Yea, make a merit of the impious insult,
  And wrest the function of mine holy office
  To the foul ministry of earthly passion. (III.ii)

The human ugliness of this speech is staggering, surpassed only by the
prior's subsequent condemnations of Imogine ("Thou art a wretch";
"I do pronounce unto thy soul-despair" [V.i]). While he is respectful
of, and deferential toward, Bertram, a criminal who never displays the
slightest regard for religious belief, the prior refuses Imogine any pos-
sibility of integrity or even identity outside the narrow social roles that
have been allotted to her, and when her own personal needs take her
away from these roles he simply discards her as a blot on society. To put
the matter somewhat differently and much more bluntly, the prior's
handling of Imogine suggests that, under aristocratic patriarchy, a
woman who needs compassion and personal support amid social and
individual turmoil is worse than a man who commits murder.
The effect of the prior's accusing response, of course, is to drive
Imogine farther back into the darkest regions of her own mind-rather
than drawing her into the world of social exchange-and to pave the
way for her eventual mad wanderings in the forest. While at this late
moment in the drama the prior pleads with "all-pitying Heaven" to
"release her from this misery" (V.iii) of madness, Imogine is utterly
lost, voicing pain and horror that expose an opposite side of social
deterioration from that which Bertram's conduct discloses. When the
prior approaches the mad Imogine, for instance, and takes hold of
her, she shrilly responds, "Oh, spare the torture-and I will confess"
(V.iii). This statement reverses Bertram's desire for physical torture as
a way of awakening his soul from an unnatural sleep, and in doing
so again suggests the distance between masculine and feminine life in
the world depicted in the drama. That is, Bertram's mind, like that of
Milton's Satan and Byron's Manfred, is its own place, enclosing a will
and spirit that are perdurable, active, and set, stone-like, against all
social sensibility. Imogine's inner world, on the other hand, is entirely
hollow and passive, her withdrawal into a subjective realm of desire
grounded upon nothing more than dreams that have been shaped and
defined by one sort or another of masculine authority. The passive



          Charles Rober Maturin's Bertram / 107

longing of the soul is all that is allowed to her. Fear of physical tor-
ture, then, naturally paralyzes her, for her inner world has long been
tortured by its very meagerness and narrowness, and only her flesh
remains relatively free of pain. In this view, her situation throughout
is more serious, more desperate, than Bertram's, though it appears
less valorous by being defined against the bold, active resistance of
Bertram to his world.
  The point here is that any argument about Bertram's portrayal of
an inchoate bourgeois ethos of individual autonomy must be clarified
along gender lines, for the autonomy of the individual subject in a
bourgeois world-no less than the social situatedness of individuals in
that world-is discriminatory. Imogine's position as an aristocrat and
her display of subjectivity are not the same as Bertram's nobility and
individuality, for both display her apparent inferiority to her mascu-
line counterpart. The historical transformation of individual and social
reality from aristocratic to bourgeois cultural formations, even while
destroying the ideological center of an entire way of life, retains cer-
tain hierarchies of value (in this instance, patriarchy) that enable the
bourgeoisie to secure and extend its authority and identity. Imogine's
character perfectly demonstrates this point, as it not only exempli-
fies-in madness and murder-aristocracy shrinking out of control
but also the emotionalism and absolute personal loyalty to the strong
individual male that are demanded of women under bourgeois patri-
archal social relations.
  One major feature of the drama that serves as an institutional focus
of the conflicts sketched thus far is religion, discussed briefly above in
terms of Bertram's defiance and Imogine's madness. From the begin-
ning the monks and the prior display an odd combination of integrity,
fear, coldness, deceit, warmth, and confusion. The prior is unable to
condemn Bertram absolutely, even after Bertram's worst crimes have
been made known (see V.i), although, as mentioned above, he readily
condemns the less guilty Imogine. And throughout the play the vari-
ous religious figures, who seem consistently to wish for peace and
goodness, speak oftheir anxiety and fear arising from actual and imag-
ined events. Perhaps the clearest indicator of the large social signifi-
cance of their various comments and attitudes is the opening scene of
the drama, which first describes several monks facing a severe storm,
followed by a description of the wreck of Bertram's ship and the
monks' desperate concern for the victims. As the storm rages and be-


          Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 107

longing of the soul is all that is allowed to her. Fear of physical tor-
ture, then, naturally paralyzes her, for her inner world has long been
tortured by its very meagerness and narrowness, and only her flesh
remains relatively free of pain. In this view, her situation throughout
is more serious, more desperate, than Bertram's, though it appears
less valorous by being defined against the bold, active resistance of
Bertram to his world.
  The point here is that any argument about Bertram's portrayal of
an inchoate bourgeois ethos of individual autonomy must be clarified
along gender lines, for the autonomy of the individual subject in a
bourgeois world-no less than the social situatedness of individuals in
that world-is discriminatory. Imogine's position as an aristocrat and
her display of subjectivity are not the same as Bertram's nobility and
individuality, for both display her apparent inferiority to her mascu-
line counterpart. The historical transformation of individual and social
reality from aristocratic to bourgeois cultural formations, even while
destroying the ideological center of an entire way of life, retains cer-
tain hierarchies of value (in this instance, patriarchy) that enable the
bourgeoisie to secure and extend its authority and identity. Imogine's
character perfectly demonstrates this point, as it not only exempli-
fies-in madness and murder-aristocracy shrinking out of control
but also the emotionalism and absolute personal loyalty to the strong
individual male that are demanded of women under bourgeois patri-
archal social relations.
  One major feature of the drama that serves as an institutional focus
of the conflicts sketched thus far is religion, discussed briefly above in
terms of Bertram's defiance and Imogine's madness. From the begin-
ning the monks and the prior display an odd combination of integrity,
fear, coldness, deceit, warmth, and confusion. The prior is unable to
condemn Bertram absolutely, even after Bertram's worst crimes have
been made known (see V.i), although, as mentioned above, he readily
condemns the less guilty Imogine. And throughout the play the vari-
ous religious figures, who seem consistently to wish for peace and
goodness, speak of their anxiety and fear arising from actual and imag-
ined events. Perhaps the clearest indicator of the large social signifi-
cance of their various comments and attitudes is the opening scene of
the drama, which first describes several monks facing a severe storm,
followed by a description of the wreck of Bertram's ship and the
monks' desperate concern for the victims. As the storm rages and be-


          Charles Roben Maturin's Bertram / 107

longing of the soul is all that is allowed to her. Fear of physical tor-
ture, then, naturally paralyzes her, for her inner world has long been
tortured by its very meagerness and narrowness, and only her flesh
remains relatively free of pain. In this view, her situation throughout
is more serious, more desperate, than Bertram's, though it appears
less valorous by being defined against the bold, active resistance of
Bertram to his world.
The point here is that any argument about Bertram's portrayal of
an inchoate bourgeois ethos of individual autonomy must be clarified
along gender lines, for the autonomy of the individual subject in a
bourgeois world-no less than the social situatedness of individuals in
that world-is discriminatory. Imogine's position as an aristocrat and
her display of subjectivity are not the same as Bertram's nobility and
individuality, for both display her apparent inferiority to her mascu-
line counterpart. The historical transformation of individual and social
reality from aristocratic to bourgeois cultural formations, even while
destroying the ideological center of an entire way of life, retains cer-
tain hierarchies of value (in this instance, patriarchy) that enable the
bourgeoisie to secure and extend its authority and identity. Imogine's
character perfectly demonstrates this point, as it not only exempli-
fies-in madness and murder-aristocracy shrinking out of control
but also the emotionalism and absolute personal loyalty to the strong
individual male that are demanded of women under bourgeois patri-
archal social relations.
  One major feature of the drama that serves as an institutional focus
of the conflicts sketched thus far is religion, discussed briefly above in
terms of Bertram's defiance and Imogine's madness. From the begin-
ning the monks and the prior display an odd combination of integrity,
fear, coldness, deceit, warmth, and confusion. The prior is unable to
condemn Bertram absolutely, even after Bertram's worst crimes have
been made known (see V.i), although, as mentioned above, he readily
condemns the less guilty Imogine. And throughout the play the vari-
ous religious figures, who seem consistently to wish for peace and
goodness, speak of their anxiety and fear arising from actual and imag-
ined events. Perhaps the clearest indicator of the large social signifi-
cance of their various comments and attitudes is the opening scene of
the drama, which first describes several monks facing a severe storm,
followed by a description of the wreck of Bertram's ship and the
monks' desperate concern for the victims. As the storm rages and be-



io /EnlihRoanicDrm   W/ ngis omntc raaCot                       EgiRmatc rm


fore they are aware that a ship has capsized, the monks repeatedly
express their terror of the great storm besieging their convent, a storm
so great, the first monk remarks, that "relic, and rosary, and crucifix, /
Did rock and quiver in the bickering glare" (Li). The immediate cause
for such comments, of course, is the theatergoing public's demand for
Gothic horror, and Maturin's eagerness to satisfy that demand. But
narrow stage and public considerations notwithstanding, these open-
ing scenes suggest fear and anxiety at the very center of the feudal
world, articulating doubts about even the continued existence of reli-
gious authority and credibility. When Bertram's ship is spotted in the
storm, religious strength and faith erode even further, as the prior first
boldly commits himself to praying for the ship's members, refusing
to leave the dangerous storm for the safety of the convent, and then
collapses into the arms of his fellow monks who carry him away.
The distinction between this collective frenzy and Bertram's indi-
vidual response to the storm is striking. Amid the monks' horror that
the ravings ofnature are a sign of the impending doom of all humanity,
Bertram-silently, alone, and through treacherous waters-carves his
own personal way to survival. And in subsequent scenes the sheer
courage and will associated with this act never diminish, and the monks
and prior never recover their collective self-esteem, failing even to
carry out the execution of Bertram, which would display the con-
tinued authority of church and state. The various religious figures,
and especially the prior, seek to follow a course of action geared to re-
flect and perpetuate aristocratic value, and yet at every turn they defile
aristocracy and display powerlessness and awe in the face of Bertram's
defiant will. Religion, however much believers try, cannot put the
social order back together again once it has been invaded and disrupted
by Bertram, whose mind repeatedly overwhelms all efforts to estab-
lish the controlling reality of an aristocratically defined religion and
society.
Two final, related matters need to be mentioned briefly that might
clarify the apparently conflicting or divergent perspectives on the in-
choate bourgeois individualism that I have thus far been tracking: the
separation that Bertram claims and seems to demonstrate between his
body and his mind; and his suicide. It is clear throughout the drama
that Bertram cares very little about the direction that his life might
take, or even about whether he lives or dies. As one monk explains
after watching Bertram save himself from the storm: ". . . there was


fore they are aware that a ship has capsized, the monks repeatedly
express their terror of the great storm besieging their convent, a storm
so great, the first monk remarks, that "relic, and rosary, and crucifix, /
Did rock and quiver in the bickering glare" (I.i). The immediate cause
for such comments, of course, is the theatergoing public's demand for
Gothic horror, and Maturin's eagerness to satisfy that demand. But
narrow stage and public considerations notwithstanding, these open-
ing scenes suggest fear and anxiety at the very center of the feudal
world, articulating doubts about even the continued existence of reli-
gious authority and credibility. When Bertram's ship is spotted in the
storm, religious strength and faith erode even further, as the prior first
boldly commits himself to praying for the ship's members, refusing
to leave the dangerous storm for the safety of the convent, and then
collapses into the arms of his fellow monks who carry him away.
The distinction between this collective frenzy and Bertram's indi-
vidual response to the storm is striking. Amid the monks' horror that
the ravings ofnature are a sign of the impending doom of all humanity,
Bertram-silently, alone, and through treacherous waters-carves his
own personal way to survival. And in subsequent scenes the sheer
courage and will associated with this act never diminish, and the monks
and prior never recover their collective self-esteem, failing even to
carry out the execution of Bertram, which would display the con-
tinued authority of church and state. The various religious figures,
and especially the prior, seek to follow a course of action geared to re-
flect and perpetuate aristocratic value, and yet at every turn they defile
aristocracy and display powerlessness and awe in the face of Bertram's
defiant will. Religion, however much believers try, cannot put the
social order back together again once it has been invaded and disrupted
by Bertram, whose mind repeatedly overwhelms all efforts to estab-
lish the controlling reality of an aristocratically defined religion and
society.
Two final, related matters need to be mentioned briefly that might
clarify the apparently conflicting or divergent perspectives on the in-
choate bourgeois individualism that I have thus far been tracking: the
separation that Bertram claims and seems to demonstrate between his
body and his mind; and his suicide. It is clear throughout the drama
that Bertram cares very little about the direction that his life might
take, or even about whether he lives or dies. As one monk explains
after watching Bertram save himself from the storm: "... there was


fore they are aware that a ship has capsized, the monks repeatedly
express their terror of the great storm besieging their convent, a storm
so great, the first monk remarks, that "relic, and rosary, and crucifix, /
Did rock and quiver in the bickering glare" (I.i). The immediate cause
for such comments, of course, is the theatergoing public's demand for
Gothic horror, and Maturin's eagerness to satisfy that demand. But
narrow stage and public considerations notwithstanding, these open-
ing scenes suggest fear and anxiety at the very center of the feudal
world, articulating doubts about even the continued existence of reli-
gious authority and credibility. When Bertram's ship is spotted in the
storm, religious strength and faith erode even further, as the prior first
boldly commits himself to praying for the ship's members, refusing
to leave the dangerous storm for the safety of the convent, and then
collapses into the arms of his fellow monks who carry him away.
The distinction between this collective frenzy and Bertram's indi-
vidual response to the storm is striking. Amid the monks' horror that
the ravings ofnature are a sign of the impending doom of all humanity,
Bertram-silently, alone, and through treacherous waters-carves his
own personal way to survival. And in subsequent scenes the sheer
courage and will associated with this act never diminish, and the monks
and prior never recover their collective self-esteem, failing even to
carry out the execution of Bertram, which would display the con-
tinued authority of church and state. The various religious figures,
and especially the prior, seek to follow a course of action geared to re-
flect and perpetuate aristocratic value, and yet at every turn they defile
aristocracy and display powerlessness and awe in the face of Bertram's
defiant will. Religion, however much believers try, cannot put the
social order back together again once it has been invaded and disrupted
by Bertram, whose mind repeatedly overwhelms all efforts to estab-
lish the controlling reality of an aristocratically defined religion and
society.
  Two final, related matters need to be mentioned briefly that might
clarify the apparently conflicting or divergent perspectives on the in-
choate bourgeois individualism that I have thus far been tracking: the
separation that Bertram claims and seems to demonstrate between his
body and his mind; and his suicide. It is clear throughout the drama
that Bertram cares very little about the direction that his life might
take, or even about whether he lives or dies. As one monk explains
after watching Bertram save himself from the storm: "... there was



Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / lo9   Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 1o9   Charles Robert Maturin's Bertram / 1o9


one did battle with the storm, / With careless, desperate force; full
many times / His life was won and lost, as though he recked not"
(Liii). Once brought before the monks, he asks them to "plunge me
in the waves from which ye snatched me" (I.iii). This same disregard
for his own life is seen again later when he asks his captors to torture
him (see above, "Let rack and pincer do their full work on me"). Such
statements do not mean that Bertram lacks self-identity or self-worth
but rather that public struggle has come to be seen as pointless or im-
possible, so much so that Bertram retreats into the recesses of his own
inner world to establish a rigorous, defensive, and self-willed private
value system, one that is ostensibly independent of and resistant to the
sordid public world.
  At this level-the level of what Eli Zaretsky (writing in a differ-
ent context) calls "predetermined inner life"0-Bertram is confident
and strong, as is seen not only in the awe with which everyone from
Imogine to the prior approach him (despite his clearly dissipated physi-
cal appearance) but also in his suicide. While Bertram's suicide is per-
haps most immediately a sign of despair, at the same time it indicates
the possibility of preventing the triumph (through trial and execution)
of aristocratic authority; thus suicide becomes a statement of the en-
during defiance of Bertram's individual spirit. As he remarks in the
final lines of the drama, "I died no felon death- / A warrior's weapon
freed a warrior's soul" (V.iii). While this marks his personal demise,
it also marks the final triumph of the individual against society, and
emphatically and terribly displays the assumption of absolute division
between individual and society that is at the core of bourgeois ide-
ology. In other words, as Maturin handles it suicide is not merely a
private act: it carries far-reaching social significance, pointing at once
to the death of nobility and to the triumph of individual will.
  While Coleridge's commentary on Bertram does not follow the spe-
cific line of argument I have offered here, its anger and anxiety can be
traced to many of the issues I have elaborated. Coleridge knew that
Bertram and other works of the period like it (including, he feared, his
own Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which he spent years trying to con-
tain within a Christian interpretive framework') were products of a
changing social world and, as such, a threat to a traditional, Chris-
tian social order. It was in this respect that Bertram was a "Jacobinical
drama," contributing to "the confusion and subversion of the natu-
ral order of things."0 The natural order for Coleridge in 1817, as I


one did battle with the storm, / With careless, desperate force; full
many times / His life was won and lost, as though he recked not"
(I.iii). Once brought before the monks, he asks them to "plunge me
in the waves from which ye snatched me" (I.iii). This same disregard
for his own life is seen again later when he asks his captors to torture
him (see above, "Let rack and pincer do their full work on me"). Such
statements do not mean that Bertram lacks self-identity or self-worth
but rather that public struggle has come to be seen as pointless or im-
possible, so much so that Bertram retreats into the recesses of his own
inner world to establish a rigorous, defensive, and self-willed private
value system, one that is ostensibly independent of and resistant to the
sordid public world.
  At this level-the level of what Eli Zaretsky (writing in a differ-
ent context) calls "predetermined inner life" "-Bertram is confident
and strong, as is seen not only in the awe with which everyone from
Imogine to the prior approach him (despite his clearly dissipated physi-
cal appearance) but also in his suicide. While Bertram's suicide is per-
haps most immediately a sign of despair, at the same time it indicates
the possibility of preventing the triumph (through trial and execution)
of aristocratic authority; thus suicide becomes a statement of the en-
during defiance of Bertram's individual spirit. As he remarks in the
final lines of the drama, "I died no felon death- / A warrior's weapon
freed a warrior's soul" (Viii). While this marks his personal demise,
it also marks the final triumph of the individual against society, and
emphatically and terribly displays the assumption of absolute division
between individual and society that is at the core of bourgeois ide-
ology. In other words, as Maturin handles it suicide is not merely a
private act: it carries far-reaching social significance, pointing at once
to the death of nobility and to the triumph of individual will.
  While Coleridge's commentary on Bertram does not follow the spe-
cific line of argument I have offered here, its anger and anxiety can be
traced to many of the issues I have elaborated. Coleridge knew that
Bertram and other works of the period like it (including, he feared, his
own Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which he spent years trying to con-
tain within a Christian interpretive framework) were products of a
changing social world and, as such, a threat to a traditional, Chris-
tian social order. It was in this respect that Bertram was a "Jacobinical
drama," contributing to "the confusion and subversion of the natu-
ral order of things."" The natural order for Coleridge in 1817, as I


one did battle with the storm, / With careless, desperate force; full
many times / His life was won and lost, as though he recked not"
(I.iii). Once brought before the monks, he asks them to "plunge me
in the waves from which ye snatched me" (I.iii). This same disregard
for his own life is seen again later when he asks his captors to torture
him (see above, "Let rack and pincer do their full work on me"). Such
statements do not mean that Bertram lacks self-identity or self-worth
but rather that public struggle has come to be seen as pointless or im-
possible, so much so that Bertram retreats into the recesses of his own
inner world to establish a rigorous, defensive, and self-willed private
value system, one that is ostensibly independent of and resistant to the
sordid public world.
  At this level-the level of what Eli Zaretsky (writing in a differ-
ent context) calls "predetermined inner life" "-Bertram is confident
and strong, as is seen not only in the awe with which everyone from
Imogine to the prior approach him (despite his clearly dissipated physi-
cal appearance) but also in his suicide. While Bertram's suicide is per-
haps most immediately a sign of despair, at the same time it indicates
the possibility of preventing the triumph (through trial and execution)
of aristocratic authority; thus suicide becomes a statement of the en-
during defiance of Bertram's individual spirit. As he remarks in the
final lines of the drama, "I died no felon death- / A warrior's weapon
freed a warrior's soul" (V.iii). While this marks his personal demise,
it also marks the final triumph of the individual against society, and
emphatically and terribly displays the assumption of absolute division
between individual and society that is at the core of bourgeois ide-
ology. In other words, as Maturin handles it suicide is not merely a
private act: it carries far-reaching social significance, pointing at once
to the death of nobility and to the triumph of individual will.
  While Coleridge's commentary on Bertram does not follow the spe-
cific line of argument I have offered here, its anger and anxiety can be
traced to many of the issues I have elaborated. Coleridge knew that
Bertram and other works of the period like it (including, he feared, his
own Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which he spent years trying to con-
tain within a Christian interpretive framework0) were products of a
changing social world and, as such, a threat to a traditional, Chris-
tian social order. It was in this respect that Bertram was a "Jacobinical
drama," contributing to "the confusion and subversion of the natu-
ral order of things."" The natural order for Coleridge in 1817, as I
















            no / English Romantic Drama

noted at the outset, did not include the disruptive, changing, histori-
cal force of post-Revolutionary Europe, but the ostensibly fixed and
stable social relations found in aristocratic rule and a strong church
supporting-and supported by-the state. In this view, the demise of
aristocracy depicted in Bertram is also a depiction of demonic forces
that threatened to destroy all life, making humanity into "tenants of a
blasted world," into people who lacked purpose, direction, or hope.
Whether or not Coleridge was correct about the absolute demise of
culture signaled by Bertram and its counterparts on the public stage,
he was certainly right in recognizing that the content of the drama,
and its incredible popular reception, were both a product and sign of
marked social change during the period. For this reason the energy
behind his argument, and the areas of the play to which that energy
was directed, should remind us of the great importance of Bertram as a
cultural artifact, and of the importance generally of Romantic drama
to an understanding of Romanticism in its historical definition.


            no / English Romantic Drama

noted at the outset, did not include the disruptive, changing, histori-
cal force of post-Revolutionary Europe, but the ostensibly fixed and
stable social relations found in aristocratic rule and a strong church
supporting-and supported by-the state. In this view, the demise of
aristocracy depicted in Bertram is also a depiction of demonic forces
that threatened to destroy all life, making humanity into "tenants of a
blasted world," into people who lacked purpose, direction, or hope.
Whether or not Coleridge was correct about the absolute demise of
culture signaled by Bertram and its counterparts on the public stage,
he was certainly right in recognizing that the content of the drama,
and its incredible popular reception, were both a product and sign of
marked social change during the period. For this reason the energy
behind his argument, and the areas of the play to which that energy
was directed, should remind us of the great importance of Bertram as a
cultural artifact, and of the importance generally of Romantic drama
to an understanding of Romanticism in its historical definition.


            no / English Romantic Drama

noted at the outset, did not include the disruptive, changing, histori-
cal force of post-Revolutionary Europe, but the ostensibly fixed and
stable social relations found in aristocratic rule and a strong church
supporting-and supported by-the state. In this view, the demise of
aristocracy depicted in Bertram is also a depiction of demonic forces
that threatened to destroy all life, making humanity into "tenants of a
blasted world," into people who lacked purpose, direction, or hope.
Whether or not Coleridge was correct about the absolute demise of
culture signaled by Bertram and its counterparts on the public stage,
he was certainly right in recognizing that the content of the drama,
and its incredible popular reception, were both a product and sign of
marked social change during the period. For this reason the energy
behind his argument, and the areas of the play to which that energy
was directed, should remind us of the great importance of Bertram as a
cultural artifact, and of the importance generally of Romantic drama
to an understanding of Romanticism in its historical definition.




CHAPTER


CHAPTER


CHAPTER


7


           "Tied unto This Wheeling Globe"

        Thomas Lovell Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy









Like Matthew Lewis and Mary Shelley before him, Thomas Lovell
Beddoes published, before the age of twenty, a literary work of ex-
treme horror that touches the dark underside of the Romantic imagi-
nation. Unlike The Monk and Frankenstein, however, The Brides' Tragedy
(1822) has rarely been studied seriously, partly because it is a poetic
drama and partly because it is riddled with numerous technical or ex-
pository weaknesses, especially in its handling ofthe motives for action
and in its imbalance of dialogue and action. The few scholars who
have admired and studied the drama systematically have not attempted
to establish its political or social historical significance, explaining it,
instead, in literary historical terms either as a throwback to Jacobean
tragedy or as an example of the death of the Romantic imagination,
rather than as a work produced within and shaped by the Romantic
historical situation itself.'
   But The Brides' Tragedy (no less than The Monk or Frankenstein), as
both product and expression of the Romantic historical moment, pro-
vides an important avenue into the crises of social forms and relations
that both energize and limit the Romantic imagination. In its at once
naive and darkly cynical depictions of personal, domestic, and social
life, it captures the paralyzing turmoil experienced by a once stable
world on the verge of extinction; it painfully articulates the alone-
ness, fear, and dread that accompany that extinction; and, in doing


           "Tied unto This Wheeling Globe"

        Thomas Lovell Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy









Like Matthew Lewis and Mary Shelley before him, Thomas Lovell
Beddoes published, before the age of twenty, a literary work of ex-
treme horror that touches the dark underside of the Romantic imagi-
nation. Unlike The Monk and Frankenstein, however, The Brides' Tragedy
(1822) has rarely been studied seriously, partly because it is a poetic
drama and partly because it is riddled with numerous technical or ex-
pository weaknesses, especially in its handling of the motives for action
and in its imbalance of dialogue and action. The few scholars who
have admired and studied the drama systematically have not attempted
to establish its political or social historical significance, explaining it,
instead, in literary historical terms either as a throwback to Jacobean
tragedy or as an example of the death of the Romantic imagination,
rather than as a work produced within and shaped by the Romantic
historical situation itself'
   But The Brides' Tragedy (no less than The Monk or Frankenstein), as
both product and expression of the Romantic historical moment, pro-
vides an important avenue into the crises of social forms and relations
that both energize and limit the Romantic imagination. In its at once
naive and darkly cynical depictions of personal, domestic, and social
life, it captures the paralyzing turmoil experienced by a once stable
world on the verge of extinction; it painfully articulates the alone-
ness, fear, and dread that accompany that extinction; and, in doing


           "Tied unto This Wheeling Globe"

        Thomas Lovell Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy









Like Matthew Lewis and Mary Shelley before him, Thomas Lovell
Beddoes published, before the age of twenty, a literary work of ex-
treme horror that touches the dark underside of the Romantic imagi-
nation. Unlike The Monk and Frankenstein, however, The Brides' Tragedy
(1822) has rarely been studied seriously, partly because it is a poetic
drama and partly because it is riddled with numerous technical or ex-
pository weaknesses, especially in its handling ofthe motives for action
and in its imbalance of dialogue and action. The few scholars who
have admired and studied the drama systematically have not attempted
to establish its political or social historical significance, explaining it,
instead, in literary historical terms either as a throwback to Jacobean
tragedy or as an example of the death of the Romantic imagination,
rather than as a work produced within and shaped by the Romantic
historical situation itself'
   But The Brides' Tragedy (no less than The Monk or Frankenstein), as
both product and expression of the Romantic historical moment, pro-
vides an important avenue into the crises of social forms and relations
that both energize and limit the Romantic imagination. In its at once
naive and darkly cynical depictions of personal, domestic, and social
life, it captures the paralyzing turmoil experienced by a once stable
world on the verge of extinction; it painfully articulates the alone-
ness, fear, and dread that accompany that extinction; and, in doing



2 / English Romantic Drama               n2 / English Romantic Drama              n2 / English Romantic Drama


so, it suggests something of the debilitating anxiety that haunts much
Romantic literature, particularly after 1815, when both the apocalyptic
hope for a utopian society and-at the other extreme-the nostalgic
desire for a return to an aristocratic and feudal world had been ir-
revocably dashed? Specifically and with remarkable success, the drama
formulates the conflict between aristocratic authority and a bourgeois
political unconscious, casting into relief not only the painful transfor-
mations of social class that haunted the Romantic period but also the
connections between those transformations and relations of gender.
In what follows I want to elaborate Beddoes's handling of these two
social historical matters-class and gender-and to sketch as well the
broader structures of feeling and belief that are revealed as class and
gender come increasingly under fire in Beddoes's vision of the world.
  The extreme self-consciousness of The Brides' Tragedy about matters
of social class places it squarely in the center of Romantic bourgeois
drama. Despite its plot-level attention exclusively on the aristocracy, it
never escapes entirely class anxiety and even class hysteria. While class
struggle is never described or even implied as the cause of the tragedy,
its traces are everywhere in the action and in the network of social
relations governing those actions. Changes in consciousness, crises in
ordinary social institutions, and a generally increasing aristocratic vul-
nerability that promotes its own demise all point to turmoil larger than
any individual character and larger even than the aristocracy itself.
The most immediate indicator of the class dimension of the drama
is Hesperus's father, Lord Ernest, whose changing individual situation
from beginning to end marks the larger social direction of change in
the drama. The opening description of Lord Ernest establishes him as
an aristocrat deeply in debt to another, greater aristocrat, the deceased
father of Orlando. This description is followed immediately by the in-
carceration of Lord Ernest by Orlando, who uses the imprisonment to
persuade Hesperus (Lord Ernest's son) to give up his claim on Flori-
bel, whom Orlando loves. When Orlando achieves his purpose, Lord
Ernest is released to become adopted into the Orlando estate, his out-
ward position restored but his real power and integrity lost, as his life
now depends entirely on the mercy of Orlando. In the final scenes of
the drama, after Hesperus spoils the compromise of the house of Lord
Ernest and the house of Orlando by murdering Floribel, Lord Ernest
reappears in peasant dress, telling his doomed son that "Henceforth


so, it suggests something of the debilitating anxiety that haunts much
Romantic literature, particularly after 1815, when both the apocalyptic
hope for a utopian society and-at the other extreme-the nostalgic
desire for a return to an aristocratic and feudal world had been ir-
revocably dashed.? Specifically and with remarkable success, the drama
formulates the conflict between aristocratic authority and a bourgeois
political unconscious, casting into relief not only the painful transfor-
mations of social class that haunted the Romantic period but also the
connections between those transformations and relations of gender.
In what follows I want to elaborate Beddoes's handling of these two
social historical matters-class and gender-and to sketch as well the
broader structures of feeling and belief that are revealed as class and
gender come increasingly under fire in Beddoes's vision of the world.
  The extreme self-consciousness of The Brides' Tragedy about matters
of social class places it squarely in the center of Romantic bourgeois
drama. Despite its plot-level attention exclusively on the aristocracy, it
never escapes entirely class anxiety and even class hysteria. While class
struggle is never described or even implied as the cause of the tragedy,
its traces are everywhere in the action and in the network of social
relations governing those actions. Changes in consciousness, crises in
ordinary social institutions, and a generally increasing aristocratic vul-
nerability that promotes its own demise all point to turmoil larger than
any individual character and larger even than the aristocracy itself.
The most immediate indicator of the class dimension of the drama
is Hesperus's father, Lord Ernest, whose changing individual situation
from beginning to end marks the larger social direction of change in
the drama. The opening description of Lord Ernest establishes him as
an aristocrat deeply in debt to another, greater aristocrat, the deceased
father of Orlando. This description is followed immediately by the in-
carceration of Lord Ernest by Orlando, who uses the imprisonment to
persuade Hesperus (Lord Ernest's son) to give up his claim on Flori-
bel, whom Orlando loves. When Orlando achieves his purpose, Lord
Ernest is released to become adopted into the Orlando estate, his out-
ward position restored but his real power and integrity lost, as his life
now depends entirely on the mercy of Orlando. In the final scenes of
the drama, after Hesperus spoils the compromise of the house of Lord
Ernest and the house of Orlando by murdering Floribel, Lord Ernest
reappears in peasant dress, telling his doomed son that "Henceforth


so, it suggests something of the debilitating anxiety that haunts much
Romantic literature, particularly after 1815, when both the apocalyptic
hope for a utopian society and-at the other extreme-the nostalgic
desire for a return to an aristocratic and feudal world had been ir-
revocably dashed.' Specifically and with remarkable success, the drama
formulates the conflict between aristocratic authority and a bourgeois
political unconscious, casting into relief not only the painful transfor-
mations of social class that haunted the Romantic period but also the
connections between those transformations and relations of gender.
In what follows I want to elaborate Beddoes's handling of these two
social historical matters-class and gender-and to sketch as well the
broader structures of feeling and belief that are revealed as class and
gender come increasingly under fire in Beddoes's vision of the world.
  The extreme self-consciousness of The Brides' Tragedy about matters
of social class places it squarely in the center of Romantic bourgeois
drama. Despite its plot-level attention exclusively on the aristocracy, it
never escapes entirely class anxiety and even class hysteria. While class
struggle is never described or even implied as the cause of the tragedy,
its traces are everywhere in the action and in the network of social
relations governing those actions. Changes in consciousness, crises in
ordinary social institutions, and a generally increasing aristocratic vul-
nerability that promotes its own demise all point to turmoil larger than
any individual character and larger even than the aristocracy itself
The most immediate indicator of the class dimension of the drama
is Hesperus's father, Lord Ernest, whose changing individual situation
from beginning to end marks the larger social direction of change in
the drama. The opening description of Lord Ernest establishes him as
an aristocrat deeply in debt to another, greater aristocrat, the deceased
father of Orlando. This description is followed immediately by the in-
carceration of Lord Ernest by Orlando, who uses the imprisonment to
persuade Hesperus (Lord Ernest's son) to give up his claim on Flori-
bel, whom Orlando loves. When Orlando achieves his purpose, Lord
Ernest is released to become adopted into the Orlando estate, his out-
ward position restored but his real power and integrity lost, as his life
now depends entirely on the mercy of Orlando. In the final scenes of
the drama, after Hesperus spoils the compromise of the house of Lord
Ernest and the house of Orlando by murdering Floribel, Lord Ernest
reappears in peasant dress, telling his doomed son that "Henceforth



BedesThe Brde'Traged / n3Bdoe' h t            B ries Tragedy / 1q3                Beddoes' Th bBidsTagd / n3


I'll live / Those bitter days that Providence decrees me / In toil and
poverty" (V.iv.50-52).'
The decline of Lord Ernest's fortunes and the difficulties accom-
panying that decline may be seen as emblematic of the larger social and
ideological deterioration of his world, of the ineluctable fragmentation
and ultimate defeat of the aristocratic ruling class. All other actions
and attitudes, though some are less explicitly class-bound than Lord
Ernest's, are marked by class anxiety, by an attempt to preserve aristo-
cratic hierarchy, order, and value, or by a desire to find some means of
personal escape from certain class extinction-by the same needs and
desires seen in the portrayal of Lord Ernest. The duke's legal authority,
Orlando's devious legal strategies, Hesperus's deranged behavior, and
Floribel's extreme sensitivity about money and social status: all of
these, in ways that I hope to show, develop within and against an ex-
hausted feudal world that claims authority as its own even while it
is unable to exercise that authority fully. Like Lord Ernest, the other
characters in the drama can neither arrest nor avoid the fragmentation
and death of their world, nor prevent the emergence of a new network
of social beliefs, values, and relations.
  To implicate all other characters-many of whom seem relatively
autonomous through the course of the drama-in the same process
of decline and defeat seen clearly in Lord Ernest's fortunes is not to
argue that every individual character is more or less a passive carrier of
invisible historical energies and social structures over which he or she
has no control. It is simply to make the dialectical point that individual
actions and choices are made within real social situations. Thus, for
instance, while Lord Ernest cannot be said to cause the peculiar course
of events in which he is caught, he is not entirely innocent of them
either, as his pathetic demands on his son to wed Olivia show. Nor,
on the other hand, can Hesperus be viewed as the sole source of the
drama's villainy (even though he certainly is not innocent) because his
actions are motivated, at least in part, by the demands of his father's
estate to marry Olivia. Lord Ernest and Hesperus, along with all other
characters in the drama, are both agents and products; the larger social
world is distilled in them even as it is partly created by them. In this
view, the weight of Lord Ernest's individual history, like that of the
other characters, is also the weight of social history, and it is played
out both in terms of his individual needs and desires and in terms of


I'll live / Those bitter days that Providence decrees me / In toil and
poverty" (V.iv.50-52)
The decline of Lord Ernest's fortunes and the difficulties accom-
panying that decline may be seen as emblematic of the larger social and
ideological deterioration of his world, of the ineluctable fragmentation
and ultimate defeat of the aristocratic ruling class. All other actions
and attitudes, though some are less explicitly class-bound than Lord
Ernest's, are marked by class anxiety, by an attempt to preserve aristo-
cratic hierarchy, order, and value, or by a desire to find some means of
personal escape from certain class extinction-by the same needs and
desires seen in the portrayal of Lord Ernest. The duke's legal authority,
Orlando's devious legal strategies, Hesperus's deranged behavior, and
Floribel's extreme sensitivity about money and social status: all of
these, in ways that I hope to show, develop within and against an ex-
hausted feudal world that claims authority as its own even while it
is unable to exercise that authority fully. Like Lord Ernest, the other
characters in the drama can neither arrest nor avoid the fragmentation
and death of their world, nor prevent the emergence of a new network
of social beliefs, values, and relations.
  To implicate all other characters-many of whom seem relatively
autonomous through the course of the drama-in the same process
of decline and defeat seen clearly in Lord Ernest's fortunes is not to
argue that every individual character is more or less a passive carrier of
invisible historical energies and social structures over which he or she
has no control. It is simply to make the dialectical point that individual
actions and choices are made within real social situations. Thus, for
instance, while Lord Ernest cannot be said to cause the peculiar course
of events in which he is caught, he is not entirely innocent of them
either, as his pathetic demands on his son to wed Olivia show. Nor,
on the other hand, can Hesperus be viewed as the sole source of the
drama's villainy (even though he certainly is not innocent) because his
actions are motivated, at least in part, by the demands of his father's
estate to marry Olivia. Lord Ernest and Hesperus, along with all other
characters in the drama, are both agents and products; the larger social
world is distilled in them even as it is partly created by them. In this
view, the weight of Lord Ernest's individual history, like that of the
other characters, is also the weight of social history, and it is played
out both in terms of his individual needs and desires and in terms of


I'll live / Those bitter days that Providence decrees me / In toil and
poverty" (V.iv.50-52)9
The decline of Lord Ernest's fortunes and the difficulties accom-
panying that decline may be seen as emblematic of the larger social and
ideological deterioration of his world, of the ineluctable fragmentation
and ultimate defeat of the aristocratic ruling class. All other actions
and attitudes, though some are less explicitly class-bound than Lord
Ernest's, are marked by class anxiety, by an attempt to preserve aristo-
cratic hierarchy, order, and value, or by a desire to find some means of
personal escape from certain class extinction-by the same needs and
desires seen in the portrayal of Lord Ernest. The duke's legal authority,
Orlando's devious legal strategies, Hesperus's deranged behavior, and
Floribel's extreme sensitivity about money and social status: all of
these, in ways that I hope to show, develop within and against an ex-
hausted feudal world that claims authority as its own even while it
is unable to exercise that authority fully. Like Lord Ernest, the other
characters in the drama can neither arrest nor avoid the fragmentation
and death of their world, nor prevent the emergence of a new network
of social beliefs, values, and relations.
  To implicate all other characters-many of whom seem relatively
autonomous through the course of the drama-in the same process
of decline and defeat seen clearly in Lord Ernest's fortunes is not to
argue that every individual character is more or less a passive carrier of
invisible historical energies and social structures over which he or she
has no control. It is simply to make the dialectical point that individual
actions and choices are made within real social situations. Thus, for
instance, while Lord Ernest cannot be said to cause the peculiar course
of events in which he is caught, he is not entirely innocent of them
either, as his pathetic demands on his son to wed Olivia show. Nor,
on the other hand, can Hesperus be viewed as the sole source of the
drama's villainy (even though he certainly is not innocent) because his
actions are motivated, at least in part, by the demands of his father's
estate to marry Olivia. Lord Ernest and Hesperus, along with all other
characters in the drama, are both agents and products; the larger social
world is distilled in them even as it is partly created by them. In this
view, the weight of Lord Ernest's individual history, like that of the
other characters, is also the weight of social history, and it is played
out both in terms of his individual needs and desires and in terms of



134 fl/bEnglhRmn ic rm                                                   q/EgihRmni Draka ma14/EgihRmncDra


the sweeping network of relations undergirding his situation and that
of the other characters.
   Some additional plot-level matters help to establish the historical
bind that the drama articulates and particularly the class dimension
of this historical bind. Most important among these is the fact that
Floribel, whom Hesperus has secretly married, is extremely anxious
about her "homely breeding" (I.i.78), and what this may mean for her
relationship with her new husband. She desperately desires to have
this anxiety laid to rest by public acknowledgment of her marriage
and by the "blessing" (I.i.79) of Hesperus's father, acts which presum-
ably would seal the love between Hesperus and Floribel by providing
their marriage with social meaning. Much later in the drama too, after
Hesperus thinks he has caught her in an adulterous situation, Floribel
maintains that her difficulties have less to do with her husband's char-
acter than with her own socially inferior position, and her confused
effort to think through this social difficulty leads her to desire at once
more wealth for her own family and less for Hesperus's family. As she
tells her mother:
           Floribel: Dear mother, I will strive to be at ease,
           If you desire; but melancholy thoughts
           Are poor dissemblers. How I wish we owned
           The wealth we've lost.
           Lenora: Why girl, I never heard
           One such regret escape your lips before;
           Has not your Hesperus enough?
           Floribel: Too much;
           If he were even poorer than ourselves,
           I'd almost love him better. For, methinks,
           It seemed a covetous spirit urged me on,
           Craving to be received his bride. I hope
           He did not think so; if he does, I'll tell him
           I will not share his wealth. (Ill.iii.28-39)

These and other comments by Floribel, though prompted and colored
by intense personal anxiety, describe perfectly her understanding of
the class and economic forces that both push her marriage into seceecy
and drive her husband to act in unpredictable ways. And, as in the
case of Lord Ernest, these forces generate (or throw into relief), with-
out any ability to fulfill, Floribel's various personal needs and desires.


the sweeping network of relations undergirding his situation and that
of the other characters.
   Some additional plot-level matters help to establish the historical
bind that the drama articulates and particularly the class dimension
of this historical bind. Most important among these is the fact that
Floribel, whom Hesperus has secretly married, is extremely anxious
about her "homely breeding" (I.i.78), and what this may mean for her
relationship with her new husband. She desperately desires to have
this anxiety laid to rest by public acknowledgment of her marriage
and by the "blessing" (Li.79) of Hesperus's father, acts which presum-
ably would seal the love between Hesperus and Floribel by providing
their marriage with social meaning. Much later in the drama too, after
Hesperus thinks he has caught her in an adulterous situation, Floribel
maintains that her difficulties have less to do with her husband's char-
acter than with her own socially inferior position, and her confused
effort to think through this social difficulty leads her to desire at once
more wealth for her own family and less for Hesperus's family. As she
tells her mother:
           Floribel: Dear mother, I will strive to be at ease,
           If you desire; but melancholy thoughts
           Are poor dissemblers. How I wish we owned
           The wealth we've lost.
           Lenora: Why girl, I never heard
           One such regret escape your lips before;
           Has not your Hesperus enough?
           Floribel: Too much;
           If he were even poorer than ourselves,
           I'd almost love him better. For, methinks,
           It seemed a covetous spirit urged me on,
           Craving to be received his bride. I hope
           He did not think so; if he does, I'll tell him
           I will not share his wealth. (1I.iii.28-39)

These and other comments by Floribel, though prompted and colored
by intense personal anxiety, describe perfectly her understanding of
the class and economic forces that both push her marriage into secrecy
and drive her husband to act in unpredictable ways. And, as in the
case of Lord Ernest, these forces generate (or throw into relief), with-
out any ability to fulfill, Floribel's various personal needs and desires.


the sweeping network of relations undergirding his situation and that
of the other characters.
   Some additional plot-level matters help to establish the historical
bind that the drama articulates and particularly the class dimension
of this historical bind. Most important among these is the fact that
Floribel, whom Hesperus has secretly married, is extremely anxious
about her "homely breeding" (I. i.78), and what this may mean for her
relationship with her new husband. She desperately desires to have
this anxiety laid to rest by public acknowledgment of her marriage
and by the "blessing" (Ii. 79) of Hesperus's father, acts which presum-
ably would seal the love between Hesperus and Floribel by providing
their marriage with social meaning. Much later in the drama too, after
Hesperus thinks he has caught her in an adulterous situation, Floribel
maintains that her difficulties have less to do with her husband's char-
acter than with her own socially inferior position, and her confused
effort to think through this social difficulty leads her to desire at once
more wealth for her own family and less for Hesperus's family. As she
tells her mother:
           Floribel: Dear mother, I will strive to be at ease,
           If you desire; but melancholy thoughts
           Are poor dissemblers. How I wish we owned
           The wealth we've lost.
           Lenora: Why girl, I never heard
           One such regret escape your lips before;
           Has not your Hesperus enough?
           Floribel: Too much;
           If he were even poorer than ourselves,
           I'd almost love him better. For, methinks,
           It seemed a covetous spirit urged me on,
           Craving to be received his bride. I hope
           He did not think so; if he does, I'll tell him
           I will not share his wealth. (III.iii.28-39)

These and other comments by Floribel, though prompted and colored
by intense personal anxiety, describe perfectly her understanding of
the class and economic forces that both push her marriage into secrecy
and drive her husband to act in unpredictable ways. And, as in the
case of Lord Ernest, these forces generate (or throw into relief), with-
out any ability to fulfill, Floribel's various personal needs and desires.



Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy / nq       Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy / 15       Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy / n5


The result is even further anxiety, confusion, and finally (for Flori-
bel) death.
The class and economic realities to which Floribel's comments call
attention help to elucidate Hesperus's villainy because they provide a
social framework for understanding his madness. Hesperus's socially
superior position demands that he secure that position by marrying
upward rather than downward, and this prevents him from publicly
acknowledging his relationship to Floribel. In hiding his marriage for
reasons of social class and respectability, Hesperus becomes even more
a victim of class demand, to the point where his personal identity is en-
tangled in a life-or-death struggle with the class to which he belongs.
And as his personal life becomes increasingly entangled in matters of
estate-or, put differently, as matters of social class increasingly over-
whelm his personal life-he comes to see death as the only certain way
of laying conflict to rest. Without denying his madness and villainy
and without attempting to justify or defend his actions, this perspec-
tive situates Hesperus in terms of the class conflict at the center of his
world and demonstrates that personal motives are never only personal;
they are, on some level, a response to (or effect of) a social reality that
encompasses and gives meaning to them.
  Because the various elements and dimensions of class struggle pre-
sented in Bride are, at the level of plot, connected directly to gender
relations (that is, the Hesperus-Floribel relationship and the Hesperus-
Olivia relationship), they help to focus the structure and authority
of patriarchy, and to illuminate some of the ways it is implicated in
the transition from an aristocratic to bourgeois social formation. The
connection between patriarchy and class in the drama can best be
understood in terms of Eli Zaretsky's ideas on feminism and patri-
archy in Capitalism, the Family, and Personal Life. Zaretsky argues that
modes of personal life are connected directly to particular modes of
production and, specifically, that the rise of the bourgeoisie entailed
new ways of conceiving of personal life, the family, gender relations,
and so on. Two components of his argument are particularly relevant
here. First, following Engels, he argues that patriarchy is directly con-
nected to the emergence of private property in history, a phenomenon
which "spelled the downfall of women"' because it separated produc-
tion within the home from production outside the home, relegating
women to the former and giving men control of the latter. The house-
hold itself became converted into private property controlled by men,


The result is even further anxiety, confusion, and finally (for Flori-
bel) death.
The class and economic realities to which Floribel's comments call
attention help to elucidate Hesperus's villainy because they provide a
social framework for understanding his madness. Hesperus's socially
superior position demands that he secure that position by marrying
upward rather than downward, and this prevents him from publicly
acknowledging his relationship to Floribel. In hiding his marriage for
reasons of social class and respectability, Hesperus becomes even more
a victim of class demand, to the point where his personal identity is en-
tangled in a life-or-death struggle with the class to which he belongs.
And as his personal life becomes increasingly entangled in matters of
estate-or, put differently, as matters of social class increasingly over-
whelm his personal life-he comes to see death as the only certain way
of laying conflict to rest. Without denying his madness and villainy
and without attempting to justify or defend his actions, this perspec-
tive situates Hesperus in terms of the class conflict at the center of his
world and demonstrates that personal motives are never only personal;
they are, on some level, a response to (or effect of) a social reality that
encompasses and gives meaning to them.
  Because the various elements and dimensions of class struggle pre-
sented in Bride are, at the level of plot, connected directly to gender
relations (that is, the Hesperus-Floribel relationship and the Hesperus-
Olivia relationship), they help to focus the structure and authority
of patriarchy, and to illuminate some of the ways it is implicated in
the transition from an aristocratic to bourgeois social formation. The
connection between patriarchy and class in the drama can best be
understood in terms of Eli Zaretsky's ideas on feminism and patri-
archy in Capitalism, the Family, and Personal Life. Zaretsky argues that
modes of personal life are connected directly to particular modes of
production and, specifically, that the rise of the bourgeoisie entailed
new ways of conceiving of personal life, the family, gender relations,
and so on. Two components of his argument are particularly relevant
here. First, following Engels, he argues that patriarchy is directly con-
nected to the emergence of private property in history, a phenomenon
which "spelled the downfall of women"' because it separated produc-
tion within the home from production outside the home, relegating
women to the former and giving men control of the latter. The house-
hold itself became converted into private property controlled by men,


The result is even further anxiety, confusion, and finally (for Flori-
bel) death.
The class and economic realities to which Floribel's comments call
attention help to elucidate Hesperus's villainy because they provide a
social framework for understanding his madness. Hesperus's socially
superior position demands that he secure that position by marrying
upward rather than downward, and this prevents him from publicly
acknowledging his relationship to Floribel. In hiding his marriage for
reasons of social class and respectability, Hesperus becomes even more
a victim of class demand, to the point where his personal identity is en-
tangled in a life-or-death struggle with the class to which he belongs.
And as his personal life becomes increasingly entangled in matters of
estate-or, put differently, as matters of social class increasingly over-
whelm his personal life-he comes to see death as the only certain way
of laying conflict to rest. Without denying his madness and villainy
and without attempting to justify or defend his actions, this perspec-
tive situates Hesperus in terms of the class conflict at the center of his
world and demonstrates that personal motives are never only personal;
they are, on some level, a response to (or effect of) a social reality that
encompasses and gives meaning to them.
  Because the various elements and dimensions of class struggle pre-
sented in Bride are, at the level of plot, connected directly to gender
relations (that is, the Hesperus-Floribel relationship and the Hesperus-
Olivia relationship), they help to focus the structure and authority
of patriarchy, and to illuminate some of the ways it is implicated in
the transition from an aristocratic to bourgeois social formation. The
connection between patriarchy and class in the drama can best be
understood in terms of Eli Zaretsky's ideas on feminism and patri-
archy in Capitalism, the Family, and Personal Life. Zaretsky argues that
modes of personal life are connected directly to particular modes of
production and, specifically, that the rise of the bourgeoisie entailed
new ways of conceiving of personal life, the family, gender relations,
and so on. Two components of his argument are particularly relevant
here. First, following Engels, he argues that patriarchy is directly con-
nected to the emergence of private property in history, a phenomenon
which "spelled the downfall of women"' because it separated produc-
tion within the home from production outside the home, relegating
women to the former and giving men control of the latter. The house-
hold itself became converted into private property controlled by men,



u6 / Enlh ~ Romti Drm                                                             ad / Enls oatcDaan /EgihRmni rm


though the labor within it was carried out by women. The rise of
the state coincided with the emergence of private property, sealing
women's subordinate role by safeguarding these gender-specific rela-
tions of property.
While stressing the power of Engels's major thesis-that is, that
"the oppression of women and the existence of the family [are tied
together] with the economic organization of society"'-Zaretsky ac-
knowledges that its weaknesses are its reductionism and strong anti-
historical bias. He attempts to correct these deficiencies by developing
a theory of personal life in terms of a particular historical moment,
namely the rise of the bourgeoisie, retaining Engels's general theory
of private property but specifying, in ways that Engels had not, its
social dimensions and nuances. Because his explanation of bourgeois
individualism is critical to understanding gender relations in Bride, I
want to quote it at length:
   In feudal society men and women occupied a fixed position
 with a stratified division of labor-they owed allegiance to a par-
 ticular lord and worked on a particular lot of land instead of being
 free to sell their labor or property. Explicit and direct relations of
 authority defined people's sense of individual identity. Catholicism
 provided them with a common purpose outside themselves.
   Private property freed the early bourgeoisie from a fixed social
 role within the feudal order. On the basis of private property, the
 bourgeoisie has defined individual rights throughout history....
 The bourgeoisie has consistently defended the right of individu-
 als to rise and fall within the marketplace through their own
 efforts, rather than on the basis of birth; the bourgeoisie originated
 the idea of a necessary contradiction between the individual and
 society6

 With this new conception of the individual emerged a new concep-
 tion of gender relations, one which involved the connection for the
 first time in history between marriage and sexual love, and at the same
 time a view of the family as a refuge from the sordid conflicts of every-
 day public life. Both of these features of bourgeois gender relations
 figure prominently in Bride, and they conflict violently in the drama
 with the aristocratic world against which they are set. The complicated
 struggle of these new relations to achieve social authority and social
 form in a world where aristocratic patriarchy is not yet dead is dis-


though the labor within it was carried out by women. The rise of
the state coincided with the emergence of private property, sealing
women's subordinate role by safeguarding these gender-specific rela-
tions of property.
While stressing the power of Engels's major thesis-that is, that
"the oppression of women and the existence of the family [are tied
together] with the economic organization of society"'-Zaretsky ac-
knowledges that its weaknesses are its reductionism and strong anti-
historical bias. He attempts to correct these deficiencies by developing
a theory of personal life in terms of a particular historical moment,
namely the rise of the bourgeoisie, retaining Engels's general theory
of private property but specifying, in ways that Engels had not, its
social dimensions and nuances. Because his explanation of bourgeois
individualism is critical to understanding gender relations in Bride, I
want to quote it at length:

   In feudal society men and women occupied a fixed position
 with a stratified division of labor-they owed allegiance to a par-
 ticular lord and worked on a particular lot of land instead of being
 free to sell their labor or property. Explicit and direct relations of
 authority defined people's sense of individual identity. Catholicism
 provided them with a common purpose outside themselves.
   Private property freed the early bourgeoisie from a fixed social
 role within the feudal order. On the basis of private property, the
 bourgeoisie has defined individual rights throughout history....
 The bourgeoisie has consistently defended the right of individu-
 als to rise and fall within the marketplace through their own
 efforts, rather than on the basis of birth; the bourgeoisie originated
 the idea of a necessary contradiction between the individual and
 society.6

 With this new conception of the individual emerged a new concep-
 tion of gender relations, one which involved the connection for the
 first time in history between marriage and sexual love, and at the same
 time a view of the family as a refuge from the sordid conflicts of every-
 day public life. Both of these features of bourgeois gender relations
 figure prominently in Bride, and they conflict violently in the drama
 with the aristocratic world against which they are set. The complicated
 struggle of these new relations to achieve social authority and social
 form in a world where aristocratic patriarchy is not yet dead is dis-


though the labor within it was carried out by women. The rise of
the state coincided with the emergence of private property, sealing
women's subordinate role by safeguarding these gender-specific rela-
tions of property.
While stressing the power of Engels's major thesis-that is, that
"the oppression of women and the existence of the family [are tied
together] with the economic organization of society"'-Zaretsky ac-
knowledges that its weaknesses are its reductionism and strong anti-
historical bias. He attempts to correct these deficiencies by developing
a theory of personal life in terms of a particular historical moment,
namely the rise of the bourgeoisie, retaining Engels's general theory
of private property but specifying, in ways that Engels had not, its
social dimensions and nuances. Because his explanation of bourgeois
individualism is critical to understanding gender relations in Bride, I
want to quote it at length:

   In feudal society men and women occupied a fixed position
 with a stratified division of labor-they owed allegiance to a par-
 ticular lord and worked on a particular lot of land instead of being
 free to sell their labor or property. Explicit and direct relations of
 authority defined people's sense of individual identity. Catholicism
 provided them with a common purpose outside themselves.
   Private property freed the early bourgeoisie from a fixed social
 role within the feudal order. On the basis of private property, the
 bourgeoisie has defined individual rights throughout history....
 The bourgeoisie has consistently defended the right of individu-
 als to rise and fall within the marketplace through their own
 efforts, rather than on the basis of birth; the bourgeoisie originated
 the idea of a necessary contradiction between the individual and
 society.t

 With this new conception of the individual emerged a new concep-
 tion of gender relations, one which involved the connection for the
 first time in history between marriage and sexual love, and at the same
 time a view of the family as a refuge from the sordid conflicts of every-
 day public life. Both of these features of bourgeois gender relations
 figure prominently in Bride, and they conflict violently in the drama
 with the aristocratic world against which they are set. The complicated
 struggle of these new relations to achieve social authority and social
 form in a world where aristocratic patriarchy is not yet dead is dis-



Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy / 17       Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy / 17       Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy / n7


played powerfully in Hesperus's different relationships with Floribel
and Olivia, the two women whom he marries.
Like Orlando, who is also young and wishes to marry, Hesperus sees
the impoverished Floribel in idyllic terms, telling her, for instance, in
the beginning of the drama that "the veiled Moon's mild eye / Has long
been seeking for her loveliest nymph" (l.i.zo-21). (Orlando's com-
ment to Claudio in the following scene is almost identical, referring
to Floribel as "my goddess, / The Dian of our forests" [lii. 18-t9].)
Floribel can take on this sort of pure value for the young aristocrats
who desire her precisely because she does not belong to the aristoc-
racy, which, as I have shown, is characterized almost entirely by ex-
haustion and decay. In fact, her desirability as an object of love and
as a repository of value for Hesperus increases in proportion to his
ability to imagine her as independent not only of the aristocracy but
of all social relations. For him she is, as Zaretsky says of the bourgeois
family, a refuge from the threat facing his social class, a threat seen
most emphatically in the infighting between his family and that of
Orlando, for instance, in the fact that Lord Ernest is deeply in debt to
Orlando's father, and also in the fact that Orlando employs devious,
legalistic strategies to win Floribel away from Hesperus. Whatever her
real situation-which is explicitly revealed in her own anxieties about
money and status-her constructed significance for Hesperus is that
she inhabits and even constitutes a private and innocent realm more
meaningful than the tangled, aristocratic world that he inhabits.
  The burden of innocence that Floribel is made to carry becomes
evident not only in the scene where Hesperus catches her kissing
Orlando's page but also in the description of his initial mad confusion
over whether or not to murder her.' This brilliant scene takes place
in an apartment in Orlando's palace, decorated with beautiful tapes-
tries stitched with pictures out of feudal history. Produced by female
labor ("she, whose needle limned so cunningly, / Sleeps and dreams
not" [II.iv.39-40]), the tapestries tell stories of men whose hands have
been gloriously dipped in human blood. These stories in cloth radi-
cally divide Hesperus from himself, promoting in him a desire to
shed blood, which presumably would give him a place alongside the
heroes whose stories are sewn into the tapestries, while at the same
time making him even more committed to preserving the vision of
pure innocence that Floribel represents to him. As this fit of madness
passes and he suppresses his violent urges, he states emphatically to


played powerfully in Hesperus's different relationships with Floribel
and Olivia, the two women whom he marries.
Like Orlando, who is also young and wishes to marry, Hesperus sees
the impoverished Floribel in idyllic terms, telling her, for instance, in
the beginning of the drama that "the veiled Moon's mild eye / Has long
been seeking for her loveliest nymph" (I.i.2o-21). (Orlando's com-
ment to Claudio in the following scene is almost identical, referring
to Floribel as "my goddess, / The Dian of our forests" [I.ii. 18-t9].)
Floribel can take on this sort of pure value for the young aristocrats
who desire her precisely because she does not belong to the aristoc-
racy, which, as I have shown, is characterized almost entirely by ex-
haustion and decay. In fact, her desirability as an object of love and
as a repository of value for Hesperus increases in proportion to his
ability to imagine her as independent not only of the aristocracy but
of all social relations. For him she is, as Zaretsky says of the bourgeois
family, a refuge from the threat facing his social class, a threat seen
most emphatically in the infighting between his family and that of
Orlando, for instance, in the fact that Lord Ernest is deeply in debt to
Orlando's father, and also in the fact that Orlando employs devious,
legalistic strategies to win Floribel away from Hesperus. Whatever her
real situation-which is explicitly revealed in her own anxieties about
money and status-her constructed significance for Hesperus is that
she inhabits and even constitutes a private and innocent realm more
meaningful than the tangled, aristocratic world that he inhabits.
  The burden of innocence that Floribel is made to carry becomes
evident not only in the scene where Hesperus catches her kissing
Orlando's page but also in the description of his initial mad confusion
over whether or not to murder her.' This brilliant scene takes place
in an apartment in Orlando's palace, decorated with beautiful tapes-
tries stitched with pictures out of feudal history. Produced by female
labor ("she, whose needle limned so cunningly, / Sleeps and dreams
not" [Il.iv.39-40]), the tapestries tell stories of men whose hands have
been gloriously dipped in human blood. These stories in cloth radi-
cally divide Hesperus from himself, promoting in him a desire to
shed blood, which presumably would give him a place alongside the
heroes whose stories are sewn into the tapestries, while at the same
time making him even more committed to preserving the vision of
pure innocence that Floribel represents to him. As this fit of madness
passes and he suppresses his violent urges, he states emphatically to


played powerfully in Hesperus's different relationships with Floribel
and Olivia, the two women whom he marries.
Like Orlando, who is also young and wishes to marry, Hesperus sees
the impoverished Floribel in idyllic terms, telling her, for instance, in
the beginning of the drama that "the veiled Moon's mild eye / Has long
been seeking for her loveliest nymph" (I.i.20-21). (Orlando's com-
ment to Claudio in the following scene is almost identical, referring
to Floribel as "my goddess, / The Dian of our forests" {l.ii. 18-r9.)
Floribel can take on this sort of pure value for the young aristocrats
who desire her precisely because she does not belong to the aristoc-
racy, which, as I have shown, is characterized almost entirely by ex-
haustion and decay. In fact, her desirability as an object of love and
as a repository of value for Hesperus increases in proportion to his
ability to imagine her as independent not only of the aristocracy but
of all social relations. For him she is, as Zaretsky says of the bourgeois
family, a refuge from the threat facing his social class, a threat seen
most emphatically in the infighting between his family and that of
Orlando, for instance, in the fact that Lord Ernest is deeply in debt to
Orlando's father, and also in the fact that Orlando employs devious,
legalistic strategies to win Floribel away from Hesperus. Whatever her
real situation-which is explicitly revealed in her own anxieties about
money and status-her constructed significance for Hesperus is that
she inhabits and even constitutes a private and innocent realm more
meaningful than the tangled, aristocratic world that he inhabits.
  The burden of innocence that Floribel is made to carry becomes
evident not only in the scene where Hesperus catches her kissing
Orlando's page but also in the description of his initial mad confusion
over whether or not to murder her.' This brilliant scene takes place
in an apartment in Orlando's palace, decorated with beautiful tapes-
tries stitched with pictures out of feudal history. Produced by female
labor ("she, whose needle limned so cunningly, / Sleeps and dreams
not" [II.iv.39-40]), the tapestries tell stories of men whose hands have
been gloriously dipped in human blood. These stories in cloth radi-
cally divide Hesperus from himself, promoting in him a desire to
shed blood, which presumably would give him a place alongside the
heroes whose stories are sewn into the tapestries, while at the same
time making him even more committed to preserving the vision of
pure innocence that Floribel represents to him. As this fit of madness
passes and he suppresses his violent urges, he states emphatically to



usEgis Roani Drm                                                           I8 / EngIs RoatcDaan                                                      ngihRmnirm


himself, "I tell thee Floribel / Shall never bleed" (II.iv.68-69). This
comment, though on the surface level expressing an abhorrence of vio-
lence, carries within it the full weight of Hesperus's confusion as well
as the confusion of his world. The literal meaning here-that he will
not spill Floribel's blood through jealousy-is bound up with larger
cultural definitions ofwomen as pure repositories for masculine desire,
definitions which do not allow women the simple human functions of
menstruating and consummating sexual relations. This contradiction
between woman as an ideal and woman as a human being cannot be
logically resolved, and it comes back repeatedly to haunt Hesperus,
eventually overwhelming him to the point where he comes to believe
that it can be laid to rest only by murder-by spilling blood despite
his abhorrence of it.
   The relationship between Olivia and Hesperus both duplicates and
departs from the Floribel-Hesperus relationship, as it is defined first by
the demands ofaristocratic patriarchy while at the same time it is pres-
sured by and ultimately responds to the challenge of bourgeois gender
relations. Unlike Floribel, Olivia is of the aristocracy, and thus faces
personal life quite differently from her unknown rival. Her relation-
ship with Hesperus is determined entirely by the demands of the estate
rather than by love, and within this context she cannot represent a
feminine ideal, as Floribel does, but rather appears as socially real: she
serves the estate rather than subjective masculine desire. The ques-
tion facing her and Hesperus in marriage is not whether they love one
another in the beginning but rather whether they can develop a regard
for one another in a marriage intended to unite two aristocratic houses,
thus preserving the power and status of their families. What that regard
entails is seen clearly when Orlando tells Hesperus, in an emphatic ar-
ticulation of aristocratic patriarchal values: "School her [Olivia], sir, in
the arts of compliment, / You'll find her an apt learner" (II.iii. 17-18).
While both Hesperus and Olivia accept the responsibility placed on
them by their families, neither initiates the relationship and neither is
entirely comfortable with it: they do not seek out one another's com-
pany (as Hesperus and Floribel had done when they met secretly at
great risk) but rather simply accept their positions within a prearranged
social order.
   If their marriage unites two houses of the aristocracy, it does not
allay the tensions and anxieties pervading the aristocratic world nor
assure survival of that world. In fact, the arranged marriage, even as


himself, "I tell thee Floribel / Shall never bleed" (II.iv.68-69). This
comment, though on the surface level expressing an abhorrence of vio-
lence, carries within it the full weight of Hesperus's confusion as well
as the confusion of his world. The literal meaning here-that he will
not spill Floribel's blood through jealousy-is bound up with larger
cultural definitions of women as pure repositories for masculine desire,
definitions which do not allow women the simple human functions of
menstruating and consummating sexual relations. This contradiction
between woman as an ideal and woman as a human being cannot be
logically resolved, and it comes back repeatedly to haunt Hesperus,
eventually overwhelming him to the point where he comes to believe
that it can be laid to rest only by murder-by spilling blood despite
his abhorrence of it.
  The relationship between Olivia and Hesperus both duplicates and
departs from the Floribel-Hesperus relationship, as it is defined first by
the demands of aristocratic patriarchy while at the same time it is pres-
sured by and ultimately responds to the challenge of bourgeois gender
relations. Unlike Floribel, Olivia is of the aristocracy, and thus faces
personal life quite differently from her unknown rival. Her relation-
ship with Hesperus is determined entirely by the demands of the estate
rather than by love, and within this context she cannot represent a
feminine ideal, as Floribel does, but rather appears as socially real: she
serves the estate rather than subjective masculine desire. The ques-
tion facing her and Hesperus in marriage is not whether they love one
another in the beginning but rather whether they can develop a regard
for one another in a marriage intended to unite two aristocratic houses,
thus preserving the power and status of their families. What that regard
entails is seen clearly when Orlando tells Hesperus, in an emphatic ar-
ticulation ofaristocratic patriarchal values: "School her [Olivia, sir, in
the arts of compliment, / You'll find her an apt learner" (II.iii. 17-18).
While both Hesperus and Olivia accept the responsibility placed on
them by their families, neither initiates the relationship and neither is
entirely comfortable with it: they do not seek out one another's com-
pany (as Hesperus and Floribel had done when they met secretly at
great risk) but rather simply accept their positions within a prearranged
social order.
   If their marriage unites two houses of the aristocracy, it does not
allay the tensions and anxieties pervading the aristocratic world nor
assure survival of that world. In fact, the arranged marriage, even as


himself, "I tell thee Floribel / Shall never bleed" (II.iv.68-69). This
comment, though on the surface level expressing an abhorrence of vio-
lence, carries within it the full weight of Hesperus's confusion as well
as the confusion of his world. The literal meaning here-that he will
not spill Floribel's blood through jealousy-is bound up with larger
cultural definitions of women as pure repositories for masculine desire,
definitions which do not allow women the simple human functions of
menstruating and consummating sexual relations. This contradiction
between woman as an ideal and woman as a human being cannot be
logically resolved, and it comes back repeatedly to haunt Hesperus,
eventually overwhelming him to the point where he comes to believe
that it can be laid to rest only by murder-by spilling blood despite
his abhorrence of it.
   The relationship between Olivia and Hesperus both duplicates and
departs from the Floribel-Hesperus relationship, as it is defined first by
the demands of aristocratic patriarchy while at the same time it is pres-
sured by and ultimately responds to the challenge of bourgeois gender
relations. Unlike Floribel, Olivia is of the aristocracy, and thus faces
personal life quite differently from her unknown rival. Her relation-
ship with Hesperus is determined entirely by the demands of the estate
rather than by love, and within this context she cannot represent a
feminine ideal, as Floribel does, but rather appears as socially real: she
serves the estate rather than subjective masculine desire. The ques-
tion facing her and Hesperus in marriage is not whether they love one
another in the beginning but rather whether they can develop a regard
for one another in a marriage intended to unite two aristocratic houses,
thus preserving the power and status oftheir families. What that regard
entails is seen clearly when Orlando tells Hesperus, in an emphatic ar-
ticulation of aristocratic patriarchal values: "School her [Olivia], sir, in
the arts of compliment, / You'll find her an apt learner" (Il.iii. 17-18).
While both Hesperus and Olivia accept the responsibility placed on
them by their families, neither initiates the relationship and neither is
entirely comfortable with it: they do not seek out one another's com-
pany (as Hesperus and Floribel had done when they met secretly at
great risk) but rather simply accept their positions within a prearranged
social order.
   If their marriage unites two houses of the aristocracy, it does not
allay the tensions and anxieties pervading the aristocratic world nor
assure survival of that world. In fact, the arranged marriage, even as



          Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy / tto

it is set in motion and socially authorized, is subject to disturbing
ideological and emotional pressures that suggest the demise of the aris-
tocracy rather than its perpetuation. Those pressures are suggested not
only in the early stages of the courtship, when Hesperus's reflections
on marriage and love (because of his secret relationship with Flori-
bel) are overwhelmed by thoughts of death (LI.ii. 39-147), but more
importantly in the fact that Hesperus, once forced into marriage to
Olivia, attempts to re-create exactly the relationship that once existed
between him and Floribel by converting Olivia into a repository of pri-
vate emotional richness apart from society. In lines that recall Keats's
Lamia, he remarks: "Olivia / I'll tell thee how we'll 'scape these prying
eyes; / We'll build a wall between us and the world" (IV.iii.65-67).
While the immediate meaning ofthis comment is doubtless determined
by his guilt and confusion over Floribel, at the same time it carries
much greater significance, expressing the emergence of a bourgeois
individualist ideology within an aristocratic framework, an ideology
that positions marriage against the public world and at the same time
proclaims masculine authority to seek comfort in a privatized and
idealized feminine world.
  If Hesperus's comments display a bourgeois reconception of gen-
der relations that marks the endurance of masculine authority in the
passage of social power from the aristocracy to the bourgeoisie, the
semi-lesbian exchanges between Olivia and her maidservants capture
the dread, loneliness, and physical hardship that befall women as a
result of that authority, and further show that, from a feminist perspec-
tive, there is relatively little difference between aristocratic patriarchy
and bourgeois patriarchy. Shortly before the wedding, for instance, in
describing her affection for Violet, Olivia remarks:
      Gentle maid,
      I'll not be sad; yet, little Violet,
      How long I've worn thy beauty next my heart,
      Aye, in my very thoughts, where thou hast shed
      Perpetual summer: how long shared thy being:
      Like two leaves of a bud, we've grown together,
      And needs must bleed at parting. (Ill.iii. 14-19)

This mournful statement of separation is also a statement of submis-
sion to masculine power and it acknowledges the sexual sacrifice that
is made to that power, a sacrifice which destroys the sexual innocence


          Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy / ng

it is set in motion and socially authorized, is subject to disturbing
ideological and emotional pressures that suggest the demise of the aris-
tocracy rather than its perpetuation. Those pressures are suggested not
only in the early stages of the courtship, when Hesperus's reflections
on marriage and love (because of his secret relationship with Flori-
bel) are overwhelmed by thoughts of death (II.ii.39-47), but more
importantly in the fact that Hesperus, once forced into marriage to
Olivia, attempts to re-create exactly the relationship that once existed
between him and Floribel by converting Olivia into a repository of pri-
vate emotional richness apart from society. In lines that recall Keats's
Lamia, he remarks: "Olivia / I'll tell thee how we'll'scape these prying
eyes; / We'll build a wall between us and the world" (IV.iii.65-67).
While the immediate meaning of this comment is doubtless determined
by his guilt and confusion over Floribel, at the same time it carries
much greater significance, expressing the emergence of a bourgeois
individualist ideology within an aristocratic framework, an ideology
that positions marriage against the public world and at the same time
proclaims masculine authority to seek comfort in a privatized and
idealized feminine world.
  If Hesperus's comments display a bourgeois reconception of gen-
der relations that marks the endurance of masculine authority in the
passage of social power from the aristocracy to the bourgeoisie, the
semi-lesbian exchanges between Olivia and her maidservants capture
the dread, loneliness, and physical hardship that befall women as a
result of that authority, and further show that, from a feminist perspec-
tive, there is relatively little difference between aristocratic patriarchy
and bourgeois patriarchy. Shortly before the wedding, for instance, in
describing her affection for Violet, Olivia remarks:
      Gentle maid,
      I'll not be sad; yet, little Violet,
      How long I've worn thy beauty next my heart,
      Aye, in my very thoughts, where thou hast shed
      Perpetual summer: how long shared thy being:
      Like two leaves of a bud, we've grown together,
      And needs must bleed at parting. (Ill.iii.1t4-19)

This mournful statement of separation is also a statement of submis-
sion to masculine power and it acknowledges the sexual sacrifice that
is made to that power, a sacrifice which destroys the sexual innocence


          Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy / tg

it is set in motion and socially authorized, is subject to disturbing
ideological and emotional pressures that suggest the demise of the aris-
tocracy rather than its perpetuation. Those pressures are suggested not
only in the early stages of the courtship, when Hesperus's reflections
on marriage and love (because of his secret relationship with Flori-
bel) are overwhelmed by thoughts of death (II.ii.39-147), but more
importantly in the fact that Hesperus, once forced into marriage to
Olivia, attempts to re-create exactly the relationship that once existed
between him and Floribel by converting Olivia into a repository of pri-
vate emotional richness apart from society. In lines that recall Keats's
Lamia, he remarks: "Olivia / I'll tell thee how we'll 'scape these prying
eyes; / We'll build a wall between us and the world" (IV.iii.65-67).
While the immediate meaning ofthis comment is doubtless determined
by his guilt and confusion over Floribel, at the same time it carries
much greater significance, expressing the emergence of a bourgeois
individualist ideology within an aristocratic framework, an ideology
that positions marriage against the public world and at the same time
proclaims masculine authority to seek comfort in a privatized and
idealized feminine world.
  If Hesperus's comments display a bourgeois reconception of gen-
der relations that marks the endurance of masculine authority in the
passage of social power from the aristocracy to the bourgeoisie, the
semi-lesbian exchanges between Olivia and her maidservants capture
the dread, loneliness, and physical hardship that befall women as a
result of that authority, and further show that, from a feminist perspec-
tive, there is relatively little difference between aristocratic patriarchy
and bourgeois patriarchy. Shortly before the wedding, for instance, in
describing her affection for Violet, Olivia remarks:
      Gentle maid,
      I'll not be sad; yet, little Violet,
      How long I've worn thy beauty next my heart,
      Aye, in my very thoughts, where thou hast shed
      Perpetual summer: how long shared thy being:
      Like two leaves of a bud, we've grown together,
      And needs must bleed at parting. (Ill.iii. 14-19)

This mournful statement of separation is also a statement of submis-
sion to masculine power and it acknowledges the sexual sacrifice that
is made to that power, a sacrifice which destroys the sexual innocence



-2 / English Romantic Drama              1o / English Romantic Drama              120 / English Romantic Drama


that Olivia once had enjoyed in the company of other females. The
blood which she knows must flow as she enters sexual union with a
man is also the blood of her personal liberty. As she says to her nurse
of her impending marriage:
   ... 'tis the funeral of that Olivia
   You nursed and knew; an hour and she's no more,
   No more the mistress of her own resolves,
   The free partaker of earth's airs and pleasures. (Ill.iv.33-36)

Following as they do immediately upon the scene of Floribel's mur-
der-a scene which ironically had concluded with the sound of wed-
ding bells (III.iii.194-97)-these exchanges disturbingly show the dis-
empowerment of the feminine that is entailed in the sexual reality of
marriage under patriarchy, whether patriarchy is aristocratic or bour-
geois in construction.
Another dimension of patriarchy that Bride captures, one that is
less explicitly centered on questions of sex and gender-though it in-
cludes them-involves the relations between fathers and sons, and the
struggle between them for social authority. At the level of plot alone,
the importance of fathers is suggested in the frequent references to the
fact that Orlando's father is dead, in the portrayal of Hesperus's father
as powerless, and in the portrayal of Floribel's father as near death
through most of the drama, finally dying when he learns of his daugh-
ter's murder. These references focus the demise of a once powerful
social order-specifically of aristocratic patriarchy-and also describe
the opening of an ideological space which allows the reconceptualiza-
tion of personal life in individualist terms. With the death or disem-
powerment of all of the fathers in the drama, the sons and daughters
seek new arrangements of power and gender relations, and these ar-
rangements'are consistently shaded by bourgeois power relations and
ideological assumptions.
  For instance, Orlando engages in deceptive legalistic strategies to
secure the hand of Floribel, whom he describes and envisions in terms
identical to Hesperus (see, for instance, Lii.6-27), even at the very
moment he would secure his public power by forcing Hesperus to
wed Olivia. His plan denies the father-rights of Lord Ernest, while
establishing his own personal authority. Hesperus also attempts to cir-
cumvent the authority of his father and Floribel's father by secretly
marrying Floribel, thus asserting his own power against theirs. These


that Olivia once had enjoyed in the company of other females. The
blood which she knows must flow as she enters sexual union with a
man is also the blood of her personal liberty. As she says to her nurse
of her impending marriage:
   ... 'tis the funeral of that Olivia
   You nursed and knew; an hour and she's no more,
   No more the mistress of her own resolves,
   The free partaker of earth's airs and pleasures. (IIL.iv.33-36)

Following as they do immediately upon the scene of Floribel's mur-
der-a scene which ironically had concluded with the sound of wed-
ding bells (III.iii.194-97)-these exchanges disturbingly show the dis-
empowerment of the feminine that is entailed in the sexual reality of
marriage under patriarchy, whether patriarchy is aristocratic or bour-
geois in construction.t
Another dimension of patriarchy that Bride captures, one that is
less explicitly centered on questions of sex and gender-though it in-
cludes them-involves the relations between fathers and sons, and the
struggle between them for social authority. At the level of plot alone,
the importance of fathers is suggested in the frequent references to the
fact that Orlando's father is dead, in the portrayal of Hesperus's father
as powerless, and in the portrayal of Floribel's father as near death
through most of the drama, finally dying when he learns of his daugh-
ter's murder. These references focus the demise of a once powerful
social order-specifically ofaristocratic patriarchy-and also describe
the opening of an ideological space which allows the reconceptualiza-
tion of personal life in individualist terms. With the death or disem-
powerment of all of the fathers in the drama, the sons and daughters
seek new arrangements of power and gender relations, and these ar-
rangements are consistently shaded by bourgeois power relations and
ideological assumptions.
  For instance, Orlando engages in deceptive legalistic strategies to
secure the hand of Floribel, whom he describes and envisions in terms
identical to Hesperus (see, for instance, L.ii.6-27), even at the very
moment he would secure his public power by forcing Hesperus to
wed Olivia. His plan denies the father-rights of Lord Ernest, while
establishing his own personal authority. Hesperus also attempts to cir-
cumvent the authority of his father and Floribel's father by secretly
marrying Floribel, thus asserting his own power against theirs. These


that Olivia once had enjoyed in the company of other females. The
blood which she knows must flow as she enters sexual union with a
man is also the blood of her personal liberty. As she says to her nurse
of her impending marriage:

   ... 'tis the funeral of that Olivia
   You nursed and knew; an hour and she's no more,
   No more the mistress of her own resolves,
   The free partaker of earth's airs and pleasures. (IIIiv.33-36)

Following as they do immediately upon the scene of Floribel's mur-
der-a scene which ironically had concluded with the sound of wed-
ding bells (ILiii.194-97)-these exchanges disturbingly show the dis-
empowerment of the feminine that is entailed in the sexual reality of
marriage under patriarchy, whether patriarchy is aristocratic or bour-
geois in construction.
Another dimension of patriarchy that Bride captures, one that is
less explicitly centered on questions of sex and gender-though it in-
cludes them-involves the relations between fathers and sons, and the
struggle between them for social authority. At the level of plot alone,
the importance of fathers is suggested in the frequent references to the
fact that Orlando's father is dead, in the portrayal of Hesperus's father
as powerless, and in the portrayal of Floribel's father as near death
through most of the drama, finally dying when he learns of his daugh-
ter's murder. These references focus the demise of a once powerful
social order-specifically of aristocratic patriarchy-and also describe
the opening of an ideological space which allows the reconceptualiza-
tion of personal life in individualist terms. With the death or disem-
powerment of all of the fathers in the drama, the sons and daughters
seek new arrangements of power and gender relations, and these ar-
rangements are consistently shaded by bourgeois power relations and
ideological assumptions.
  For instance, Orlando engages in deceptive legalistic strategies to
secure the hand of Floribel, whom he describes and envisions in terms
identical to Hesperus (see, for instance, Lii.6-27), even at the very
moment he would secure his public power by forcing Hesperus to
wed Olivia. His plan denies the father-rights of Lord Ernest, while
establishing his own personal authority. Hesperus also attempts to cir-
cumvent the authority of his father and Floribel's father by secretly
marrying Floribel, thus asserting his own power against theirs. These



Beddoes' Th Brds Tragedy /                              -2 Beddoes' Th Brds-rgd 2  ede' h rds rgd 2


actions of the sons are entangled both with love and private need and,
at the deepest levels, with the reality of money-Lord Ernest is in-
debted to Orlando's father and Floribel's family is plagued by poverty,
having lost the money it once had. Over against the demands of the
estate, ruled by fathers, Hesperus and Orlando alike attempt to estab-
lish their individual authority, which at the same time would enable
them to fulfill their personal desires.
It is clear that the transformations I am tracing here do not involve
in any way the emergence of women as figures of social authority, or
even as figures who enjoy real freedom. Nonetheless, Orlando and
Hesperus do not represent the simple duplication of patriarchy in a
new generation; rather, they represent the production and emergence
of bourgeois patriarchy that displaces aristocratic patriarchy. The new
social relations associated with their characters are suggested not only
in the particular descriptions of their personal desires, noted above, but
more importantly in the changing forms of social life charted through
the drama. The aristocratic world of the fathers, for example, like the
inchoate bourgeois world of the sons, recognizes public life as mascu-
line and the private sphere as feminine, but in the world of the sons a
political distinction is made between the public and private domains
that is not made by the fathers. In the aristocratic world of the fathers
women were simply property, and their marriages were arranged for
the purpose of securing or extending the estate; in this respect there
was no distinction between the home and the state. In the bourgeois
world, however, the state and the family come to be conceptualized as
distinctive categories, and women become part of what Zilla Eisen-
stein (writing in a different context) calls "a whole culture of privacy,
intimacy, and individualism"' exemplified clearly in Bride in the dis-
tinction between Hesperus and Orlando's attitude toward Floribel on
one hand and the attitudes of Lord Ernest and Mordred toward mar-
riage on the other. In the world that Hesperus and Orlando would
construct, in short, women are not liberated but rather are oppressed
in new and different ways.
  In addition to class and patriarchy, other issues in Bride could be
sketched to elaborate the struggle of bourgeois social relations to be
born. Further exploration of Orlando's use of the law, for instance,
of Lenora's obsession with death, of Hesperus's madness, and of the
full significance and role of money: all of these, no less than the issues
considered above, point toward a deep structure of bourgeois social


actions of the sons are entangled both with love and private need and,
at the deepest levels, with the reality of money-Lord Ernest is in-
debted to Orlando's father and Floribel's family is plagued by poverty,
having lost the money it once had. Over against the demands of the
estate, ruled by fathers, Hesperus and Orlando alike attempt to estab-
lish their individual authority, which at the same time would enable
them to fulfill their personal desires.
It is clear that the transformations I am tracing here do not involve
in any way the emergence of women as figures of social authority, or
even as figures who enjoy real freedom. Nonetheless, Orlando and
Hesperus do not represent the simple duplication of patriarchy in a
new generation; rather, they represent the production and emergence
of bourgeois patriarchy that displaces aristocratic patriarchy. The new
social relations associated with their characters are suggested not only
in the particular descriptions oftheir personal desires, noted above, but
more importantly in the changing forms of social life charted through
the drama. The aristocratic world of the fathers, for example, like the
inchoate bourgeois world of the sons, recognizes public life as mascu-
line and the private sphere as feminine, but in the world of the sons a
political distinction is made between the public and private domains
that is not made by the fathers. In the aristocratic world of the fathers
women were simply property, and their marriages were arranged for
the purpose of securing or extending the estate; in this respect there
was no distinction between the home and the state. In the bourgeois
world, however, the state and the family come to be conceptualized as
distinctive categories, and women become part of what Zilla Eisen-
stein (writing in a different context) calls "a whole culture of privacy,
intimacy, and individualism"' exemplified clearly in Bride in the dis-
tinction between Hesperus and Orlando's attitude toward Floribel on
one hand and the attitudes of Lord Ernest and Mordred toward mar-
riage on the other. In the world that Hesperus and Orlando would
construct, in short, women are not liberated but rather are oppressed
in new and different ways.
  In addition to class and patriarchy, other issues in Bride could be
sketched to elaborate the struggle of bourgeois social relations to be
born. Further exploration of Orlando's use of the law, for instance,
of Lenora's obsession with death, of Hesperus's madness, and of the
full significance and role of money: all of these, no less than the issues
considered above, point toward a deep structure of bourgeois social


actions of the sons are entangled both with love and private need and,
at the deepest levels, with the reality of money-Lord Ernest is in-
debted to Orlando's father and Floribel's family is plagued by poverty,
having lost the money it once had. Over against the demands of the
estate, ruled by fathers, Hesperus and Orlando alike attempt to estab-
lish their individual authority, which at the same time would enable
them to fulfill their personal desires.
It is clear that the transformations I am tracing here do not involve
in any way the emergence of women as figures of social authority, or
even as figures who enjoy real freedom. Nonetheless, Orlando and
Hesperus do not represent the simple duplication of patriarchy in a
new generation; rather, they represent the production and emergence
of bourgeois patriarchy that displaces aristocratic patriarchy. The new
social relations associated with their characters are suggested not only
in the particular descriptions of their personal desires, noted above, but
more importantly in the changing forms of social life charted through
the drama. The aristocratic world of the fathers, for example, like the
inchoate bourgeois world of the sons, recognizes public life as mascu-
line and the private sphere as feminine, but in the world of the sons a
political distinction is made between the public and private domains
that is not made by the fathers. In the aristocratic world of the fathers
women were simply property, and their marriages were arranged for
the purpose of securing or extending the estate; in this respect there
was no distinction between the home and the state. In the bourgeois
world, however, the state and the family come to be conceptualized as
distinctive categories, and women become part of what Zilla Eisen-
stein (writing in a different context) calls "a whole culture of privacy,
intimacy, and individualism"t exemplified clearly in Bride in the dis-
tinction between Hesperus and Orlando's attitude toward Floribel on
one hand and the attitudes of Lord Ernest and Mordred toward mar-
riage on the other. In the world that Hesperus and Orlando would
construct, in short, women are not liberated but rather are oppressed
in new and different ways.
  In addition to class and patriarchy, other issues in Bride could be
sketched to elaborate the struggle of bourgeois social relations to be
born. Further exploration of Orlando's use of the law, for instance,
of Lenora's obsession with death, of Hesperus's madness, and of the
full significance and role of money: all of these, no less than the issues
considered above, point toward a deep structure of bourgeois social















            12o / English Romantic Drama

life at the center of the drama that destabilizes and overwhelms the
aristocratic and feudal relations reflected on its surface. The ideological
and political struggles surrounding such matters, more than simply
Beddoes's limitations as a dramatist, help to explain the formal and
aesthetic shortcomings of the work, while at the same time pointing
toward its larger significance for literary and social history.
Moreover, the essential structure of ideas and assumptions in Bride-
its expression of inchoate bourgeois needs and desires against a weak-
ening aristocratic framework of authority-constitutes its particular
Romantic significance and locates it among other dramas of the period
which, for all their differences, share an inability to escape the political
unconscious of bourgeois social relations. Like other dramas consid-
ered in this study, Bride would look to a past world and ideology for its
governing values, while in fact it is shaped and vitalized by a contra-
dictory world and ideology. The various portrayals of this contradic-
tion within Bride are often aesthetically crippling, and yet they give
the drama its particular and crucial importance, distilling for criti-
cal investigation the processes whereby feudal aesthetic, political, and
ideological authority were destroyed by bourgeois social relations.


            122 / English Romantic Drama

life at the center of the drama that destabilizes and overwhelms the
aristocratic and feudal relations reflected on its surface. The ideological
and political struggles surrounding such matters, more than simply
Beddoes's limitations as a dramatist, help to explain the formal and
aesthetic shortcomings of the work, while at the same time pointing
toward its larger significance for literary and social history.
Moreover, the essential structure of ideas and assumptions in Bride-
its expression of inchoate bourgeois needs and desires against a weak-
ening aristocratic framework of authority-constitutes its particular
Romantic significance and locates it among other dramas of the period
which, for all their differences, share an inability to escape the political
unconscious of bourgeois social relations. Like other dramas consid-
ered in this study, Bride would look to a past world and ideology for its
governing values, while in fact it is shaped and vitalized by a contra-
dictory world and ideology. The various portrayals of this contradic-
tion within Bride are often aesthetically crippling, and yet they give
the drama its particular and crucial importance, distilling for criti-
cal investigation the processes whereby feudal aesthetic, political. and
ideological authority were destroyed by bourgeois social relations.


            122 / English Romantic Drama

life at the center of the drama that destabilizes and overwhelms the
aristocratic and feudal relations reflected on its surface. The ideological
and political struggles surrounding such matters, more than simply
Beddoes's limitations as a dramatist, help to explain the formal and
aesthetic shortcomings of the work, while at the same time pointing
toward its larger significance for literary and social history.
Moreover, the essential structure of ideas and assumptions in Bride-
its expression of inchoate bourgeois needs and desires against a weak-
ening aristocratic framework of authority-constitutes its particular
Romantic significance and locates it among other dramas of the period
which, for all their differences, share an inability to escape the political
unconscious of bourgeois social relations. Like other dramas consid-
ered in this study, Bride would look to a past world and ideology for its
governing values, while in fact it is shaped and vitalized by a contra-
dictory world and ideology. The various portrayals of this contradic-
tion within Bride are often aesthetically crippling, and yet they give
the drama its particular and crucial importance, distilling for criti-
cal investigation the processes whereby feudal aesthetic, political, and
ideological authority were destroyed by bourgeois social relations.




                           CHAPTER

                               8


          "Where the Sires' Quarrels Descend

                       Upon the Son"

                 Sir Walter Scott's Halidon Hill







Sir Walter Scott's four dramas-two full-length works, and two ab-
breviated pieces-share with many of his novels a historical vision of
crisis involving figures, real and imaginary, in Scottish feudal society.'
MacDuff's Cross tells the story of conflict between two lords, Lindesay
and Maurice Berkeley. The long conflict has produced bloodshed and
the threat of more bloodshed until both families eventually are be-
reft of integrity and faced with destruction; the conflict is stopped
only when Berkeley "lays the title down" and, along with Lindesay's
disguised brother (thought to have been murdered by Berkeley),
withdraws from society entirely "to that last retreat" of "the sacred
cloister." Auchindrane offers a long-winded account of the violent,
conspiracy-driven struggles between yet another pair of lords, John
Muir of Auchindrane and Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne, tracking
the atrocities committed by and the ultimate demise of the former; as
Scott notes in the preface to the drama, "The family, blackened with
the crimes of its predecessors, became extinct, and the estate passed
into other hands." The Doom of Devorgoil records the tribulations of
a once powerful family, capturing its anxiety and dread among what
have become "spirit-haunted ruins," and finally offering a fantasy es-
cape from utter desolation, an escape that revolves around the interest-
ing notion of discovering "the fated key" of untold wealth. Together,
these works sketch a grim portrait of a withering culture, and have


CHAPTER


          "Where the Sires' Quarrels Descend

                       Upon the Son"

                 Sir Walter Scott's Halidon Hill







Sir Walter Scott's four dramas-two full-length works, and two ab-
breviated pieces-share with many of his novels a historical vision of
crisis involving figures, real and imaginary, in Scottish feudal society.'
MacDuff's Cross tells the story of conflict between two lords, Lindesay
and Maurice Berkeley. The long conflict has produced bloodshed and
the threat of more bloodshed until both families eventually are be-
reft of integrity and faced with destruction; the conflict is stopped
only when Berkeley "lays the title down" and, along with Lindesay's
disguised brother (thought to have been murdered by Berkeley),
withdraws from society entirely "to that last retreat" of "the sacred
cloister." Auchindrane offers a long-winded account of the violent,
conspiracy-driven struggles between yet another pair of lords, John
Muir of Auchindrane and Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne, tracking
the atrocities committed by and the ultimate demise of the former; as
Scott notes in the preface to the drama, "The family, blackened with
the crimes of its predecessors, became extinct, and the estate passed
into other hands." The Doom of Devorgoil records the tribulations of
a once powerful family, capturing its anxiety and dread among what
have become "spirit-haunted ruins," and finally offering a fantasy es-
cape from utter desolation, an escape that revolves around the interest-
ing notion of discovering "the fated key" of untold wealth. Together,
these works sketch a grim portrait of a withering culture, and have


                           CHAPTER

                               8


          "Where the Sires' Quarrels Descend

                       Upon the Son"

                 Sir Walter Scott's Halidon Hill







Sir Walter Scott's four dramas-two full-length works, and two ab-
breviated pieces-share with many of his novels a historical vision of
crisis involving figures, real and imaginary, in Scottish feudal society.'
MacDuff's Cross tells the story of conflict between two lords, Lindesay
and Maurice Berkeley. The long conflict has produced bloodshed and
the threat of more bloodshed until both families eventually are be-
reft of integrity and faced with destruction; the conflict is stopped
only when Berkeley "lays the title down" and, along with Lindesay's
disguised brother (thought to have been murdered by Berkeley),
withdraws from society entirely "to that last retreat" of "the sacred
cloister." Auchindrane offers a long-winded account of the violent,
conspiracy-driven struggles between yet another pair of lords, John
Muir of Auchindrane and Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne, tracking
the atrocities committed by and the ultimate demise of the former; as
Scott notes in the preface to the drama, "The family, blackened with
the crimes of its predecessors, became extinct, and the estate passed
into other hands." The Doom of Devorgoil records the tribulations of
a once powerful family, capturing its anxiety and dread among what
have become "spirit-haunted ruins," and finally offering a fantasy es-
cape from utter desolation, an escape that revolves around the interest-
ing notion of discovering "the fated key" of untold wealth. Together,
these works sketch a grim portrait of a withering culture, and have



124 / EnlsUoati.rm                       2 / Enls Romnti Drm                      2  nlshRmni rm


about them an air of great sadness, much like the sadness that afflicts
Keats's fallen Titans in Hyperion.
  Halidon Hill, written in two acts in 1822,2 occupies a special place
among Scott's dramatic efforts, not because it escapes this sadness, and
not because it is dramatically superior, but rather because its vision
of social crisis is historically more sharply focused. In this work mul-
tiple levels of historical and political experience and various signifi-
cant ideological issues are presented with a degree of formal precision
and historical urgency that are not as readily apparent in the other,
more diffuse and rambling dramatic pieces. Not only does Halidon
Hill present, as MacDuff's Cross had done, internal conflict among the
Scottish nobility; it also presents a particular military conflict between
Scotland and England, effectively calling attention to the larger his-
torical contexts within which specific details of Scottish social life
developed. Furthermore, in the particular military battle that Scott has
chosen to dramatize-that of Halidon Hill on July 19, 1333-Scotland
not only lost badly but also suffered the slaughter of great numbers of
Scottish nobility and soldiers; from the retrospective historical point
of view from which Scott was writing, the battle might be said to
symbolize the ultimate triumph of the English empire and to portray
vividly one means by which that empire was won. Finally, although
Scott unblinkingly charts the certain defeat of his countrymen in an
age long past, at the same time he bestows upon them great vigor and
integrity by showing them settling among themselves their own deep-
est personal differences-they are militarily defeated but their national
honor is intact. In this interesting ideological maneuver, Scott effects a
drama of consolation; he acknowledges the demise of Scottish aristo-
cratic social authority but finds the lasting integrity of Scottish history,
thus reconciling the Scotland of his own day with its hard past. In the
following pages I want to consider Scott's portrayal of these matters
within a broad historical context and to touch briefly on several the-
matic issues of social and historical importance-including religion,
money, and gender-related to them.
  Several specific historical moments help to elucidate the scope and
significance of Halidon Hill, and to give some idea of the complexity
of Scott's historical imagination. Written in 1822, just after the close of
the English regency, the drama describes a military conflict between
England and Scotland in the fourteenth century. Sandwiched between
these two moments is the important date of 1707-never mentioned


about them an air of great sadness, much like the sadness that afflicts
Keats's fallen Titans in Hyperion.
  Halidon Hill, written in two acts in 1822,2 occupies a special place
among Scott's dramatic efforts, not because it escapes this sadness, and
not because it is dramatically superior, but rather because its vision
of social crisis is historically more sharply focused. In this work mul-
tiple levels of historical and political experience and various signifi-
cant ideological issues are presented with a degree of formal precision
and historical urgency that are not as readily apparent in the other,
more diffuse and rambling dramatic pieces. Not only does Halidon
Hill present, as MacDuff's Cross had done, internal conflict among the
Scottish nobility; it also presents a particular military conflict between
Scotland and England, effectively calling attention to the larger his-
torical contexts within which specific details of Scottish social life
developed. Furthermore, in the particular military battle that Scott has
chosen to dramatize-that of Halidon Hill on July 19, 1333-Scotland
not only lost badly but also suffered the slaughter of great numbers of
Scottish nobility and soldiers; from the retrospective historical point
of view from which Scott was writing, the battle might be said to
symbolize the ultimate triumph of the English empire and to portray
vividly one means by which that empire was won. Finally, although
Scott unblinkingly charts the certain defeat of his countrymen in an
age long past, at the same time he bestows upon them great vigor and
integrity by showing them settling among themselves their own deep-
est personal differences-they are militarily defeated but their national
honor is intact. In this interesting ideological maneuver, Scott effects a
drama of consolation; he acknowledges the demise of Scottish aristo-
cratic social authority but finds the lasting integrity of Scottish history,
thus reconciling the Scotland of his own day with its hard past. In the
following pages I want to consider Scott's portrayal of these matters
within a broad historical context and to touch briefly on several the-
matic issues of social and historical importance-including religion,
money, and gender-related to them.
  Several specific historical moments help to elucidate the scope and
significance of Halidon Hill, and to give some idea of the complexity
of Scott's historical imagination. Written in 1822, just after the close of
the English regency, the drama describes a military conflict between
England and Scotland in the fourteenth century. Sandwiched between
these two moments is the important date of 1707-never mentioned


about them an air of great sadness, much like the sadness that afflicts
Keats's fallen Titans in Hyperion.
  Halidon Hill, written in two acts in 1822,2 occupies a special place
among Scott's dramatic efforts, not because it escapes this sadness, and
not because it is dramatically superior, but rather because its vision
of social crisis is historically more sharply focused. In this work mul-
tiple levels of historical and political experience and various signifi-
cant ideological issues are presented with a degree of formal precision
and historical urgency that are not as readily apparent in the other,
more diffuse and rambling dramatic pieces. Not only does Halidon
Hill present, as MacDuff's Cross had done, internal conflict among the
Scottish nobility; it also presents a particular military conflict between
Scotland and England, effectively calling attention to the larger his-
torical contexts within which specific details of Scottish social life
developed. Furthermore, in the particular military battle that Scott has
chosen to dramatize-that of Halidon Hill on July 19, 1333-Scotland
not only lost badly but also suffered the slaughter of great numbers of
Scottish nobility and soldiers; from the retrospective historical point
of view from which Scott was writing, the battle might be said to
symbolize the ultimate triumph of the English empire and to portray
vividly one means by which that empire was won. Finally, although
Scott unblinkingly charts the certain defeat of his countrymen in an
age long past, at the same time he bestows upon them great vigor and
integrity by showing them settling among themselves their own deep-
est personal differences-they are militarily defeated but their national
honor is intact. In this interesting ideological maneuver, Scott effects a
drama of consolation; he acknowledges the demise of Scottish aristo-
cratic social authority but finds the lasting integrity of Scottish history,
thus reconciling the Scotland of his own day with its hard past. In the
following pages I want to consider Scott's portrayal of these matters
within a broad historical context and to touch briefly on several the-
matic issues of social and historical importance-including religion,
money, and gender-related to them.
Several specific historical moments help to elucidate the scope and
significance of Halidon Hill, and to give some idea of the complexity
of Scott's historical imagination. Written in 1822, just after the close of
the English regency, the drama describes a military conflict between
England and Scotland in the fourteenth century. Sandwiched between
these two moments is the important date of 1707-never mentioned



           Sir Walter Scott's Halidon Hill / 125

in the drama-when Scotland legally became part of the British king-
dom. The imaginative turn to the distant feudal past, entirely leaping
over the most significant and transforming moment in Scottish his-
tory, can be explained, of course, in terms of personality, sentiment,
nostalgia, and the popularity, during the Romantic period, of things
medieval. But it also calls into play the historically interesting pos-
sibility that in the 182os, with feudalism all but dead at the hands of
industrial capitalism and with no hope of future restored health, the
fact of an England-Scotland merger in 1707 would perhaps seem less
compelling and less historically urgent to Scott than the much deeper
question of the forces that led to the merger and that ultimately de-
stroyed the way of life that had preceded it. That is, in looking to
medieval Scotland, Scott's imagination moves toward what is, for him,
the center of a far-reaching historical interest: the distantly removed
but still pressing early material conditions that significantly shaped
subsequent historical changes, including those of 1707 and 1822. The
battle of Halidon Hill, in this view, is a single, hard crystal of histori-
cal energy, a specific episode carrying within it a variety of personal
and public issues under extreme pressure. Through the optic of Scott's
imagination it becomes both an emblem of Scotland's tragic past and
a pathway into the deeper structures of history from which his own
contemporary world was formed.
  One way Scott deepens the historical interest of the drama is by
focusing in the opening act on internal conflict at multiple levels of
experience-individual, familial, national-and on the consequences
and resolution of that conflict. In developing this focus he demon-
strates an important historical understanding shared by other drama-
tists of the Romantic period:' societies most often suffer their greatest
debilitating blows not from hostile external forces but from weakness
and instability generated within their own borders. At that moment
when a society becomes unable to represent the interests and meet the
various needs of its own citizens, or when its citizens become driven
by private interest rather than by public good, then the social order is
most susceptible to threats from outside its borders. The Scotland of
Halidon Hill is precisely such a place, as, in Scott's hands, its ill-fated
encounter with England is shown to constitute only part of a much
larger history, a history in which Scotland defeats itself long before
the arrival of Edward III.
  Scott's vision of Scotland's past draws upon several loosely re-


           Sir Walter Scott's Halidon Hill / u5

in the drama-when Scotland legally became part of the British king-
dom. The imaginative turn to the distant feudal past, entirely leaping
over the most significant and transforming moment in Scottish his-
tory, can be explained, of course, in terms of personality, sentiment,
nostalgia, and the popularity, during the Romantic period, of things
medieval. But it also calls into play the historically interesting pos-
sibility that in the 1820s, with feudalism all but dead at the hands of
industrial capitalism and with no hope of future restored health, the
fact of an England-Scotland merger in 1707 would perhaps seem less
compelling and less historically urgent to Scott than the much deeper
question of the forces that led to the merger and that ultimately de-
stroyed the way of life that had preceded it. That is, in looking to
medieval Scotland, Scott's imagination moves toward what is, for him,
the center of a far-reaching historical interest: the distantly removed
but still pressing early material conditions that significantly shaped
subsequent historical changes, including those of 1707 and 1822. The
battle of Halidon Hill, in this view, is a single, hard crystal of histori-
cal energy, a specific episode carrying within it a variety of personal
and public issues under extreme pressure. Through the optic of Scott's
imagination it becomes both an emblem of Scotland's tragic past and
a pathway into the deeper structures of history from which his own
contemporary world was formed.
  One way Scott deepens the historical interest of the drama is by
focusing in the opening act on internal conflict at multiple levels of
experience-individual, familial, national-and on the consequences
and resolution of that conflict. In developing this focus he demon-
strates an important historical understanding shared by other drama-
tists of the Romantic period:' societies most often suffer their greatest
debilitating blows not from hostile external forces but from weakness
and instability generated within their own borders. At that moment
when a society becomes unable to represent the interests and meet the
various needs of its own citizens, or when its citizens become driven
by private interest rather than by public good, then the social order is
most susceptible to threats from outside its borders. The Scotland of
Halidon Hill is precisely such a place, as, in Scott's hands, its ill-fated
encounter with England is shown to constitute only part of a much
larger history, a history in which Scotland defeats itself long before
the arrival of Edward III.
  Scott's vision of Scotland's past draws upon several loosely re-


           Sir Walter Scott's Halidon Hill / 125

in the drama-when Scotland legally became part of the British king-
dom. The imaginative turn to the distant feudal past, entirely leaping
over the most significant and transforming moment in Scottish his-
tory, can be explained, of course, in terms of personality, sentiment,
nostalgia, and the popularity, during the Romantic period, of things
medieval. But it also calls into play the historically interesting pos-
sibility that in the 182os, with feudalism all but dead at the hands of
industrial capitalism and with no hope of future restored health, the
fact of an England-Scotland merger in 1707 would perhaps seem less
compelling and less historically urgent to Scott than the much deeper
question of the forces that led to the merger and that ultimately de-
stroyed the way of life that had preceded it. That is, in looking to
medieval Scotland, Scott's imagination moves toward what is, for him,
the center of a far-reaching historical interest: the distantly removed
but still pressing early material conditions that significantly shaped
subsequent historical changes, including those of 1707 and 1822. The
battle of Halidon Hill, in this view, is a single, hard crystal of histori-
cal energy, a specific episode carrying within it a variety of personal
and public issues under extreme pressure. Through the optic of Scott's
imagination it becomes both an emblem of Scotland's tragic past and
a pathway into the deeper structures of history from which his own
contemporary world was formed.
  One way Scott deepens the historical interest of the drama is by
focusing in the opening act on internal conflict at multiple levels of
experience-individual, familial, national-and on the consequences
and resolution of that conflict. In developing this focus he demon-
strates an important historical understanding shared by other drama-
tists of the Romantic period:' societies most often suffer their greatest
debilitating blows not from hostile external forces but from weakness
and instability generated within their own borders. At that moment
when a society becomes unable to represent the interests and meet the
various needs of its own citizens, or when its citizens become driven
by private interest rather than by public good, then the social order is
most susceptible to threats from outside its borders. The Scotland of
Halidon Hill is precisely such a place, as, in Scott's hands, its ill-fated
encounter with England is shown to constitute only part of a much
larger history, a history in which Scotland defeats itself long before
the arrival of Edward III.
  Scott's vision of Scotland's past draws upon several loosely re-



ad nls omni rm       26 / ngish Roani                                             arma12 / Enls oani rm


lated contextual issues of significant historical and critical weight.
First, the dramatic emphasis on Scotland's internal conflicts creates a
narrative space for imaginatively exploring certain ideological struc-
tures that have weakened to the point of collapse; for reconstruct-
ing the principles of honor and integrity central to those structures;
and thus for creating a Scotland whose identity does not depend en-
tirely on definitions supplied by English presence (as a straightforward
"invasion story" might imply). Feudal traditions of family, religion,
strong national leadership, and honor in servitudet are already attenu-
ated as the play opens. Scott proceeds methodically from one to the
next, both to trace the central features of Scottish society that have
begun to decline and to specify the particular contours of that decline:
to protect their personal honor, families kill members of rival families
at such a pace that honor requiring retribution assures the demise of the
family itself; religious piety and authority, in the character of Adam
De Vipont, are relegated to the personal role of seeking peace between
rival families and, in the final scene of the play, to the politically point-
less task of asserting the nobility of Scotland even in defeat; leadership
at the highest levels has long since evaporated, as the presence of the re-
gent does little more than stir nostalgia among Scotchmen for the lost
great leader Robert Bruce; and individual soldiers and lords squabble
among themselves over their respective places in the military pecking
order. With some bitterness, but with a great deal more sadness, the
drama discloses the tattered seams of Scottish feudal society, capturing
that society at a moment when it is so weakened that individual efforts
to reunify it sufficiently to withstand outside challenge are hopeless.
It is at this level of social relations-where institutions and structures
of value and authority intersect-that the first act develops.
  Second, and more difficult, Scott's imaginative recreation of cir-
cumstances surrounding the battle of Halidon Hill forces the issue of
historical explanation. If, for instance, Scotland's initial real difficulties
arose from internal conflict, then what was the nature of this conflict?
Was it defined (as the drama implies) solely by the inability of various,
colliding, strong personalities of the Scottish nobility to forgive any
transgression? Was it a matter of a few power-hungry nobles who in-
gloriously sought to take power from other, more reasonable nobles?
Or was internal conflict itself a product of still larger social and his-
torical forces? No explicit answers to these questions are provided in
the text of the drama; but the variety of personal and public issues, and


lated contextual issues of significant historical and critical weight.       lated contextual issues of significant historical and critical weight.
First, the dramatic emphasis on Scotland's internal conflicts creates a       First, the dramatic emphasis on Scotland's internal conflicts creates a
narrative space for imaginatively exploring certain ideological struc-        narrative space for imaginatively exploring certain ideological struc-
tures that have weakened to the point of collapse; for reconstruct-           tures that have weakened to the point of collapse; for reconstruct-
ing the principles of honor and integrity central to those structures;       ing the principles of honor and integrity central to those structures;
and thus for creating a Scotland whose identity does not depend en-           and thus for creating a Scotland whose identity does not depend en-
tirely on definitions supplied by English presence (as a straightforward      tirely on definitions supplied by English presence (as a straightforward
"invasion story" might imply). Feudal traditions of family, religion,         "invasion story" might imply). Feudal traditions of family, religion,
strong national leadership, and honor in servitude' are already attenu-       strong national leadership, and honor in servitude' are already attenu-
ated as the play opens. Scott proceeds methodically from one to the           ated as the play opens. Scott proceeds methodically from one to the
next, both to trace the central features of Scottish society that have        next, both to trace the central features of Scottish society that have
begun to decline and to specify the particular contours of that decline:      begun to decline and to specify the particular contours of that decline:
to protect their personal honor, families kill members of rival families      to protect their personal honor, families kill members of rival families
at such a pace that honor requiring retribution assures the demise of the     at such a pace that honor requiring retribution assures the demise of the
family itself; religious piety and authority, in the character of Adam        family itself; religious piety and authority, in the character of Adam
De Vipont, are relegated to the personal role of seeking peace between        De Vipont, are relegated to the personal role of seeking peace between
rival families and, in the final scene of the play, to the politically point- rival families and, in the final scene of the play, to the politically point-
less task of asserting the nobility of Scotland even in defeat; leadership   less task of asserting the nobility of Scotland even in defeat; leadership
at the highest levels has long since evaporated, as the presence of the re-   at the highest levels has long since evaporated, as the presence of the re-
gent does little more than stir nostalgia among Scotchmen for the lost        gent does little more than stir nostalgia among Scotchmen for the lost
great leader Robert Bruce; and individual soldiers and lords squabble         great leader Robert Bruce; and individual soldiers and lords squabble
among themselves over their respective places in the military pecking         among themselves over their respective places in the military pecking
order. With some bitterness, but with a great deal more sadness, the          order. With some bitterness, but with a great deal more sadness, the
drama discloses the tattered seams of Scottish feudal society, capturing      drama discloses the tattered seams of Scottish feudal society, capturing
that society at a moment when it is so weakened that individual efforts       that society at a moment when it is so weakened that individual efforts
to reunify it sufficiently to withstand outside challenge are hopeless.       to reunify it sufficiently to withstand outside challenge are hopeless.
It is at this level of social relations-where institutions and structures     It is at this level of social relations-where institutions and structures
of value and authority intersect-that the first act develops.                 of value and authority intersect-that the first act develops.
  Second, and more difficult, Scott's imaginative recreation of cir-            Second, and more difficult, Scott's imaginative recreation of cir-
cumstances surrounding the battle of Halidon Hill forces the issue of         cumstances surrounding the battle of Halidon Hill forces the issue of
historical explanation. If, for instance, Scotland's initial real difficulties historical explanation. If, for instance, Scotland's initial real difficulties
arose from internal conflict, then what was the nature of this conflict?      arose from internal conflict, then what was the nature of this conflict?
Was it defined (as the drama implies) solely by the inability of various,     Was it defined (as the drama implies) solely by the inability of various,
colliding, strong personalities of the Scottish nobility to forgive any       colliding, strong personalities of the Scottish nobility to forgive any
transgression? Was it a matter of a few power-hungry nobles who in-           transgression? Was it a matter of a few power-hungry nobles who in-
gloriously sought to take power from other, more reasonable nobles?           gloriously sought to take power from other, more reasonable nobles?
Or was internal conflict itself a product of still larger social and his-     Or was internal conflict itself a product of still larger social and his-
torical forces? No explicit answers to these questions are provided in       torical forces? No explicit answers to these questions are provided in
the text of the drama; but the variety of personal and public issues, and     the text of the drama; but the variety of personal and public issues, and



Si WlerSct'sHldnHil/t                    SrWte Scot' HaiaoUHl / 127               Sir    M~ WleSct' aioHi/ 2


of issues connecting the fates of Scotland and England, suggests that
internal turmoil is, on some level, implicated in social and specifically
economic changes that prevailing structures of Scottish authority and
social life were incapable of controlling.
The economics of the Scottish situation can be glimpsed by briefly
considering the personal animosities described on the surface of the
dramatic action within the context of the larger world to which the
drama calls attention. As the play begins, Scotland is without a ruler;
the various nobles follow their personal ambitions in determining the
direction of their estates and of the nation; families fight to the death
with fellow families; some individuals have abandoned Scotland for
England (for instance, Baliol), or have turned away from their country
to religion (De Vipont). Scottish solidarity has entirely eroded, and the
Scottish world appears poor, tired, and declining. In the textual mar-
gin lies a suggestion of a larger and wealthier world that both tempts
and pressures Scottish social life. This world is hinted at first in the
character of De Vipont, who has spent twelve years in the Near East
participating in the Crusades-that is, participating in a religious ven-
ture that possessed very real economic dimensions, for the Crusades
were one means by which a lucrative trade was established between
Europe and the Near East and by which industry was stimulated in
late medieval Europe.5 The character of the renegade Baliol, who ap-
pears in Act II, also calls attention to the economic misfortunes of
his native country by leaving Scotlandt to find position and fortune
in England, which had embraced world social and economic changes
much more readily than Scotland and had accordingly benefited politi-
cally from them. While neither of these characters is central to the
dramatic action, and while neither is drawn as a self-conscious agent
of economic change, they both carry associations that suggest some of
the world pressures contributing to the specific personal and national
turmoil charted in the plot of the dramatic action.
  Third, Scott's decision to place an imaginary and less than noble
prince regent at the head of a declining Scotland suggests that the
drama may have been written as a sort of small cautionary tale for
Regency England (and for the post-Regency England of 1822), which,
one could argue, suffered many of the same atrocities Scott found in
medieval Scotland. This point perhaps locates the drama too snugly at
the level of historical conjuncture, but it is nonetheless important, for
it calls attention to the allegorical nature of some Romantic drama and,


of issues connecting the fates of Scotland and England, suggests that
internal turmoil is, on some level, implicated in social and specifically
economic changes that prevailing structures of Scottish authority and
social life were incapable of controlling.
The economics of the Scottish situation can be glimpsed by briefly
considering the personal animosities described on the surface of the
dramatic action within the context of the larger world to which the
drama calls attention. As the play begins, Scotland is without a ruler;
the various nobles follow their personal ambitions in determining the
direction of their estates and of the nation; families fight to the death
with fellow families; some individuals have abandoned Scotland for
England (for instance, Baliol), or have turned away from their country
to religion (De Vipont). Scottish solidarity has entirely eroded, and the
Scottish world appears poor, tired, and declining. In the textual mar-
gin lies a suggestion of a larger and wealthier world that both tempts
and pressures Scottish social life. This world is hinted at first in the
character of De Vipont, who has spent twelve years in the Near East
participating in the Crusades-that is, participating in a religious ven-
ture that possessed very real economic dimensions, for the Crusades
were one means by which a lucrative trade was established between
Europe and the Near East and by which industry was stimulated in
late medieval Europe.5 The character of the renegade Baliol, who ap-
pears in Act II, also calls attention to the economic misfortunes of
his native country by leaving Scotlandt to find position and fortune
in England, which had embraced world social and economic changes
much more readily than Scotland and had accordingly benefited politi-
cally from them. While neither of these characters is central to the
dramatic action, and while neither is drawn as a self-conscious agent
of economic change, they both carry associations that suggest some of
the world pressures contributing to the specific personal and national
turmoil charted in the plot of the dramatic action.
  Third, Scott's decision to place an imaginary and less than noble
prince regent at the head of a declining Scotland suggests that the
drama may have been written as a sort of small cautionary tale for
Regency England (and for the post-Regency England of1822), which,
one could argue, suffered many of the same atrocities Scott found in
medieval Scotland. This point perhaps locates the drama too snugly at
the level of historical conjuncture, but it is nonetheless important, for
it calls attention to the allegorical nature of some Romantic drama and,


of issues connecting the fates of Scotland and England, suggests that
internal turmoil is, on some level, implicated in social and specifically
economic changes that prevailing structures of Scottish authority and
social life were incapable of controlling.
The economics of the Scottish situation can be glimpsed by briefly
considering the personal animosities described on the surface of the
dramatic action within the context of the larger world to which the
drama calls attention. As the play begins, Scotland is without a ruler;
the various nobles follow their personal ambitions in determining the
direction of their estates and of the nation; families fight to the death
with fellow families; some individuals have abandoned Scotland for
England (for instance, Baliol), or have turned away from their country
to religion (De Vipont). Scottish solidarity has entirely eroded, and the
Scottish world appears poor, tired, and declining. In the textual mar-
gin lies a suggestion of a larger and wealthier world that both tempts
and pressures Scottish social life. This world is hinted at first in the
character of De Vipont, who has spent twelve years in the Near East
participating in the Crusades-that is, participating in a religious ven-
ture that possessed very real economic dimensions, for the Crusades
were one means by which a lucrative trade was established between
Europe and the Near East and by which industry was stimulated in
late medieval Europe.' The character of the renegade Baliol, who ap-
pears in Act II, also calls attention to the economic misfortunes of
his native country by leaving Scotlandt to find position and fortune
in England, which had embraced world social and economic changes
much more readily than Scotland and had accordingly benefited politi-
cally from them. While neither of these characters is central to the
dramatic action, and while neither is drawn as a self-conscious agent
of economic change, they both carry associations that suggest some of
the world pressures contributing to the specific personal and national
turmoil charted in the plot of the dramatic action.
  Third, Scott's decision to place an imaginary and less than noble
prince regent at the head of a declining Scotland suggests that the
drama may have been written as a sort of small cautionary tale for
Regency England (and for the post-Regency England of 1822), which,
one could argue, suffered many of the same atrocities Scott found in
medieval Scotland. This point perhaps locates the drama too snugly at
the level of historical conjuncture, but it is nonetheless important, for
it calls attention to the allegorical nature of some Romantic drama and,



sh8 / Enls Roani Drm                     2  nls oatcDaa18/EgihRmni                           rm


moreover, allows insight into the weight of industrial capitalism on
the Romantic imagination. Without tracing the many social atrocities
afflicting Regency England,' we might simply note that just as medi-
eval Scotland was forced to bend to the mighty hand of mercantile
capitalism that was shaping Europe in the twelfth through fourteenth
centuries, so England in the early nineteenth century found itself grap-
pling with the transformative energies of industrial capitalism. With a
debauched regent at the head of state, many (including Byron, Haz-
litt, Hunt, and Shelley, to name only the most famous in literary
studies) wondered whether England could survive the turbulent com-
bination of reactionary politics and radical economic development. As
an allegory of the age, Halidon Hill seems to be one of the more bleak
commentaries on England's prospects, as it insists that social survival
depends in large measure upon strong leadership capable of unifying
a society through the example of high principle and of representing
and advancing its material interests.
  All of these matters, including the allegorical reading of the Scottish
regent, portray feudalism under the threat of extinction. The internal
conflict that tears at the family, estate, and country and that is in-
tensified by economic pressures and prospects from abroad, suggests
a growing and far-reaching contradiction between the material and
ideological structures of Scottish social life, a contradiction that can-
not be laid to rest by a mere reconciliation of personal differences nor
by professions of Scottish nationalism-both of which occur at the
level of plot. The frames of real history encompass not only these but
also deeper forces that give them significance.
  The specific dilemma facing Scottish feudalism is elaborated in
Act II, in the initial descriptions of the English army. Here are seen
interests and issues that were relevant not only to Scottish feudalism
but that also prevailed and endured well into Scott's own day. In shift-
ing the dramatic action from Scotland to England in Act II, Scott
juxtaposes the decline of feudal and aristocratic social values to the
emergence of bourgeois social values. The English soldiers, like their
Scottish counterparts, bicker among themselves and show little sense
of cultural pride or solidarity. But they are, nonetheless, a unified and
emerging social body, held together particularly by a strong leader
and by confidence in individual ability. Moreover, as the character of
Chandos vividly illustrates, that ability is defined entirely in secular
and unsentimental terms and is motivated by a desire to preserve and


moreover, allows insight into the weight of industrial capitalism on
the Romantic imagination. Without tracing the many social atrocities
afflicting Regency England,7 we might simply note that just as medi-
eval Scotland was forced to bend to the mighty hand of mercantile
capitalism that was shaping Europe in the twelfth through fourteenth
centuries, so England in the early nineteenth century found itself grap-
pling with the transformative energies of industrial capitalism. With a
debauched regent at the head of state, many (including Byron, Haz-
litt, Hunt, and Shelley, to name only the most famous in literary
studies) wondered whether England could survive the turbulent com-
bination of reactionary politics and radical economic development. As
an allegory of the age, Halidon Hill seems to be one of the more bleak
commentaries on England's prospects, as it insists that social survival
depends in large measure upon strong leadership capable of unifying
a society through the example of high principle and of representing
and advancing its material interests.
  All of these matters, including the allegorical reading of the Scottish
regent, portray feudalism under the threat of extinction. The internal
conflict that tears at the family, estate, and country and that is in-
tensified by economic pressures and prospects from abroad, suggests
a growing and far-reaching contradiction between the material and
ideological structures of Scottish social life, a contradiction that can-
not be laid to rest by a mere reconciliation of personal differences nor
by professions of Scottish nationalism-both of which occur at the
level of plot. The frames of real history encompass not only these but
also deeper forces that give them significance.
  The specific dilemma facing Scottish feudalism is elaborated in
Act II, in the initial descriptions of the English army. Here are seen
interests and issues that were relevant not only to Scottish feudalism
but that also prevailed and endured well into Scott's own day. In shift-
ing the dramatic action from Scotland to England in Act II, Scott
juxtaposes the decline of feudal and aristocratic social values to the
emergence of bourgeois social values. The English soldiers, like their
Scottish counterparts, bicker among themselves and show little sense
of cultural pride or solidarity. But they are, nonetheless, a unified and
emerging social body, held together particularly by a strong leader
and by confidence in individual ability. Moreover, as the character of
Chandos vividly illustrates, that ability is defined entirely in secular
and unsentimental terms and is motivated by a desire to preserve and


moreover, allows insight into the weight of industrial capitalism on
the Romantic imagination. Without tracing the many social atrocities
afflicting Regency England,' we might simply note that just as medi-
eval Scotland was forced to bend to the mighty hand of mercantile
capitalism that was shaping Europe in the twelfth through fourteenth
centuries, so England in the early nineteenth century found itself grap-
pling with the transformative energies of industrial capitalism. With a
debauched regent at the head of state, many (including Byron, Haz-
lett, Hunt, and Shelley, to name only the most famous in literary
studies) wondered whether England could survive the turbulent com-
bination of reactionary politics and radical economic development. As
an allegory of the age, Halidon Hill seems to be one of the more bleak
commentaries on England's prospects, as it insists that social survival
depends in large measure upon strong leadership capable of unifying
a society through the example of high principle and of representing
and advancing its material interests.
  All of these matters, including the allegorical reading of the Scottish
regent, portray feudalism under the threat of extinction. The internal
conflict that tears at the family, estate, and country and that is in-
tensified by economic pressures and prospects from abroad, suggests
a growing and far-reaching contradiction between the material and
ideological structures of Scottish social life, a contradiction that can-
not be laid to rest by a mere reconciliation of personal differences nor
by professions of Scottish nationalism-both of which occur at the
level of plot. The frames of real history encompass not only these but
also deeper forces that give them significance.
  The specific dilemma facing Scottish feudalism is elaborated in
Act II, in the initial descriptions of the English army. Here are seen
interests and issues that were relevant not only to Scottish feudalism
but that also prevailed and endured well into Scott's own day. In shift-
ing the dramatic action from Scotland to England in Act 11, Scott
juxtaposes the decline of feudal and aristocratic social values to the
emergence of bourgeois social values. The English soldiers, like their
Scottish counterparts, bicker among themselves and show little sense
of cultural pride or solidarity. But they are, nonetheless, a unified and
emerging social body, held together particularly by a strong leader
and by confidence in individual ability. Moreover, as the character of
Chandos vividly illustrates, that ability is defined entirely in secular
and unsentimental terms and is motivated by a desire to preserve and



Sir Walter Scott's H alidon Hill / 129   Sir Walter Scott's Halidon Hill / 129    Sir Walter Sott's Halidon Hill / 129


expand material wealth. In his nasty argument with the abbot of Walt-
hamstow, for instance, Chandos refuses to tithe before going off to
battle, remarking that "I'll take my chance, / And trust my sinful soul
to Heaven's mercy, / Rather than risk my worldly goods with thee"
(II.i). As far as Chandos is concerned, religion is a debased and selfish
institution, presumably set up to shame industrious individuals such
as himself into yielding up their wealth. From his cynical perspective,
one devoted to the religious enterprise (as is the abbot) lacks energy,
ability, and worth, and is but "a lamb among a herd of wolves!" (II.i).
  The diminishing credibility and political authority of religion seen
in this personal exchange is elaborated further upon King Edward's
arrival at the military camp. Continuing his abuse of the abbot, Chan-
dos tells the king that, according to the abbot, one of the king's former
chaplains is in purgatory for having used "secular weapons" to save
the king's life. Upon hearing this, King Edward turns bitterly on the
abbot, remarking: "In purgatory! thou [the abbot] shalt pray him out
on't, / Or I will make thee wish thyself beside him" (II.i). While the
king later asks the abbot to pray for the English soldiers in battle against
Scotland, saying that "We may need good men's prayers" (II.i), the
distinction between secular and religious authority is clearly drawn, as
the abbot (like the beadsman in Keats's Eve of St. Agnes) is relegated, on
the one hand, to defending the integrity of orthodox belief and, on the
other, to praying for and mouthing tributes to the political authority
that abuses him.
  The social significance of the abbot becomes clearer when his char-
acter is compared to that of De Vipont, his Scottish counterpart. De
Vipont enjoys the respect of his fellow citizens, and is perceived by all
as a sane and spiritual presence in a struggling, deteriorating society.
For instance, when Gordon's hatred of his archenemy, Swinton, causes
him to forget the immediate social cause against England, and is then
reminded by the knight templar that the present national concerns do
not permit "private quarrel" (Ii), the young knight adjusts his conduct
accordingly, allowing himself to be guided by the greater wisdom of
De Vipont. Further, through the simple piety and firm principle of his
character, De Vipont gradually brings about a truce between the quar-
reling Swinton and Gordon that is the basis of the integrity associated
with Scotland, even as that country suffers defeat in battle. Finally, De
Vipont serves his countrymen visibly and courageously throughout
the bloody battle, with his spiritual presence woven fully into the social


expand material wealth. In his nasty argument with the abbot of Walt-
hamstow, for instance, Chandos refuses to tithe before going off to
battle, remarking that "I'll take my chance, / And trust my sinful soul
to Heaven's mercy, / Rather than risk my worldly goods with thee"
(II.i). As far as Chandos is concerned, religion is a debased and selfish
institution, presumably set up to shame industrious individuals such
as himself into yielding up their wealth. From his cynical perspective,
one devoted to the religious enterprise (as is the abbot) lacks energy,
ability, and worth, and is but "a lamb among a herd of wolves!" (II.i).
The diminishing credibility and political authority of religion seen
in this personal exchange is elaborated further upon King Edward's
arrival at the military camp. Continuing his abuse of the abbot, Chan-
dos tells the king that, according to the abbot, one of the king's former
chaplains is in purgatory for having used "secular weapons" to save
the king's life. Upon hearing this, King Edward turns bitterly on the
abbot, remarking: "In purgatory! thou (the abbot] shalt pray him out
on't, / Or I will make thee wish thyself beside him" (II.i). While the
king later asks the abbot to pray for the English soldiers in battle against
Scotland, saying that "We may need good men's prayers" (lI.i), the
distinction between secular and religious authority is clearly drawn, as
the abbot (like the beadsman in Keats's Eve ofSt. Agnes) is relegated, on
the one hand, to defending the integrity of orthodox belief and, on the
other, to praying for and mouthing tributes to the political authority
that abuses him.
  The social significance of the abbot becomes clearer when his char-
acter is compared to that of De Vipont, his Scottish counterpart. De
Vipont enjoys the respect of his fellow citizens, and is perceived by all
as a sane and spiritual presence in a struggling, deteriorating society.
For instance, when Gordon's hatred ofhis archenemy, Swinton, causes
him to forget the immediate social cause against England, and is then
reminded by the knight templar that the present national concerns do
not permit "private quarrel" (I.i), the young knight adjusts his conduct
accordingly, allowing himself to be guided by the greater wisdom of
De Vipont. Further, through the simple piety and firm principle of his
character, De Vipont gradually brings about a truce between the quar-
reling Swinton and Gordon that is the basis of the integrity associated
with Scotland, even as that country suffers defeat in battle. Finally, De
Vipont serves his countrymen visibly and courageously throughout
the bloody battle, with his spiritual presence woven fully into the social


expand material wealth. In his nasty argument with the abbot of Walt-
hamstow, for instance, Chandos refuses to tithe before going off to
battle, remarking that "I'll take my chance, / And trust my sinful soul
to Heaven's mercy, / Rather than risk my worldly goods with thee"
(II.i). As far as Chandos is concerned, religion is a debased and selfish
institution, presumably set up to shame industrious individuals such
as himself into yielding up their wealth. From his cynical perspective,
one devoted to the religious enterprise (as is the abbot) lacks energy,
ability, and worth, and is but "a lamb among a herd of wolves!" (II.i).
The diminishing credibility and political authority of religion seen
in this personal exchange is elaborated further upon King Edward's
arrival at the military camp. Continuing his abuse of the abbot, Chan-
dos tells the king that, according to the abbot, one of the king's former
chaplains is in purgatory for having used "secular weapons" to save
the king's life. Upon hearing this, King Edward turns bitterly on the
abbot, remarking: "In purgatory! thou [the abbot] shalt pray him out
on't, / Or I will make thee wish thyself beside him" (II.i). While the
king later asks the abbot to pray for the English soldiers in battle against
Scotland, saying that "We may need good men's prayers" (II.i), the
distinction between secular and religious authority is clearly drawn, as
the abbot (like the beadsman in Keats's Eve ofSt. Agnes) is relegated, on
the one hand, to defending the integrity of orthodox belief and, on the
other, to praying for and mouthing tributes to the political authority
that abuses him.
  The social significance of the abbot becomes clearer when his char-
acter is compared to that of De Vipont, his Scottish counterpart. De
Vipont enjoys the respect of his fellow citizens, and is perceived by all
as a sane and spiritual presence in a struggling, deteriorating society.
For instance, when Gordon's hatred ofhis archenemy, Swinton, causes
him to forget the immediate social cause against England, and is then
reminded by the knight templar that the present national concerns do
not permit "private quarrel" (I.i), the young knight adjusts his conduct
accordingly, allowing himself to be guided by the greater wisdom of
De Vipont. Further, through the simple piety and firm principle of his
character, De Vipont gradually brings about a truce between the quar-
reling Swinton and Gordon that is the basis of the integrity associated
with Scotland, even as that country suffers defeat in battle. Finally, De
Vipont serves his countrymen visibly and courageously throughout
the bloody battle, with his spiritual presence woven fully into the social



w~o / nls   oatcDaa10/EgihRmatcDaat                                                                                                                /EgihRmni      rm


fabric of his country. These and other similar episodes firmly estab-
lish the durable connections that Scotland assumes between individual
character and religious principle. The English abbot of Walthamstow,
by contrast, is portrayed as little more than an unrespected servant to
secular authority. To note only one example, after King Edward has
slaughtered and defeated Scotland, the abbot (having been long absent
from the dramatic action) is ingloriously brought onstage to proclaim,
in an astonishingly brief statement, the greatness of the English vic-
tory: "Heaven grant your Majesty / Many such glorious days as this
has been!" (II.iii). That De Vipont, despite his integrity, is on the losing
side, and that the sympathetic but entirely helpless abbot finds himself
among the militarily and politically powerful, suggest that religion is
no longer the master key to social stability and power. The actions and
values associated with De Vipont recall the idealized role of religion
in a nearly extinct past world, while the abbot's experiences clearly
demonstrate the new role of religion in an emerging secular society.
   Less clearly pronounced than religion but similarly problematic in
the drama are issues of gender and sexual love. Unlike almost all other
Romantic dramas, Halidon Hill is without a single female character,
thus focusing the strikingly masculine quality of the issues and themes
portrayed in the dramatic action: war, politics, power, economics, and
religion. But this masculine-military world is not entirely without
reference to women, and these references disclose important informa-
tion about social structures of authority and value. During a lull in the
battle the young Gordon confides in Swinton that he loves a woman
named Elizabeth, who possesses charm, grace, and honor, and who
sings beautifully the songs of Scottish history and society. Faced with
certain death at the hands of England, Gordon sentimentally describes
this woman's many accomplishments to Swinton and at the same time
proclaims his intention of providing her (assuming that he lives to
see her again) with a stable and rich estate held together by their love
and by a loyal and hardworking body of native Scotch. The home
life that he envisions would reward him and Elizabeth with personal
happiness; and that happiness would partake of a far-reaching social
energy greater than that found even in the strong English system,
where (according to De Vipont) "gallant yeomen" are "free as the best
lord" and are therefore wholeheartedly loyal to "their King and law"
(I.ii). Gordon's is a dream, in short, of a completely unalienated life
of personal, domestic, and public stability.


fabric of his country. These and other similar episodes firmly estab-
lish the durable connections that Scotland assumes between individual
character and religious principle. The English abbot of Walthamstow,
by contrast, is portrayed as little more than an unrespected servant to
secular authority. To note only one example, after King Edward has
slaughtered and defeated Scotland, the abbot (having been long absent
from the dramatic action) is ingloriously brought onstage to proclaim,
in an astonishingly brief statement, the greatness of the English vic-
tory: "Heaven grant your Majesty / Many such glorious days as this
has been!" (II.iii). That De Vipont, despite his integrity, is on the losing
side, and that the sympathetic but entirely helpless abbot finds himself
among the militarily and politically powerful, suggest that religion is
no longer the master key to social stability and power. The actions and
values associated with De Vipont recall the idealized role of religion
in a nearly extinct past world, while the abbot's experiences clearly
demonstrate the new role of religion in an emerging secular society.
   Less clearly pronounced than religion but similarly problematic in
the drama are issues of gender and sexual love. Unlike almost all other
Romantic dramas, Halidon Hill is without a single female character,
thus focusing the strikingly masculine quality of the issues and themes
portrayed in the dramatic action: war, politics, power, economics, and
religion. But this masculine-military world is not entirely without
reference to women, and these references disclose important informa-
tion about social structures of authority and value. During a lull in the
battle the young Gordon confides in Swinton that he loves a woman
named Elizabeth, who possesses charm, grace, and honor, and who
sings beautifully the songs of Scottish history and society. Faced with
certain death at the hands of England, Gordon sentimentally describes
this woman's many accomplishments to Swinton and at the same time
proclaims his intention of providing her (assuming that he lives to
see her again) with a stable and rich estate held together by their love
and by a loyal and hardworking body of native Scotch. The home
life that he envisions would reward him and Elizabeth with personal
happiness; and that happiness would partake of a far-reaching social
energy greater than that found even in the strong English system,
where (according to De Vipont) "gallant yeomen" are "free as the best
lord" and are therefore wholeheartedly loyal to "their King and law"
(II.ii). Gordon's is a dream, in short, of a completely unalienated life
of personal, domestic, and public stability.


fabric of his country. These and other similar episodes firmly estab-
lish the durable connections that Scotland assumes between individual
character and religious principle. The English abbot of Walthamstow,
by contrast, is portrayed as little more than an unrespected servant to
secular authority. To note only one example, after King Edward has
slaughtered and defeated Scotland, the abbot (having been long absent
from the dramatic action) is ingloriously brought onstage to proclaim,
in an astonishingly brief statement, the greatness of the English vic-
tory: "Heaven grant your Majesty / Many such glorious days as this
has been!" (II.iii). That De Vipont, despite his integrity, is on the losing
side, and that the sympathetic but entirely helpless abbot finds himself
among the militarily and politically powerful, suggest that religion is
no longer the master key to social stability and power. The actions and
values associated with De Vipont recall the idealized role of religion
in a nearly extinct past world, while the abbot's experiences clearly
demonstrate the new role of religion in an emerging secular society.
   Less clearly pronounced than religion but similarly problematic in
the drama are issues of gender and sexual love. Unlike almost all other
Romantic dramas, Halidon Hill is without a single female character,
thus focusing the strikingly masculine quality of the issues and themes
portrayed in the dramatic action: war, politics, power, economics, and
religion. But this masculine-military world is not entirely without
reference to women, and these references disclose important informa-
tion about social structures of authority and value. During a lull in the
battle the young Gordon confides in Swinton that he loves a woman
named Elizabeth, who possesses charm, grace, and honor, and who
sings beautifully the songs of Scottish history and society. Faced with
certain death at the hands of England, Gordon sentimentally describes
this woman's many accomplishments to Swinton and at the same time
proclaims his intention of providing her (assuming that he lives to
see her again) with a stable and rich estate held together by their love
and by a loyal and hardworking body of native Scotch. The home
life that he envisions would reward him and Elizabeth with personal
happiness; and that happiness would partake of a far-reaching social
energy greater than that found even in the strong English system,
where (according to De Vipont) "gallant yeomen" are "free as the best
lord" and are therefore wholeheartedly loyal to "their King and law"
(II.ii). Gordon's is a dream, in short, of a completely unalienated life
of personal, domestic, and public stability.



Sir Walter Scott's Halidon Hill / 131    Sir Walter Scott's Halidon Hill / 131    Sir Walter Scott's Halidon Hill / 131


The obvious explanation of Gordon's youthful idealism is that his
dreams are materially shaped by the prospect of violent death at the
hands of a hated enemy. But, nonetheless, the particular details of his
dreams reflect a real social world and his deep-seated need to compen-
sate for the shortcomings of that world, particularly for the tensions
and quarrels among the Scotch themselves that have weakened the
country. Elizabeth plays a central role in Gordon's dreams, anxieties,
and hopes regarding his world, not only because she represents for
him the possibility of personal fulfillment; she also is the key symbol
of social wholeness, the voice expressing in song the integrity of the
world that he, as a Scottish chieftain, has helped to create. If he imag-
ines a postwar estate peopled with followers who "shall have portion
in the good they fight for," and who "shall have his field, / His house-
hold hearth and sod-built home, as free / As ever Southron had" (II.ii),
it is Elizabeth who will give that estate meaning with her smile and
who will locate its value in song among the cultural richness of Scot-
tish history. Put differently, Gordon's anxieties about the structure of
Scottish society, and about his own actions that have weakened Scot-
land, lead him to idealize Scotland by portraying it under his authority
as free, unified, and happy; that idealization is then sealed into Scot-
tish history by Elizabeth's songs about Scottish shepherds, knights
in battle, and, generally, the country's experiences of merriment and
sadness.
  Gordon's descriptions of Elizabeth here are peculiar. She is obvi-
ously at the center of his dreams, the individual around whom his
highest ideals revolve. At the same time, however, she is the indi-
vidual through whom his personal and public desires are expressed.
She is portrayed as both the repository and vehicle of value, and as
such she is clearly the product of masculine imagination and desire;
she provides Gordon with the possibility of personal happiness, and
at the same time agreeably celebrates in song the world that he and his
fellow Scotchmen have created for her. She is, as it were, Gordon's
religion in this moment of extremity: faith in her motivates him to
go forward by holding out for him the possibility of social salvation.
In this view, the chivalrous code of honor to which Gordon adheres
prescribes a specific, redemptive role for women that ultimately de-
pends upon masculine power and desire. Elizabeth's presence in the
drama in name only makes this point emphatically: Gordon's world is
fundamentally defined by its military character, and it uses feminine


The obvious explanation of Gordon's youthful idealism is that his
dreams are materially shaped by the prospect of violent death at the
hands of a hated enemy. But, nonetheless, the particular details of his
dreams reflect a real social world and his deep-seated need to compen-
sate for the shortcomings of that world, particularly for the tensions
and quarrels among the Scotch themselves that have weakened the
country. Elizabeth plays a central role in Gordon's dreams, anxieties,
and hopes regarding his world, not only because she represents for
him the possibility of personal fulfillment; she also is the key symbol
of social wholeness, the voice expressing in song the integrity of the
world that he, as a Scottish chieftain, has helped to create. If he imag-
ines a postwar estate peopled with followers who "shall have portion
in the good they fight for," and who "shall have his field, / His house-
hold hearth and sod-built home, as free / As ever Southron had" (II.ii),
it is Elizabeth who will give that estate meaning with her smile and
who will locate its value in song among the cultural richness of Scot-
tish history. Put differently, Gordon's anxieties about the structure of
Scottish society, and about his own actions that have weakened Scot-
land, lead him to idealize Scotland by portraying it under his authority
as free, unified, and happy; that idealization is then sealed into Scot-
tish history by Elizabeth's songs about Scottish shepherds, knights
in battle, and, generally, the country's experiences of merriment and
sadness.
  Gordon's descriptions of Elizabeth here are peculiar. She is obvi-
ously at the center of his dreams, the individual around whom his
highest ideals revolve. At the same time, however, she is the indi-
vidual through whom his personal and public desires are expressed.
She is portrayed as both the repository and vehicle of value, and as
such she is clearly the product of masculine imagination and desire;
she provides Gordon with the possibility of personal happiness, and
at the same time agreeably celebrates in song the world that he and his
fellow Scotchmen have created for her. She is, as it were, Gordon's
religion in this moment of extremity: faith in her motivates him to
go forward by holding out for him the possibility of social salvation.
In this view, the chivalrous code of honor to which Gordon adheres
prescribes a specific, redemptive role for women that ultimately de-
pends upon masculine power and desire. Elizabeth's presence in the
drama in name only makes this point emphatically: Gordon's world is
fundamentally defined by its military character, and it uses feminine


The obvious explanation of Gordon's youthful idealism is that his
dreams are materially shaped by the prospect of violent death at the
hands of a hated enemy. But, nonetheless, the particular details of his
dreams reflect a real social world and his deep-seated need to compen-
sate for the shortcomings of that world, particularly for the tensions
and quarrels among the Scotch themselves that have weakened the
country. Elizabeth plays a central role in Gordon's dreams, anxieties,
and hopes regarding his world, not only because she represents for
him the possibility of personal fulfillment; she also is the key symbol
of social wholeness, the voice expressing in song the integrity of the
world that he, as a Scottish chieftain, has helped to create. If he imag-
ines a postwar estate peopled with followers who "shall have portion
in the good they fight for," and who "shall have his field, / His house-
hold hearth and sod-built home, as free / As ever Southron had" (II.ii),
it is Elizabeth who will give that estate meaning with her smile and
who will locate its value in song among the cultural richness of Scot-
tish history. Put differently, Gordon's anxieties about the structure of
Scottish society, and about his own actions that have weakened Scot-
land, lead him to idealize Scotland by portraying it under his authority
as free, unified, and happy; that idealization is then sealed into Scot-
tish history by Elizabeth's songs about Scottish shepherds, knights
in battle, and, generally, the country's experiences of merriment and
sadness.
  Gordon's descriptions of Elizabeth here are peculiar. She is obvi-
ously at the center of his dreams, the individual around whom his
highest ideals revolve. At the same time, however, she is the indi-
vidual through whom his personal and public desires are expressed.
She is portrayed as both the repository and vehicle of value, and as
such she is clearly the product of masculine imagination and desire;
she provides Gordon with the possibility of personal happiness, and
at the same time agreeably celebrates in song the world that he and his
fellow Scotchmen have created for her. She is, as it were, Gordon's
religion in this moment of extremity: faith in her motivates him to
go forward by holding out for him the possibility of social salvation.
In this view, the chivalrous code of honor to which Gordon adheres
prescribes a specific, redemptive role for women that ultimately de-
pends upon masculine power and desire. Elizabeth's presence in the
drama in name only makes this point emphatically: Gordon's world is
fundamentally defined by its military character, and it uses feminine



132 / Engis Roani Dram                                                  13    nls  oatcDaa12/EgihRmni                                                              rm


passivity, domesticity, and dependence to stabilize and articulate its
dream of itself.
  The idealization of social life, however, cannot preserve Scotland
from the double horror of "civil discord" (Il.iii) and English mili-
tary power, as is shown when Gordon's dreaming is followed almost
immediately by the massive slaughter of the Scottish soldiers. But,
however absurd they may appear in the context of battle, the young
Gordon's comments mark an important first step in the retrospective
reconstruction of Scottish history that the drama pursues. His vision of
personal happiness, public stability, and citizen loyalty is joined during
and after the battle by the portrayal of a Scottish thief who abandons
his old ways to die bravely as a soldier fighting for his country;' by
complete reconciliation between the Gordon and Swinton families;
by condemnation of the traitor Baliol, who abandoned Scotland for
England; by the victorious King Edward's recognition of greatness in
both Swinton and Gordon; and by De Vipont's final, noble remark
to King Edward (who had criticized the knight templar for warring
against England, a Christian nation) that his oath of loyalty to Scotland
preceded, and therefore superseded, his oath of loyalty to his Christian
order. In all of these actions and comments the defeat of Scotland by
England is acknowledged, while at the same time the honor of Scotland
is preserved and exalted. Just as Gordon's comments about Elizabeth
describe stability and fulfillment at the level of desire, the subsequent
events and comments insist that the honor of the Scottish people will
endure at a level of human experience impervious to social, historical,
and political change. In this respect, Halidon Hill is a remarkable drama
of consolation, admitting military defeat and political marginalization
but insisting at the same time on the permanent nobility of Scotland.
Put differently, the memory of Scottish history is a source of ideal
integrity, even as Scotland itself has succumbed-of necessity-to an
expanding, cold, and self-interested English empire.
  Written after the deaths of George III, John Keats, and Percy Shelley,
and only two years prior to the death of Byron, Halidon Hill might
appropriately be regarded as one of the literary markers of the death
of the Romantic age. Its content makes it all the more important as a
sign of a changing world. From one point of view, the demise of Scot-
land, as described in the drama, was not far removed from the demise
of Scott's own world. The conflict between radical and reactionary
forces within England-between laborers and the new industrial ma-


passivity, domesticity, and dependence to stabilize and articulate its
dream of itself.
  The idealization of social life, however, cannot preserve Scotland
from the double horror of "civil discord" (II.iii) and English mili-
tary power, as is shown when Gordon's dreaming is followed almost
immediately by the massive slaughter of the Scottish soldiers. But.
however absurd they may appear in the context of battle, the young
Gordon's comments mark an important first step in the retrospective
reconstruction of Scottish history that the drama pursues. His vision of
personal happiness, public stability, and citizen loyalty is joined during
and after the battle by the portrayal of a Scottish thief who abandons
his old ways to die bravely as a soldier fighting for his country;' by
complete reconciliation between the Gordon and Swinton families;
by condemnation of the traitor Baliol, who abandoned Scotland for
England; by the victorious King Edward's recognition of greatness in
both Swinton and Gordon; and by De Vipont's final, noble remark
to King Edward (who had criticized the knight templar for warring
against England, a Christian nation) that his oath ofloyalty to Scotland
preceded, and therefore superseded, his oath of loyalty to his Christian
order. In all of these actions and comments the defeat of Scotland by
England is acknowledged, while at the same time the honorofScotland
is preserved and exalted. Just as Gordon's comments about Elizabeth
describe stability and fulfillment at the level of desire, the subsequent
events and comments insist that the honor of the Scottish people will
endure at a level of human experience impervious to social, historical,
and political change. In this respect, Halidon Hill is a remarkable drama
of consolation, admitting military defeat and political marginalization
but insisting at the same time on the permanent nobility of Scotland.
Put differently, the memory of Scottish history is a source of ideal
integrity, even as Scotland itself has succumbed-of necessity-to an
expanding, cold, and self-interested English empire.
  Written after the deaths of George III, John Keats, and Percy Shelley.
and only two years prior to the death of Byron, Halidon Hill might
appropriately be regarded as one of the literary markers of the death
of the Romantic age. Its content makes it all the more important as a
sign of a changing world. From one point of view, the demise of Scot-
land, as described in the drama, was not far removed from the demise
of Scott's own world. The conflict between radical and reactionary
forces within England-between laborers and the new industrial ma-


passivity, domesticity, and dependence to stabilize and articulate its
dream of itself.
  The idealization of social life, however, cannot preserve Scotland
from the double horror of "civil discord" (Il.iii) and English mili-
tary power, as is shown when Gordon's dreaming is followed almost
immediately by the massive slaughter of the Scottish soldiers. But,
however absurd they may appear in the context of battle, the young
Gordon's comments mark an important first step in the retrospective
reconstruction of Scottish history that the drama pursues. His vision of
personal happiness, public stability, and citizen loyalty isjoined during
and after the battle by the portrayal of a Scottish thief who abandons
his old ways to die bravely as a soldier fighting for his country;' by
complete reconciliation between the Gordon and Swinton families;
by condemnation of the traitor Baliol, who abandoned Scotland for
England; by the victorious King Edward's recognition of greatness in
both Swinton and Gordon; and by De Vipont's final, noble remark
to King Edward (who had criticized the knight templar for warring
against England, a Christian nation) that his oath of loyalty to Scotland
preceded, and therefore superseded, his oath of loyalty to his Christian
order. In all of these actions and comments the defeat of Scotland by
England is acknowledged, while at the same time the honor ofScotland
is preserved and exalted. Just as Gordon's comments about Elizabeth
describe stability and fulfillment at the level of desire, the subsequent
events and comments insist that the honor of the Scottish people will
endure at a level of human experience impervious to social, historical,
and political change. In this respect, Halidon Hill is a remarkable drama
of consolation, admitting military defeat and political marginalization
but insisting at the same time on the permanent nobility of Scotland.
Put differently, the memory of Scottish history is a source of ideal
integrity, even as Scotland itself has succumbed-of necessity-to an
expanding, cold, and self-interested English empire.
   Written after the deaths of George III, John Keats, and Percy Shelley,
and only two years prior to the death of Byron, Halidon Hill might
appropriately be regarded as one of the literary markers of the death
of the Romantic age. Its content makes it all the more important as a
sign of a changing world. From one point ofview, the demise of Scot-
land, as described in the drama, was not far removed from the demise
of Scott's own world. The conflict between radical and reactionary
forces within England-between laborers and the new industrial ma-


















           Sir Walter Scott's Halidon Hill / 133

chinery, between the masses and the government, and, more broadly,
between England and France-had taken their toll on British society
by 1822, and it was clear to all thinking people that a new world was
in the offing; indeed, as Scott seems to have understood, this new
world had already claimed victory over the older forms of personal,
social, economic, and religious life. For a conservative such as Scott,
the last best response to this social change was to insist upon-and
to articulate-a domain of permanent honor that could in no way be
co-opted or subdued by transformations of society. Such a domain,
as Halidon Hill shows, necessarily confuses nostalgia for history, but
that confusion itself is historically significant to a full understanding
of Romantic structures of authority and belief For this reason alone
the drama should be included in the canon of important Romantic
literature.


           Sir Walter Scott's Halidon Hill / 133

chinery, between the masses and the government, and, more broadly,
between England and France-had taken their toll on British society
by 1822, and it was clear to all thinking people that a new world was
in the offing; indeed, as Scott seems to have understood, this new
world had already claimed victory over the older forms of personal,
social, economic, and religious life. For a conservative such as Scott,
the last best response to this social change was to insist upon-and
to articulate-a domain of permanent honor that could in no way be
co-opted or subdued by transformations of society. Such a domain,
as Halidon Hill shows, necessarily confuses nostalgia for history, but
that confusion itself is historically significant to a full understanding
of Romantic structures of authority and belief. For this reason alone
the drama should be included in the canon of important Romantic
literature.


           Sir Walter Scott's Halidon Hill / 133

chinery, between the masses and the government, and, more broadly,
between England and France-had taken their toll on British society
by 1822, and it was clear to all thinking people that a new world was
in the offing; indeed, as Scott seems to have understood, this new
world had already claimed victory over the older forms of personal,
social, economic, and religious life. For a conservative such as Scott,
the last best response to this social change was to insist upon-and
to articulate-a domain of permanent honor that could in no way be
co-opted or subdued by transformations of society. Such a domain,
as Halidon Hill shows, necessarily confuses nostalgia for history, but
that confusion itself is historically significant to a full understanding
of Romantic structures of authority and belief. For this reason alone
the drama should be included in the canon of important Romantic
literature.





CHAPTER


CHAPTER


CHAPTER


9


              "Where the World Is Thickest"

        The Dramas of George Gordon, Lord Byron










Lord Byron is the greatest dramatist of the Romantic period and argu-
ably the greatest English dramatist since Shakespeare.' His dramas offer
an expansive historical vision, while at the same time concentrating
on the fine details of personal and social life. Running through them
are the post-Revolutionary awareness that the world had irrevocably
changed and the post-Waterloo anxiety over the narrowing possibili-
ties of human freedom that seemed increasingly to accompany that
change. The dramas seldom resort to the nostalgia that so often in-
forms and energizes other dramas of the period, looking instead with
a hard eye directly into the changed and changing historical circum-
stances of the modern world. Nor do they naively reflect or embrace
the bourgeois structures of value and belief coming to maturation in
Byron's day; rather, they interrogate those structures by casting them
within frames of historical and social reference that deny their au-
tonomy, purity, and self-generating identity. Finally, Byron's dramas
leave no area of personal and social life untouched, as they range across
vast areas of human experience from politics and religion to gender,
identity, family, economics, art, physical deformity, and more.
   The tremendous scope and sweeping power of these dramas be-
come apparent when they are considered together, not only in terms


              "Where the World Is Thickest"

        The Dramas of George Gordon, Lord Byron










Lord Byron is the greatest dramatist of the Romantic period and argu-
ably the greatest English dramatist since Shakespeare.' His dramas offer
an expansive historical vision, while at the same time concentrating
on the fine details of personal and social life. Running through them
are the post-Revolutionary awareness that the world had irrevocably
changed and the post-Waterloo anxiety over the narrowing possibili-
ties of human freedom that seemed increasingly to accompany that
change. The dramas seldom resort to the nostalgia that so often in-
forms and energizes other dramas of the period, looking instead with
a hard eye directly into the changed and changing historical circum-
stances of the modern world. Nor do they naively reflect or embrace
the bourgeois structures of value and belief coming to maturation in
Byron's day; rather, they interrogate those structures by casting them
within frames of historical and social reference that deny their au-
tonomy, purity, and self-generating identity. Finally, Byron's dramas
leave no area of personal and social life untouched, as they range across
vast areas of human experience from politics and religion to gender,
identity, family, economics, art, physical deformity, and more.
   The tremendous scope and sweeping power of these dramas be-
come apparent when they are considered together, not only in terms


              "Where the World Is Thickest"

        The Dramas of George Gordon, Lord Byron










Lord Byron is the greatest dramatist of the Romantic period and argu-
ably the greatest English dramatist since Shakespeare.' His dramas offer
an expansive historical vision, while at the same time concentrating
on the fine details of personal and social life. Running through them
are the post-Revolutionary awareness that the world had irrevocably
changed and the post-Waterloo anxiety over the narrowing possibili-
ties of human freedom that seemed increasingly to accompany that
change. The dramas seldom resort to the nostalgia that so often in-
forms and energizes other dramas of the period, looking instead with
a hard eye directly into the changed and changing historical circum-
stances of the modern world. Nor do they naively reflect or embrace
the bourgeois structures of value and belief coming to maturation in
Byron's day; rather, they interrogate those structures by casting them
within frames of historical and social reference that deny their au-
tonomy, purity, and self-generating identity. Finally, Byron's dramas
leave no area of personal and social life untouched, as they range across
vast areas of human experience from politics and religion to gender,
identity, family, economics, art, physical deformity, and more.
   The tremendous scope and sweeping power of these dramas be-
come apparent when they are considered together, not only in terms



Th~eaa fLMrWyrn/ 3                                                      Th Drma obff L Ig ByrVIn / 3IhsrmsofLr yo 3


of their textual content but also in terms of Byron's personal efforts
to develop a poetic voice suitable for expressing the contradictions,
struggles, and predicament of his age. I am not suggesting that old-
school biographical criticism is most appropriate to a study of Byron's
dramas, but rather that certain details of his life, as well as certain
ideas set down in his letters and journals, are themselves products and
records of the Romantic historical situation within which the dramas
were produced; thus they often help to sharpen critical investigation by
providing an avenue into socially relevant issues that are deeply sub-
merged in the dramas. While appropriation of biographical data runs
the risk of reducing critical investigation to yet another set of reflec-
tions on Byronism, at the same time refusal to admit that data into a
materialist critique runs the risk of limiting what can be said about the
historical and social dimensions of the dramas. The challenge facing
historical criticism of Byron is to find a way to use the powerful, often
mesmerizing details of the poet's life without allowing these to cloud
the historical significance of the dramas themselves.
   Bearing these caveats in mind, I want to consider Byron's overall
effort and accomplishment in drama, in an attempt to suggest the range
of his social interests and the depth of his historical understanding.
While I assume that his personal life, personality, and scattered com-
ments in his letters and journals are indispensable to this consideration,
at the same time I assume that critical explanation must be grounded
finally in the categories of history.
   I should note, by way of preface, that this discussion of Byron in
some ways departs significantly from my commentaries on the other
dramas of the period, especially insofar as it does not emphasize the
issue of gender. I subordinate that issue here not because I question its
important role in Byron's imagination,' but rather because I believe
that it may be more immediately useful to investigate the operation of
ideology and social relations in his plays. These issues are handled by
Byron with greater sophistication and with a greater sense of urgency
than in most of the plays examined above; therefore, their investiga-
tion may help to clarify certain nuances and dimensions of Roman-
tic drama that heretofore I have discussed only in passing. While the
turn from gender as a major point of analytic concern may appear to
constitute a grating shift in the argument, in my view it constitutes
rather an expansion, insofar as I attempt here to elaborate a range of


of their textual content but also in terms of Byron's personal efforts
to develop a poetic voice suitable for expressing the contradictions,
struggles, and predicament of his age. I am not suggesting that old-
school biographical criticism is most appropriate to a study of Byron's
dramas, but rather that certain details of his life, as well as certain
ideas set down in his letters and journals, are themselves products and
records of the Romantic historical situation within which the dramas
were produced; thus they often help to sharpen critical investigation by
providing an avenue into socially relevant issues that are deeply sub-
merged in the dramas. While appropriation of biographical data runs
the risk of reducing critical investigation to yet another set of reflec-
tions on Byronism, at the same time refusal to admit that data into a
materialist critique runs the risk of limiting what can be said about the
historical and social dimensions of the dramas. The challenge facing
historical criticism of Byron is to find a way to use the powerful, often
mesmerizing details of the poet's life without allowing these to cloud
the historical significance of the dramas themselves.
   Bearing these caveats in mind, I want to consider Byron's overall
effort and accomplishment in drama, in an attempt to suggest the range
of his social interests and the depth of his historical understanding.
While I assume that his personal life, personality, and scattered com-
ments in his letters andjournals are indispensable to this consideration,
at the same time I assume that critical explanation must be grounded
finally in the categories of history.
   I should note, by way of preface, that this discussion of Byron in
some ways departs significantly from my commentaries on the other
dramas of the period, especially insofar as it does not emphasize the
issue of gender. I subordinate that issue here not because I question its
important role in Byron's imagination,t but rather because I believe
that it may be more immediately useful to investigate the operation of
ideology and social relations in his plays. These issues are handled by
Byron with greater sophistication and with a greater sense of urgency
than in most of the plays examined above; therefore, their investiga-
tion may help to clarify certain nuances and dimensions of Roman-
tic drama that heretofore I have discussed only in passing. While the
turn from gender as a major point of analytic concern may appear to
constitute a grating shift in the argument, in my view it constitutes
rather an expansion, insofar as I attempt here to elaborate a range of


of their textual content but also in terms of Byron's personal efforts
to develop a poetic voice suitable for expressing the contradictions,
struggles, and predicament of his age. I am not suggesting that old-
school biographical criticism is most appropriate to a study of Byron's
dramas, but rather that certain details of his life, as well as certain
ideas set down in his letters and journals, are themselves products and
records of the Romantic historical situation within which the dramas
were produced; thus they often help to sharpen critical investigation by
providing an avenue into socially relevant issues that are deeply sub-
merged in the dramas. While appropriation of biographical data runs
the risk of reducing critical investigation to yet another set of reflec-
tions on Byronism, at the same time refusal to admit that data into a
materialist critique runs the risk of limiting what can be said about the
historical and social dimensions of the dramas. The challenge facing
historical criticism of Byron is to find a way to use the powerful, often
mesmerizing details of the poet's life without allowing these to cloud
the historical significance of the dramas themselves.
   Bearing these caveats in mind, I want to consider Byron's overall
effort and accomplishment in drama, in an attempt to suggest the range
of his social interests and the depth of his historical understanding.
While I assume that his personal life, personality, and scattered com-
ments in his letters and journals are indispensable to this consideration,
at the same time I assume that critical explanation must be grounded
finally in the categories of history.
   I should note, by way of preface, that this discussion of Byron in
some ways departs significantly from my commentaries on the other
dramas of the period, especially insofar as it does not emphasize the
issue of gender. I subordinate that issue here not because I question its
important role in Byron's imagination, but rather because I believe
that it may be more immediately useful to investigate the operation of
ideology and social relations in his plays. These issues are handled by
Byron with greater sophistication and with a greater sense of urgency
than in most of the plays examined above; therefore, their investiga-
tion may help to clarify certain nuances and dimensions of Roman-
tic drama that heretofore I have discussed only in passing. While the
turn from gender as a major point of analytic concern may appear to
constitute a grating shift in the argument, in my view it constitutes
rather an expansion, insofar as I attempt here to elaborate a range of



13-   nls Roani MfDram                                                  13 / EnliRoatiraa13 nglis Roatcrm


social and historical dynamics that embrace at every turn the Romantic
conception and articulation of gender.

Byron's correspondence after 1820 reveals his growing impatience with
all criticism of his poetry. He brusquely dismissed John Murray's pleas
that he boost his popularity by writing "in the old way to interest the
women" (BLJ, 9:125)' and persistently steered his own artistic course.
Although he alienated the fashionable reading public, outraged ortho-
dox religious opinion, and alarmed even his closest friends, he defi-
antly proclaimed against all that "they shall never subdue me while
I keep my senses. ... .I assure you [Kinnaird] that I will not swerve
from my purpose" (BLJ, 9:94). His stubbornness came, at least partly,
from his fear that even the smallest concession to his critics would be
regressive and inevitably detrimental both to his readers and to his art.
His position is stated clearly in a letter to Shelley: "[A]s long as I wrote
the exaggerated nonsense which has corrupted the public taste-they
applauded me to the very echo-and now that I have really written
within these three or four years some things which should 'not will-
ingly be let die'-the whole herd snort and grumble and return to
wallow in their mire" (BLJ, 9:161).
   If he was angered by the remonstrances against him, he nonetheless
expected them. In fact, when he learned that DonJuan had been favor-
ably received he was surprised and not particularly flattered: "[T]he
work appears-with a lukewarm publisher and all the previous impres-
sions against it-& still it succeeds.-I thought it would not because
it's [sic] real qualities are not on the surface-but still if people will dive
a little-I think it will reward them for their trouble" (BLJ, 9:55).
He had resigned himself to the probability that his poetry would not
readily find acceptance because as he put it he had adopted "a differ-
ent system from the rage of the day" (BLJ, 9:92; see also BLJ, 9:84)
that not even his most intelligent and supportive critics fully under-
stood.4 But his feeling that immediate disapproval was inevitable was
matched by his strong conviction that in time his present work would
be deemed his best and most durable, and indeed he believed him-
self to be writing more for the future than for the moment. As he
remarked confidently if somewhat bitterly to Kinnaird with respect to
Heaven and Earth, Werner, and The Vision offudgment: "[M]ark what I now
say-that the time will come-when these will be preferred to any I
have before written;-it is not from the cry, or depression of a month


social and historical dynamics that embrace at every turn the Romantic
conception and articulation of gender.

Byron's correspondence after 182o reveals his growing impatience with
all criticism of his poetry. He brusquely dismissed John Murray's pleas
that he boost his popularity by writing "in the old way to interest the
women" (BLJ, 9:125)' and persistently steered his own artistic course.
Although he alienated the fashionable reading public, outraged ortho-
dox religious opinion, and alarmed even his closest friends, he defi-
antly proclaimed against all that "they shall never subdue me while
I keep my senses... .1 assure you [Kinnaird] that I will not swerve
from my purpose" (BLJ, 9:94). His stubbornness came, at least partly,
from his fear that even the smallest concession to his critics would be
regressive and inevitably detrimental both to his readers and to his art.
His position is stated clearly in a letter to Shelley: "[A]s long as I wrote
the exaggerated nonsense which has corrupted the public taste-they
applauded me to the very echo-and now that I have really written
within these three or four years some things which should 'not will-
ingly be let die'-the whole herd snort and grumble and return to
wallow in their mire" (BLJ, 9:161).
   If he was angered by the remonstrances against him, he nonetheless
expected them. In fact, when he learned that DonJuan had been favor-
ably received he was surprised and not particularly flattered: "[T]he
work appears-with a lukewarm publisher and all the previous impres-
sions against it-& still it succeeds.-I thought it would not because
it's [sic] real qualities are not on the surface-but still if people will dive
a little-I think it will reward them for their trouble" (BLJ, 9:55).
He had resigned himself to the probability that his poetry would not
readily find acceptance because as he put it he had adopted "a differ-
ent system from the rage of the day" (BLJ, 9:92; see also BLJ, 9:84)
that not even his most intelligent and supportive critics fully under-
stood.' But his feeling that immediate disapproval was inevitable was
matched by his strong conviction that in time his present work would
be deemed his best and most durable, and indeed he believed him-
self to be writing more for the future than for the moment. As he
remarked confidently if somewhat bitterly to Kinnaird with respect to
Heaven and Earth, Werner, and The Vision offudgment: "[M]ark what I now
say-that the time will come-when these will be preferred to any I
have before written;-it is not from the cry, or depression of a month


social and historical dynamics that embrace at every turn the Romantic
conception and articulation of gender.

Byron's correspondence after 1820 reveals his growing impatience with
all criticism of his poetry. He brusquely dismissed John Murray's pleas
that he boost his popularity by writing "in the old way to interest the
women" (BLJ, 9:125) 'and persistently steered his own artistic course.
Although he alienated the fashionable reading public, outraged ortho-
dox religious opinion, and alarmed even his closest friends, he defi-
antly proclaimed against all that "they shall never subdue me while
I keep my senses... .I assure you [Kinnaird] that I will not swerve
from my purpose" (BLJ, 9:94). His stubbornness came, at least partly,
from his fear that even the smallest concession to his critics would be
regressive and inevitably detrimental both to his readers and to his art.
His position is stated clearly in a letter to Shelley: "[A]s long as I wrote
the exaggerated nonsense which has corrupted the public taste-they
applauded me to the very echo-and now that I have really written
within these three or four years some things which should 'not will-
ingly be let die'-the whole herd snort and grumble and return to
wallow in their mire" (BLJ, 9:161).
   If he was angered by the remonstrances against him, he nonetheless
expected them. In fact, when he learned that DonJuan had been favor-
ably received he was surprised and not particularly flattered: "[T]he
work appears-with a lukewarm publisher and all the previous impres-
sions against it-& still it succeeds.-I thought it would not because
it's [sic] real qualities are not on the surface-but still if people will dive
a little-I think it will reward them for their trouble" (BLJ, 9:55).
He had resigned himself to the probability that his poetry would not
readily find acceptance because as he put it he had adopted "a differ-
ent system from the rage of the day" (BLJ, 9:92; see also BLJ, 9:84)
that not even his most intelligent and supportive critics fully under-
stood.t But his feeling that immediate disapproval was inevitable was
matched by his strong conviction that in time his present work would
be deemed his best and most durable, and indeed he believed him-
self to be writing more for the future than for the moment. As he
remarked confidently if somewhat bitterly to Kinnaird with respect to
Heaven and Earth, Werner, and The Vision offudgment: "[M]ark what I now
say-that the time will come-when these will be preferred to any I
have before written;-it is not from the cry, or depression of a month



The Dramas of Lord Byron / 137           The Dramas of Lord Byron / 137           The Dramas of Lord Byron / 137


or two that such things are decided" (BLJ, 9:92-93). This prediction,
of course, has yet to be fulfilled, and in fact with the obvious excep-
tions of The Vision ofjudgment and DonJuan most of the works he felt
certain would endure have suffered badly at the hands of subsequent
criticism. Still it would be wrong to dismiss Byron lightly as a poor
judge of his own aims and accomplishments, for it is likely that when
this system is at last understood he will be proven correct. I believe
that this system, which has never attracted serious critical attention,
both illuminates and vindicates much of his late poetry (especially the
dramas) so long held in low esteem.
  Although Byron never explicitly defined his poetics, he frequently
described its main principles in his letters and journals. According to
these, his poetry after about 1820 was written almost entirely within a
context of revolutionary politics and social analysis. Refusing to play
any longer the Byronic role that had made him popular, he devoted
himself instead to a life that combined careful study, active literary
production, and political involvement. The degree of his commitment
to his new enterprise astonished even Shelley, who remarked in a let-
ter to Mary that "Byron lives a life totally the reverse of that which
he led at Venice. . . . [H]e is now quite well immersed in politics and
literature" (LPBS, 2:317).
  The perspective that Byron seems to have been developing at this
time involved rejection both of the eighteenth-century view of the
world as static and fallen as well as of the Romantic view of the world
as organic and fallen; his position increasingly was grounded instead
upon his hard-won belief that human value is historically rather than
"naturally" determined, and that it is thus transformable. Moreover,
he had come to understand forms of social organization-including
their notions of art and genius-in the full light of what later social
theory would call ideology and class struggle. Hence humanity for
Byron was no longer perceived in terms of its insurmountable limita-
tions but rather in terms of its limitless possibilities. (It is important to
emphasize here, however, that Byron was no simpleminded utopian,
nor was he entirely exempt from the sort of despair that character-
izes much of his earlier work, as will become evident momentarily.)
This revolutionary (if incompletely realized) perspective on social life
represents the crux at which Byron's life and art converge into an
active and unified campaign of intervention in the world's affairs.
  The direction Byron's thought was taking during these years should


or two that such things are decided" (BLJ, 9:92-93). This prediction,
of course, has yet to be fulfilled, and in fact with the obvious excep-
tions of The Vision ofJudgment and DonJuan most of the works he felt
certain would endure have suffered badly at the hands of subsequent
criticism. Still it would be wrong to dismiss Byron lightly as a poor
judge of his own aims and accomplishments, for it is likely that when
this system is at last understood he will be proven correct. I believe
that this system, which has never attracted serious critical attention,
both illuminates and vindicates much of his late poetry (especially the
dramas) so long held in low esteem.
  Although Byron never explicitly defined his poetics, he frequently
described its main principles in his letters and journals. According to
these, his poetry after about 1820 was written almost entirely within a
context of revolutionary politics and social analysis. Refusing to play
any longer the Byronic role that had made him popular, he devoted
himself instead to a life that combined careful study, active literary
production, and political involvement. The degree of his commitment
to his new enterprise astonished even Shelley, who remarked in a let-
ter to Mary that "Byron lives a life totally the reverse of that which
he led at Venice.... [H]e is now quite well immersed in politics and
literature" (LPBS, 2:317).
  The perspective that Byron seems to have been developing at this
time involved rejection both of the eighteenth-century view of the
world as static and fallen as well as of the Romantic view of the world
as organic and fallen; his position increasingly was grounded instead
upon his hard-won belief that human value is historically rather than
"naturally" determined, and that it is thus transformable. Moreover,
he had come to understand forms of social organization-including
their notions of art and genius-in the full light of what later social
theory would call ideology and class struggle. Hence humanity for
Byron was no longer perceived in terms of its insurmountable limita-
tions but rather in terms of its limitless possibilities. (It is important to
emphasize here, however, that Byron was no simpleminded utopian,
nor was he entirely exempt from the sort of despair that character-
izes much of his earlier work, as will become evident momentarily.)
This revolutionary (if incompletely realized) perspective on social life
represents the crux at which Byron's life and art converge into an
active and unified campaign of intervention in the world's affairs.
  The direction Byron's thought was taking during these years should


or two that such things are decided" (BLJ, 9:92-93). This prediction,
of course, has yet to be fulfilled, and in fact with the obvious excep-
tions of The Vision ofJudgment and DonJuan most of the works he felt
certain would endure have suffered badly at the hands of subsequent
criticism. Still it would be wrong to dismiss Byron lightly as a poor
judge of his own aims and accomplishments, for it is likely that when
this system is at last understood he will be proven correct. I believe
that this system, which has never attracted serious critical attention,
both illuminates and vindicates much of his late poetry (especially the
dramas) so long held in low esteem.
  Although Byron never explicitly defined his poetics, he frequently
described its main principles in his letters and journals. According to
these, his poetry after about 1820 was written almost entirely within a
context of revolutionary politics and social analysis. Refusing to play
any longer the Byronic role that had made him popular, he devoted
himself instead to a life that combined careful study, active literary
production, and political involvement. The degree of his commitment
to his new enterprise astonished even Shelley, who remarked in a let-
ter to Mary that "Byron lives a life totally the reverse of that which
he led at Venice. . . . [H]e is now quite well immersed in politics and
literature" (LPBS, 2:317).
  The perspective that Byron seems to have been developing at this
time involved rejection both of the eighteenth-century view of the
world as static and fallen as well as of the Romantic view of the world
as organic and fallen; his position increasingly was grounded instead
upon his hard-won belief that human value is historically rather than
"naturally" determined, and that it is thus transformable. Moreover,
he had come to understand forms of social organization-including
their notions of art and genius-in the full light of what later social
theory would call ideology and class struggle. Hence humanity for
Byron was no longer perceived in terms of its insurmountable limita-
tions but rather in terms of its limitless possibilities. (It is important to
emphasize here, however, that Byron was no simpleminded utopian,
nor was he entirely exempt from the sort of despair that character-
izes much of his earlier work, as will become evident momentarily.)
This revolutionary (if incompletely realized) perspective on social life
represents the crux at which Byron's life and art converge into an
active and unified campaign of intervention in the world's affairs.
  The direction Byron's thought was taking during these years should



138 / English Romantic Drama             138 / English Romantic Drama             138 / English Romantic Drama


be clear enough. Both personally and in his poetry he had long wrestled
with British and European political matters ranging from the break-
ing of stocking frame machines by the Luddites to the Napoleonic
campaigns, developing a position which was increasingly critical of
the conventional institutional definitions and representations of poli-
tics and society.' By 1821 he could state firmly in his letters and in
his Ravennajournal his belief that eventual revolution was unavoidable;
and it is evident that he understood both the harsh realities and the
certain consequences of radical political and social change. As he put
it, "Revolutions are not to be made with Rose-water" (BLJ, 7:77):
"The king-times are fast finishing. There will be blood shed like water,
and tears like mist; but the people will conquer in the end. I shall not
live to see it, but I foresee it" (BLJ, 8:26). Keeping the prospects of
extreme physical violence in close view, he devoted himself fully to
promoting the revolutionary cause. He was an active supporter of the
underground and militant Italian Carbonari, sufficiently committed to
its goals to allow his apartments to be used as a storage depot for that
group's artillery.' Moreover, he followed Aristotle's advice by com-
bining his political interests with a careful study of history (note, for
instance, his extensive reading during this period of such writers as
Mitford, Sanuto, Diodorus Siculus, and others) and even went a step
further by exploring in Marino Faliero, The Two Foscari, and other poems
the different levels of meaning and possibility in any given political
episode.'
The abundance of such evidence notwithstanding, Byron has sel-
dom been accepted on his own terms, suffering instead accusations
that he was seeking "The glorification of a heroic death [to justify] a
more dubious life."' This critical reluctance to admit the full progres-
sive quality of Byron's thought deserves consideration, for it helps to
clarify some practical and theoretical difficulties in interpretation. The
temptation to study Byron's psychology rather than his politics has
existed since Scott's time and more often than not has led readers to
conclude that Byron's aristocratic hauteur prevented him from em-
bracing a truly progressive political position And his several famous
comments to John Cam Hobhouse about leading radicals of the day
have confused the issue further. For instance, of William Cobbett and
Henry "Orator" Hunt he remarked: "I have always been ... a well-
wisher to and voter for reform in Parliament-but 'such fellows as
these who will never go to the Gallows with any credit'-such in-


be clear enough. Both personally and in his poetry he had long wrestled
with British and European political matters ranging from the break-
ing of stocking frame machines by the Luddites to the Napoleonic
campaigns, developing a position which was increasingly critical of
the conventional institutional definitions and representations of poli-
tics and society.1 By 1821 he could state firmly in his letters and in
his Ravennafournal his belief that eventual revolution was unavoidable;
and it is evident that he understood both the harsh realities and the
certain consequences of radical political and social change. As he put
it, "Revolutions are not to be made with Rose-water" (BLJ, 7:77):
"The king-times are fast finishing. There will be blood shed like water,
and tears like mist; but the people will conquer in the end. I shall not
live to see it, but I foresee it" (BLJ, 8:26). Keeping the prospects of
extreme physical violence in close view, he devoted himself fully to
promoting the revolutionary cause. He was an active supporter of the
underground and militant Italian Carbonari, sufficiently committed to
its goals to allow his apartments to be used as a storage depot for that
group's artillery.' Moreover, he followed Aristotle's advice by com-
bining his political interests with a careful study of history (note, for
instance, his extensive reading during this period of such writers as
Mitford, Sanuto, Diodorus Siculus, and others) and even went a step
further by exploring in Marino Faliero, The Two Foscari, and other poems
the different levels of meaning and possibility in any given political
episode.7
  The abundance of such evidence notwithstanding, Byron has sel-
dom been accepted on his own terms, suffering instead accusations
that he was seeking "The glorification of a heroic death [to justify] a
more dubious life."' This critical reluctance to admit the full progres-
sive quality of Byron's thought deserves consideration, for it helps to
clarify some practical and theoretical difficulties in interpretation. The
temptation to study Byron's psychology rather than his politics has
existed since Scott's time and more often than not has led readers to
conclude that Byron's aristocratic hauteur prevented him from em-
bracing a truly progressive political position.' And his several famous
comments to John Cam Hobhouse about leading radicals of the day
have confused the issue further. For instance, of William Cobbett and
Henry "Orator" Hunt he remarked: "I have always been ... a well-
wisher to and voter for reform in Parliament-but 'such fellows as
these who will never go to the Gallows with any credit'-such in-


be clear enough. Both personally and in his poetry he had long wrestled
with British and European political matters ranging from the break-
ing of stocking frame machines by the Luddites to the Napolbonic
campaigns, developing a position which was increasingly critical of
the conventional institutional definitions and representations of poli-
tics and society.' By 1821 he could state firmly in his letters and in
his RavennaJournal his belief that eventual revolution was unavoidable;
and it is evident that he understood both the harsh realities and the
certain consequences of radical political and social change. As he put
it, "Revolutions are not to be made with Rose-water" (BLJ, 7:77):
"The king-times are fast finishing. There will be blood shed like water,
and tears like mist; but the people will conquer in the end. I shall not
live to see it, but I foresee it" (BLJ, 8:26). Keeping the prospects of
extreme physical violence in close view, he devoted himself fully to
promoting the revolutionary cause. He was an active supporter of the
underground and militant Italian Carbonari, sufficiently committed to
its goals to allow his apartments to be used as a storage depot for that
group's artillery.' Moreover, he followed Aristotle's advice by com-
bining his political interests with a careful study of history (note, for
instance, his extensive reading during this period of such writers as
Mitford, Sanuto, Diodorus Siculus, and others) and even went a step
further by exploring in Marino Faliero, The Two Foscari, and other poems
the different levels of meaning and possibility in any given political
episode.'
The abundance of such evidence notwithstanding, Byron has sel-
dom been accepted on his own terms, suffering instead accusations
that he was seeking "The glorification of a heroic death [to justify] a
more dubious life."t This critical reluctance to admit the full progres-
sive quality of Byron's thought deserves consideration, for it helps to
clarify some practical and theoretical difficulties in interpretation. The
temptation to study Byron's psychology rather than his politics has
existed since Scott's time and more often than not has led readers to
conclude that Byron's aristocratic hauteur prevented him from em-
bracing a truly progressive political position. And his several famous
comments to John Cam Hobhouse about leading radicals of the day
have confused the issue further. For instance, of William Cobbett and
Henry "Orator" Hunt he remarked: "I have always been ... a well-
wisher to and voter for reform in Parliament-but 'such fellows as
these who will never go to the Gallows with any credit'-such in-



Th      V     SI Dramg ofV                                                           * Lor Byoag3 h rms fLr yo 3                            Th raadofLor Byon/ 3


famous Scoundrels as Hunt and Cobbett-in short the whole gang
(always excepting you [Hobhouse] B. & D.) disgust and make one
doubt of the virtue of any principle or politics which can be embraced
by similar ragamuffins" (BLJ, 7:62-63). But such savage criticism need
not be interpreted solely as upper-class contempt for lower-class politi-
cal enthusiasm (Hunt, in fact, was a gentleman farmer); Byron, after
all, just as often dished out severe criticism of "Gentlemen reformers"
(BLJ, 9:194), and indeed his vicious verse satire on Hobhouse's politics
almost cost him a lifelong friendship.?
  Byron was intolerant of Cobbett and Hunt, not because of their
lack of social position but because he suspected their motives and
more importantly because he disagreed with their political program.
Of the major radical spokesmen beginning to emerge in England after
about 1807 they were among the most articulate and ambitious, in-
volved fully (as E. P. Thompson puts it) in a "scramble for power"
that threatened to defeat the very cause they supported. In addition,
although they were "radicals" (for Byron, a new and probably con-
fusing term [see BLJ, 7:99]) they were not revolutionaries." Along
with Major Cartwright, Sir Francis Burdett, Kinnaird, and others,
they believed that social improvement depended entirely on parlia-
mentary reform. Byron, of course, supported reform just as they did,
but he had come to believe that this measure alone was incapable of
producing substantial and lasting change, for it would merely extend
existing political principles without addressing underlying social prin-
ciples; or, put differently, while the radicals were concerned mainly or
wholly with political change, Byron saw the larger need for a full social
revolution. Thus he denounced frenzied proclamations that simple
change in parliament could rectify severe social ills and attempted in
his poetry to demonstrate the level at which truly productive change
must take place.
   The radicals' reforming zeal, moreover, often combined distrust
of any organized militant resistance with commitment to the liberal
notion of individual struggle. As Cobbett stated: "I advise my country-
men to have nothing to do with any Political Clubs, and secret Cabals,
any Correspondencies; but to trust to individual exertions and open
meetings."" In Italy Byron not only was busily engaged organizing
a secret political resistance group but also in grounding his activi-
ties on a careful study of history and society-he refused to rely on
simple "trust." Finally, much of Cobbett's social critique, like Car-


famous Scoundrels as Hunt and Cobbett-in short the whole gang
(always excepting you [Hobhouse] B. & D.) disgust and make one
doubt of the virtue of any principle or politics which can be embraced
by similar ragamuffins" (BLJ, 7:62-63). But such savage criticism need
not be interpreted solely as upper-class contempt for lower-class politi-
cal enthusiasm (Hunt, in fact, was a gentleman farmer); Byron, after
all, just as often dished out severe criticism of "Gentlemen reformers"
(BLJ, 9:194), and indeed his vicious verse satire on Hobhouse's politics
almost cost him a lifelong friendship."
  Byron was intolerant of Cobbett and Hunt, not because of their
lack of social position but because he suspected their motives and
more importantly because he disagreed with their political program.
Of the major radical spokesmen beginning to emerge in England after
about 1807 they were among the most articulate and ambitious, in-
volved fully (as E. P. Thompson puts it) in a "scramble for power"
that threatened to defeat the very cause they supported. In addition,
although they were "radicals" (for Byron, a new and probably con-
fusing term [see BLJ, 7:99]) they were not revolutionaries." Along
with Major Cartwright, Sir Francis Burdett, Kinnaird, and others,
they believed that social improvement depended entirely on parlia-
mentary reform. Byron, of course, supported reform just as they did,
but he had come to believe that this measure alone was incapable of
producing substantial and lasting change, for it would merely extend
existing political principles without addressing underlying social prin-
ciples; or, put differently, while the radicals were concerned mainly or
wholly with political change, Byron saw the larger need for a full social
revolution. Thus he denounced frenzied proclamations that simple
change in parliament could rectify severe social ills and attempted in
his poetry to demonstrate the level at which truly productive change
must take place.
   The radicals' reforming zeal, moreover, often combined distrust
of any organized militant resistance with commitment to the liberal
notion of individual struggle. As Cobbett stated: "I advise my country-
men to have nothing to do with any Political Clubs, and secret Cabals,
any Correspondencies; but to trust to individual exertions and open
meetings."'" In Italy Byron not only was busily engaged organizing
a secret political resistance group but also in grounding his activi-
ties on a careful study of history and society-he refused to rely on
simple "trust." Finally, much of Cobbett's social critique, like Car-


famous Scoundrels as Hunt and Cobbett-in short the whole gang
(always excepting you [Hobhouse B. & D.) disgust and make one
doubt of the virtue of any principle or politics which can be embraced
by similar ragamuffins" (BLJ, 7:62-63). But such savage criticism need
not be interpreted solely as upper-class contempt for lower-class politi-
cal enthusiasm (Hunt, in fact, was a gentleman farmer); Byron, after
all, just as often dished out severe criticism of "Gentlemen reformers"
(BLJ, 9:194), and indeed his vicious verse satire on Hobhouse's politics
almost cost him a lifelong friendship?c
   Byron was intolerant of Cobbett and Hunt, not because of their
lack of social position but because he suspected their motives and
more importantly because he disagreed with their political program.
Of the major radical spokesmen beginning to emerge in England after
about 1807 they were among the most articulate and ambitious, in-
volved fully (as E. P. Thompson puts it) in a "scramble for power"
that threatened to defeat the very cause they supported. In addition,
although they were "radicals" (for Byron, a new and probably con-
fusing term [see BLJ, 7:99]) they were not revolutionaries." Along
with Major Cartwright, Sir Francis Burdett, Kinnaird, and others,
they believed that social improvement depended entirely on parlia-
mentary reform. Byron, of course, supported reform just as they did,
but he had come to believe that this measure alone was incapable of
producing substantial and lasting change, for it would merely extend
existing political principles without addressing underlying social prin-
ciples; or, put differently, while the radicals were concerned mainly or
wholly with political change, Byron saw the larger need fora full social
revolution. Thus he denounced frenzied proclamations that simple
change in parliament could rectify severe social ills and attempted in
his poetry to demonstrate the level at which truly productive change
must take place.
   The radicals' reforming zeal, moreover, often combined distrust
of any organized militant resistance with commitment to the liberal
notion ofindividual struggle. As Cobbett stated: "I advise my country-
men to have nothing to do with any Political Clubs, and secret Cabals,
any Correspondencies; but to trust to individual exertions and open
meetings."" In Italy Byron not only was busily engaged organizing
a secret political resistance group but also in grounding his activi-
ties on a careful study of history and society-he refused to rely on
simple "trust." Finally, much of Cobbett's social critique, like Car-



14  gishRmni rm                          4  Engais RoatcDrm                       4  Egis Roatc rm


lyle's and Ruskin's after him, was idealistic and regressive insofar as
its vision of the future was based upon a rather romantic notion of
the past: "I wish to see the poor men of England what the poor men
of England were when I was born." On this issue Raymond Williams
notes Cobbett's "surprising share of responsibility for that idealization
of the Middle Ages which is so characteristic of nineteenth-century
social criticism."" Although Byron himself certainly once had been
absorbed by a vision of an idyllic past, he now was just as certainly
intolerant of such idealization, as Cain and Heaven and Earth convinc-
ingly demonstrate: he denied the possibility of re-creating the green
and pleasant land of some agricultural past that in fact had never really
existed.' Byron's position then was not necessarily determined en-
tirely by his private ambitions nor by his elitism; there is a real and
substantive political basis for his criticism of the new radicals that is
at least as important as his personal contempt for them."
  Byron's attitude toward the radicals raises the far more thorny issue
of his quarrel with the British liberals, under whose influence he had
first entered politics. It would, ofcourse, be difficult with existing evi-
dence to prove that he remained on the continent after 1816 because he
did not wish to face the strong liberal pressures that inevitably would
be placed on him in England; but his continuing personal friendship
with numerous British liberals, combined with the divergence of his
thought from the developing liberal position, makes such an argument
plausible.5 He had begun his career in the company of Charles Grey,
Thomas Erskine, and Richard Brinsley Sheridan, whose main goals,
as one historian puts it, were "to defend the liberties of the subject,
freedom of the press and of public meeting against the encroachments
of a panicky Government"; and in his later poetry their influence re-
mains strong." But poems as far back as The Prisoner of Chillon and
The Lament of Tasso reveal that he had come to doubt the basic premise
of liberalism, namely its insistence upon absolute individualism as the
starting point ofall social inquiry and political conduct. In these poems
Byron depicts characters removed absolutely from any social context,
revealing their inability to rely solely on their individual strength.
Through his treatment of incarceration he arrives at the conclusion that
individualism must be defined in social terms if it is to mean anything.
  The individualist doctrine was held in common by both radicals
and liberals, who were rapidly aligning themselves against the aristoc-
racy, and its influence was widely felt in every field from economics to


lyle's and Ruskin's after him, was idealistic and regressive insofar as
its vision of the future was based upon a rather romantic notion of
the past: "I wish to see the poor men of England what the poor men
of England were when I was born." On this issue Raymond Williams
notes Cobbett's "surprising share of responsibility for that idealization
of the Middle Ages which is so characteristic of nineteenth-century
social criticism."" Although Byron himself certainly once had been
absorbed by a vision of an idyllic past, he now was just as certainly
intolerant of such idealization, as Cain and Heaven and Earth convinc-
ingly demonstrate: he denied the possibility of re-creating the green
and pleasant land of some agricultural past that in fact had never really
existed." Byron's position then was not necessarily determined en-
tirely by his private ambitions nor by his elitism; there is a real and
substantive political basis for his criticism of the new radicals that is
at least as important as his personal contempt for them."
  Byron's attitude toward the radicals raises the far more thorny issue
of his quarrel with the British liberals, under whose influence he had
first entered politics. It would, of course, be difficult with existing evi-
dence to prove that he remained on the continent after 1816 because he
did not wish to face the strong liberal pressures that inevitably would
be placed on him in England; but his continuing personal friendship
with numerous British liberals, combined with the divergence of his
thought from the developing liberal position, makes such an argument
plausible.'t He had begun his career in the company of Charles Grey,
Thomas Erskine, and Richard Brinsley Sheridan, whose main goals,
as one historian puts it, were "to defend the liberties of the subject,
freedom of the press and of public meeting against the encroachments
of a panicky Government"; and in his later poetry their influence re-
mains strong." But poems as far back as The Prisoner of Chillon and
The Lament of Tasso reveal that he had come to doubt the basic premise
of liberalism, namely its insistence upon absolute individualism as the
starting point of all social inquiry and political conduct. In these poems
Byron depicts characters removed absolutely from any social context,
revealing their inability to rely solely on their individual strength.
Through his treatment ofincarceration he arrives at the conclusion that
individualism must be defined in social terms if it is to mean anything.
  The individualist doctrine was held in common by both radicals
and liberals, who were rapidly aligning themselves against the aristoc-
racy, and its influence was widely felt in every field from economics to


lyle's and Ruskin's after him, was idealistic and regressive insofar as
its vision of the future was based upon a rather romantic notion of
the past: "I wish to see the poor men of England what the poor men
of England were when I was born." On this issue Raymond Williams
notes Cobbett's "surprising share ofresponsibility for that idealization
of the Middle Ages which is so characteristic of nineteenth-century
social criticism."" Although Byron himself certainly once had been
absorbed by a vision of an idyllic past, he now was just as certainly
intolerant of such idealization, as Cain and Heaven and Earth convinc-
ingly demonstrate: he denied the possibility of re-creating the green
and pleasant land of some agricultural past that in fact had never really
existed." Byron's position then was not necessarily determined en-
tirely by his private ambitions nor by his elitism; there is a real and
substantive political basis for his criticism of the new radicals that is
at least as important as his personal contempt for them."
Byron's attitude toward the radicals raises the far more thorny issue
of his quarrel with the British liberals, under whose influence he had
first entered politics. It would, of course, be difficult with existing evi-
dence to prove that he remained on the continent after 1816 because he
did not wish to face the strong liberal pressures that inevitably would
be placed on him in England; but his continuing personal friendship
with numerous British liberals, combined with the divergence of his
thought from the developing liberal position, makes such an argument
plausible." He had begun his career in the company of Charles Grey,
Thomas Erskine, and Richard Brinsley Sheridan, whose main goals,
as one historian puts it, were "to defend the liberties of the subject,
freedom of the press and of public meeting against the encroachments
of a panicky Government"; and in his later poetry their influence re-
mains strong." But poems as far back as The Prisoner of Chillon and
The Lament of Tasso reveal that he had come to doubt the basic premise
of liberalism, namely its insistence upon absolute individualism as the
starting point of all social inquiry and political conduct. In these poems
Byron depicts characters removed absolutely from any social context,
revealing their inability to rely solely on their individual strength.
Through his treatment of incarceration he arrives at the conclusion that
individualism must be defined in social terms if it is to mean anything.
  The individualist doctrine was held in common by both radicals
and liberals, who were rapidly aligning themselves against the aristoc-
racy, and its influence was widely felt in every field from economics to



TheDrma f Lord Byo /~I                            * 14Ih Daa odBro 4              Th Dra a Lor Byo /i14


government, from intellectual history to social history. That it would
control the British political scene for some years to come was certain,
and doubtless Byron sensed this. Jeremy Bentham, Thomas Malthus,
David Ricardo, James Mill, John Stuart Mill-these men formulated
the theories of the natural law of individualism; and in poetry such
writers as Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Keats (even while they ener-
getically resisted specific Benthamite and utilitarian doctrines) con-
verted these theories into artistic truths.?
  One reason Byron rejected the liberal definition of individualism
was his belief that it inevitably generated unresolvable contradictions
in the social sphere." He makes this point in his dramas: Sardanapalus's
strong individualism contributes to the collapse of a once power-
ful social order; in The Deformed Transformed, Arnold's private pursuit
of beauty and perfection leaves a trail of corpses. Outside England
Byron's expositions of these contradictions were presented with grow-
ing confidence, and as he shed his liberalism he began to ground his
thinking upon the need for and possibility of creating a social order that
did not work at cross-purposes. Although his analysis is never clearly
formulated, his position is implicit in all of his mature poetry; he be-
lieved that social amelioration would be possible only when existing
values assumed to be natural and universal were understood as being
historically and socially determined, serving specific political ends that
were not necessarily in the best interest of most people.
  To glimpse his position one need only read his Venetian plays, which
clearly demonstrate the way a ruling class controls not only the political
machinery but also the system of values to which society subscribes,
thus assuring the perpetuation of the existing power structure. He had
begun to suspect as early as the Eastern Tales that the ostensible univer-
sals to which society subscribes were in fact ideologies; but only after
leaving England and being forced to reconsider the values by which
he judged experience did his poetry-particularly his dramas-begin
to convey the depth and many dimensions of ideology.x His natural
detestation of cant and hypocrisy gradually transformed into a much
more profound concept of social order.
  That Byron wanted to develop a political poetry capable of provid-
ing a more progressive vision than the liberal vision would allow is
obvious from his comment to Kinnaird that "I shall not be deterred by
any outcry-they hate me-and I detest them-I mean your present
Public-but they shall not interrupt the march of my mind-nor pre-


government, from intellectual history to social history. That it would
control the British political scene for some years to come was certain,
and doubtless Byron sensed this. Jeremy Bentham, Thomas Malthus,
David Ricardo, James Mill, John Stuart Mill-these men formulated
the theories of the natural law of individualism; and in poetry such
writers as Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Keats (even while they ener-
getically resisted specific Benthamite and utilitarian doctrines) con-
verted these theories into artistic truths.'
One reason Byron rejected the liberal definition of individualism
was his belief that it inevitably generated unresolvable contradictions
in the social sphere." He makes this point in his dramas: Sardanapalus's
strong individualism contributes to the collapse of a once power-
ful social order; in The Deformed Transformed, Arnold's private pursuit
of beauty and perfection leaves a trail of corpses. Outside England
Byron's expositions ofthese contradictions were presented with grow-
ing confidence, and as he shed his liberalism he began to ground his
thinking upon the need for and possibility ofcreating a social order that
did not work at cross-purposes. Although his analysis is never clearly
formulated, his position is implicit in all of his mature poetry; he be-
lieved that social amelioration would be possible only when existing
values assumed to be natural and universal were understood as being
historically and socially determined, serving specific political ends that
were not necessarily in the best interest of most people.
  To glimpse his position one need only read his Venetian plays, which
clearly demonstrate the way a ruling class controls not only the political
machinery but also the system of values to which society subscribes,
thus assuring the perpetuation of the existing power structure. He had
begun to suspect as early as the Eastern Tales that the ostensible univer-
sals to which society subscribes were in fact ideologies; but only after
leaving England and being forced to reconsider the values by which
he judged experience did his poetry-particularly his dramas-begin
to convey the depth and many dimensions of ideology.5 His natural
detestation of cant and hypocrisy gradually transformed into a much
more profound concept of social order.
  That Byron wanted to develop a political poetry capable of provid-
ing a more progressive vision than the liberal vision would allow is
obvious from his comment to Kinnaird that "I shall not be deterred by
any outcry-they hate me-and I detest them-I mean your present
Public-but they shall not interrupt the march of my mind-nor pre-


government, from intellectual history to social history. That it would
control the British political scene for some years to come was certain,
and doubtless Byron sensed this. Jeremy Bentham, Thomas Malthus,
David Ricardo, James Mill, John Stuart Mill-these men formulated
the theories of the natural law of individualism; and in poetry such
writers as Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Keats (even while they ener-
getically resisted specific Benthamite and utilitarian doctrines) con-
verted these theories into artistic truths.'
One reason Byron rejected the liberal definition of individualism
was his belief that it inevitably generated unresolvable contradictions
in the social sphere." He makes this point in his dramas: Sardanapalus's
strong individualism contributes to the collapse of a once power-
ful social order; in The Deformed Transformed, Arnold's private pursuit
of beauty and perfection leaves a trail of corpses. Outside England
Byron's expositions ofthese contradictions were presented with grow-
ing confidence, and as he shed his liberalism he began to ground his
thinking upon the need for and possibility of creating a social order that
did not work at cross-purposes. Although his analysis is never clearly
formulated, his position is implicit in all of his mature poetry; he be-
lieved that social amelioration would be possible only when existing
values assumed to be natural and universal were understood as being
historically and socially determined, serving specific political ends that
were not necessarily in the best interest of most people.
  To glimpse his position one need only read his Venetian plays, which
clearly demonstrate the way a ruling class controls not only the political
machinery but also the system of values to which society subscribes,
thus assuring the perpetuation of the existing power structure. He had
begun to suspect as early as the Eastern Tales that the ostensible univer-
sals to which society subscribes were in fact ideologies; but only after
leaving England and being forced to reconsider the values by which
he judged experience did his poetry-particularly his dramas-begin
to convey the depth and many dimensions of ideology.0 His natural
detestation of cant and hypocrisy gradually transformed into a much
more profound concept of social order.
  That Byron wanted to develop a political poetry capable of provid-
ing a more progressive vision than the liberal vision would allow is
obvious from his comment to Kinnaird that "I shall not be deterred by
any outcry-they hate me-and I detest them-I mean your present
Public-but they shall not interrupt the march of my mind-nor pre-



142 / English Romantic Drama             1¢2 / English Romantic Drama             142 / English Romantic Drama


vent me from telling the tyrants who are attempting to trample upon
all thought-that their thrones will yet be rocked to their foundation"
(BLJ, 9:152). Byron, of course, was unsure what a kingless society
would be, and he always feared a "Democratical tyranny" (BLJ, 7:99)
that would simply reverse existing social structures without actually
improving them. But his general understanding is plain: he believed
that prevailing structures of authority at their most fundamental level
were oppressive and inadequate, and that liberal thinking lacked a plan
to substantially alter this fact. As he remarked to Thomas Moore: "I
think it [society], as now constituted,fatal to all original undertakings
of every kind" (BLJ, 9:119).
The challenge that he faced in writing poetry was to determine
exactly the kinds of change that were needed and how these might best
be effected. His thinking on these matters was influenced significantly
by Vittorio Alfieri, whom he held in high esteem; indeed, in the above
remark to Kinnaird he directly echoes the great Italian dramatist, iden-
tifying himself with the prestigious tradition of opposition literature
in which Alfieri stands. With Marino Faliero Byron had begun to ex-
periment with Alfieri's poetic method (for instance, see BLJ, 7:182)
and although he never was so daring as to dedicate his work to George
Washington or to The People-as Alfieri did-he followed Alfieri's
example of combining art and politics. In fact, he eventually surpassed
Alfieri's rather limitedjuxtaposition of tyrant and hero-which Byron
believed often reduced art to "political dialogues" (BLJ, 7:150)-and
created a more subtle and sophisticated political poetics based upon
the unspoken assumptions encompassing social relations. Significant
as it is, this dimension of his art is difficult to understand because
his use of literary sources often is confusing and, more importantly,
because he continually experimented with poetic ideas and methods
rather than resting with a fixed and clearly defined form. He moved
easily from historical drama to metaphysical drama, from energetic
satire to sentimental narrative (for instance, The Island), clouding the
common principles he felt to be at the center of each.
  Byron's view of drama provides the clearest guide to his poetics.
As mentioned above, he believed himself to be writing under a dif-
ferent system from the mainstream drama of the day; he explained
in his usual epigrammatic fashion that his aim was "to make a regular
English drama-no matter whether for the Stage or not-which is not
my object-but a mental theatre" (BLJ, 8:187; see also BLJ, 8:185, 210).


vent me from telling the tyrants who are attempting to trample upon
all thought-that their thrones will yet be rocked to their foundation"
(BLJ, 9:152). Byron, of course, was unsure what a kingless society
would be, and he always feared a "Democratical tyranny" (BLJ, 7:99)
that would simply reverse existing social structures without actually
improving them. But his general understanding is plain: he believed
that prevailing structures of authority at their most fundamental level
were oppressive and inadequate, and that liberal thinking lacked a plan
to substantially alter this fact. As he remarked to Thomas Moore: "I
think it [society], as now constituted, fatal to all original undertakings
of every kind" (BLJ, 9:119).
  The challenge that he faced in writing poetry was to determine
exactly the kinds of change that were needed and how these might best
be effected. His thinking on these matters was influenced significantly
by Vittorio Alfieri, whom he held in high esteem; indeed, in the above
remark to Kinnaird he directly echoes the great Italian dramatist, iden-
tifying himself with the prestigious tradition of opposition literature
in which Alfieri stands. With Marino Faliero Byron had begun to ex-
periment with Alfieri's poetic method (for instance, see BLJ, 7:182)
and although he never was so daring as to dedicate his work to George
Washington or to The People-as Alfieri did-he followed Alfieri's
example of combining art and politics. In fact, he eventually surpassed
Alfieri's rather limitedjuxtaposition oftyrant and hero-which Byron
believed often reduced art to "political dialogues" (BLJ, 7:150)-and
created a more subtle and sophisticated political poetics based upon
the unspoken assumptions encompassing social relations. Significant
as it is, this dimension of his art is difficult to understand because
his use of literary sources often is confusing and, more importantly,
because he continually experimented with poetic ideas and methods
rather than resting with a fixed and clearly defined form. He moved
easily from historical drama to metaphysical drama, from energetic
satire to sentimental narrative (for instance, The Island), clouding the
common principles he felt to be at the center of each.
  Byron's view of drama provides the clearest guide to his poetics.
As mentioned above, he believed himself to be writing under a dif-
ferent system from the mainstream drama of the day; he explained
in his usual epigrammatic fashion that his aim was "to make a regular
English drama-no matter whether for the Stage or not-which is not
my object-but a mental theatre" (BLJ, 8:187; see also BLJ, 8:185, 2to).


vent me from telling the tyrants who are attempting to trample upon
all thought-that their thrones will yet be rocked to their foundation"
(BLJ, 9:152). Byron, of course, was unsure what a kingless society
would be, and he always feared a "Democratical tyranny" (BLJ, 7:99)
that would simply reverse existing social structures without actually
improving them. But his general understanding is plain: he believed
that prevailing structures of authority at their most fundamental level
were oppressive and inadequate, and that liberal thinking lacked a plan
to substantially alter this fact. As he remarked to Thomas Moore: "I
think it [society], as now constituted, fatal to all original undertakings
of every kind" (BLJ, 9:119).
  The challenge that he faced in writing poetry was to determine
exactly the kinds of change that were needed and how these might best
be effected. His thinking on these matters was influenced significantly
by Vittorio Alfieri, whom he held in high esteem; indeed, in the above
remark to Kinnaird he directly echoes the great Italian dramatist, iden-
tifying himself with the prestigious tradition of opposition literature
in which Alfieri stands. With Marino Faliero Byron had begun to ex-
periment with Alfieri's poetic method (for instance, see BLJ, 7:182)
and although he never was so daring as to dedicate his work to George
Washington or to The People-as Alfieri did-he followed Alfieri's
example of combining art and politics. In fact, he eventually surpassed
Alfieri's rather limited juxtaposition of tyrant and hero-which Byron
believed often reduced art to "political dialogues" (BLJ, 7:150)-and
created a more subtle and sophisticated political poetics based upon
the unspoken assumptions encompassing social relations. Significant
as it is, this dimension of his art is difficult to understand because
his use of literary sources often is confusing and, more importantly,
because he continually experimented with poetic ideas and methods
rather than resting with a fixed and clearly defined form. He moved
easily from historical drama to metaphysical drama, from energetic
satire to sentimental narrative (for instance, The Island), clouding the
common principles he felt to be at the center of each.
  Byron's view of drama provides the clearest guide to his poetics.
As mentioned above, he believed himself to be writing under a dif-
ferent system from the mainstream drama of the day; he explained
in his usual epigrammatic fashion that his aim was "to make a regular
English drama-no matter whether for the Stage or not-which is not
my object-but a mental theatre" (BLJ, 8:187; see also BLJ, 8:185, 210).



The Daa Lr yo 4                           h Dramg obfI . Lod yon/ 4               Thrma f L Byo /a4


I understand this to mean that he wanted to produce drama that was
at once highly creative and unrestricted by conventional representa-
tionalism and at the same time intellectually and analytically sound.?
Poetry was to assume an unusually flexible role. Although it was "the
expression of Excited passion" BLJ, 8:146) rather than a carefully rea-
soned portrayal of life, it nonetheless could provide a heightened ap-
prehension of fundamental and unifying principles by combining its
imaginative quality with a disciplined methodology. In his dramas he
plunged beneath surface considerations, such as episode and spectacle,
in an attempt to develop a coherent imaginative portrayal of these
principles and thereby to extend the definition of historical truth. This
poetic premise suggests the important role that he believed his men-
tal theater could play in addressing the personal, social, and political
matters of everyday experience.
  Byron's thinking about the imagination was probably sharpened
and clarified by his reading during this period. He spent the early part
of 1821 reading Friedrich Schlegel's History of Literature, and though he
praised the German literary historian only reluctantly (probably be-
cause of political differences), he certainly was sensitive to his power-
ful and probing intellect. In particular, he would have responded to
Schlegel's keen historical awareness. As Arnold Hauser states, Schlegel
was one of the first to recognize "that the nature of the human mind, of
political institutions, of law, language, religion and art are understand-
able only on the basis of their history, and that historical life represents
the sphere in which these structures become incarnate in the purest and
most substantial form."22 Schlegel's ability to perceive and articulate
the essential importance of history determined his approach to litera-
ture. One major assumption of his book is that in its highest form the
imagination is both literary and historical. Thus, for instance, Thu-
cydides' greatness lay in his genius for "historical drama"; his capacity
for uncovering and imaginatively re-creating the inner workings of
history made him, in Schlegel's opinion, "the first great writer" to ex-
plain fully the decline of Greece.' Further, Schlegel believed that the
imagination discovers historical truth not simply through creative but
also through analytical and intellectual means; or, as he put it, "The
clearness of an enlightened judgment must watch over those mighty
energies of reason and of fancy [imagination]. True judgment depends
in all things upon universality of observation, and discernment of that
which is right, in the midst of much more that is wrong." '


I understand this to mean that he wanted to produce drama that was
at once highly creative and unrestricted by conventional representa-
tionalism and at the same time intellectually and analytically sound?'
Poetry was to assume an unusually flexible role. Although it was "the
expression of Excited passion" BLJ, 8:146) rather than a carefully rea-
soned portrayal of life, it nonetheless could provide a heightened ap-
prehension of fundamental and unifying principles by combining its
imaginative quality with a disciplined methodology. In his dramas he
plunged beneath surface considerations, such as episode and spectacle,
in an attempt to develop a coherent imaginative portrayal of these
principles and thereby to extend the definition of historical truth. This
poetic premise suggests the important role that he believed his men-
tal theater could play in addressing the personal, social, and political
matters of everyday experience.
  Byron's thinking about the imagination was probably sharpened
and clarified by his reading during this period. He spent the early part
of 1821 reading Friedrich Schlegel's History of Literature, and though he
praised the German literary historian only reluctantly (probably be-
cause of political differences), he certainly was sensitive to his power-
ful and probing intellect. In particular, he would have responded to
Schlegel's keen historical awareness. As Arnold Hauser states, Schlegel
was one of the first to recognize "that the nature of the human mind, of
political institutions, oflaw, language, religion and art are understand-
able only on the basis of their history, and that historical life represents
the sphere in which these structures become incarnate in the purest and
most substantial form."'2 Schlegel's ability to perceive and articulate
the essential importance of history determined his approach to litera-
ture. One major assumption of his book is that in its highest form the
imagination is both literary and historical. Thus, for instance, Thu-
cydides' greatness lay in his genius for "historical drama"; his capacity
for uncovering and imaginatively re-creating the inner workings of
history made him, in Schlegel's opinion, "the first great writer" to ex-
plain fully the decline of Greece?= Further, Schlegel believed that the
imagination discovers historical truth not simply through creative but
also through analytical and intellectual means; or, as he put it, "The
clearness of an enlightened judgment must watch over those mighty
energies of reason and of fancy (imagination]. True judgment depends
in all things upon universality of observation, and discernment of that
which is right, in the midst of much more that is wrong."


I understand this to mean that he wanted to produce drama that was
at once highly creative and unrestricted by conventional representa-
tionalism and at the same time intellectually and analytically sound.?
Poetry was to assume an unusually flexible role. Although it was "the
expression of Excited passion" BLJ, 8:146) rather than a carefully rea-
soned portrayal of life, it nonetheless could provide a heightened ap-
prehension of fundamental and unifying principles by combining its
imaginative quality with a disciplined methodology. In his dramas he
plunged beneath surface considerations, such as episode and spectacle,
in an attempt to develop a coherent imaginative portrayal of these
principles and thereby to extend the definition of historical truth. This
poetic premise suggests the important role that he believed his men-
tal theater could play in addressing the personal, social, and political
matters of everyday experience.
  Byron's thinking about the imagination was probably sharpened
and clarified by his reading during this period. He spent the early part
of 1821 reading Friedrich Schlegel's History ofLiterature, and though he
praised the German literary historian only reluctantly (probably be-
cause of political differences), he certainly was sensitive to his power-
ful and probing intellect. In particular, he would have responded to
Schlegel's keen historical awareness. As Arnold Hauser states, Schlegel
was one of the first to recognize "that the nature of the human mind, of
political institutions, of law, language, religion and art are understand-
able only on the basis of their history, and that historical life represents
the sphere in which these structures become incarnate in the purest and
most substantial form."" Schlegel's ability to perceive and articulate
the essential importance of history determined his approach to litera-
ture. One major assumption of his book is that in its highest form the
imagination is both literary and historical. Thus, for instance, Thu-
cydides' greatness lay in his genius for "historical drama"; his capacity
for uncovering and imaginatively re-creating the inner workings of
history made him, in Schlegel's opinion, "the first great writer" to ex-
plain fully the decline of Greece2' Further, Schlegel believed that the
imagination discovers historical truth not simply through creative but
also through analytical and intellectual means; or, as he put it, "The
clearness of an enlightened judgment must watch over those mighty
energies of reason and of fancy [imagination]. Truejudgment depends
in all things upon universality of observation, and discernment of that
which is right, in the midst of much more that is wrong." 2



            144 / English Romantic Drama

 Byron was also reading British literary histories at this time and
 seems to have been attracted especially to Thomas Campbell's Speci-
 mens ofthe British Poets. If he enjoyed pointing out Campbell's "slips of
 the pen," he nonetheless thought this "a good work," particularly in
 its defense of Pope, which he called "glorious" (BLJ, 8:21). And here
 again one appeal of the work would have been Campbell's argument
that the poetic imagination is not merely picturesque and descriptive
but analytical and moral, penetrating through simple, external nature
to "life in all its circumstances." According to Campbell, this meant
that the true poet must possess a profound understanding of society.
The poet "deepens our social interest in existence. It is surely by the
livelihood of the interest which he excites in existence, and not by
the class of subjects which he chooses, that we most fairly appreciate
the genius of the life of life [sic] which is in him." Pope, he says, was
"a great moral writer" precisely because his imagination was fed by
this powerful social awareness that could plunge beneath class biases
to the most basic "manners and affections of his species."" Although
Campbell's discussion of Pope never develops much beyond polemic.
it nevertheless reveals his understanding of a depth and complexity
in Pope's imagination (and in the imaginations of all great poets) that
many nineteenth-century critics were unable to discern.
  Such principles as these informed Byron's regular mental theater,
placing demands on the imagination that could not be met by most
popular drama, and thus he refused to court the stage. Rather than
produce the "rant" and excessive splendor that the Drury Lane crowd
applauded, he favored "simplicity" that was "studiously Greek" (BLJ.
8:186). Only in this way could he capture "the higher passions" (BLJ,
8:223) that alone made drama more than mere distraction. He defended
his position at length against Teresa Guiccioli and friends, emphatically
denying the current prevailing assumptions about drama, particularly
the popular belief that love was the sacred theme of great tragedy (for
instance, see BLJ, 8:26). As he told Kinnaird: "I understand what you
want-you want me to write a love-play-but this were contrary to
all my principles-as well as those of Aristotle -I want to simplify
your drama" (BLJ, 8:223).
  Exactly how Byron's poetic principles were drawn from Aristotle
is difficult to comprehend, because Byron integrated Aristotle's poet-
ics with other writings and then adapted them all to his own system.
Werner and The Deformed Transformed, for instance, grew out of a Gothic


            144 / English Romantic Drama

 Byron was also reading British literary histories at this time and
seems to have been attracted especially to Thomas Campbell's Speci-
mens ofthe British Poets. If he enjoyed pointing out Campbell's "slips of
the pen," he nonetheless thought this "a good work," particularly in
its defense of Pope, which he called "glorious" (BLJ, 8:21). And here
again one appeal of the work would have been Campbell's argument
that the poetic imagination is not merely picturesque and descriptive
but analytical and moral, penetrating through simple, external nature
to "life in all its circumstances." According to Campbell, this meant
that the true poet must possess a profound understanding of society.
The poet "deepens our social interest in existence. It is surely by the
livelihood of the interest which he excites in existence, and not by
the class of subjects which he chooses, that we most fairly appreciate
the genius of the life of life [sic] which is in him." Pope, he says, was
"a great moral writer" precisely because his imagination was fed by
this powerful social awareness that could plunge beneath class biases
to the most basic "manners and affections of his species."" Although
Campbell's discussion of Pope never develops much beyond polemic,
it nevertheless reveals his understanding of a depth and complexity
in Pope's imagination (and in the imaginations of all great poets) that
many nineteenth-century critics were unable to discern.
  Such principles as these informed Byron's regular mental theater,
placing demands on the imagination that could not be met by most
popular drama, and thus he refused to court the stage. Rather than
produce the "rant" and excessive splendor that the Drury Lane crowd
applauded, he favored "simplicity" that was "studiously Greek" (BLJ,
8:186). Only in this way could he capture "the higher passions" (BLJ,
8:223) that alone made drama more than mere distraction. He defended
his position at length against Teresa Guiccioli and friends, emphatically
denying the current prevailing assumptions about drama, particularly
the popular belief that love was the sacred theme of great tragedy (for
instance, see BLJ, 8:26). As he told Kinnaird: "I understand what you
want-you want me to write a love-play-but this were contrary to
all my principles-as well as those of Aristotle.- want to simplify
your drama" (BLJ, 8:223).
  Exactly how Byron's poetic principles were drawn from Aristotle
is difficult to comprehend, because Byron integrated Aristotle's poet-
ics with other writings and then adapted them all to his own system.
Werner and The Deformed Transformed, for instance, grew out of a Gothic


            144 / English Romantic Drama

 Byron was also reading British literary histories at this time and
 seems to have been attracted especially to Thomas Campbell's Speci-
 mens ofthe British Poets. If he enjoyed pointing out Campbell's "slips of
 the pen," he nonetheless thought this "a good work," particularly in
its defense of Pope, which he called "glorious" (BLJ, 8:21). And here
again one appeal of the work would have been Campbell's argument
that the poetic imagination is not merely picturesque and descriptive
but analytical and moral, penetrating through simple, external nature
to "life in all its circumstances." According to Campbell, this meant
that the true poet must possess a profound understanding of society.
The poet "deepens our social interest in existence. It is surely by the
livelihood of the interest which he excites in existence, and not by
the class of subjects which he chooses, that we most fairly appreciate
the genius of the life of life [sic] which is in him." Pope, he says, was
"a great moral writer" precisely because his imagination was fed by
this powerful social awareness that could plunge beneath class biases
to the most basic "manners and affections of his species."" Although
Campbell's discussion of Pope never develops much beyond polemic.
it nevertheless reveals his understanding of a depth and complexity
in Pope's imagination (and in the imaginations of all great poets) that
many nineteenth-century critics were unable to discern.
  Such principles as these informed Byron's regular mental theater,
placing demands on the imagination that could not be met by most
popular drama, and thus he refused to court the stage. Rather than
produce the "rant" and excessive splendor that the Drury Lane crowd
applauded, he favored "simplicity" that was "studiously Greek" (BLJ,
8:186). Only in this way could he capture "the higher passions" (BLJ.
8:223) that alone made drama more than mere distraction. He defended
his position at length against Teresa Guiccioli and friends, emphatically
denying the current prevailing assumptions about drama, particularly
the popular belief that love was the sacred theme of great tragedy (for
instance, see BLJ, 8:26). As he told Kinnaird: "I understand what you
want-you want me to write a love-play-but this were contrary to
all my principles-as well as those of Aristotle.-I want to simplify
your drama" (BLJ, 8:223).
  Exactly how Byron's poetic principles were drawn from Aristotle
is difficult to comprehend, because Byron integrated Aristotle's poet-
ics with other writings and then adapted them all to his own system.
Werner and The Deformed Transformed, for instance, grew out of a Gothic



The Dramas of Lord Byron / 145           The Dramas of Lord Byron / 145           The Dramas of Lord Byron / 145


convention long popular on the British stage, and certainly owe as
much to Maturin as to Aristotle. Still, the Aristotelian influence is
considerable, even in those works which seem farthest removed from
Greek standards. Byron himself emphasized this fact; he states clearly
his acceptance of certain fundamentals such as "Simplicity ofplot" (BLJ,
8:218), the unities (though he sometimes veered from these), and the
independence of good tragedy from performance and actors." But
even more than these he was influenced by Aristotle's understanding
of character:
  I must remark from Aristotle and Rymer, that the hero of tragedy
  and . . . a tragic poem must be guilty, to excite "terror and pity,"
  the end of tragic poetry. But hear not me, but my betters. "The
  pity which the poet is to labour for is for the criminal-not for
  those or him he has murdered-as who have been the occasion
  of the Tragedy. The terror is like-wise in the punishment of the
  said criminal, who, if he be represented too great an offender, will
  not be pitied; if altogether innocent his punishment will be unjust. In
  the Greek tragedy Innocence is unhappy often, and the Offender
  escapes." (BLJ, 8:115).?

This passage reveals unreservedly one important tendency in Byron's
poetic method; he cites Aristotle's authority and influence while at the
same time conflating Aristotle's views with those of Rymer, Dryden,
Johnson, and perhaps even others,0 to express criticism of the prevail-
ing notion of love and spectacle in drama and to establish the central,
unique role of criminality in his own tragedies. Byron's comments
suggest much more than a revision of conventional nineteenth-century
poetic attitudes; they suggest a serious reinterpretation of the role and
scope of drama. As his plays attest, Byron wished not simply to shift
dramatic focus from love to crime, in the belief that criminal episodes
or heroic guilt were inherently of greater interest than love, but to
show how drama could be used to express deeper levels of meaning
than a narrowly focused love interest would allow. To this end he at-
tempted to interpret crime through the medium of mental theater, here
again building upon Aristotle's dictum of describing "what can hap-
pen" rather than specifically what did happen. This position stresses
judgment and analysis as key imaginative instruments and brings into
focus once more Byron's overriding concern with contexts (again an
Aristotelian idea) and with unifying principles.


convention long popular on the British stage, and certainly owe as
much to Maturin as to Aristotle. Still, the Aristotelian influence is
considerable, even in those works which seem farthest removed from
Greek standards. Byron himself emphasized this fact; he states clearly
his acceptance of certain fundamentals such as "Simplicity ofplot" (BLJ,
8:218), the unities (though he sometimes veered from these), and the
independence of good tragedy from performance and actors.' But
even more than these he was influenced by Aristotle's understanding
of character:
I must remark from Aristotle and Rymer, that the hero of tragedy
and ... a tragic poem must be guilty, to excite "terror and pity,"
the end of tragic poetry. But hear not me, but my betters. "The
pity which the poet is to labour for is for the criminal-not for
  those or him he has murdered-as who have been the occasion
  of the Tragedy. The terror is like-wise in the punishment of the
  said criminal, who, if he be represented too great an offender, will
  not be pitied; if altogether innocent his punishment will be unjust. In
  the Greek tragedy Innocence is unhappy often, and the Offender
  escapes." (BLJ, 8:115).28

This passage reveals unreservedly one important tendency in Byron's
poetic method; he cites Aristotle's authority and influence while at the
same time conflating Aristotle's views with those of Rymer, Dryden,
Johnson, and perhaps even others," to express criticism of the prevail-
ing notion of love and spectacle in drama and to establish the central,
unique role of criminality in his own tragedies. Byron's comments
suggest much more than a revision of conventional nineteenth-century
poetic attitudes; they suggest a serious reinterpretation of the role and
scope of drama. As his plays attest, Byron wished not simply to shift
dramatic focus from love to crime, in the belief that criminal episodes
or heroic guilt were inherently of greater interest than love, but to
show how drama could be used to express deeper levels of meaning
than a narrowly focused love interest would allow. To this end he at-
tempted to interpret crime through the medium of mental theater, here
again building upon Aristotle's dictum of describing "what can hap-
pen" rather than specifically what did happen. This position stresses
judgment and analysis as key imaginative instruments and brings into
focus once more Byron's overriding concern with contexts (again an
Aristotelian idea) and with unifying principles.


convention long popular on the British stage, and certainly owe as
much to Maturin as to Aristotle. Still, the Aristotelian influence is
considerable, even in those works which seem farthest removed from
Greek standards. Byron himself emphasized this fact; he states clearly
his acceptance of certain fundamentals such as "Simplicity ofplot" (BLJ,
8:218), the unities (though he sometimes veered from these), and the
independence of good tragedy from performance and actors?' But
even more than these he was influenced by Aristotle's understanding
of character:
I must remark from Aristotle and Rymer, that the hero of tragedy
  and ... a tragic poem must be guilty, to excite "terror and pity,"
  the end of tragic poetry. But hear not me, but my betters. "The
  pity which the poet is to labour for isfor the criminal-not for
  those or him he has murdered-as who have been the occasion
  of the Tragedy. The terror is like-wise in the punishment of the
  said criminal, who, if he be represented too great an offender, will
  not be pitied; if altogether innocent his punishment will be unjust. In
  the Greek tragedy Innocence is unhappy often, and the Offender
  escapes." (BLJ, 8:115).2

This passage reveals unreservedly one important tendency in Byron's
poetic method; he cites Aristotle's authority and influence while at the
same time conflating Aristotle's views with those of Rymer, Dryden,
Johnson, and perhaps even others,2 to express criticism of the prevail-
ing notion of love and spectacle in drama and to establish the central,
unique role of criminality in his own tragedies. Byron's comments
suggest much more than a revision of conventional nineteenth-century
poetic attitudes; they suggest a serious reinterpretation of the role and
scope of drama. As his plays attest, Byron wished not simply to shift
dramatic focus from love to crime, in the belief that criminal episodes
or heroic guilt were inherently of greater interest than love, but to
show how drama could be used to express deeper levels of meaning
than a narrowly focused love interest would allow. To this end he at-
tempted to interpret crime through the medium of mental theater, here
again building upon Aristotle's dictum of describing "what can hap-
pen" rather than specifically what did happen. This position stresses
judgment and analysis as key imaginative instruments and brings into
focus once more Byron's overriding concern with contexts (again an
Aristotelian idea) and with unifying principles.



            146 / English Romantic Drama

 It is Byron's particular understanding of crime that makes all of
 his dramas (not simply those specifically labeled tragedies) unique and
 compelling. Byron carefully avoids reducing crime to an easy or pat
 explanation, but rather explores his subject from various and some-
 times quite opposite perspectives, frequently concluding that guilt and
 innocence exist alongside one another in a single character. More im-
portantly, he never identifies guilt in his characters with wrong per-
sonal choices; their guilt is always presented as somehow socially de-
termined or mediated. This method focuses individual relations with
culture and society, providing the basis for an imaginative examination
of particular social systems within which human life creates meaning.
It is at this deep level of analysis, interpretation, and articulation that
Byron's mental theater is most alive and penetrating.
  Byron's clearest handling of crime appears in such plays as Cain
and Sardanapalus, in which he depicts individuals who knowingly and
firmly reject both their specific social roles and the society that has
assigned them these roles. In each case private ego is at most only a
secondary motive for action; the difficulty of accepting social roles is
generated by society itself. Cain, for instance, is required to be "cheer-
ful and resign'd" (Cain, I.i.51) with his daily punishment-a life of
"toil" (Cain, .i.65)-despite the fact that he has committed no crime;
he is expected to praise as good a social life that gives him no free-
dom and that to him is physically and emotionally burdensome.' His
inability to ignore such contradictions generates his widening divi-
sion from society, creating the frustration that leads him eventually
to murder Abel. In tracing the play's action Byron is careful to show
that Cain is never malicious, never criminally insane, but rather driven
to distraction by "the politics of Paradise" (BLJ, 8:216); thus even
his murderous action cannot be comprehended in purely psychologi-
cal terms but must be viewed within its larger social context.' This
social focus on murder illuminates Cain's certain innocence, despite
his obvious guilt: although he is indeed guilty of fratricide, he is beaten
down and driven to distraction by a social order that makes criminal
activity virtually inevitable. Endorsement of the existing unjust order
would have been neither moral nor conducive to social amelioration,
and yet society allows Cain no expression except endorsement; in such
a world any resistance would be extreme and violent. Cain's action
then, although disturbing and repulsive, is inevitable, and it carries
within it the strong human need for the freedom to be moral.


            146 / English Romantic Drama

 It is Byron's particular understanding of crime that makes all of
his dramas (not simply those specifically labeled tragedies) unique and
compelling. Byron carefully avoids reducing crime to an easy or pat
explanation, but rather explores his subject from various and some-
times quite opposite perspectives, frequently concluding that guilt and
innocence exist alongside one another in a single character. More im-
portantly, he never identifies guilt in his characters with wrong per-
sonal choices; their guilt is always presented as somehow socially de-
termined or mediated. This method focuses individual relations with
culture and society, providing the basis for an imaginative examination
of particular social systems within which human life creates meaning.
It is at this deep level of analysis, interpretation, and articulation that
Byron's mental theater is most alive and penetrating.
Byron's clearest handling of crime appears in such plays as Cain
and Sardanapalus, in which he depicts individuals who knowingly and
firmly reject both their specific social roles and the society that has
assigned them these roles. In each case private ego is at most only a
secondary motive for action; the difficulty of accepting social roles is
generated by society itself. Cain, for instance, is required to be "cheer-
ful and resign'd" (Cain, I.i.51) with his daily punishment-a life of
"toil" (Cain, I.i.65)-despite the fact that he has committed no crime;
he is expected to praise as good a social life that gives him no free-
dom and that to him is physically and emotionally burdensome.' His
inability to ignore such contradictions generates his widening divi-
sion from society, creating the frustration that leads him eventually
to murder Abel. In tracing the play's action Byron is careful to show
that Cain is never malicious, never criminally insane, but rather driven
to distraction by "the politics of Paradise" (BLJ, 8:216); thus even
his murderous action cannot be comprehended in purely psychologi-
cal terms but must be viewed within its larger social context.? This
social focus on murder illuminates Cain's certain innocence, despite
his obvious guilt: although he is indeed guilty of fratricide, he is beaten
down and driven to distraction by a social order that makes criminal
activity virtually inevitable. Endorsement of the existing unjust order
would have been neither moral nor conducive to social amelioration,
and yet society allows Cain no expression except endorsement; in such
a world any resistance would be extreme and violent. Cain's action
then, although disturbing and repulsive, is inevitable, and it carries
within it the strong human need for the freedom to be moral.


            146 / English Romantic Drama

 It is Byron's particular understanding of crime that makes all of
his dramas (not simply those specifically labeled tragedies) unique and
compelling. Byron carefully avoids reducing crime to an easy or pat
explanation, but rather explores his subject from various and some-
times quite opposite perspectives, frequently concluding that guilt and
innocence exist alongside one another in a single character. More im-
portantly, he never identifies guilt in his characters with wrong per-
sonal choices; their guilt is always presented as somehow socially de-
termined or mediated. This method focuses individual relations with
culture and society, providing the basis for an imaginative examination
of particular social systems within which human life creates meaning.
It is at this deep level of analysis, interpretation, and articulation that
Byron's mental theater is most alive and penetrating.
Byron's clearest handling of crime appears in such plays as Cain
and Sardanapalus, in which he depicts individuals who knowingly and
firmly reject both their specific social roles and the society that has
assigned them these roles. In each case private ego is at most only a
secondary motive for action; the difficulty of accepting social roles is
generated by society itself Cain, for instance, is required to be "cheer-
ful and resign'd" (Cain, I.i.5t) with his daily punishment-a life of
"toil" (Cain, I.i.65)-despite the fact that he has committed no crime;
he is expected to praise as good a social life that gives him no free-
dom and that to him is physically and emotionally burdensome." His
inability to ignore such contradictions generates his widening divi-
sion from society, creating the frustration that leads him eventually
to murder Abel. In tracing the play's action Byron is careful to show
that Cain is never malicious, never criminally insane, but rather driven
to distraction by "the politics of Paradise" (BLJ, 8:216); thus even
his murderous action cannot be comprehended in purely psychologi-
cal terms but must be viewed within its larger social context)' This
social focus on murder illuminates Cain's certain innocence, despite
his obvious guilt: although he is indeed guilty of fratricide, he is beaten
down and driven to distraction by a social order that makes criminal
activity virtually inevitable. Endorsement of the existing unjust order
would have been neither moral nor conducive to social amelioration,
and yet society allows Cain no expression except endorsement; in such
a world any resistance would be extreme and violent. Cain's action
then, although disturbing and repulsive, is inevitable, and it carries
within it the strong human need for the freedom to be moral.



Th V M* Drma ofLr yo                     Th DamstU.r .Bro 147TeDaa Ib                  fiuodiyrn 147


Cain clearly displays the extent to which Byron's thought had veered
from the liberal position. Here as elsewhere in his later dramatic work
(for instance, Marino Faliero and Sardanapalus) he refuses to set indi-
vidual and society against each other as though they were equally au-
tonomous entities that somehow must learn to live together. Rather, he
maintains, it is social being that determines individual consciousness,
so that personal life is social life.t? Cain's frustration and unhappiness
are shown to arise from the actual conditions that he confronts, just
as his options for action are socially determined. From this perspec-
tive, crime is removed from the purely private origin that it so often
is assumed to have and traced to a much more complex source within
society.
In his final dramas, Werner and The Deformed Transformed, Byron
seems to have developed a more sophisticated perspective on crime
based upon the realization that crime can result from social conformity
as easily as from dissidence. Of course, he had long entertained this
idea, though his earlier responses were often more emotional than ana-
lytic; his political remarks in verse dating at least from the first canto
of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage and his lifelong resistance to conventional
religious and moral codes indicate his strong impression of the evils
inherent in existing social structures. However, it was not until he be-
came directly involved in revolutionary politics and also began experi-
menting with drama that he developed a coherent (though admittedly
elusive) analysis of this issue. In his final plays he creates protagonists
who fully accept prevailing social attitudes and who seek to embody
specific social values absolutely. In The Deformed Transformed, for in-
stance, the major character, Arnold, is defined entirely in terms of his
struggle to overcome alienation from society; he desperately searches
for power and beauty, the supreme virtues his culture celebrates, which
therefore alone can make him socially and morally whole. But, ironi-
cally, his quest generates crime upon crime. Although he understands
power and beauty in the highest moral terms, his actual path to real-
izing them, as he is forced to admit, "Has been o'er carcasses" (I.ii.2);
and, worse, his beliefs lead him to a steadily increasing use of force
and violence. His honest expressions of compassion and love are con-
tinually blackened by actual experience.
  Although this play perhaps is artistically inferior to Cain and some-
what tentative in its presentation, it nonetheless adds a new dimension
to the social analysis provided by the earlier mystery play, because (as


Cain clearly displays the extent to which Byron's thought had veered
from the liberal position. Here as elsewhere in his later dramatic work
(for instance, Marino Faliero and Sardanapalus) he refuses to set indi-
vidual and society against each other as though they were equally au-
tonomous entities that somehow must learn to live together. Rather, he
maintains, it is social being that determines individual consciousness,
so that personal life is social life.?5 Cain's frustration and unhappiness
are shown to arise from the actual conditions that he confronts, just
as his options for action are socially determined. From this perspec-
tive, crime is removed from the purely private origin that it so often
is assumed to have and traced to a much more complex source within
society.
  In his final dramas, Werner and The Deformed Transformed, Byron
seems to have developed a more sophisticated perspective on crime
based upon the realization that crime can result from social conformity
as easily as from dissidence. Of course, he had long entertained this
idea, though his earlier responses were often more emotional than ana-
lytic; his political remarks in verse dating at least from the first canto
of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage and his lifelong resistance to conventional
religious and moral codes indicate his strong impression of the evils
inherent in existing social structures. However, it was not until he be-
came directly involved in revolutionary politics and also began experi-
menting with drama that he developed a coherent (though admittedly
elusive) analysis of this issue. In his final plays he creates protagonists
who fully accept prevailing social attitudes and who seek to embody
specific social values absolutely. In The Deformed Transformed, for in-
stance, the major character, Arnold, is defined entirely in terms of his
struggle to overcome alienation from society; he desperately searches
for power and beauty, the supreme virtues his culture celebrates, which
therefore alone can make him socially and morally whole. But, ironi-
cally, his quest generates crime upon crime. Although he understands
power and beauty in the highest moral terms, his actual path to real-
izing them, as he is forced to admit, "Has been o'er carcasses" (Lii.a);
and, worse, his beliefs lead him to a steadily increasing use of force
and violence. His honest expressions of compassion and love are con-
tinually blackened by actual experience.
  Although this play perhaps is artistically inferior to Cain and some-
what tentative in its presentation, it nonetheless adds a new dimension
to the social analysis provided by the earlier mystery play, because (as


Cain clearly displays the extent to which Byron's thought had veered
from the liberal position. Here as elsewhere in his later dramatic work
(for instance, Marino Faliero and Sardanapalus) he refuses to set indi-
vidual and society against each other as though they were equally au-
tonomous entities that somehow must learn to live together. Rather, he
maintains, it is social being that determines individual consciousness,
so that personal life is social life.?5 Cain's frustration and unhappiness
are shown to arise from the actual conditions that he confronts, just
as his options for action are socially determined. From this perspec-
tive, crime is removed from the purely private origin that it so often
is assumed to have and traced to a much more complex source within
society.
In his final dramas, Werner and The Deformed Transformed, Byron
seems to have developed a more sophisticated perspective on crime
based upon the realization that crime can result from social conformity
as easily as from dissidence. Of course, he had long entertained this
idea, though his earlier responses were often more emotional than ana-
lytic; his political remarks in verse dating at least from the first canto
of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage and his lifelong resistance to conventional
religious and moral codes indicate his strong impression of the evils
inherent in existing social structures. However, it was not until he be-
came directly involved in revolutionary politics and also began experi-
menting with drama that he developed a coherent (though admittedly
elusive) analysis of this issue. In his final plays he creates protagonists
who fully accept prevailing social attitudes and who seek to embody
specific social values absolutely. In The Deformed Transformed, for in-
stance, the major character, Arnold, is defined entirely in terms of his
struggle to overcome alienation from society; he desperately searches
for power and beauty, the supreme virtues his culture celebrates, which
therefore alone can make him socially and morally whole. But, ironi-
cally, his quest generates crime upon crime. Although he understands
power and beauty in the highest moral terms, his actual path to real-
izing them, as he is forced to admit, "Has been o'er carcasses" (I.ii.2);
and, worse, his beliefs lead him to a steadily increasing use of force
and violence. His honest expressions of compassion and love are con-
tinually blackened by actual experience.
  Although this play perhaps is artistically inferior to Cain and some-
what tentative in its presentation, it nonetheless adds a new dimension
to the social analysis provided by the earlier mystery play, because (as



148 / English Romantic Drama             148 / English Romantic Drama             148 / English Romantic Drama


I shall argue at length below) it captures the ever intensifying contra-
dictions at the core of an entire social order. Arnold is guilty with
his culture; it is his attempt to overcome alienation, to integrate him-
self fully into society, that generates evil. That he is implicated re-
peatedly in crime despite his sincere profession of integrity calls into
question the most deep-seated assumptions that he shares with his
society-assumptions about what is moral, what is natural, what is
social rather than universal. Like Sardanapalus, Arnold fails because
his society fails; inherent in its order are injustice and inequality, both
of which preclude true harmony and durability, as the biting scenes
in St. Peter's Church so convincingly illustrate. These final scenes,
revealing unresolvable contradictions accompanied inevitably by ex-
cruciating violence, emphasize the certain collapse of a social order
that cannot work.
Byron's concentration in his dramas on the fundamental social di-
mension of crime (as defined in its broadest possible terms) brought
him to understand that the most powerful threats to any given culture
are internal; thus he undertook a detailed examination of the under-
lying and far-reaching factors within society that might elucidate the
deeper meanings of crime. He studied the encompassing system of
values and structures of authority that bind society and determine
individual assumptions about "right and wrong"; or, put differently,
he became increasingly absorbed by the distinction between structure
and event, that is, with the relations between the abstract ideas govern-
ing culture and society and the actual conduct of people within given
social orders. This focus directed his interest beyond crime itself to
careful consideration ofsuch abstractions as state and law (as in Marino
Faliero and The Two Foscari) and also to society's more sacred reposi-
tories of truth: religion and art. In all of his dramas, after Manfred,
he gives special attention to one or all of these, criticizing them not
simply for their surface inadequacies but more importantly for their
claims to an absolute ideal, claims that ignore historical process and
so often confuse basic human needs.
  I now want to consider Byron's dramas individually and at some
length in an effort to elucidate the general ideas just presented.?

Manfred
Three years prior to the period considered in the above discussion
Byron had already made his first serious venture into the area of poetic


I shall argue at length below) it captures the ever intensifying contra-
dictions at the core of an entire social order. Arnold is guilty with
his culture; it is his attempt to overcome alienation, to integrate him-
self fully into society, that generates evil. That he is implicated re-
peatedly in crime despite his sincere profession of integrity calls into
question the most deep-seated assumptions that he shares with his
society-assumptions about what is moral, what is natural, what is
social rather than universal. Like Sardanapalus, Arnold fails because
his society fails; inherent in its order are injustice and inequality, both
of which preclude true harmony and durability, as the biting scenes
in St. Peter's Church so convincingly illustrate. These final scenes,
revealing unresolvable contradictions accompanied inevitably by ex-
cruciating violence, emphasize the certain collapse of a social order
that cannot work.
Byron's concentration in his dramas on the fundamental social di-
mension of crime (as defined in its broadest possible terms) brought
him to understand that the most powerful threats to any given culture
are internal; thus he undertook a detailed examination of the under-
lying and far-reaching factors within society that might elucidate the
deeper meanings of crime. He studied the encompassing system of
values and structures of authority that bind society and determine
individual assumptions about "right and wrong"; or, put differently,
he became increasingly absorbed by the distinction between structure
and event, that is, with the relations between the abstract ideas govern-
ing culture and society and the actual conduct of people within given
social orders. This focus directed his interest beyond crime itself to
careful consideration of such abstractions as state and law (as in Marinoa
Faliero and The Two Foscari) and also to society's more sacred reposi-
tories of truth: religion and art. In all of his dramas, after Manfred,
he gives special attention to one or all of these, criticizing them not
simply for their surface inadequacies but more importantly for their
claims to an absolute ideal, claims that ignore historical process and
so often confuse basic human needs.
  I now want to consider Byron's dramas individually and at some
length in an effort to elucidate the general ideas just presented."

Manfred
Three years prior to the period considered in the above discussion
Byron had already made his first serious venture into the area of poetic


I shall argue at length below) it captures the ever intensifying contra-
dictions at the core of an entire social order. Arnold is guilty with
his culture; it is his attempt to overcome alienation, to integrate him-
self fully into society, that generates evil. That he is implicated re-
peatedly in crime despite his sincere profession of integrity calls into
question the most deep-seated assumptions that he shares with his
society-assumptions about what is moral, what is natural, what is
social rather than universal. Like Sardanapalus, Arnold fails because
his society fails; inherent in its order are injustice and inequality, both
of which preclude true harmony and durability, as the biting scenes
in St. Peter's Church so convincingly illustrate. These final scenes,
revealing unresolvable contradictions accompanied inevitably by ex-
cruciating violence, emphasize the certain collapse of a social order
that cannot work.
Byron's concentration in his dramas on the fundamental social di-
mension of crime (as defined in its broadest possible terms) brought
him to understand that the most powerful threats to any given culture
are internal; thus he undertook a detailed examination of the under-
lying and far-reaching factors within society that might elucidate the
deeper meanings of crime. He studied the encompassing system of
values and structures of authority that bind society and determine
individual assumptions about "right and wrong"; or, put differently,
he became increasingly absorbed by the distinction between structure
and event, that is, with the relations between the abstract ideas govern-
ing culture and society and the actual conduct of people within given
social orders. This focus directed his interest beyond crime itself to
careful consideration of such abstractions as state and law (as in Marino
Faliero and The Two Foscari) and also to society's more sacred reposi-
tories of truth: religion and art. In all of his dramas, after Manfred,
he gives special attention to one or all of these, criticizing them not
simply for their surface inadequacies but more importantly for their
claims to an absolute ideal, claims that ignore historical process and
so often confuse basic human needs.
  I now want to consider Byron's dramas individually and at some
length in an effort to elucidate the general ideasjust presented?"

Manfred
Three years prior to the period considered in the above discussion
Byron had already made his first serious venture into the area of poetic



Th rmaVfLord yro / 14                    The  ItU Drma ofLr yow 4                 Th rsfLor o / 4


drama, producing his most popular (though not his most successful)
work in that genre. While Manfred (1816-17) is more closely aligned-
in its tone, style, and "Byronic" posturing-to the Eastern Tales and
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage than to the dramas written after 182o, it none-
theless provides an important early example of some of the principles
and themes that were to come to maturation only a few years later.
It might be helpful, therefore, to provide here a general sketch of the
social content of the drama, considering it as a sort of preliminary
effort on Byron's part to find a suitable dramatic form and voice for ex-
ploring and articulating the large historical interest that is more clearly
defined in the later works.
  It is common knowledge that Manfred is shaped by specific and in-
tensely personal difficulties in Byron's life. As Leslie Marchand aptly
states, "All the unhappiness, the sense of guilt, the frustrations, and
the dismal broodings which had grown out of his reflection during the
summer [of 1816] on his relations with Augusta, his marriage, and
the separation found relief in a poetic drama that had been conceived
in the high Alps and now burned for expression.'' Edward Bostet-
ter makes essentially the same point: "Manfred is the drama in which
Byron symbolically works his way through to mental sanity, to the
psychological perspective that made Don Juan possible. It is a thera-
peutic drama into which Byron pours off all of the pent-up, confused,
and conflicting attitudes growing out of the debacle" of the immedi-
ately preceding years in England.? Certainly this personal dimension
of the drama cannot be ignored, and indeed perhaps it is the neces-
sary starting point for any critical consideration of such a strongly
autobiographical poet as Byron.
  Still, as the recent excellent editions of the letters, journals, and
poetry (as well as the critical work ofJerome McGann) make emphati-
cally clear, Byron's thought and imagination were shaped not only
by personal matters; there is a vitally important public dimension to
all of his work, one which includes a variety of political, social, and
historical issues. Despite his obvious sensitivity to his status within
society, his deep-seated fear that his personal entanglements would
jeopardize that status, and his distasteful egotism and "Byronic" pos-
turing when the public eye was on him, he rarely lost sight of the
larger contexts and consequences ofhis particular situation, and indeed
often responded to personal pressures by seeing his life in historical
terms. This is evident, to take only one example, in a brief comment


drama, producing his most popular (though not his most successful)
work in that genre. While Manfred (1816-17) is more closely aligned-
in its tone, style, and "Byronic" posturing-to the Eastern Tales and
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage than to the dramas written after 1820, it none-
theless provides an important early example of some of the principles
and themes that were to come to maturation only a few years later.
It might be helpful, therefore, to provide here a general sketch of the
social content of the drama, considering it as a sort of preliminary
effort on Byron's part to find a suitable dramatic form and voice for ex-
ploring and articulating the large historical interest that is more clearly
defined in the later works.
  It is common knowledge that Manfred is shaped by specific and in-
tensely personal difficulties in Byron's life. As Leslie Marchand aptly
states, "All the unhappiness, the sense of guilt, the frustrations, and
the dismal breodings which had grown out of his reflection during the
summer [of 1816] on his relations with Augusta, his marriage, and
the separation found relief in a poetic drama that had been conceived
in the high Alps and now burned for expression."" Edward Bosret-
ter makes essentially the same point: "Manfred is the drama in which
Byron symbolically works his way through to mental sanity, to the
psychological perspective that made Don Juan possible. It is a thera-
peutic drama into which Byron pours off all of the pent-up, confused,
and conflicting attitudes growing out of the debacle" of the immedi-
ately preceding years in England.?t Certainly this personal dimension
of the drama cannot be ignored, and indeed perhaps it is the neces-
sary starting point for any critical consideration of such a strongly
autobiographical poet as Byron.
  Still, as the recent excellent editions of the letters, journals, and
poetry (as well as the critical work ofJerome McGann) make emphati-
cally clear, Byron's thought and imagination were shaped not only
by personal matters; there is a vitally important public dimension to
all of his work, one which includes a variety of political, social, and
historical issues. Despite his obvious sensitivity to his status within
society, his deep-seated fear that his personal entanglements would
jeopardize that status, and his distasteful egotism and "Byronic" pos-
turing when the public eye was on him, he rarely lost sight of the
larger contexts and consequences ofhis particular situation, and indeed
often responded to personal pressures by seeing his life in historical
terms. This is evident, to take only one example, in a brief comment


drama, producing his most popular (though not his most successful)
work in that genre. While Manfred (1816-17) is more closely aligned-
in its tone, style, and "Byronic" posturing-to the Eastern Tales and
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage than to the dramas written after 1820, it none-
theless provides an important early example of some of the principles
and themes that were to come to maturation only a few years later.
It might be helpful, therefore, to provide here a general sketch of the
social content of the drama, considering it as a sort of preliminary
effort on Byron's part to find a suitable dramatic form and voice for ex-
ploring and articulating the large historical interest that is more clearly
defined in the later works.
  It is common knowledge that Manfred is shaped by specific and in-
tensely personal difficulties in Byron's life. As Leslie Marchand aptly
states, "All the unhappiness, the sense of guilt, the frustrations, and
the dismal broodings which had grown out of his reflection during the
summer [of 1816] on his relations with Augusta, his marriage, and
the separation found relief in a poetic drama that had been conceived
in the high Alps and now burned for expression."" Edward Bostet-
ter makes essentially the same point: "Manfred is the drama in which
Byron symbolically works his way through to mental sanity, to the
psychological perspective that made Don Juan possible. It is a thera-
peutic drama into which Byron pours off all of the pent-up, confused,
and conflicting attitudes growing out of the debacle" of the immedi-
ately preceding years in England.t? Certainly this personal dimension
of the drama cannot be ignored, and indeed perhaps it is the neces-
sary starting point for any critical consideration of such a strongly
autobiographical poet as Byron.
  Still, as the recent excellent editions of the letters, journals, and
poetry (as well as the critical work ofJerome McGann) make emphati-
cally clear, Byron's thought and imagination were shaped not only
by personal matters; there is a vitally important public dimension to
all of his work, one which includes a variety of political, social, and
historical issues. Despite his obvious sensitivity to his status within
society, his deep-seated fear that his personal entanglements would
jeopardize that status, and his distasteful egotism and "Byronic" pos-
turing when the public eye was on him, he rarely lost sight of the
larger contexts and consequences of his particular situation, and indeed
often responded to personal pressures by seeing his life in historical
terms. This is evident, to take only one example, in a brief comment



w~ gis Ranti Dram                        15                                       w nls oani rm / Enls oani rm


that he made to Leigh Hunt during the earliest period of his domestic
troubles; speaking of his inactivity in Parliament at a time when public
affairs were becoming increasingly tumultuous and of his desire for
significant political change, Byron remarked:

[W]hen a proper spirit is manifested "without doors" I will endeav-
our not to be idle within-do you think such a time is coming?
methinks there are gleams of it-my forefathers were of the other
side of the question in Charles's days-& the fruit of it was a title
& the loss of an enormous property.-If the old struggle comes
on-1 shall lose the one & shall never regain the other-but-no
matter-there are things even in this world-better than either.
  (BLJ, 5:19)
  One poetic formulation of the sort of large historical change that
is anticipated in this statement appears in Manfred, though it is a for-
mulation expressive of considerably more anxiety than Byron, in his
typically self-confident manner, admits in his letter to Hunt. Manfred,
indeed, is not only about the breakup of his marriage, his incestu-
ous affair with Augusta, and his Promethean defiance in the face of
personal and public scandal, but also about complex struggles and con-
flicts defining the entire Romantic age. The darkly imagined, mythic
situation and characters in the play embody and project, in abstract
form, an alienating, anxiety-ridden social situation that is anterior to
Manfred's personality, his power, and even his conjuring of spirits.
Taken together, the governing structures of authority and systems of
belief in the drama, the hierarchy of relations among characters, and
Manfred's desperate attempts to find personal meaning in the face of
these show the unavoidable claim that a barely acknowledged history
and society have on him-despite his own tendency to deny that claim
and to see his situation in purely personal terms. Moreover, the con-
text within which Manfred's actions and statements are placed reveals
a consuming interest in much of Byron's writing: namely the giant
disparity between, on the one hand, intellectual awareness of the false
grounds of power used to control people and, on the other, individual
ability to destroy or even to avoid this power.
  One reason criticism has devoted so much attention to the psycho-
logical and biographical elements in the drama to the exclusion of the
political and social is that it offers such a powerful and lengthy por-
trayal of the world of spirits, a world which seems to have little to


that he made to Leigh Hunt during the earliest period of his domestic
troubles; speaking of his inactivity in Parliament at a time when public
affairs were becoming increasingly tumultuous and of his desire for
significant political change, Byron remarked:

[W]hen a proper spirit is manifested "without doors" I will endeav-
our not to be idle within-do you think such a time is coming?
methinks there are gleams of it-my forefathers were of the other
side of the question in Charles's days-& the fruit of it was a title
& the loss of an enormous property.-If the old struggle comes
on-I shall lose the one & shall never regain the other-but-no
matter-there are things even in this world-better than either.
(BLJ, 5:19)
One poetic formulation of the sort of large historical change that
is anticipated in this statement appears in Manfred, though it is a for-
mulation expressive of considerably more anxiety than Byron, in his
typically self-confident manner, admits in his letter to Hunt. Manfred,
indeed, is not only about the breakup of his marriage, his incestu-
ous affair with Augusta, and his Promethean defiance in the face of
personal and public scandal, but also about complex struggles and con-
flicts defining the entire Romantic age. The darkly imagined, mythic
situation and characters in the play embody and project, in abstract
form, an alienating, anxiety-ridden social situation that is anterior to
Manfred's personality, his power, and even his conjuring of spirits.
Taken together, the governing structures of authority and systems of
belief in the drama, the hierarchy of relations among characters, and
Manfred's desperate attempts to find personal meaning in the face of
these show the unavoidable claim that a barely acknowledged history
and society have on him-despite his own tendency to deny that claim
and to see his situation in purely personal terms. Moreover, the con-
text within which Manfred's actions and statements are placed reveals
a consuming interest in much of Byron's writing: namely the giant
disparity between, on the one hand, intellectual awareness of the false
grounds of power used to control people and, on the other, individual
ability to destroy or even to avoid this power.
  One reason criticism has devoted so much attention to the psycho-
logical and biographical elements in the drama to the exclusion of the
political and social is that it offers such a powerful and lengthy por-
trayal of the world of spirits, a world which seems to have little to


that he made to Leigh Hunt during the earliest period of his domestic
troubles; speaking of his inactivity in Parliament at a time when public
affairs were becoming increasingly tumultuous and of his desire for
significant political change, Byron remarked:
[W]hen a proper spirit is manifested "without doors" I will endeav-
our not to be idle within-do you think such a time is coming?
methinks there are gleams of it-my forefathers were of the other
side of the question in Charles's days-& the fruit of it was a title
& the loss of an enormous property.-If the old struggle comes
on-I shall lose the one & shall never regain the other-but-no
matter-there are things even in this world-better than either.
  (BLJ, 5:19)
  One poetic formulation of the sort of large historical change that
is anticipated in this statement appears in Manfred, though it is a for-
mulation expressive of considerably more anxiety than Byron, in his
typically self-confident manner, admits in his letter to Hunt. Manfred,
indeed, is not only about the breakup of his marriage, his incestu-
ous affair with Augusta, and his Promethean defiance in the face of
personal and public scandal, but also about complex struggles and con-
flicts defining the entire Romantic age. The darkly imagined, mythic
situation and characters in the play embody and project, in abstract
form, an alienating, anxiety-ridden social situation that is anterior to
Manfred's personality, his power, and even his conjuring of spirits.
Taken together, the governing structures of authority and systems of
belief in the drama, the hierarchy of relations among characters, and
Manfred's desperate attempts to find personal meaning in the face of
these show the unavoidable claim that a barely acknowledged history
and society have on him-despite his own tendency to deny that claim
and to see his situation in purely personal terms. Moreover, the con-
text within which Manfred's actions and statements are placed reveals
a consuming interest in much of Byron's writing: namely the giant
disparity between, on the one hand, intellectual awareness of the false
grounds of power used to control people and, on the other, individual
ability to destroy or even to avoid this power.
  One reason criticism has devoted so much attention to the psycho-
logical and biographical elements in the drama to the exclusion of the
political and social is that it offers such a powerful and lengthy por-
trayal of the world of spirits, a world which seems to have little to



ThIDamsfLordByrn 151                     ThIDams fPd Bro 1                        ThIDams f Lor Byon/5


do with social or public life, and much to do with the life of the indi-
vidual mind.0 But this mysterious spiritual world has direct social
significance (I want to suggest presently that it has specific class sig-
nificance as well) for it is presented as a result or effect of deeply rooted
material conditions-inscribed within the text of the drama-which
haunt Manfred and with which he is obligated to deal, even if against
his wishes. The relation of social life and the black arts is seen directly in
the opening scenes of the drama. Here Manfred notes that, like Faust,
he has studied philosophy, science, "the springs / Of wonder, and the
wisdom of the world" (I.i.13-14), all of which "avail not" (I.i.17); he
has also "done men good, / And ... met with good even among men"
(I.i.17-18),t" but finds no more purpose in this than in the intellec-
tual pursuits that have occupied him. For this reason he has begun to
study and to conjure spirits from the forbidden deep, in the hope that
these spirits will give him power and hence the peace of mind that he
has been unable to find in the public endeavors that he once pursued.
This scene focuses the dilemma at the center of the drama: Manfred's
problem is not simply that he possesses a unique personality (though
he perhaps believes he does) that is strangely, instinctively drawn to
forbidden subjects, but rather that the public world within which indi-
viduals such as Manfred once flourished has lost its meaning, a fact
that (he believes) forces him to look elsewhere than in the world for
the meaning of his life. In other words, Manfred's particular situation,
as he describes it in these early comments, is not entirely self-defined;
it is symptomatic and not constitutive, an effect of what has come
before. The drama does not so much explore the specific causes that
may lead to the withering of social life-although the characteriza-
tion of Astarte does provide an important context for understanding
those causes-as show the features and consequences of it, specifically
presenting what it means to live in a world that allows one to measure
and value reality only in terms of private desire.
  It is in terms of this extreme alienation from any meaningful social
life that Manfred's consorting with spirits must be understood. He
proves repeatedly not only that he has the power to call these spirits
from the darkness at his whim but also to resist the demands they place
on him, however threateningly these demands are presented. But this
power, as Manfred himself finally understands, is sheer mystification;
it is a power that involves a claim of freedom under the very conditions
of its denial. For if the spirits cannot harm Manfred, neither can he


do with social or public life, and much to do with the life of the indi-
vidual minds But this mysterious spiritual world has direct social
significance (I want to suggest presently that it has specific class sig-
nificance as well) for it is presented as a result or effect of deeply rooted
material conditions-inscribed within the text of the drama-which
haunt Manfred and with which he is obligated to deal, even if against
his wishes. The relation of social life and the black arts is seen directly in
the opening scenes of the drama. Here Manfred notes that, like Faust,
he has studied philosophy, science, "the springs / Of wonder, and the
wisdom of the world" (.i.13-14), all of which "avail not" (Ii.17); he
has also "done men good, / And ... met with good even among men"
(I.i.17-18), but finds no more purpose in this than in the intellec-
tual pursuits that have occupied him. For this reason he has begun to
study and to conjure spirits from the forbidden deep, in the hope that
these spirits will give him power and hence the peace of mind that he
has been unable to find in the public endeavors that he once pursued.
This scene focuses the dilemma at the center of the drama: Manfred's
problem is not simply that he possesses a unique personality (though
he perhaps believes he does) that is strangely, instinctively drawn to
forbidden subjects, but rather that the public world within which indi-
viduals such as Manfred once flourished has lost its meaning, a fact
that (he believes) forces him to look elsewhere than in the world for
the meaning of his life. In other words, Manfred's particular situation,
as he describes it in these early comments, is not entirely self-defined;
it is symptomatic and not constitutive, an effect of what has come
before. The drama does not so much explore the specific causes that
may lead to the withering of social life-although the characteriza-
tion of Astarte does provide an important context for understanding
those causes-as show the features and consequences ofit, specifically
presenting what it means to live in a world that allows one to measure
and value reality only in terms of private desire.
  It is in terms of this extreme alienation from any meaningful social
life that Manfred's consorting with spirits must be understood. He
proves repeatedly not only that he has the power to call these spirits
from the darkness at his whim but also to resist the demands they place
on him, however threateningly these demands are presented. But this
power, as Manfred himself finally understands, is sheer mystification;
it is a power that involves a claim of freedom under the very conditions
of its denial. For if the spirits cannot harm Manfred, neither can he


do with social or public life, and much to do with the life of the indi-
vidual mind.0 But this mysterious spiritual world has direct social
significance (I want to suggest presently that it has specific class sig-
nificance as well) for it is presented as a result or effect of deeply rooted
material conditions-inscribed within the text of the drama-which
haunt Manfred and with which he is obligated to deal, even if against
his wishes. The relation of social life and the black arts is seen directly in
the opening scenes of the drama. Here Manfred notes that, like Faust,
he has studied philosophy, science, "the springs / Of wonder, and the
wisdom of the world" (Ii.13-14), all of which "avail not" (Ii.17); he
has also "done men good, / And ... met with good even among men"
(I.i.17-18),37 but finds no more purpose in this than in the intellec-
tual pursuits that have occupied him. For this reason he has begun to
study and to conjure spirits from the forbidden deep, in the hope that
these spirits will give him power and hence the peace of mind that he
has been unable to find in the public endeavors that he once pursued.
This scene focuses the dilemma at the center of the drama: Manfred's
problem is not simply that he possesses a unique personality (though
he perhaps believes he does) that is strangely, instinctively drawn to
forbidden subjects, but rather that the public world within which indi-
viduals such as Manfred once flourished has lost its meaning, a fact
that (he believes) forces him to look elsewhere than in the world for
the meaning of his life. In other words, Manfred's particular situation,
as he describes it in these early comments, is not entirely self-defined;
it is symptomatic and not constitutive, an effect of what has come
before. The drama does not so much explore the specific causes that
may lead to the withering of social life-although the characteriza-
tion of Astarte does provide an important context for understanding
those causes-as show the features and consequences of it, specifically
presenting what it means to live in a world that allows one to measure
and value reality only in terms of private desire.
  It is in terms of this extreme alienation from any meaningful social
life that Manfred's consorting with spirits must be understood. He
proves repeatedly not only that he has the power to call these spirits
from the darkness at his whim but also to resist the demands they place
on him, however threateningly these demands are presented. But this
power, as Manfred himself finally understands, is sheer mystification;
it is a power that involves a claim of freedom under the very conditions
of its denial. For if the spirits cannot harm Manfred, neither can he



152 / English Romantic Drama             152 / English Romantic Drama             152 / English Romantic Drama


direct them to alleviate or change in any way the world of "breathing
men" (I i.8) among whom he, of necessity, must move. Calling the
spirits is a futile and pointless exercise, a sort of mental masturbation
(to use the phrase that Byron once used to described Keats's poetry)
and not a sign of Manfred's real power or independence. While Man-
fred's commitment to the black arts shows his disillusionment with
any kind of human exchange, at the same time it demonstrates com-
pellingly the hopelessness of looking outside the world for solutions
to human problems. Manfred realizes the limitations of his world,
he imagines greater possibilities than those he sees before him, and
he recognizes the potential power of his own mind; and yet-as he
learns-these neither constitute true freedom from the world nor en-
able him to create another world that would make personal fulfillment
possible. If the presence of the spirits in the poem illustrates anything,
it is that Manfred's home is in the world of people and that what-
ever hope or despair there is in his life must be measured in terms of
this world.
  That Manfred's situation is of more than psychological interest, that
it reflects more than abstract human nature driven to despair by an eter-
nal conflict between spirit and flesh (as it is sometimes said to do), and
that it is in fact socially entangled is seen in two related issues. First,
in the early scenes, where he describes the power and knowledge that
seem to separate him from other men, Manfred admits that "The Tree
of Knowledge is not that of Life" (I.i. t2), a statement that acknowl-
edges the priority of life over knowledge and the inability of knowl-
edge alone to change life. This comment locates human possibility not
in the mind and not in the imagination-the mind is not its own place,
despite Manfred's desperate claim to the contrary-but firmly in the
world of human experience or life which, as the drama makes increas-
ingly clear, is ineluctably rooted in social and historical processes. That
Manfred develops a special knowledge that in turn enables him to con-
sort with spirits and dreams of other worlds is therefore not a sign
that there exists an alternative world of untapped possibility some-
place outside human history to which that special knowledge will lead
him; rather, it is a sign of the extent to which Manfred's world is torn
by strife, denying him personal fulfillment within its borders. Even
if Manfred himself sees life only in terms of absolutely contradictory
alternatives-sheer unfettered knowledge shaped by imagination and
desire on the one hand or, on the other, overwhelming hopelessness


direct them to alleviate or change in any way the world of "breathing
men" (Li.8) among whom he, of necessity, must move. Calling the
spirits is a futile and pointless exercise, a sort of mental masturbation
(to use the phrase that Byron once used to described Keats's poetry)
and not a sign of Manfred's real power or independence. While Man-
fred's commitment to the black arts shows his disillusionment with
any kind of human exchange, at the same time it demonstrates com-
pellingly the hopelessness of looking outside the world for solutions
to human problems. Manfred realizes the limitations of his world,
he imagines greater possibilities than those he sees before him, and
he recognizes the potential power of his own mind; and yet-as he
learns-these neither constitute true freedom from the world nor en-
able him to create another world that would make personal fulfillment
possible. If the presence of the spirits in the poem illustrates anything,
it is that Manfred's home is in the world of people and that what-
ever hope or despair there is in his life must be measured in terms of
this world.
That Manfred's situation is of more than psychological interest, that
it reflects more than abstract human nature driven to despair by an eter-
nal conflict between spirit and flesh (as it is sometimes said to do), and
that it is in fact socially entangled is seen in two related issues. First,
in the early scenes, where he describes the power and knowledge that
seem to separate him from other men, Manfred admits that "The Tree
of Knowledge is not that of Life" (I.i.12), a statement that acknowl-
edges the priority of life over knowledge and the inability of knowl-
edge alone to change life. This comment locates human possibility not
in the mind and not in the imagination-the mind is not its own place,
despite Manfred's desperate claim to the contrary-but firmly in the
world of human experience or life which, as the drama makes increas-
ingly clear, is ineluctably rooted in social and historical processes. That
Manfred develops a special knowledge that in turn enables him to con-
sort with spirits and dreams of other worlds is therefore not a sign
that there exists an alternative world of untapped possibility some-
place outside human history to which that special knowledge will lead
him; rather, it is a sign of the extent to which Manfred's world is torn
by strife, denying him personal fulfillment within its borders. Even
if Manfred himself sees life only in terms of absolutely contradictory
alternatives-sheer unfettered knowledge shaped by imagination and
desire on the one hand or, on the other, overwhelming hopelessness


direct them to alleviate or change in any way the world of "breathing
men" (I.i.8) among whom he, of necessity, must move. Calling the
spirits is a futile and pointless exercise, a sort of mental masturbation
(to use the phrase that Byron once used to described Keats's poetry)
and not a sign of Manfred's real power or independence. While Man-
fred's commitment to the black arts shows his disillusionment with
any kind of human exchange, at the same time it demonstrates com-
pellingly the hopelessness of looking outside the world for solutions
to human problems. Manfred realizes the limitations of his world,
he imagines greater possibilities than those he sees before him, and
he recognizes the potential power of his own mind; and yet-as he
learns-these neither constitute true freedom from the world nor en-
able him to create another world that would make personal fulfillment
possible. If the presence of the spirits in the poem illustrates anything,
it is that Manfred's home is in the world of people and that what-
ever hope or despair there is in his life must be measured in terms of
this world.
That Manfred's situation is of more than psychological interest, that
it reflects more than abstract human nature driven to despair by an eter-
nal conflict between spirit and flesh (as it is sometimes said to do), and
that it is in fact socially entangled is seen in two related issues. First,
in the early scenes, where he describes the power and knowledge that
seem to separate him from other men, Manfred admits that "The Tree
of Knowledge is not that of Life" (Ii. t2), a statement that acknowl-
edges the priority of life over knowledge and the inability of knowl-
edge alone to change life. This comment locates human possibility not
in the mind and not in the imagination-the mind is not its own place,
despite Manfred's desperate claim to the contrary-but firmly in the
world of human experience or life which, as the drama makes increas-
ingly clear, is ineluctably rooted in social and historical processes. That
Manfred develops a special knowledge that in turn enables him to con-
sort with spirits and dreams of other worlds is therefore not a sign
that there exists an alternative world of untapped possibility some-
place outside human history to which that special knowledge will lead
him; rather, it is a sign of the extent to which Manfred's world is torn
by strife, denying him personal fulfillment within its borders. Even
if Manfred himself sees life only in terms of absolutely contradictory
alternatives-sheer unfettered knowledge shaped by imagination and
desire on the one hand or, on the other, overwhelming hopelessness



Th~e         tU Drma                                                  IbfC Lor Byront /I5 h rmso or yo 5                                     h rma fLr yo


and despair-his own statements show this position to be grounded in
the conflicts of his own material situation. As M. I. Finley has argued
(writing in a different context) the utopian impulse-and this finally
is how we must see Manfred's indulgence in the black arts-always
reflects social and historical reality; it always points to the material
conditions from which it arises.0
   The second consideration-Manfred's obsessive concern with the
past-helps to elucidate the historical dimension of the above issue.
Questions about the nature and significance of the past run through
much of Byron's poetry and are most often treated in purely per-
sonal terms and in terms of the Byronic hero's guilt over some past
crime or sin, in this case the apparent incestuous affair that Manfred
has with Astarte. While the autobiographical and sexual emphasis here
cannot be denied, neither can it account satisfactorily for the large
structures of authority governing the action of the drama or for Man-
fred's intense struggles with both conventional and unconventional
institutions, powers, and attitudes that pervade the dramatic action.
The problem of the past is not simply that Manfred once committed
a sin (although he does refer to his love for Astarte as a sin) which
he now repents or even feels guilt for-his love for Astarte clearly
has never diminished. The problem is rather that the past which he
continues to love and desire provides him with no comfort and even
drives him to despair. Like his desperate effort to achieve personal
power through study of the black arts, his attention to Astarte points
toward the inability of the present to inspire his life with meaning and
purpose.
   Unlike the dark spirits, however, who can be called and dispersed
at will, Astarte has a claim on Manfred that he can neither deny nor
resist, and this claim anchors the drama's various thematic concerns
in historical reality. Astarte is emphatically drawn as part of history,
as part of the living past that both haunts and determines the most
personal dimensions of Manfred's life, and yet Manfred, despite his
knowledge and his exceptional strength of will, can never control or
even contain that past. In calling out to the past Manfred asks Astarte
to "Forgive me or condemn me" (Il.iv.475), neither of which is pos-
sible because even as Astarte-as the representative voice of the past-
points him toward his personal destiny ("Tomorrow ends thine earthly
ills," she tells Manfred [Iliv.521]) she cannot be summoned through
a sheer act of individual will to settle the struggles and conflicts of the


and despair-his own statements show this position to be grounded in
the conflicts of his own material situation. As M. I. Finley has argued
(writing in a different context) the utopian impulse-and this finally
is how we must see Manfred's indulgence in the black arts-always
reflects social and historical reality; it always points to the material
conditions from which it arises '
  The second consideration-Manfred's obsessive concern with the
past-helps to elucidate the historical dimension of the above issue.
Questions about the nature and significance of the past run through
much of Byron's poetry and are most often treated in purely per-
sonal terms and in terms of the Byronic hero's guilt over some past
crime or sin, in this case the apparent incestuous affair that Manfred
has with Astarte. While the autobiographical and sexual emphasis here
cannot be denied, neither can it account satisfactorily for the large
structures of authority governing the action of the drama or for Man-
fred's intense struggles with both conventional and unconventional
institutions, powers, and attitudes that pervade the dramatic action.
The problem of the past is not simply that Manfred once committed
a sin (although he does refer to his love for Astarte as a sin) which
he now repents or even feels guilt for-his love for Astarte clearly
has never diminished. The problem is rather that the past which he
continues to love and desire provides him with no comfort and even
drives him to despair. Like his desperate effort to achieve personal
power through study of the black arts, his attention to Astarte points
toward the inability of the present to inspire his life with meaning and
purpose.
   Unlike the dark spirits, however, who can be called and dispersed
at will, Astarte has a claim on Manfred that he can neither deny nor
resist, and this claim anchors the drama's various thematic concerns
in historical reality. Astarte is emphatically drawn as part of history,
as part of the living past that both haunts and determines the most
personal dimensions of Manfred's life, and yet Manfred, despite his
knowledge and his exceptional strength of will, can never control or
even contain that past. In calling out to the past Manfred asks Astarte
to "Forgive me or condemn me" (II.iv.475), neither of which is pos-
sible because even as Astarte-as the representative voice of the past-
points him toward his personal destiny ("Tomorrow ends thine earthly
ills," she tells Manfred {lI.iv.521]) she cannot be summoned through
a sheer act of individual will to settle the struggles and conflicts of the


and despair-his own statements show this position to be grounded in
the conflicts of his own material situation. As M. I. Finley has argued
(writing in a different context) the utopian impulse-and this finally
is how we must see Manfred's indulgence in the black arts-always
reflects social and historical reality; it always points to the material
conditions from which it arises."
   The second consideration-Manfred's obsessive concern with the
past-helps to elucidate the historical dimension of the above issue.
Questions about the nature and significance of the past run through
much of Byron's poetry and are most often treated in purely per-
sonal terms and in terms of the Byronic hero's guilt over some past
crime or sin, in this case the apparent incestuous affair that Manfred
has with Astarte. While the autobiographical and sexual emphasis here
cannot be denied, neither can it account satisfactorily for the large
structures of authority governing the action of the drama or for Man-
fred's intense struggles with both conventional and unconventional
institutions, powers, and attitudes that pervade the dramatic action.
The problem of the past is not simply that Manfred once committed
a sin (although he does refer to his love for Astarte as a sin) which
he now repents or even feels guilt for-his love for Astarte clearly
has never diminished. The problem is rather that the past which he
continues to love and desire provides him with no comfort and even
drives him to despair. Like his desperate effort to achieve personal
power through study of the black arts, his attention to Astarte points
toward the inability of the present to inspire his life with meaning and
purpose.
   Unlike the dark spirits, however, who can be called and dispersed
at will, Astarte has a claim on Manfred that he can neither deny nor
resist, and this claim anchors the drama's various thematic concerns
in historical reality. Astarte is emphatically drawn as part of history,
as part of the living past that both haunts and determines the most
personal dimensions of Manfred's life, and yet Manfred, despite his
knowledge and his exceptional strength of will, can never control or
even contain that past. In calling out to the past Manfred asks Astarte
to "Forgive me or condemn me" (II.iv.475), neither of which is pos-
sible because even as Astarte-as the representative voice of the past-
points him toward his personal destiny ("Tomorrow ends thine earthly
ills," she tells Manfred [I.iv.521]) she cannot be summoned through
a sheer act of individual will to settle the struggles and conflicts of the



154 / English Romantic Drama             154 / English Romantic Drama             154 / English Romantic Drama


present. That he hopes otherwise is but a further sign of alienation and
desperate need.
I want now to touch glancingly upon the significance of the chamois
hunter and the abbot in terms of these various historical crosscurrents,
because these characters are the foremost representatives in the drama
of conventional belief, and thus they provide additional insight into
the context within which Byron develops Manfred's thoughts and
actions. While in his letters and poetry Byron often makes bitter com-
ments about institutional religion and engages in vicious attacks on
Wordsworth (in many later letters, for instance, Byron refers to the
great nature poet as "Turdsworth""), in his handling of the abbot and
the chamois hunter (a sort of Wordsworthian devotee of nature) he
displays sincerity and even sympathy for their respective beliefs. One
reason for this is that both of these characters embody personal in-
tegrity in their ability to live peacefully and even productively in the
world from which Manfred is alienated. They accomplish this through
a philosophy of individual forbearance. As the chamois hunter tells
the despairing Manfred: "[W]hatsoe'er thine ill, / It must be borne,
and these wild starts are useless" (II.i.4o-41). The abbot's position is
identical to this, defined by the saving personal belief in reconciliation
and in "Our institutions and our strong belief," which alone "Have
given me power to smooth the path from sin to higher hope and
better thoughts" (III.i.6o-62). These positions, as attractive as they are
even to Manfred, have not yet felt the awful and far-reaching threats
that Manfred feels but cannot identify or explain. The abbot and the
chamois hunter live by values that, in the case of the chamois hunter,
look outside history and society to nature for fulfillment or, in the
case of the abbot, outside history and society to God for fulfillment.
Manfred, on the other hand, is so troubled by loneliness, dread, and
the threat of irrevocable change-that is, by the debilitating fact of
historical pressure-that he is unable to consider these seriously as a
path to personal salvation.
I noted at the beginning of this discussion that Manfred's various
actions have class significance, and indeed it is the class issue which
connects the other episodes and ideas, combining them into a coherent
statement about social and historical processes. David Erdman once
remarked that "Byron and his heroes often appear acutely conscious
of the mortality of their own class," and this is explicitly the case in
Manfred." The extreme alienation and the conviction of certain defeat


present. That he hopes otherwise is but a further sign of alienation and
desperate need.
I want now to touch glancingly upon the significance of the chamois
hunter and the abbot in terms of these various historical crosscurrents,
because these characters are the foremost representatives in the drama
of conventional belief, and thus they provide additional insight into
the context within which Byron develops Manfred's thoughts and
actions. While in his letters and poetry Byron often makes bitter com-
ments about institutional religion and engages in vicious attacks on
Wordsworth (in many later letters, for instance, Byron refers to the
great nature poet as "Turdsworth""), in his handling of the abbot and
the chamois hunter (a sort of Wordsworthian devotee of nature) he
displays sincerity and even sympathy for their respective beliefs. One
reason for this is that both of these characters embody personal in-
tegrity in their ability to live peacefully and even productively in the
world from which Manfred is alienated. They accomplish this through
a philosophy of individual forbearance. As the chamois hunter tells
the despairing Manfred: "[W]hatsoe'er thine ill, / It must be borne,
and these wild starts are useless" (II.i.40-41). The abbot's position is
identical to this, defined by the saving personal belief in reconciliation
and in "Our institutions and our strong belief," which alone "Have
given me power to smooth the path from sin to higher hope and
better thoughts" (III.i.6o-62). These positions, as attractive as they are
even to Manfred, have not yet felt the awful and far-reaching threats
that Manfred feels but cannot identify or explain. The abbot and the
chamois hunter live by values that, in the case of the chamois hunter,
look outside history and society to nature for fulfillment or, in the
case of the abbot, outside history and society to God for fulfillment.
Manfred, on the other hand, is so troubled by loneliness, dread, and
the threat of irrevocable change-that is, by the debilitating fact of
historical pressure-that he is unable to consider these seriously as a
path to personal salvation.
I noted at the beginning of this discussion that Manfred's various
actions have class significance, and indeed it is the class issue which
connects the other episodes and ideas, combining them into a coherent
statement about social and historical processes. David Erdman once
remarked that "Byron and his heroes often appear acutely conscious
of the mortality of their own class," and this is explicitly the case in
Manfred."o The extreme alienation and the conviction of certain defeat


present. That he hopes otherwise is but a further sign of alienation and
desperate need.
I want now to touch glancingly upon the significance of the chamois
hunter and the abbot in terms of these various historical crosscurrents,
because these characters are the foremost representatives in the drama
of conventional belief, and thus they provide additional insight into
the context within which Byron develops Manfred's thoughts and
actions. While in his letters and poetry Byron often makes bitter com-
ments about institutional religion and engages in vicious attacks on
Wordsworth (in many later letters, for instance, Byron refers to the
great nature poet as "Turdsworth""), in his handling of the abbot and
the chamois hunter (a sort of Wordsworthian devotee of nature) he
displays sincerity and even sympathy for their respective beliefs. One
reason for this is that both of these characters embody personal in-
tegrity in their ability to live peacefully and even productively in the
world from which Manfred is alienated. They accomplish this through
a philosophy of individual forbearance. As the chamois hunter tells
the despairing Manfred: "[W]hatsoe'er thine ill, / It must be borne,
and these wild starts are useless" (II.i.40-41). The abbot's position is
identical to this, defined by the saving personal belief in reconciliation
and in "Our institutions and our strong belief," which alone "Have
given me power to smooth the path from sin to higher hope and
better thoughts" (III.i.6o-62). These positions, as attractive as they are
even to Manfred, have not yet felt the awful and far-reaching threats
that Manfred feels but cannot identify or explain. The abbot and the
chamois hunter live by values that, in the case of the chamois hunter,
look outside history and society to nature for fulfillment or, in the
case of the abbot, outside history and society to God for fulfillment.
Manfred, on the other hand, is so troubled by loneliness, dread, and
the threat of irrevocable change-that is, by the debilitating fact of
historical pressure-that he is unable to consider these seriously as a
path to personal salvation.
  I noted at the beginning of this discussion that Manfred's various
actions have class significance, and indeed it is the class issue which
connects the other episodes and ideas, combining them into a coherent
statement about social and historical processes. David Erdman once
remarked that "Byron and his heroes often appear acutely conscious
of the mortality of their own class," and this is explicitly the case in
Manfred.' The extreme alienation and the conviction of certain defeat



The Dramas of Lord Byron / 155           The Dramas of Lord Byron / 155           The Dramas of Lurd Byron / 155


and death that Manfred everywhere expresses; his desperate search for
some as yet untried transhistorical power to solve personal difficulties;
his acute awareness ofthe inability ofconventional actions and systems
of belief to provide comfort: all these suggest powerfully the immi-
nent demise not only of Manfred himself but also of the aristocratic
class to which he belongs. The past will neither condemn nor forgive
this aristocracy, telling only of its certain extinction, and this is why
Manfred looks to the spirits of the deep and to the spirit of Astarte for
counsel, but never to the chamois hunter or to the abbot, characters
who are implicated as fully as Manfred himself (though they do not see
this) in the historical and social changes that Manfred feels beginning
to take place. As the abbot tells Manfred:
        ... Rumours strange,
        And of unholy nature, are abroad,
        And busy with thy name; a noble name
        For centuries: may he who bears it now
        Transmit it unimpair'd. (Ill.i.29-33)

What the abbot cannot know, but what Manfred feels at every turn,
is that this noble name most certainly will not be transmitted unim-
paired, and Manfred's personal tragedy is that he cannot change this
historical fact, despite his superior intellectual and imaginative powers.
Looking desperately for an avenue of escape by denying through sheer
will the claim that history has on him, he learns finally that there is
no solution, no life on the backside of history. This lesson, difficult
and painful as it is to learn, is at last accepted and even faced with a
sort of Byronic dignity, as Manfred dies in continued defiance of the
historical changes that have sacrificed him. At the moment of death he
tells the abbot, the supreme representative of traditional thought and
belief: "Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die" (IV.iv.411).
  The social and historical concerns sketched here do not deny the
presence or significance of the psychological and biographical matters
in the drama that traditionally have interested readers; but they do,
I believe, allow us to glimpse a dimension of Byron's imagination
that is central to his best work and that encompasses and gives mean-
ing to the many particular issues that appear on the surface of these
works. Manfred marks an important step forward for Byron, who until
now had been working mainly with Eastern subject matter and with
a simple narrative framework to formulate a workable social poetry.


and death that Manfred everywhere expresses; his desperate search for
some as yet untried transhistorical power to solve personal difficulties;
his acute awareness of the inability of conventional actions and systems
of belief to provide comfort: all these suggest powerfully the immi-
nent demise not only of Manfred himself but also of the aristocratic
class to which he belongs. The past will neither condemn nor forgive
this aristocracy, telling only of its certain extinction, and this is why
Manfred looks to the spirits of the deep and to the spirit of Astarte for
counsel, but never to the chamois hunter or to the abbot, characters
who are implicated as fully as Manfred himself (though they do not see
this) in the historical and social changes that Manfred feels beginning
to take place. As the abbot tells Manfred:
        ... Rumours strange,
        And of unholy nature, are abroad,
        And busy with thy name; a noble name
        For centuries: may he who bears it now
        Transmit it unimpair'd. (1II.i.29-33)

What the abbot cannot know, but what Manfred feels at every turn,
is that this noble name most certainly will not be transmitted unim-
paired, and Manfred's personal tragedy is that he cannot change this
historical fact, despite his superior intellectual and imaginative powers.
Looking desperately for an avenue of escape by denying through sheer
will the claim that history has on him, he learns finally that there is
no solution, no life on the backside of history. This lesson, difficult
and painful as it is to learn, is at last accepted and even faced with a
sort of Byronic dignity, as Manfred dies in continued defiance of the
historical changes that have sacrificed him. At the moment of death he
tells the abbot, the supreme representative of traditional thought and
belief: "Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die" (IV.iv.411).
  The social and historical concerns sketched here do not deny the
presence or significance of the psychological and biographical matters
in the drama that traditionally have interested readers; but they do,
I believe, allow us to glimpse a dimension of Byron's imagination
that is central to his best work and that encompasses and gives mean-
ing to the many particular issues that appear on the surface of these
works. Manfred marks an important step forward for Byron, who until
now had been working mainly with Eastern subject matter and with
a simple narrative framework to formulate a workable social poetry.


and death that Manfred everywhere expresses; his desperate search for
some as yet untried transhistorical power to solve personal difficulties;
his acute awareness ofthe inability ofconventional actions and systems
of belief to provide comfort: all these suggest powerfully the immi-
nent demise not only of Manfred himself but also of the aristocratic
class to which he belongs. The past will neither condemn nor forgive
this aristocracy, telling only of its certain extinction, and this is why
Manfred looks to the spirits of the deep and to the spirit of Astarte for
counsel, but never to the chamois hunter or to the abbot, characters
who are implicated as fully as Manfred himself (though they do not see
this) in the historical and social changes that Manfred feels beginning
to take place. As the abbot tells Manfred:
        ... Rumours strange,
        And of unholy nature, are abroad,
        And busy with thy name; a noble name
        For centuries: may he who bears it now
        Transmit it unimpair'd. (Ill.i.29-33)

What the abbot cannot know, but what Manfred feels at every turn,
is that this noble name most certainly will not be transmitted unim-
paired, and Manfred's personal tragedy is that he cannot change this
historical fact, despite his superior intellectual and imaginative powers.
Looking desperately for an avenue of escape by denying through sheer
will the claim that history has on him, he learns finally that there is
no solution, no life on the backside of history. This lesson, difficult
and painful as it is to learn, is at last accepted and even faced with a
sort of Byronic dignity, as Manfred dies in continued defiance of the
historical changes that have sacrificed him. At the moment of death he
tells the abbot, the supreme representative of traditional thought and
belief: "Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die" (IV.iv.411).
  The social and historical concerns sketched here do not deny the
presence or significance of the psychological and biographical matters
in the drama that traditionally have interested readers; but they do,
I believe, allow us to glimpse a dimension of Byron's imagination
that is central to his best work and that encompasses and gives mean-
ing to the many particular issues that appear on the surface of these
works. Manfred marks an important step forward for Byron, who until
now had been working mainly with Eastern subject matter and with
a simple narrative framework to formulate a workable social poetry.



            156 / English Romantic Drama

With Manfred he discovered the suitability ofmental theater for explor-
ing not specific historical events but the structures of authority and
belief surrounding those events. In subsequent dramas his handling of
these structures becomes more sophisticated and powerful.

Marino Faliero
After completing Manfred, Byron's thinking about history, politics,
and society-and about the connections between these and literary
production-matured remarkably. In his next three dramatic poems
(Marino Faliero, Sardanapalus, and The Two Foscari) he abandoned the
mythic scope of Manfred in favor of specific, if remote, historical situa-
tions, attempting to imagine the operations of social life within those
situations and the demands and challenges that society-in-crisis pose
for personal life. While the dramas lack the strong personality of a hero
such as Manfred, they make up for this lack with an intelligent por-
trayal of the networks of power, structures of belief, and categories of
social life that both enable and constrain individual need, desire, and
action.
As Byron himself understood, however, the larger interests of the
dramas would be lost to most readers. The flurry of letters that he
sent back to England during and after the composition of the plays
reveals his impatience with the inability of his (mostly critical) audi-
ence to get beyond what were to his mind relatively minor or tan-
gential concerns; he assured friends that these dramas were not what
people thought they were and, moreover, predicted that the criticisms
aimed at them would dissolve when people understood them better.
As he told Murray when the tenor of criticism was unusually high-
pitched even in those corners that had always and without question
supported him: "I have a notion that if understood they [the plays)
will in time find favour (though not on stage) with the reader" (BLJ.
8:218). They have seldom been understood as Byron hoped they would
be, as readers-then and now-have tended to reduce them to nar-
rowly political commentaries, to see them as autobiography, to debate
their suitability for the stage, or to consider such exterior issues as the
accuracy of a given historical detail. Their portrayal of the deep struc-
tures of social life remains largely unconsidered. But, as a considered
critical investigation shows, it is precisely the portrayal of these struc-
tures that distinguishes the history plays from Manfred, and suggests


            156 / English Romantic Drama

With Manfred he discovered the suitability of mental theater for explor-
ing not specific historical events but the structures of authority and
belief surrounding those events. In subsequent dramas his handling of
these structures becomes more sophisticated and powerful.

Marino Faliero
After completing Manfred, Byron's thinking about history, politics,
and society-and about the connections between these and literary
production-matured remarkably. In his next three dramatic poems
(Marino Faliero, Sardanapalus, and The Two Foscari) he abandoned the
mythic scope ofManfred in favor of specific, if remote, historical situa-
tions, attempting to imagine the operations of social life within those
situations and the demands and challenges that society-in-crisis pose
for personal life. While the dramas lack the strong personality of a hero
such as Manfred, they make up for this lack with an intelligent por-
trayal of the networks of power, structures of belief, and categories of
social life that both enable and constrain individual need, desire, and
action.
  As Byron himself understood, however, the larger interests of the
dramas would be lost to most readers. The flurry of letters that he
sent back to England during and after the composition of the plays
reveals his impatience with the inability of his (mostly critical) audi-
ence to get beyond what were to his mind relatively minor or tan-
gential concerns; he assured friends that these dramas were not what
people thought they were and, moreover, predicted that the criticisms
aimed at them would dissolve when people understood them better.
As he told Murray when the tenor of criticism was unusually high-
pitched even in those corners that had always and without question
supported him: "I have a notion that if understood they (the plays]
will in time find favour (though not on stage) with the reader" (BLJ,
8:218). They have seldom been understood as Byron hoped they would
be, as readers-then and now-have tended to reduce them to nar-
rowly political commentaries, to see them as autobiography, to debate
their suitability for the stage, or to consider such exterior issues as the
accuracy of a given historical detail. Their portrayal of the deep struc-
tures of social life remains largely unconsidered. But, as a considered
critical investigation shows, it is precisely the portrayal of these struc-
tures that distinguishes the history plays from Manfred, and suggests


            156 / English Romantic Drama

With Manfred he discovered the suitability of mental theater for explor-
ing not specific historical events but the structures of authority and
belief surrounding those events. In subsequent dramas his handling of
these structures becomes more sophisticated and powerful.

Marino Faliero
After completing Manfred, Byron's thinking about history, politics,
and society-and about the connections between these and literary
production-matured remarkably. In his next three dramatic poems
(Marino Faliero, Sardanapalus, and The Two Foscari) he abandoned the
mythic scope of Manfred in favor of specific, if remote, historical situa-
tions, attempting to imagine the operations of social life within those
situations and the demands and challenges that society-in-crisis pose
for personal life. While the dramas lack the strong personality of a hero
such as Manfred, they make up for this lack with an intelligent por-
trayal of the networks of power, structures of belief, and categories of
social life that both enable and constrain individual need, desire, and
action.
As Byron himself understood, however, the larger interests of the
dramas would be lost to most readers. The flurry of letters that he
sent back to England during and after the composition of the plays
reveals his impatience with the inability of his (mostly critical) audi-
ence to get beyond what were to his mind relatively minor or tan-
gential concerns; he assured friends that these dramas were not what
people thought they were and, moreover, predicted that the criticisms
aimed at them would dissolve when people understood them better.
As he told Murray when the tenor of criticism was unusually high-
pitched even in those corners that had always and without question
supported him: "I have a notion that if understood they [the plays]
will in time find favour (though not on stage) with the reader" (BLJ,
8:218). They have seldom been understood as Byron hoped they would
be, as readers-then and now-have tended to reduce them to nar-
rowly political commentaries, to see them as autobiography, to debate
their suitability for the stage, or to consider such exterior issues as the
accuracy of a given historical detail. Their portrayal of the deep struc-
tures of social life remains largely unconsidered. But, as a considered
critical investigation shows, it is precisely the portrayal of these struc-
tures that distinguishes the history plays from Manfred, and suggests



The DrmasofLrmyo 157                     Th Drmaso Lr yro 157                     ThiDramasofLrdByo / 15


the deepening intelligence and broadening scope of Byron's historical
vision.
The various difficulties and accomplishments associated with the
history plays can be seen most readily in Marino Faliero (1820). While
critics of this drama have written well about its historical accuracy,
its prophetic political commentary, and its political opportunism-as
well as its imagery and symbolism and its psychological interest-they
have said little about the larger social frames of references within which
these concerns are developed:1 One reason for this is that the play's
surface political interests are so powerfully and specifically presented
that more abstract issues are hard to see. It is difficult, for instance,
to read such an obviously sympathetic exposition of treasonous con-
spiracy without suspecting Byron of simpleminded "radicalism." Yet
he insisted that the tragedy was "Not a political play" (BLJ, 7:184).
While, as some readers have suggested, this comment may be disin-
genuous, calculated to palliate the politically conservative Murray to
whom he was writing, to dismiss it too readily is to risk misunder-
standing Byron's meaning, which was not to deny out of hand the
play's politics (he tells Murray plainly in the same letter that "you and
yours won't like the politics which are perilous to you in these times")
but rather to direct attention to the deeper social motives that created
the political turmoil being dramatized.
  Both in his letters and within the play itself he voices this as his
main interest. As early as 1817, when he first contemplated the Faliero
conspiracy as a subject for a play, he wrote to Murray: "Look into
'Moore's (Dr. Moore's) view of Italy' for me-in one of the volumes
you will find an account of the Doge Valiere (it ought to be Faliero)
and his conspiracy-or the motives of it-.... I want it-& can not
find so good an account of that business here.... I have searched all
the libraries-but the policy of the old Aristocracy made their writers
silent on his motives which were a private grievance against one of
the Patricians" (BLJ, 5:174). Toward the end of the play too, Byron has
Faliero ask: "Were it not better to record the facts, / so that the con-
templator might approve, / Or at least learn whence the crimes arose?"
(V.i.5o8-10).e The motives of the conspiracy, Byron believed, tran-
scended readily apparent political considerations and traced back to
larger questions of the dynamics of Venetian society itself. To under-
stand the conspiracy, therefore, it was necessary to re-create Venice as


the deepening intelligence and broadening scope of Byron's historical
vision.
The various difficulties and accomplishments associated with the
history plays can be seen most readily in Marino Faliero (1820). While
critics of this drama have written well about its historical accuracy,
its prophetic political commentary, and its political opportunism-as
well as its imagery and symbolism and its psychological interest-they
have said little about the larger social frames ofreferences within which
these concerns are developed." One reason for this is that the play's
surface political interests are so powerfully and specifically presented
that more abstract issues are hard to see. It is difficult, for instance,
to read such an obviously sympathetic exposition of treasonous con-
spiracy without suspecting Byron of simpleminded "radicalism." Yet
he insisted that the tragedy was "Not a political play" (BLJ, 7:184).
While, as some readers have suggested, this comment may be disin-
genuous, calculated to palliate the politically conservative Murray to
whom he was writing, to dismiss it too readily is to risk misunder-
standing Byron's meaning, which was not to deny out of hand the
play's politics (he tells Murray plainly in the same letter that "you and
yours won't like the politics which are perilous to you in these times")
but rather to direct attention to the deeper social motives that created
the political turmoil being dramatized.
  Both in his letters and within the play itself he voices this as his
main interest. As early as 1817, when he first contemplated the Faliero
conspiracy as a subject for a play, he wrote to Murray: "Look into
'Moore's (Dr. Moore's) view of Italy' for me-in one of the volumes
you will find an account of the Doge Valiere (it ought to be Faliero)
and his conspiracy-or the motives of it-.... I want it-& can not
find so good an account of that business here. ... I have searched all
the libraries-but the policy of the old Aristocracy made their writers
silent on his motives which were a private grievance against one of
the Patricians" (BLJ, 5:174). Toward the end of the play too, Byron has
Faliero ask: "Were it not better to record the facts, / so that the con-
templator might approve, / Or at least learn whence the crimes arose?"
(V.i.508-10).42 The motives of the conspiracy, Byron believed, tran-
scended readily apparent political considerations and traced back to
larger questions of the dynamics of Venetian society itself. To under-
stand the conspiracy, therefore, it was necessary to re-create Venice as


the deepening intelligence and broadening scope of Byron's historical
vision.
The various difficulties and accomplishments associated with the
history plays can be seen most readily in Marino Faliero (1820). While
critics of this drama have written well about its historical accuracy,
its prophetic political commentary, and its political opportunism-as
well as its imagery and symbolism and its psychological interest-they
have said little about the larger social frames ofreferences within which
these concerns are developed.' One reason for this is that the play's
surface political interests are so powerfully and specifically presented
that more abstract issues are hard to see. It is difficult, for instance,
to read such an obviously sympathetic exposition of treasonous con-
spiracy without suspecting Byron of simpleminded "radicalism." Yet
he insisted that the tragedy was "Not a political play" (BLJ, 7:184).
While, as some readers have suggested, this comment may be disin-
genuous, calculated to palliate the politically conservative Murray to
whom he was writing, to dismiss it too readily is to risk misunder-
standing Byron's meaning, which was not to deny out of hand the
play's politics (he tells Murray plainly in the same letter that "you and
yours won't like the politics which are perilous to you in these times")
but rather to direct attention to the deeper social motives that created
the political turmoil being dramatized.
  Both in his letters and within the play itself he voices this as his
main interest. As early as 1817, when he first contemplated the Faliero
conspiracy as a subject for a play, he wrote to Murray: "Look into
'Moore's (Dr. Moore's) view of Italy' for me-in one of the volumes
you will find an account of the Doge Valiere (it ought to be Faliero)
and his conspiracy-or the motives of it-.... I want it-& can not
find so good an account of that business here.... I have searched all
the libraries-but the policy of the old Aristocracy made their writers
silent on his motives which were a private grievance against one of
the Patricians" (BLJ, 5:174). Toward the end of the play too, Byron has
Faliero ask: "Were it not better to record the facts, / so that the con-
templator might approve, / Or at least learn whence the crimes arose?"
(V.i.5o8-10).42 The motives of the conspiracy, Byron believed, tran-
scended readily apparent political considerations and traced back to
larger questions of the dynamics of Venetian society itself. To under-
stand the conspiracy, therefore, it was necessary to re-create Venice as



15 Elis Rmnti Drmt8/lihRmncDra                                                    15 / gishRoantcDrm


it must have been in Faliero's time: the atmosphere that found aristo-
crat and plebianjoining forces to defeat a common enemy; the passions
of individuals who lived in that society; and the obstacles and choices
that could have arisen in the minds of the discontented citizenry. This
social perspective, more than a narrowly conceived political interest,
begins to suggest some of the deeper concerns of the drama.
Just as he wanted Marino Faliero to be more than a political drama,
Byron also wanted it to be more than a revenge drama portraying
psychological unrest, and thus he chose not to found the play's action
on jealousy. Michael Steno's irreverent conduct, he explained, pro-
vides only a "first motive" 43-not a complete explanation of the con-
spiracy. The central issue, as critics since Samuel Chew's day correctly
have remarked, is "the conflict . . . between the patricians and the
people";" the "private wrongs" recorded in the play "spring from
public vices, from the general corruption generated by the foul aris-
tocracy."45 We need now to understand what this means in terms of
the social world that Byron is re-creating.
  To say that the aristocracy is corrupt is not necessarily to indict
their private conduct or to suggest that they publicly and physically
abuse the Venetian citizenry. Their corruption, as the drama shows,
lies largely in their consuming self-interest. They are morally blamable
because they manipulate the prevailing networks of power to benefit
only their own class, without regard to the larger body of individuals
who compose society. As rulers they disseminate and uphold values
which ostensibly represent the best interests of everyone, but which in
reality do not recognize the needs or the integrity of private citizens.
  One of the key ways Byron defines this corruption and pinpoints
the built-in injustices of Venetian society is by emphasizing the dis-
parity between the nobility of the aristocracy's language and the actual
self-interest of their actions. They disguise their selfish motives and
subdue the Venetian citizens with a hollow rhetoric that serves as an
outward show of sincerity, dignity, and humility. For instance, while
on the one hand the patricians insult the doge's private integrity as well
as his public office by imposing only a token punishment on Steno, at
the same time their verbal position is one of esteem and concern for
Faliero: "The high tribunal of the Forty sends / Health and respect to
the Doge Faliero" (I.ii.45-46).
  This kind of disparity is seen again in the episode with the patri-
cian Lioni and the plebian Bertram. Motivated by true friendship and


it must have been in Faliero's time: the atmosphere that found aristo-
crat and plebian joining forces to defeat a common enemy; the passions
of individuals who lived in that society; and the obstacles and choices
that could have arisen in the minds of the discontented citizenry. This
social perspective, more than a narrowly conceived political interest,
begins to suggest some of the deeper concerns of the drama.
Just as he wanted Marino Faliero to be more than a political drama.
Byron also wanted it to be more than a revenge drama portraying
psychological unrest, and thus he chose not to found the play's action
on jealousy. Michael Steno's irreverent conduct, he explained, pro-
vides only a "first motive"0-not a complete explanation of the con-
spiracy. The central issue, as critics since Samuel Chew's day correctly
have remarked, is "the conflict . . . between the patricians and the
people";tt the "private wrongs" recorded in the play "spring from
public vices, from the general corruption generated by the foul aris-
tocracy.t45 We need now to understand what this means in terms of
the social world that Byron is re-creating.
  To say that the aristocracy is corrupt is not necessarily to indict
their private conduct or to suggest that they publicly and physically
abuse the Venetian citizenry. Their corruption, as the drama shows,
lies largely in their consuming self-interest. They are morally blamable
because they manipulate the prevailing networks of power to benefit
only their own class, without regard to the larger body of individuals
who compose society. As rulers they disseminate and uphold values
which ostensibly represent the best interests of everyone, but which in
reality do not recognize the needs or the integrity of private citizens.
  One of the key ways Byron defines this corruption and pinpoints
the built-in injustices of Venetian society is by emphasizing the dis-
parity between the nobility of the aristocracy's language and the actual
self-interest of their actions. They disguise their selfish motives and
subdue the Venetian citizens with a hollow rhetoric that serves as an
outward show of sincerity, dignity, and humility. For instance, while
on the one hand the patricians insult the doge's private integrity as well
as his public office by imposing only a token punishment on Steno, at
the same time their verbal position is one of esteem and concern for
Faliero: "The high tribunal of the Forty sends / Health and respect to
the Doge Faliero" (I.ii.45-46).
  This kind of disparity is seen again in the episode with the patri-
cian Lioni and the plebian Bertram. Motivated by true friendship and


it must have been in Faliero's time: the atmosphere that found aristo-
crat and plebianjoining forces to defeat a common enemy; the passions
of individuals who lived in that society; and the obstacles and choices
that could have arisen in the minds of the discontented citizenry. This
social perspective, more than a narrowly conceived political interest,
begins to suggest some of the deeper concerns of the drama.
Just as he wanted Marino Faliero to be more than a political drama.
Byron also wanted it to be more than a revenge drama portraying
psychological unrest, and thus he chose not to found the play's action
on jealousy. Michael Steno's irreverent conduct, he explained, pro-
vides only a "first motive"t-not a complete explanation of the con-
spiracy. The central issue, as critics since Samuel Chew's day correctly
have remarked, is "the conflict . . . between the patricians and the
people";4 the "private wrongs" recorded in the play "spring from
public vices, from the general corruption generated by the foul aris-
tocracy."0 We need now to understand what this means in terms of
the social world that Byron is re-creating.
To say that the aristocracy is corrupt is not necessarily to indict
their private conduct or to suggest that they publicly and physically
abuse the Venetian citizenry. Their corruption, as the drama shows,
lies largely in their consuming self-interest. They are morally blamable
because they manipulate the prevailing networks of power to benefit
only their own class, without regard to the larger body of individuals
who compose society. As rulers they disseminate and uphold values
which ostensibly represent the best interests of everyone, but which in
reality do not recognize the needs or the integrity of private citizens.
  One of the key ways Byron defines this corruption and pinpoints
the built-in injustices of Venetian society is by emphasizing the dis-
parity between the nobility of the aristocracy's language and the actual
self-interest of their actions. They disguise their selfish motives and
subdue the Venetian citizens with a hollow rhetoric that serves as an
outward show of sincerity, dignity, and humility. For instance, while
on the one hand the patricians insult the doge's private integrity as well
as his public office by imposing only a token punishment on Steno, at
the same time their verbal position is one of esteem and concern for
Faliero: "The high tribunal of the Forty sends / Health and respect to
the Doge Faliero" (l.ii.45-46).
  This kind of disparity is seen again in the episode with the patri-
cian Lioni and the plebian Bertram. Motivated by true friendship and



            The Dramas ofLrd Byron / 159

concern for human life, Bertram tries to save Lioni from imminent
assassination. Lioni, however, uses Bertram's sincerity to extort in-
formation concerning the conspiracy. Speaking in noble language that
professes the encompassing value and importance of the state ("who are
traitors save unto the State?" "Say, rather thy friend's saviour and the
State's" [IV.i.299, 317}), he persuades Bertram to compromise his per-
sonal integrity to save the patricians. The irony of this is underscored
by the fact that Lioni's noble language consistently is contrasted to his
fast regard not for the state but specifically for aristocracy. His interest
in Bertram never extends beyond what "Beseem[s] one of thy station"
(IVi.137); he is willing to assist Bertram only if Bertram "hast not /
spilt noble blood" (IV.i. 144-45). Also, once the conspiracy has been
prevented, the patricians justify their brutal treatment of the prisoners
in noble language. After being tortured on the rack and before finally
being executed, Israel Bertruccio and Philip Calendaro are told by the
Chief of theTen that they have committed treason "Against a just and
free state, known to all / The earth as being the Christian bulwark
'gainst / The Saracen" (V.i.10-12); further, they are told that they can
save their soul only by confessing the injustice of their actions against
the state: "[W]e would hear from your own lips complete / Avowal of
your treason . . . . / . . . [T]he truth / Alone can profit you on earth
or Heaven" (V.i.29-3a).
  What critics mean-and what Byron likely meant-when they
speak of the play's criticism of a corrupt aristocracy is that the ruling
class value system does not serve the Venetian citizenry at large. The
dominant values of the society, reflected in the language of the patri-
cians, consist largely of an abstract rhetoric of honor that practically
and materially benefits only a few people. Those who do not benefit
(for example, Faliero and the plebians) eventually come to see them-
selves as slaves rather than citizens (I.ii. 106-8, 461-62). The corrup-
tion, then, that generates the revolutionary conspiracy does not rest
solely in the Steno decision or in the physical abuse of Israel Bertruc-
cio: it lies in the system of values that not only produces such atrocities
but also sanctifies them.
  Byron develops his characters' sensitivity to unjust Venetian values
in terms of their growing awareness of social class. It is common for
critics to comment on Faliero's "aristocratic contempt for the mob,"
his desire to "win real power," or his adherence "to a princely code
of honor."" But Byron's treatment of Faliero involves more than


            The Dramas of Lord Byron / 159

concern for human life, Bertram tries to save Lioni from imminent
assassination. Lioni, however, uses Bertram's sincerity to extort in-
formation concerning the conspiracy. Speaking in noble language that
professes the encompassing value and importance of the state ("who are
traitors save unto the State?" "Say, rather thy friend's saviour and the
State's" [IV.i.299, 317]), he persuades Bertram to compromise his per-
sonal integrity to save the patricians. The irony of this is underscored
by the fact that Lioni's noble language consistently is contrasted to his
fast regard not for the state but specifically for aristocracy. His interest
in Bertram never extends beyond what "Beseem[s] one of thy station"
(IV.i.137); he is willing to assist Bertram only if Bertram "hast not /
spilt noble blood" (IV i.144-45). Also, once the conspiracy has been
prevented, the patricians justify their brutal treatment of the prisoners
in noble language. After being tortured on the rack and before finally
being executed, Israel Bertruccio and Philip Calendaro are told by the
Chief of the Ten that they have committed treason "Against a just and
free state, known to all / The earth as being the Christian bulwark
'gainst / The Saracen" (Vi. 10-12); further, they are told that they can
save their soul only by confessing the injustice of their actions against
the state: "[W]e would hear from your own lips complete / Avowal of
your treason. .... / ... [T]he truth / Alone can profit you on earth
or Heaven" (V.i.29-32).
  What critics mean-and what Byron likely meant-when they
speak of the play's criticism of a corrupt aristocracy is that the ruling
class value system does not serve the Venetian citizenry at large. The
dominant values of the society, reflected in the language of the patri-
cians, consist largely of an abstract rhetoric of honor that practically
and materially benefits only a few people. Those who do not benefit
(for example, Faliero and the plebians) eventually come to see them-
selves as slaves rather than citizens (I.ii. 106-8, 461-62). The corrup-
tion, then, that generates the revolutionary conspiracy does not rest
solely in the Steno decision or in the physical abuse of Israel Bertruc-
cio: it lies in the system of values that not only produces such atrocities
but also sanctifies them.
  Byron develops his characters' sensitivity to unjust Venetian values
in terms of their growing awareness of social class. It is common for
critics to comment on Faliero's "aristocratic contempt for the mob,"
his desire to "win real power," or his adherence "to a princely code
of honor."" But Byron's treatment of Faliero involves more than


            The Dramas of Lord Byron / 159

concern for human life, Bertram tries to save Lioni from imminent
assassination. Lioni, however, uses Bertram's sincerity to extort in-
formation concerning the conspiracy. Speaking in noble language that
professes the encompassing value and importance of the state ("who are
traitors save unto the State?" "Say, rather thy friend's saviour and the
State's" [IV.i.299, 317]), he persuades Bertram to compromise his per-
sonal integrity to save the patricians. The irony of this is underscored
by the fact that Lioni's noble language consistently is contrasted to his
fast regard not for the state but specifically for aristocracy. His interest
in Bertram never extends beyond what "Beseem[s] one of thy station"
(IV.i.137); he is willing to assist Bertram only if Bertram "hast not /
spilt noble blood" (IV.i.144-45). Also, once the conspiracy has been
prevented, the patricians justify their brutal treatment of the prisoners
in noble language. After being tortured on the rack and before finally
being executed, Israel Bertruccio and Philip Calendaro are told by the
Chief of the Ten that they have committed treason "Against a just and
free state, known to all / The earth as being the Christian bulwark
'gainst / The Saracen" (V.i. 10-12); further, they are told that they can
save their soul only by confessing the injustice of their actions against
the state: "[W]e would hear from your own lips complete / Avowal of
your treason ... . / .. . [T]he truth / Alone can profit you on earth
or Heaven" (V.i.29-32).
  What critics mean-and what Byron likely meant-when they
speak of the play's criticism of a corrupt aristocracy is that the ruling
class value system does not serve the Venetian citizenry at large. The
dominant values of the society, reflected in the language of the patri-
cians, consist largely of an abstract rhetoric of honor that practically
and materially benefits only a few people. Those who do not benefit
(for example, Faliero and the plebians) eventually come to see them-
selves as slaves rather than citizens (l.ii. 16-8, 461-62). The corrup-
tion, then, that generates the revolutionary conspiracy does not rest
solely in the Steno decision or in the physical abuse of Israel Bertruc-
cio: it lies in the system of values that not only produces such atrocities
but also sanctifies them.
  Byron develops his characters' sensitivity to unjust Venetian values
in terms of their growing awareness of social class. It is common for
critics to comment on Faliero's "aristocratic contempt for the mob,"
his desire to "win real power," or his adherence "to a princely code
of honor.""' But Byron's treatment of Faliero involves more than



6o / English Romantic Drama              16o / English Romantic Drama             16 / English Romantic Drama


this; it involves the sentiments and conflicting passions of an indi-
vidual who finds himself standing outside the social sphere that he and
his forbears have been bred into. Attention is not focused mainly on
Faliero's drive for power or on his princely conduct but, as Andrew
Rutherford puts it, on "the tensions in Marino's mind when he made
common cause with the plebians against his own class."" The play
examines Faliero's awareness that his class position allows only a nar-
row social perspective, incapable of alleviating the pervasive social
injustices plaguing Venice, and follows him as he develops a fuller
understanding of society's needs.
Byron's emphasis on class consciousness is seen again in his han-
dling of the conspiring plebians, who-like Faliero-must wrestle
with the problem of class relationships. The conspirators are keenly
sensitive to their position in the social hierarchy. When Israel Ber-
truccio informs Calendaro that a new member will shortly join their
ranks, Calendaro responds: "Is he one of our order?" (II.ii.161). And
later when Faliero is introduced to the conspirators, reaction to him is
unanimous: "To arms!-we are betrayed-it is the Doge! / Down with
them both! our traitorous captain, and / The tyrant he hath sold us
to" (III.ii.90-92). Their initial response is as expressive of class preju-
dice as Faliero's. They, too, are presented the challenge of admitting
that integrity and moral passion-and political allies-can be found
outside their own class.
Byron's depiction of class consciousness suggests the range of social
perspectives that is possible in any given culture. But more impor-
tantly it illustrates the necessity of becoming aware of class roles in
order to overcome the barriers they impose. Both Faliero and the
plebians must realize that their specific class interests do not reflect the
views of all society and cannot answer to the needs of the Venetian
citizenry at large. They must learn to set particular class differences
aside and explore their common social needs as human beings; only
in this way can they begin to generate social solidarity capable of de-
feating the injustices inflicted on them by the patricians. Moreover,
only by developing a social rather than simply a class perspective can
they hope to mount a revolutionary campaign that will do more than
merely reverse existing class structures.
  The play explores not only the necessity of recognizing and over-
coming ideological assumptions and class barriers to bring about social
change, but also the difficulty of rationalizing the physical violence


this; it involves the sentiments and conflicting passions of an indi-
vidual who finds himself standing outside the social sphere that he and
his forbears have been bred into. Attention is not focused mainly on
Faliero's drive for power or on his princely conduct but, as Andrew
Rutherford puts it, on "the tensions in Marino's mind when he made
common cause with the plebians against his own class."" The play
examines Faliero's awareness that his class position allows only a nar-
row social perspective, incapable of alleviating the pervasive social
injustices plaguing Venice, and follows him as he develops a fuller
understanding of society's needs.
Byron's emphasis on class consciousness is seen again in his han-
dling of the conspiring plebians, who-like Faliero-must wrestle
with the problem of class relationships. The conspirators are keenly
sensitive to their position in the social hierarchy. When Israel Ber-
truccio informs Calendaro that a new member will shortly join their
ranks, Calendaro responds: "Is he one of our order?" (II.ii.161). And
later when Faliero is introduced to the conspirators, reaction to him is
unanimous: "To arms!-we are betrayed-it is the Doge! / Down with
them both! our traitorous captain, and / The tyrant he hath sold us
to" (Ill.ii.go-92). Their initial response is as expressive of class preju-
dice as Faliero's. They, too, are presented the challenge of admitting
that integrity and moral passion-and political allies-can be found
outside their own class.
Byron's depiction of class consciousness suggests the range of social
perspectives that is possible in any given culture. But more impor-
tantly it illustrates the necessity of becoming aware of class roles in
order to overcome the barriers they impose. Both Faliero and the
plebians must realize that their specific class interests do not reflect the
views of all society and cannot answer to the needs of the Venetian
citizenry at large. They must learn to set particular class differences
aside and explore their common social needs as human beings; only
in this way can they begin to generate social solidarity capable of de-
feating the injustices inflicted on them by the patricians. Moreover,
only by developing a social rather than simply a class perspective can
they hope to mount a revolutionary campaign that will do more than
merely reverse existing class structures.
  The play explores not only the necessity of recognizing and over-
coming ideological assumptions and class barriers to bring about social
change, but also the difficulty of rationalizing the physical violence


this; it involves the sentiments and conflicting passions of an indi-
vidual who finds himself standing outside the social sphere that he and
his forbears have been bred into. Attention is not focused mainly on
Faliero's drive for power or on his princely conduct but, as Andrew
Rutherford puts it, on "the tensions in Marino's mind when he made
common cause with the plebians against his own class."" The play
examines Faliero's awareness that his class position allows only a nar-
row social perspective, incapable of alleviating the pervasive social
injustices plaguing Venice, and follows him as he develops a fuller
understanding of society's needs.
Byron's emphasis on class consciousness is seen again in his han-
dling of the conspiring plebians, who-like Faliero-must wrestle
with the problem of class relationships. The conspirators are keenly
sensitive to their position in the social hierarchy. When Israel Ber-
truccio informs Calendaro that a new member will shortly join their
ranks, Calendaro responds: "Is he one of our order?" (II.ii.161). And
later when Faliero is introduced to the conspirators, reaction to him is
unanimous: "To arms!-we are betrayed-it is the Doge! / Down with
them both! our traitorous captain, and / The tyrant he hath sold us
to" (1II.ii.90-92). Their initial response is as expressive of class preju-
dice as Faliero's. They, too, are presented the challenge of admitting
that integrity and moral passion-and political allies-can be found
outside their own class.
  Byron's depiction of class consciousness suggests the range of social
perspectives that is possible in any given culture. But more impor-
tantly it illustrates the necessity of becoming aware of class roles in
order to overcome the barriers they impose. Both Faliero and the
plebians must realize that their specific class interests do not reflect the
views of all society and cannot answer to the needs of the Venetian
citizenry at large. They must learn to set particular class differences
aside and explore their common social needs as human beings; only
in this way can they begin to generate social solidarity capable of de-
feating the injustices inflicted on them by the patricians. Moreover,
only by developing a social rather than simply a class perspective can
they hope to mount a revolutionary campaign that will do more than
merely reverse existing class structures.
  The play explores not only the necessity of recognizing and over-
coming ideological assumptions and class barriers to bring about social
change, but also the difficulty of rationalizing the physical violence



The Dramas of Lord Byron / 16            The Dramas of Lord Byron / 161           The Dramas of Lord Byron / 161


that must accompany any effort to change the social structure. Violence
against one's own state is perhaps the most sensitive issue in the play,
and indeed the problem which finally destroys revolutionary hope.
Even before Faliero meets with the conspirators he tells Israel Bertruc-
cio that he cannot unfeelingly "take men's lives by stealth" (III.i. 1o8).
And again, after the doge has held commune with the plebians and
agreed to lead them in the conspiracy, he asks: "And is it then decided!
must they die?" (III.ii.449). Though he realizes that "'Tis mine to
sound the knell, and strike the blow" (III.ii.49t), still he "quiver[s] to
behold what I / Must be, and think what I have been" (III.ii.498-99).
In two main ways Faliero justifies the violence that he knows must
accompany the revolution. First, he convinces himself that he has no
choice; he is, as it were, entirely a creature of circumstance who must
perform the deeds that fate has destined for him: "[T]he task / Is forced
upon me, I have sought it not" (III.i.9-10). He resorts to this justifica-
tion more than once, giving the impression, as Jerome McGann puts
it, that he "act[s] freely against ... [his] own will and feelings."0 In
trying to explain his actions, Faliero remarks that "there is Hell within
me and around, / And like the Demon who believes and trembles /
Must I abhor and do" (III.ii.519-2).
  Another more practical and realistic way in which he comes to terms
with political violence is by refusing to see the patricians as individual
human beings. He identifies them with the abstract mechanisms of
the ruling social order: "law," "policy," "duty," and "state" (III.ii.351-
54). Instead of looking on them as former friends, he tries to see them
only as "Senators" who inveterately have viewed him as "the Doge"
(III.ii. 377-78):
       To me, then, these men have no private life,
       Nor claim to ties they have cut off from others;
       As Senators for arbitrary acts
       Amenable, I look on them-as such
       Let them be dealt upon. (III.ii. 382-86)

It is in this way that he must finally account for revolutionary vio-
lence. He must identify the individuals of the ruling class entirely with
the corrupt political machine that is to be destroyed; only then can his
sympathy for human life be contained and prevented from interfering
with the demands of revolution.
  Byron does not treat the horrors of violence as uniquely a prob-


that must accompany any effort to change the social structure. Violence
against one's own state is perhaps the most sensitive issue in the play,
and indeed the problem which finally destroys revolutionary hope.
Even before Faliero meets with the conspirators he tells Israel Bertruc-
cio that he cannot unfeelingly "take men's lives by stealth" (III.i. 1o8).
And again, after the doge has held commune with the plebians and
agreed to lead them in the conspiracy, he asks: "And is it then decided!
must they die?" (III ii.449). Though he realizes that "'Tis mine to
sound the knell, and strike the blow" (III.ii.491), still he "quiver[s] to
behold what I / Must be, and think what I have been" (III.ii.498-99).
In two main ways Faliero justifies the violence that he knows must
accompany the revolution. First, he convinces himself that he has no
choice; he is, as it were, entirely a creature of circumstance who must
perform the deeds that fate has destined for him: "[T]he task / Is forced
upon me, I have sought it not" (III.i.9-to). He resorts to this justifica-
tion more than once, giving the impression, as Jerome McGann puts
it, that he "act[s] freely against ... [his] own will and feelings.""5 In
trying to explain his actions, Faliero remarks that "there is Hell within
me and around, / And like the Demon who believes and trembles /
Must I abhor and do" (III.ii.519-21).
  Another more practical and realistic way in which he comes to terms
with political violence is by refusing to see the patricians as individual
human beings. He identifies them with the abstract mechanisms of
the ruling social order: "law," "policy," "duty," and "state" (III.ii. 351-
54). Instead of looking on them as former friends, he tries to see them
only as "Senators" who inveterately have viewed him as "the Doge"
(III ii.377-78):
       To me, then, these men have no private life,
       Nor claim to ties they have cut off from others;
       As Senators for arbitrary acts
       Amenable, I look on them-as such
       Let them be dealt upon. (Ill.ii. 382-86)

It is in this way that he must finally account for revolutionary vio-
lence. He must identify the individuals of the ruling class entirely with
the corrupt political machine that is to be destroyed; only then can his
sympathy for human life be contained and prevented from interfering
with the demands of revolution.
  Byron does not treat the horrors of violence as uniquely a prob-


that must accompany any effort to change the social structure. Violence
against one's own state is perhaps the most sensitive issue in the play,
and indeed the problem which finally destroys revolutionary hope.
Even before Faliero meets with the conspirators he tells Israel Bertruc-
cio that he cannot unfeelingly "take men's lives by stealth" (Ill.i. o8).
And again, after the doge has held commune with the plebians and
agreed to lead them in the conspiracy, he asks: "And is it then decided!
must they die?" (III.ii.449). Though he realizes that "'Tis mine to
sound the knell, and strike the blow" (III.ii.491), still he "quiver[s] to
behold what I / Must be, and think what I have been" (III.ii.498-99).
In two main ways Faliero justifies the violence that he knows must
accompany the revolution. First, he convinces himself that he has no
choice; he is, as it were, entirely a creature of circumstance who must
perform the deeds that fate has destined for him: "[T]he task / Is forced
upon me, I have sought it not" (III.i.9-10). He resorts to thisjustifica-
tion more than once, giving the impression, as Jerome McGann puts
it, that he "act[s] freely against ... [his] own will and feelings."" In
trying to explain his actions, Faliero remarks that "there is Hell within
me and around, / And like the Demon who believes and trembles /
Must I abhor and do" (III.ii.519-21).
  Another more practical and realistic way in which he comes to terms
with political violence is by refusing to see the patricians as individual
human beings. He identifies them with the abstract mechanisms of
the ruling social order: "law," "policy," "duty," and "state" (III.ii.351-
54). Instead of looking on them as former friends, he tries to see them
only as "Senators" who inveterately have viewed him as "the Doge"
(III.ii.377-78):
       To me, then, these men have no private life,
       Nor claim to ties they have cut off from others;
       As Senators for arbitrary acts
       Amenable, I look on them-as such
       Let them be dealt upon. (IIIii. 382-86)

It is in this way that he must finally account for revolutionary vio-
lence. He must identify the individuals ofthe ruling class entirely with
the corrupt political machine that is to be destroyed; only then can his
sympathy for human life be contained and prevented from interfering
with the demands of revolution.
  Byron does not treat the horrors of violence as uniquely a prob-



2 / English Romantic Drama               162 / English Romantic Drama             162 / English Romantic Drama


lem for leaders: all persons engaged in revolutionary activities must
come to terms with violence. He illustrates this point in the charac-
ter of Bertram, a plebian involved in the conspiracy. Bertram focuses
the moral question that Faliero had raised: how does one rationalize
the violence that seems to be a necessary part of the drive to establish
a right and just social order (III.ii.64-69)? Unlike the doge, how-
ever, he cannot separate the political machine from those who run it:
"[E]ven amongst these wicked men / There might be some, whose age
and qualities / Might mark them out for pity" (III.ii.24-26). Though
he is as eager for the revolution as Faliero or his fellow plebians, he
ultimately destroys the possibility of revolution by his inability to re-
solve the moral question of political violence; and his decision not to
betray his patrician friend Lioni transforms him into an unwilling in-
former: "Then perish Venice rather than my friend! / I will disclose-
ensnare-betray-destroy -/ Oh, what a villain I become for thee"
(IV.i.314-16).
If Marino Faliero gives the question of political violence its noble,
tragic dimension, Bertram gives it a broader social significance. His
concern with the morality of violence assures that we do not read the
play as a narrow or incomplete picture of a moral dilemma unique to
aristocracy. As with the other prominent social issues treated in the
play, Byron implicates all classes of individuals, making them equally
responsible for the condition of society and for meeting the practical
demands of social life.
Despite certain expository weaknesses, Marino Faliero effectively
presents some possible private and public motives for engaging in
political struggle and forcefully illustrates some of the moral questions
that necessarily arise during this struggle. Byron probably found the
play difficult to write (he contemplated it for more than three years)
because he could not satisfactorily understand and present the social
issues he thought to be important to the political episode he was de-
scribing. But once his understanding of these issues matured, he pro-
duced a play that represents a vital part of his developing historical and
social vision.

Sardanapalus
Though Sardanapalus (1821) was, like Marino Faliero, a play about
princes, queens, and popular disturbance, Byron trusted that it would
"not be mistaken for a political play-which was so far from my inten-


lem for leaders: all persons engaged in revolutionary activities must
come to terms with violence. He illustrates this point in the charac-
ter of Bertram, a plebian involved in the conspiracy. Bertram focuses
the moral question that Faliero had raised: how does one rationalize
the violence that seems to be a necessary part of the drive to establish
a right and just social order (III.ii.64-69)? Unlike the doge, how-
ever, he cannot separate the political machine from those who run it:
"[E]ven amongst these wicked men / There might be some, whose age
and qualities / Might mark them out for pity" (III.ii. 24-26). Though
he is as eager for the revolution as Faliero or his fellow plebians, he
ultimately destroys the possibility of revolution by his inability to re-
solve the moral question of political violence; and his decision not to
betray his patrician friend Lioni transforms him into an unwilling in-
former: "Then perish Venice rather than my friend! / I will disclose-
ensnare-betray-destroy -/ Oh, what a villain I become for thee"
(IV.i.314-16).
  If Marino Faliero gives the question of political violence its noble,
tragic dimension, Bertram gives it a broader social significance. His
concern with the morality of violence assures that we do not read the
play as a narrow or incomplete picture of a moral dilemma unique to
aristocracy. As with the other prominent social issues treated in the
play, Byron implicates all classes of individuals, making them equally
responsible for the condition of society and for meeting the practical
demands of social life.
  Despite certain expository weaknesses, Marino Faliero effectively
presents some possible private and public motives for engaging in
political struggle and forcefully illustrates some of the moral questions
that necessarily arise during this struggle. Byron probably found the
play difficult to write (he contemplated it for more than three years)
because he could not satisfactorily understand and present the social
issues he thought to be important to the political episode he was de-
scribing. But once his understanding of these issues matured, he pro-
duced a play that represents a vital part of his developing historical and
social vision.

Sardanapalus
Though Sardanapalus (1821) was, like Marino Faliero, a play about
princes, queens, and popular disturbance, Byron trusted that it would
"not be mistaken for a political play-which was so far from my inten-


lem for leaders: all persons engaged in revolutionary activities must
come to terms with violence. He illustrates this point in the charac-
ter of Bertram, a plebian involved in the conspiracy. Bertram focuses
the moral question that Faliero had raised: how does one rationalize
the violence that seems to be a necessary part of the drive to establish
a right and just social order (III.ii.64-69)? Unlike the doge, how-
ever, he cannot separate the political machine from those who run it:
"[E]ven amongst these wicked men / There might be some, whose age
and qualities / Might mark them out for pity" (Ill.ii.24-26). Though
he is as eager for the revolution as Faliero or his fellow plebians, he
ultimately destroys the possibility of revolution by his inability to re-
solve the moral question of political violence; and his decision not to
betray his patrician friend Lioni transforms him into an unwilling in-
former: "Then perish Venice rather than my friend! / I will disclose-
ensnare-betray-destroy -/ Oh, what a villain I become for thee"
(IV.i. 314-16).
If Marino Faliero gives the question of political violence its noble,
tragic dimension, Bertram gives it a broader social significance. His
concern with the morality of violence assures that we do not read the
play as a narrow or incomplete picture of a moral dilemma unique to
aristocracy. As with the other prominent social issues treated in the
play, Byron implicates all classes of individuals, making them equally
responsible for the condition of society and for meeting the practical
demands of social life.
Despite certain expository weaknesses, Marino Faliero effectively
presents some possible private and public motives for engaging in
political struggle and forcefully illustrates some of the moral questions
that necessarily arise during this struggle. Byron probably found the
play difficult to write (he contemplated it for more than three years)
because he could not satisfactorily understand and present the social
issues he thought to be important to the political episode he was de-
scribing. But once his understanding of these issues matured, he pro-
duced a play that represents a vital part of his developing historical and
social vision.

Sardanapalus
Though Sardanapalus (1821) was, like Marino Faliero, a play about
princes, queens, and popular disturbance, Byron trusted that it would
"not be mistaken for apolitical play-which was so far from my inten-



The Dramas of Lord Byron / 163           The Dramas of Lord Byron / 163           The Dramas of Lord Byron / 16


tion that I thought of nothing but Asiatic history" (BLJ, 8:152). Like
Marino Faliero, Sardanapalus re-creates a historical situation in order to
explore various dynamics of social reality. The play, however, does
not simply duplicate the earlier drama. Although it treats some of the
same themes that had marked the Venetian tragedy (violence, ideol-
ogy), Sardanapalus displays in greater detail both the circumstances that
could make an individual feel out of step with the values of his culture
and the difficulties of overcoming alienation when the circumstances
that caused it have not changed. Moreover, it attempts to distribute the
blame for individual and social corruption more evenly than Marino
Faliero had done. In the earlier play the doge had been shown to be
clearly in the right and the patricians in the wrong; but in Sardanapalus
the prince is shown to be as mistaken in his view of himself and his
world as Nineveh in the values it tries to uphold.
  Marino Faliero begins at the moment of Faliero's decision tojoin the
plebian conspirators, and thus does not dramatize preexisting social
conditions that could explain how the doge came to be so far removed
from the values of his class as to commit treason. Sardanapalus at-
tempts to correct this deficiency by providing a background sufficient
to explain its hero's alienation. In Acts I and II Sardanapalus is not
drawn abstractly as a "luxury-loving and easy-going monarch," nor
is he simply "a debauchee who wants only to renounce his power."4
Rather, his character reflects disgust for a society marked historically
by violence. When Salemenes tries to inspire Sardanapalus by recall-
ing the exploits of Semiramis, an illustrious ancestor, Sardanapalus
asks: "And how many [corpses / Left she behind in India to the vul-
tures?" (I.ii. 131-32).50 And when Myrrha, attempting to instill in him
a sense of civic responsibility, encourages him to read the histories of
his culture, he replies: "They are so blotted o'er with blood, I can-
not" (I.ii.548). The Nineveh of the present, too, demands blood. When
Sardanapalus is faced with the prospect of a rebelling populace he ex-
claims: "The ungrateful and ungracious slaves! they murmur / Because
I have not shed their blood" (I.ii.226-z7). In short, Sardanapalus is
not blindly hedonistic but is driven (he feels) to hedonism in a protest
against the blood-drenched values of the society he is born to rule; his
conduct expresses discontent with and condemnation of violence as a
way of life.
  This is not to say, however, that his hedonism-though explainable
in social terms-is admirable, or even preferable to the values to which


tion that I thought of nothing but Asiatic history" (BLJ, 8:152). Like
Marino Faliero, Sardanapalus re-creates a historical situation in order to
explore various dynamics of social reality. The play, however, does
not simply duplicate the earlier drama. Although it treats some of the
same themes that had marked the Venetian tragedy (violence, ideol-
ogy), Sardanapalus displays in greater detail both the circumstances that
could make an individual feel out of step with the values of his culture
and the difficulties of overcoming alienation when the circumstances
that caused it have not changed. Moreover, it attempts to distribute the
blame for individual and social corruption more evenly than Marino
Faliero had done. In the earlier play the doge had been shown to be
clearly in the right and the patricians in the wrong; but in Sardanapalus
the prince is shown to be as mistaken in his view of himself and his
world as Nineveh in the values it tries to uphold.
Marino Faliero begins at the moment of Faliero's decision tojoin the
plebian conspirators, and thus does not dramatize preexisting social
conditions that could explain how the doge came to be so far removed
from the values of his class as to commit treason. Sardanapalus at-
tempts to correct this deficiency by providing a background sufficient
to explain its hero's alienation. In Acts I and II Sardanapalus is not
drawn abstractly as a "luxury-loving and easy-going monarch," nor
is he simply "a debauchee who wants only to renounce his power.""
Rather, his character reflects disgust for a society marked historically
by violence. When Salemenes tries to inspire Sardanapalus by recall-
ing the exploits of Semiramis, an illustrious ancestor, Sardanapalus
asks: "And how many [corpses] / Left she behind in India to the vul-
tures?" (I-ii. 131-32).s: And when Myrrha, attempting to instill in him
a sense of civic responsibility, encourages him to read the histories of
his culture, he replies: "They are so blotted o'er with blood, I can-
not" (I.ii. 548). The Nineveh ofthe present, too, demands blood. When
Sardanapalus is faced with the prospect of a rebelling populace he ex-
claims: "The ungrateful and ungracious slaves! they murmur / Because
I have not shed their blood" (I.ii.226-27). In short, Sardanapalus is
not blindly hedonistic but is driven (he feels) to hedonism in a protest
against the blood-drenched values of the society he is born to rule; his
conduct expresses discontent with and condemnation of violence as a
way of life.
This is not to say, however, that his hedonism-though explainable
in social terms-is admirable, or even preferable to the values to which


tion that I thought of nothing but Asiatic history" (BLJ, 8:152). Like
Marino Faliero, Sardanapalus re-creates a historical situation in order to
explore various dynamics of social reality. The play, however, does
not simply duplicate the earlier drama. Although it treats some of the
same themes that had marked the Venetian tragedy (violence, ideol-
ogy), Sardanapalus displays in greater detail both the circumstances that
could make an individual feel out of step with the values of his culture
and the difficulties of overcoming alienation when the circumstances
that caused it have not changed. Moreover, it attempts to distribute the
blame for individual and social corruption more evenly than Marino
Faliero had done. In the earlier play the doge had been shown to be
clearly in the right and the patricians in the wrong; but in Sardanapalus
the prince is shown to be as mistaken in his view of himself and his
world as Nineveh in the values it tries to uphold.
Marino Faliero begins at the moment of Faliero's decision to join the
plebian conspirators, and thus does not dramatize preexisting social
conditions that could explain how the doge came to be so far removed
from the values of his class as to commit treason. Sardanapalus at-
tempts to correct this deficiency by providing a background sufficient
to explain its hero's alienation. In Acts I and II Sardanapalus is not
drawn abstractly as a "luxury-loving and easy-going monarch," nor
is he simply "a debauchee who wants only to renounce his power.""
Rather, his character reflects disgust for a society marked historically
by violence. When Salemenes tries to inspire Sardanapalus by recall-
ing the exploits of Semiramis, an illustrious ancestor, Sardanapalus
asks: "And how many [corpses] / Left she behind in India to the vul-
tures?" (Iii. 131-32).50 And when Myrrha, attempting to instill in him
a sense of civic responsibility, encourages him to read the histories of
his culture, he replies: "They are so blotted o'er with blood, I can-
not" (I.ii. 548). The Nineveh of the present, too, demands blood. When
Sardanapalus is faced with the prospect of a rebelling populace he ex-
claims: "The ungrateful and ungracious slaves! they murmur / Because
I have not shed their blood" (I.ii.226-27). In short, Sardanapalus is
not blindly hedonistic but is driven (he feels) to hedonism in a protest
against the blood-drenched values of the society he is born to rule; his
conduct expresses discontent with and condemnation of violence as a
way of life.
  This is not to say, however, that his hedonism-though explainable
in social terms-is admirable, or even preferable to the values to which



t6 / English Romantic Drama              164 / English Romantic Drama             164 / English Romantic Drama


it is a response. The drama shows that, as a way of life, it is as unaccept-
able as Nineveh's history of violence. Though he wants to make "The
weight of human misery less" (1.ii.264), and thinks he can accomplish
this best by leaving people to themselves (I.ii.268-78), Sardanapalus
actually helps to create misery by leaving people defenseless; he fails to
acknowledge any need whatsoever for the physical protection of life.
When Salemenes warns him of imminent danger, Sardanapalus feels
no compulsion to defend himself: "What dost dread?" "What must we
dread?" (I.ii.28o, 285). Myrrha's efforts, too, to make Sardanapalus
understand that "Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost" (I.ii.488)
are met with the same simplistic and passive response: "Why, child, I
loathe all war, and warriors; / I live in peace and pleasure: what can
man / Do more?" (I.ii.529-31). Myrrha realizes that his attitude is
potentially destructive both for himself and for society (I.ii.526-28)
for it rests, finally, on the assumption that life is not worth defend-
ing. Sardanapalus admits as much, claiming that life "is not worth
so much" that he should always be "guarding against all [that] may
make it less" (I.ii.392-93). The weakness of his hedonistic philosophy
is that it denies that Sardanapalus should accept responsibility for his
own life; by implication this form of hedonism makes it impossible to
accept responsibility for any life.
The initial actions of the play dramatize the struggle between
equally unsatisfactory social philosophies. The Nineveh that Sardana-
palus inhabits-and that his forbears inhabited-places an undue em-
phasis on violent aggression; Sardanapalus's attitude refuses to admit
the value of any kind of physical defense of human life. The central
purpose of the play appears to be to show how these divergent outlooks
are brought into line with one another. The conspiracy of Arbaces
and Beleses reveals to Sardanapalus the insufficiency of his hedonis-
tic creed and forces him to bear arms in defense of himself and his
society. And, since he "fights as he revels" (III.i.213)-that is, enthu-
siastically-he seems able at last to take up the duties required by the
state. The final scene of the play, too, seems to mark the degree to
which he has changed, for he commits suicide to escape the ignominy
of being captured by the revolutionaries and to prevent them from
defiling his heritage.
  The full social significance of this interior conflict is revealed in the
dream that Sardanapalus recounts to Myrrha, for it illustrates the de-
gree of Sardanapalus's continued alienation. In his dream Sardanapalus


it is a response. The drama shows that, as a way of life, it is as unaccept-
able as Nineveh's history of violence. Though he wants to make "The
weight of human misery less" (Iii. 264), and thinks he can accomplish
this best by leaving people to themselves (l.ii.268-78), Sardanapalus
actually helps to create misery by leaving people defenseless; he fails to
acknowledge any need whatsoever for the physical protection of life.
When Salemenes warns him of imminent danger, Sardanapalus feels
no compulsion to defend himself: "What dost dread?" "What must we
dread?" (1.ii.28o, 285). Myrrha's efforts, too, to make Sardanapalus
understand that "Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost" (1.ii.488)
are met with the same simplistic and passive response: "Why, child, I
loathe all war, and warriors; / I live in peace and pleasure: what can
man / Do more?" (I.ii.529-31). Myrrha realizes that his attitude is
potentially destructive both for himself and for society (ii..526-28)
for it rests, finally, on the assumption that life is not worth defend-
ing. Sardanapalus admits as much, claiming that life "is not worth
so much" that he should always be "guarding against all [that may
make it less" (I.ii. 392-93). The weakness of his hedonistic philosophy
is that it denies that Sardanapalus should accept responsibility for his
own life; by implication this form of hedonism makes it impossible to
accept responsibility for any life.
The initial actions of the play dramatize the struggle between
equally unsatisfactory social philosophies. The Nineveh that Sardana-
palus inhabits-and that his forbears inhabited-places an undue em-
phasis on violent aggression; Sardanapalus's attitude refuses to admit
the value of any kind of physical defense of human life. The central
purpose of the play appears to be to show how these divergent outlooks
are brought into line with one another. The conspiracy of Arbaces
and Beleses reveals to Sardanapalus the insufficiency of his hedonis-
tic creed and forces him to bear arms in defense of himself and his
society. And, since he "fights as he revels" (IIIi.213)-that is, enthu-
siastically-he seems able at last to take up the duties required by the
state. The final scene of the play, too, seems to mark the degree to
which he has changed, for he commits suicide to escape the ignominy
of being captured by the revolutionaries and to prevent them from
defiling his heritage.
  The full social significance of this interior conflict is revealed in the
dream that Sardanapalus recounts to Myrrha, for it illustrates the de-
gree of Sardanapalus's continued alienation. In his dream Sardanapalus


it is a response. The drama shows that, as a way of life, it is as unaccept-
able as Nineveh's history of violence. Though he wants to make "The
weight of human misery less" (I.ii.264), and thinks he can accomplish
this best by leaving people to themselves (1.ii.268-78), Sardanapalus
actually helps to create misery by leaving people defenseless; he fails to
acknowledge any need whatsoever for the physical protection of life.
When Salemenes warns him of imminent danger, Sardanapalus feels
no compulsion to defend himself: "What dost dread?" "What must we
dread?" (I.ii.280, 285). Myrrha's efforts, too, to make Sardanapalus
understand that "Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost" (I.ii.488)
are met with the same simplistic and passive response: "Why, child, I
loathe all war, and warriors; / I live in peace and pleasure: what can
man / Do more?" (Iii..529-31). Myrrha realizes that his attitude is
potentially destructive both for himself and for society (I.ii.526-28)
for it rests, finally, on the assumption that life is not worth defend-
ing. Sardanapalus admits as much, claiming that life "is not worth
so much" that he should always be "guarding against all [that] may
make it less" (1.ii.392-93). The weakness of his hedonistic philosophy
is that it denies that Sardanapalus should accept responsibility for his
own life; by implication this form of hedonism makes it impossible to
accept responsibility for any life.
The initial actions of the play dramatize the struggle between
equally unsatisfactory social philosophies. The Nineveh that Sardana-
palus inhabits-and that his forbears inhabited-places an undue em-
phasis on violent aggression; Sardanapalus's attitude refuses to admit
the value of any kind of physical defense of human life. The central
purpose ofthe play appears to be to show how these divergent outlooks
are brought into line with one another. The conspiracy of Arbaces
and Beleses reveals to Sardanapalus the insufficiency of his hedonis-
tic creed and forces him to bear arms in defense of himself and his
society. And, since he "fights as he revels" (III.i.213)-that is, enthu-
siastically-he seems able at last to take up the duties required by the
state. The final scene of the play, too, seems to mark the degree to
which he has changed, for he commits suicide to escape the ignominy
of being captured by the revolutionaries and to prevent them from
defiling his heritage.
  The full social significance of this interior conflict is revealed in the
dream that Sardanapalus recounts to Myrrha, for it illustrates the de-
gree of Sardanapalus's continued alienation. In his dream Sardanapalus



The DraaLd Byro / 16                                                    ThVMW Drma ofLr yoa 6                                                   Th raasofLordm Byon/6


sees himself in the company of his ancestors, all of them ghastly and
repulsive because of the violent atrocities they have committed in the
name of the state. One holds "A goblet, bubbling o'er with blood"
(IV.i.111); others, "crowned wretches" (IV.i.114), stare steadfastly at
Sardanapalus, producing, he says, "a horrid kind / Of sympathy be-
tween us" (IVi.124-25). These descriptions reveal Sardanapalus's in-
stinctive fear of becoming such a villain as he considers his ancestors
to have been, and his reluctance to commit himself fully to their pro-
gram of violence. Further, his description of the dream to Salemenes
suggests his sense of personal superiority over his glorious ancestors
and his wish to remain apart from them: "[A]ll the predecessors of our
line / Rose up, methought, to drag me down to them" (IVi. 174-75).
In short, the dream shows that Sardanapalus has not changed suddenly
from a hedonistic and irresponsible monarch to a decisive and noble
leader but rather, in assuming a military role, has acted against his prin-
ciples, which remain unchanged. It shows, moreover, that despite his
display of military virtuosity, his pacifist sympathies remain strong.
Finally, the incongruity between his thoughts and actions shows that
the conflict between individual and society presented at the beginning
of the play is no closer to resolution.t
   Indeed, the conflict is never resolved. Sardanapalus's hatred of war
and his refusal to see any sort of violence as necessary to human free-
dom continue unchanged until the final collapse of Nineveh is immi-
nent. Near the end of Act IV, when his commitment to defending his
country is ostensibly total, he tells Myrrha:
          To me war is no glory-conquest no
          Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my right
          Sits heavier on my heart than all the wrongs
          These men would bow me down with. (IV.i.505-8)

He indicates here that he still sees no middle ground between the views
he held at the outset of the play and the needs of his country. His long-
ing continues for "An era of sweet peace" (IV.i.512). Though forced by
circumstance to don armor and weapons, his escapist desire to make
"my realm a paradise" (IV.i.517) persists. The "thirteen hundred years
of Empire" (I.i.7-8), the war, and the lure of conquest: all the details
and episodes that represent Nineveh's glory burden him.
   This inability to resolve the conflict between his thoughts and ac-
tions is Sardanapalus's tragic flaw. He goes through the motions of


sees himself in the company of his ancestors, all of them ghastly and
repulsive because of the violent atrocities they have committed in the
name of the state. One holds "A goblet, bubbling o'er with blood"
(IV.i.111); others, "crowned wretches" (IV.i.1 4), stare steadfastly at
Sardanapalus, producing, he says, "a horrid kind / Of sympathy be-
tween us" (IV.i.124-25). These descriptions reveal Sardanapalus's in-
stinctive fear of becoming such a villain as he considers his ancestors
to have been, and his reluctance to commit himself fully to their pro-
gram of violence. Further, his description of the dream to Salemenes
suggests his sense of personal superiority over his glorious ancestors
and his wish to remain apart from them: "[A]ll the predecessors of our
line / Rose up, methought, to drag me down to them" (IV.i. 174-75).
In short, the dream shows that Sardanapalus has not changed suddenly
from a hedonistic and irresponsible monarch to a decisive and noble
leader but rather, in assuming a military role, has acted against his prin-
ciples, which remain unchanged. It shows, moreover, that despite his
display of military virtuosity, his pacifist sympathies remain strong.
Finally, the incongruity between his thoughts and actions shows that
the conflict between individual and society presented at the beginning
of the play is no closer to resolution.t'
   Indeed, the conflict is never resolved. Sardanapalus's hatred of war
and his refusal to see any sort of violence as necessary to human free-
dom continue unchanged until the final collapse of Nineveh is immi-
nent. Near the end of Act IV, when his commitment to defending his
country is ostensibly total, he tells Myrrha:
          To me war is no glory-conquest no
          Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my right
          Sits heavier on my heart than all the wrongs
          These men would bow me down with. (IV.i.So5-8)

He indicates here that he still sees no middle ground between the views
he held at the outset of the play and the needs of his country. His long-
ing continues for "An era of sweet peace" (IV.i 512). Though forced by
circumstance to don armor and weapons, his escapist desire to make
"my realm a paradise" (IV.i.517) persists. The "thirteen hundred years
of Empire" (I.i.7-8), the war, and the lure of conquest: all the details
and episodes that represent Nineveh's glory burden him.
   This inability to resolve the conflict between his thoughts and ac-
tions is Sardanapalus's tragic flaw. He goes through the motions of


sees himself in the company of his ancestors, all of them ghastly and
repulsive because of the violent atrocities they have committed in the
name of the state. One holds "A goblet, bubbling o'er with blood"
(IV.i.111); others, "crowned wretches" (IV.i.114), stare steadfastly at
Sardanapalus, producing, he says, "a horrid kind / Of sympathy be-
tween us" (IV.i. 124-25). These descriptions reveal Sardanapalus's in-
stinctive fear of becoming such a villain as he considers his ancestors
to have been, and his reluctance to commit himself fully to their pro-
gram of violence. Further, his description of the dream to Salemenes
suggests his sense of personal superiority over his glorious ancestors
and his wish to remain apart from them: "[A]ll the predecessors of our
line / Rose up, methought, to drag me down to them" (IV.i. 174-75).
In short, the dream shows that Sardanapalus has not changed suddenly
from a hedonistic and irresponsible monarch to a decisive and noble
leader but rather, in assuming a military role, has acted against his prin-
ciples, which remain unchanged. It shows, moreover, that despite his
display of military virtuosity, his pacifist sympathies remain strong.
Finally, the incongruity between his thoughts and actions shows that
the conflict between individual and society presented at the beginning
of the play is no closer to resolution?"
   Indeed, the conflict is never resolved. Sardanapalus's hatred of war
and his refusal to see any sort of violence as necessary to human free-
dom continue unchanged until the final collapse of Nineveh is immi-
nent. Near the end of Act IV, when his commitment to defending his
country is ostensibly total, he tells Myrrha:
          To me war is no glory-conquest no
          Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my right
          Sits heavier on my heart than all the wrongs
          These men would bow me down with. (IV.i.So5-8)

He indicates here that he still sees no middle ground between the views
he held at the outset of the play and the needs of his country. His long-
ing continues for "An era of sweet peace" (IV.i.512). Though forced by
circumstance to don armor and weapons, his escapist desire to make
"my realm a paradise" (IV.i.517) persists. The "thirteen hundred years
of Empire" (I.i.7-8), the war, and the lure of conquest: all the details
and episodes that represent Nineveh's glory burden him.
   This inability to resolve the conflict between his thoughts and ac-
tions is Sardanapalus's tragic flaw. He goes through the motions of



16 / Enls Roani Drm                      166 / nls oatcDaa16/EgihRmni                        rm


leading his followers in combat, but he clings tenaciously to his belief
that it is senseless and degrading to do so. By operating on two radi-
cally different levels, he creates a situation that will be fatal for himself
and for his country.
Only after Salemenes' death and after the throne is doomed does
Sardanapalus fully understand the error of his isolationist and indi-
vidualist views-and even then he views himself as a victim rather
than an accomplice in his downfall (V.i.205-9). Whereas earlier in the
play he had despised his ancestry for its bloodthirstiness, he now vows
full commitment to defending "our long royalty of race" (Vi155).
In the end his suicide illustrates and confirms his understanding that
one cannot commit oneself only partially to social life; one must ac-
cept that individual or private life is entirely defined by social reality,
and therefore that the desire for personal fulfillment must be pursued
within the realm of social life, rather than apart from it. The suicide is
intended not only to prevent the defilement of the throne by rebels but
also to show Sardanapalus's full acceptance, at last, of social life and
social responsibility. His action is neither melodramatic nor escapist
but tragic, for it is a sign of understanding that comes too late to save
his kingdom or his life.
Byron does not lay the blame for Nineveh's destruction entirely at
Sardanapalus's door. Sardanapalus is the tragic hero, to be sure, the
one who must suffer for his personal sins; but the drama makes clear
that his sins arise from the kind of world that he has inherited. The
main plot (the story of Sardanapalus changing from hedonist to mili-
tary leader) is vital for this reason: it completes the interior drama by
keeping in our minds the bloodshed and inhumanity that mark Nine-
veh's history and that Nineveh requires Sardanapalus to accept. Sar-
danapalus's initial impulse toward hedonism and his later inability to
commit himself fully to the defense of his country when it needs him
have their roots at least partly in social contradiction-not wholly in
character deficiency. Looking at the play from this perspective, we see
that the conspiracy of Arbaces and Beleses is not only Sardanapalus's
fault but also Nineveh's fault, and consequently both are doomed to
destruction. For just as Sardanapalus is unable to resolve the conflict
between his thoughts and actions, Nineveh is unable to meet fully the
needs of its citizens, unable to resolve the conflict between social glory
and vicious conquest. The funeral pyre that ends the play marks not
only the tragic suicide of Sardanapalus but also that of Nineveh.


leading his followers in combat, but he clings tenaciously to his belief
that it is senseless and degrading to do so. By operating on two radi-
cally different levels, he creates a situation that will be fatal for himself
and for his country.
  Only after Salemenes' death and after the throne is doomed does
Sardanapalus fully understand the error of his isolationist and indi-
vidualist views-and even then he views himself as a victim rather
than an accomplice in his downfall (V.i.zo5-9). Whereas earlier in the
play he had despised his ancestry for its bloodthirstiness, he now vows
full commitment to defending "our long royalty of race" (V.i.155).
In the end his suicide illustrates and confirms his understanding that
one cannot commit oneself only partially to social life; one must ac-
cept that individual or private life is entirely defined by social reality,
and therefore that the desire for personal fulfillment must be pursued
within the realm of social life, rather than apart from it. The suicide is
intended not only to prevent the defilement of the throne by rebels but
also to show Sardanapalus's full acceptance, at last, of social life and
social responsibility. His action is neither melodramatic nor escapist
but tragic, for it is a sign of understanding that comes too late to save
his kingdom or his life.
Byron does not lay the blame for Nineveh's destruction entirely at
Sardanapalus's door. Sardanapalus is the tragic hero, to be sure, the
one who must suffer for his personal sins; but the drama makes clear
that his sins arise from the kind of world that he has inherited. The
main plot (the story of Sardanapalus changing from hedonist to mili-
tary leader) is vital for this reason: it completes the interior drama by
keeping in our minds the bloodshed and inhumanity that mark Nine-
veh's history and that Nineveh requires Sardanapalus to accept. Sar-
danapalus's initial impulse toward hedonism and his later inability to
commit himself fully to the defense of his country when it needs him
have their roots at least partly in social contradiction-not wholly in
character deficiency. Looking at the play from this perspective, we see
that the conspiracy of Arbaces and Beleses is not only Sardanapalus's
fault but also Nineveh's fault, and consequently both are doomed to
destruction. For just as Sardanapalus is unable to resolve the conflict
between his thoughts and actions, Nineveh is unable to meet fully the
needs of its citizens, unable to resolve the conflict between social glory
and vicious conquest. The funeral pyre that ends the play marks not
only the tragic suicide of Sardanapalus but also that of Nineveh.


leading his followers in combat, but he clings tenaciously to his belief
that it is senseless and degrading to do so. By operating on two radi-
cally different levels, he creates a situation that will be fatal for himself
and for his country.
Only after Salemenes' death and after the throne is doomed does
Sardanapalus fully understand the error of his isolationist and indi-
vidualist views-and even then he views himself as a victim rather
than an accomplice in his downfall (V.i.ao5-9). Whereas earlier in the
play he had despised his ancestry for its bloodthirstiness, he now vows
full commitment to defending "our long royalty of race" (V.i. 155).
In the end his suicide illustrates and confirms his understanding that
one cannot commit oneself only partially to social life; one must ac-
cept that individual or private life is entirely defined by social reality,
and therefore that the desire for personal fulfillment must be pursued
within the realm of social life, rather than apart from it. The suicide is
intended not only to prevent the defilement of the throne by rebels but
also to show Sardanapalus's full acceptance, at last, of social life and
social responsibility. His action is neither melodramatic nor escapist
but tragic, for it is a sign of understanding that comes too late to save
his kingdom or his life.
Byron does not lay the blame for Nineveh's destruction entirely at
Sardanapalus's door. Sardanapalus is the tragic hero, to be sure, the
one who must suffer for his personal sins; but the drama makes clear
that his sins arise from the kind of world that he has inherited. The
main plot (the story of Sardanapalus changing from hedonist to mili-
tary leader) is vital for this reason: it completes the interior drama by
keeping in our minds the bloodshed and inhumanity that mark Nine-
veh's history and that Nineveh requires Sardanapalus to accept. Sar-
danapalus's initial impulse toward hedonism and his later inability to
commit himself fully to the defense of his country when it needs him
have their roots at least partly in social contradiction-not wholly in
character deficiency. Looking at the play from this perspective, we see
that the conspiracy of Arbaces and Beleses is not only Sardanapalus's
fault but also Nineveh's fault, and consequently both are doomed to
destruction. For just as Sardanapalus is unable to resolve the conflict
between his thoughts and actions, Nineveh is unable to meet fully the
needs of its citizens, unable to resolve the conflict between social glory
and vicious conquest. The funeral pyre that ends the play marks not
only the tragic suicide of Sardanapalus but also that of Nineveh.



Ih rma f LrdByo / 16*h Dramas of L                                                           *r ByoI/7Th rmaVfLortBro / 16


The Two Foscari
The Two Foscari (1821) takes the social concern that Byron had de-
veloped in Marino Faliero and Sardanapalus yet a step further. Build-
ing carefully on issues of political violence and ideology presented in
the previous works, the drama suggests that the various personal and
political conflicts depicted in the plot action arise because both the
doge and the state, as Jerome McGann puts it, have allowed "a gulf"
to separate "the standards of public and private life."" I want to clarify
and develop this observation to show that the problem Byron tries
to expose by writing about the two Foscari rests ultimately in the
prejudices of Venetian ideology.
   That the play describes a corrupt political machine is generally
recognized.?t But why or how it is corrupt has not been adequately
explained, mainly because commentary tends to concentrate on details
and actions presented in the plot, rather than on the social structure
within which those details and actions are contained. If the ruling class
portrayed in the drama oppresses people-as it most certainly does-
then there must be a specific social location for that oppression beyond
the obvious physical abuse of individuals. That location, as in Marino
Faliero, involves the values and beliefs that underlie state actions against
individuals. To glimpse these values and beliefs, it is necessary to look
beyond plot to what various characters take for granted as being true
about their social world and at what they consider to be morally just;
only then can we begin to uncover the sources of corruption in the
political machine and understand how that machine can protect and
excuse such mad individuals as, for example, James Loredano.
   First, everyone in the play except Marina takes for granted that the
Venetian state is an abstract and mysterious power beyond individual
comprehension. As one senator comments to Memmo: "[M]en know
as little / Of the state's real acts as of the grave's / Unfathomed mys-
teries" (Li. 184-86).t This attitude is reflected as well in the doge's sev-
eral comments to Marina that she cannot understand the workings of
the state (ILi.84, 115, 125-26). This belief is accompanied by a corollary
assumption: that the state is beyond reproach and thus commands abso-
lute submission (usually represented in the drama as "commitment").
Cursed by Jacopo for presiding over his torture, an officer explains:
"The sentence was not of my signing, but / I dared not disobey the
Council" (Ii.153-54). Loredano, as a representative of state authority,


The Two Foscari
The Two Foscari (1821) takes the social concern that Byron had de-
veloped in Marino Faliero and Sardanapalus yet a step further. Build-
ing carefully on issues of political violence and ideology presented in
the previous works, the drama suggests that the various personal and
political conflicts depicted in the plot action arise because both the
doge and the state, as Jerome McGann puts it, have allowed "a gulf"
to separate "the standards of public and private life."  I want to clarify
and develop this observation to show that the problem Byron tries
to expose by writing about the two Foscari rests ultimately in the
prejudices of Venetian ideology.
   That the play describes a corrupt political machine is generally
recognized.tt But why or how it is corrupt has not been adequately
explained, mainly because commentary tends to concentrate on details
and actions presented in the plot, rather than on the social structure
within which those details and actions are contained. If the ruling class
portrayed in the drama oppresses people-as it most certainly does-
then there must be a specific social location for that oppression beyond
the obvious physical abuse of individuals. That location, as in Marino
Faliero, involves the values and beliefs that underlie state actions against
individuals. To glimpse these values and beliefs, it is necessary to look
beyond plot to what various characters take for granted as being true
about their social world and at what they consider to be morally just;
only then can we begin to uncover the sources of corruption in the
political machine and understand how that machine can protect and
excuse such mad individuals as, for example, James Loredano.
   First, everyone in the play except Marina takes for granted that the
Venetian state is an abstract and mysterious power beyond individual
comprehension. As one senator comments to Memmo: "[M]en know
as little / Of the state's real acts as of the grave's / Unfathomed mys-
teries" (I.i. 184-86).tt This attitude is reflected as well in the doge's sev-
eral comments to Marina that she cannot understand the workings of
the state (IL.i.84, 115, 125-26). This belief is accompanied by a corollary
assumption: that the state is beyond reproach and thus commands abso-
lute submission (usually represented in the drama as "commitment").
Cursed by Jacopo for presiding over his torture, an officer explains:
"The sentence was not of my signing, but / I dared not disobey the
Council" (Li. 153-54). Loredano, as a representative of state authority,


The Two Foscari
The Two Foscari (1821) takes the social concern that Byron had de-
veloped in Marino Faliero and Sardanapalus yet a step further. Build-
ing carefully on issues of political violence and ideology presented in
the previous works, the drama suggests that the various personal and
political conflicts depicted in the plot action arise because both the
doge and the state, as Jerome McGann puts it, have allowed "a gulf"
to separate "the standards of public and private life."02 I want to clarify
and develop this observation to show that the problem Byron tries
to expose by writing about the two Foscari rests ultimately in the
prejudices of Venetian ideology.
   That the play describes a corrupt political machine is generally
recognized.53 But why or how it is corrupt has not been adequately
explained, mainly because commentary tends to concentrate on details
and actions presented in the plot, rather than on the social structure
within which those details and actions are contained. If the ruling class
portrayed in the drama oppresses people-as it most certainly does-
then there must be a specific social location for that oppression beyond
the obvious physical abuse of individuals. That location, as in Marino
Faliero, involves the values and beliefs that underlie state actions against
individuals. To glimpse these values and beliefs, it is necessary to look
beyond plot to what various characters take for granted as being true
about their social world and at what they consider to be morally just;
only then can we begin to uncover the sources of corruption in the
political machine and understand how that machine can protect and
excuse such mad individuals as, for example, James Loredano.
   First, everyone in the play except Marina takes for granted that the
Venetian state is an abstract and mysterious power beyond individual
comprehension. As one senator comments to Memmo: "[Men know
as little / Of the state's real acts as of the grave's / Unfathomed mys-
teries" (Ii. 184-86).54 This attitude is reflected as well in the doge's sev-
eral comments to Marina that she cannot understand the workings of
the state (II i. 84, 115, 125-26). This belief is accompanied by a corollary
assumption: that the state is beyond reproach and thus commands abso-
lute submission (usually represented in the drama as "commitment").
Cursed by Jacopo for presiding over his torture, an officer explains:
"The sentence was not of my signing, but / I dared not disobey the
Council" (I i.153-54). Loredano, as a representative of state authority,



            t68 / English Romantic Drama

implies the righteousness of state power when he asks: "[W]ho shall
oppose the law?" (IV.i.258). These are the major ingredients of Vene-
tian ideology; individuals measure justice, morality, and humanity
against them, accepting without question that they represent "truth"
and "reality." It is within the context of these generally accepted values
that such individuals as Loredano wield political power.
This picture of Venice closely resembles that presented in Marino
Faliero, except that here it is more clearly shown that such values as
these do not simply fall out of the sky or exist abstractly above and
beyond humanity. Rather, the drama insists that they are created by
people like the doge and Loredano who sincerely or otherwise commit
themselves so completely to a vision of society that they are blinded
to the needs and feelings of the individual people within society. The
doge's character is a vivid example of how the Venetian power struc-
ture has become corrupt. Through most of the play (until his son dies)
the doge denies his own and others' needs when those needs conflict
with the policies of state. He is, he says, "the State's servant" (IIi.38),
with "other duties than a father's" (II.i.184). When Marina expresses
her anger at the vile injustices of the state, the doge admonishes her:
"That is not a Venetian thought" (II.i.276). Completely submissive to
the state apparatus and its dictates, he gives "deference due even to the
lightest word / That falls from those who rule in Venice" (II.i.298-99).
  This philosophy, which insists upon the absolute subordination of
individuals to the state, though superficially noble, is dangerous and
potentially destructive. For what it means in practical terms is that
neither the doge nor anyone else is materially and morally responsible
for what the state does. By serving as willing "slaves" (ll.i.357) of
Venice and by "administer[ing] / My country faithfully" (II.i.369-70)
the Venetian ruling order is able to absolve itself of the moral burden of
dealing with and administering topeople. This logic, to be sure, allows
the state to expand and strengthen itself-"Under such laws, Venice /
Has risen to what she is" (II.i.400-401)-but only by setting up laws
and policies that excuse the doge and his fellow rulers from blame
for acts of human atrocity. The doge actively embraces and helps to
strengthen this system of personal irresponsibility by defining himself
as "more citizen than either" doge or father (II.i.415). This cold reason-
ing allows him to accept Loredano's vindictive conduct as proper to
state business, and to see his own son as a "traitor" (I.i.385) and a
"disgrace" (II.i.175). The elder Foscari reminds one of Blake's Urizen:


            168 / English Romantic Drama

implies the righteousness of state power when he asks: "[W]ho shall
oppose the law?" (IV.i.258). These are the major ingredients of Vene-
tian ideology; individuals measure justice, morality, and humanity
against them, accepting without question that they represent "truth"
and "reality." It is within the context of these generally accepted values
that such individuals as Loredano wield political power.
This picture of Venice closely resembles that presented in Marino
Faliero, except that here it is more clearly shown that such values as
these do not simply fall out of the sky or exist abstractly above and
beyond humanity. Rather, the drama insists that they are created by
people like the doge and Loredano who sincerely or otherwise commit
themselves so completely to a vision of society that they are blinded
to the needs and feelings of the individual people within society. The
doge's character is a vivid example of how the Venetian power struc-
ture has become corrupt. Through most of the play (until his son dies)
the doge denies his own and others' needs when those needs conflict
with the policies of state. He is, he says, "the State's servant" (I.i- 38),
with "other duties than a father's" (IIi. 184). When Marina expresses
her anger at the vile injustices of the state, the doge admonishes her:
"That is not a Venetian thought" (II.i.276). Completely submissive to
the state apparatus and its dictates, he gives "deference due even to the
lightest word / That falls from those who rule in Venice" (II.i.298-99).
  This philosophy, which insists upon the absolute subordination of
individuals to the state, though superficially noble, is dangerous and
potentially destructive. For what it means in practical terms is that
neither the doge nor anyone else is materially and morally responsible
for what the state does. By serving as willing "slaves" (Ili.357) of
Venice and by "administer[ing] / My country faithfully" (IIi. 369-70)
the Venetian ruling order is able to absolve itself of the moral burden of
dealing with and administering to people. This logic, to be sure, allows
the state to expand and strengthen itself-"Under such laws, Venice /
Has risen to what she is" (II.i.400-401)-but only by setting up laws
and policies that excuse the doge and his fellow rulers from blame
for acts of human atrocity. The doge actively embraces and helps to
strengthen this system of personal irresponsibility by defining himself
as "more citizen than either" doge or father (II.i.415). This cold reason-
ing allows him to accept Loredano's vindictive conduct as proper to
state business, and to see his own son as a "traitor" (IIi.385) and a
"disgrace" (Il.i.175). The elder Foscari reminds one of Blake's Urizen:


            168 / English Romantic Drama

implies the righteousness of state power when he asks: "[W]ho shall
oppose the law?" (IV.i.258). These are the major ingredients of Vene-
tian ideology; individuals measure justice, morality, and humanity
against them, accepting without question that they represent "truth"
and "reality." It is within the context of these generally accepted values
that such individuals as Loredano wield political power.
This picture of Venice closely resembles that presented in Marino
Faliero, except that here it is more clearly shown that such values as
these do not simply fall out of the sky or exist abstractly above and
beyond humanity. Rather, the drama insists that they are created by
people like the doge and Loredano who sincerely or otherwise commit
themselves so completely to a vision of society that they are blinded
to the needs and feelings of the individual people within society. The
doge's character is a vivid example of how the Venetian power struc-
ture has become corrupt. Through most of the play (until his son dies)
the doge denies his own and others' needs when those needs conflict
with the policies of state. He is, he says, "the State's servant" (II.i.38),
with "other duties than a father's" (IIi. 184). When Marina expresses
her anger at the vile injustices of the state, the doge admonishes her:
"That is not a Venetian thought" (II.i.276). Completely submissive to
the state apparatus and its dictates, he gives "deference due even to the
lightest word / That falls from those who rule in Venice" (IIi. 298-99).
  This philosophy, which insists upon the absolute subordination of
individuals to the state, though superficially noble, is dangerous and
potentially destructive. For what it means in practical terms is that
neither the doge nor anyone else is materially and morally responsible
for what the state does. By serving as willing "slaves" (IIi.-357) of
Venice and by "administer[ing] / My country faithfully" (I.i-369-70)
the Venetian ruling order is able to absolve itself of the moral burden of
dealing with and administering topeople. This logic, to be sure, allows
the state to expand and strengthen itself-"Under such laws, Venice /
Has risen to what she is" (II.i.400-401)-but only by setting up laws
and policies that excuse the doge and his fellow rulers from blame
for acts of human atrocity. The doge actively embraces and helps to
strengthen this system of personal irresponsibility by defining himself
as "more citizen than either" doge or father (I1.i.415). This cold reason-
ing allows him to accept Loredano's vindictive conduct as proper to
state business, and to see his own son as a "traitor" (II.i.38s) and a
"disgrace" (IIli.175). The elder Foscari reminds one of Blake's Urizen:



            The Dramas of Lord Byron / 169

he acts from what he considers to be noble and serious desires to create
and preserve "order," but his actions in reality are nonproductive and
contribute to the sum of human misery.
Byron's handling of the doge's character shows that the play is not
simply about personal allegiance either to Venice or toJacopo but about
skewed thinking, that is, thinking which is unable to acknowledge that
values rest as much in people as in ideas. The conflict of allegiances
exists because the doge has created it, along with others who think
like him. By attaching the doge to the matrix of Venetian ideology
and having him represent Venetian values, Byron assures that the play
is not primarily about private choices but about ways of perceiving
individuals and society. The Venice that the drama portrays does not
allow one to imagine that the doge could have resolved the conflict
by showing more sympathy for Jacopo, for we are faced throughout
the play with a dominant structure of values that makes no allowances
for its citizens. It is not the doge alone but the doge and the Venetian
network of power that would need to change in order to resolve the
conflict at the center of the dramatic action.
  Marina provides the key to the social perspective of the play, for
she consistently disentangles the confused logic and mistaken social
notions ofthe other major characters (the doge, Loredano, andJacopo).
Only she, for instance, recognizes the difference between people and
the state and understands the proper relation between them. Despite
the doge's objection that she "speaks wildly" (II.i.318) because of her
"clamorous grief" (II.i. 132), in fact, Marina provides a corrective to the
dominant attitude toward society and social responsibility and offers
the only balanced perspective in the play. She alone is fearless (II.i. 312)
before the state and its ministers; she alone sees through the oppressive
ways of the patricians.
  Her clear-sightedness is best illustrated in her ability to take the un-
questioned assumptions of the other characters and apply them to real
people and situations so that they become visible in practical terms. For
instance, when Memmo speaks of the ruling council's "duty" (I.i.261)
as a natural part of state matters, Marina points out to him, "'Tis their
duty / To trample on all human feelings, all / Ties which bind man
to man" (I.i.26r-63). Her exchanges with Loredano also show her
ability to define Venetian ideology in practical terms. When the patri-
cian visits Jacopo's dungeon cell Marina "let[s] him know / That he is
known" (III.i.267-68); that is, she shows that she does not confuse his


            The Dramas of Lord Byron / 169

he acts from what he considers to be noble and serious desires to create
and preserve "order," but his actions in reality are nonproductive and
contribute to the sum of human misery.
Byron's handling of the doge's character shows that the play is not
simply about personal allegiance either to Venice or toJacopo but about
skewed thinking, that is, thinking which is unable to acknowledge that
values rest as much in people as in ideas. The conflict of allegiances
exists because the doge has created it, along with others who think
like him. By attaching the doge to the matrix of Venetian ideology
and having him represent Venetian values, Byron assures that the play
is not primarily about private choices but about ways of perceiving
individuals and society. The Venice that the drama portrays does not
allow one to imagine that the doge could have resolved the conflict
by showing more sympathy for Jacopo, for we are faced throughout
the play with a dominant structure of values that makes no allowances
for its citizens. It is not the doge alone but the doge and the Venetian
network of power that would need to change in order to resolve the
conflict at the center of the dramatic action.
  Marina provides the key to the social perspective of the play, for
she consistently disentangles the confused logic and mistaken social
notions of the other major characters (the doge, Loredano, and Jacopo).
Only she, for instance, recognizes the difference between people and
the state and understands the proper relation between them. Despite
the doge's objection that she "speaks wildly" (II.i.318) because of her
"clamorous grief" (II.i. 132), in fact, Marina provides a corrective to the
dominant attitude toward society and social responsibility and offers
the only balanced perspective in the play. She alone is fearless (IL i. 3t2)
before the state and its ministers; she alone sees through the oppressive
ways of the patricians.
  Her clear-sightedness is best illustrated in her ability to take the un-
questioned assumptions of the other characters and apply them to real
people and situations so that they become visible in practical terms. For
instance, when Memmo speaks of the ruling council's "duty" (I.i.261)
as a natural part of state matters, Marina points out to him, "'Tis their
duty / To trample on all human feelings, all / Ties which bind man
to man" (I.i.26r-63). Her exchanges with Loredano also show her
ability to define Venetian ideology in practical terms. When the patri-
cian visits Jacopo's dungeon cell Marina "let[s] him know / That he is
known" (III.i.267-68); that is, she shows that she does not confuse his


            The Dramas of Lord Byron / 169

he acts from what he considers to be noble and serious desires to create
and preserve "order," but his actions in reality are nonproductive and
contribute to the sum of human misery.
Byron's handling of the doge's character shows that the play is not
simply about personal allegiance either to Venice or toJacopo but about
skewed thinking, that is, thinking which is unable to acknowledge that
values rest as much in people as in ideas. The conflict of allegiances
exists because the doge has created it, along with others who think
like him. By attaching the doge to the matrix of Venetian ideology
and having him represent Venetian values, Byron assures that the play
is not primarily about private choices but about ways of perceiving
individuals and society. The Venice that the drama portrays does not
allow one to imagine that the doge could have resolved the conflict
by showing more sympathy for Jacopo, for we are faced throughout
the play with a dominant structure of values that makes no allowances
for its citizens. It is not the doge alone but the doge and the Venetian
network of power that would need to change in order to resolve the
conflict at the center of the dramatic action.
  Marina provides the key to the social perspective of the play, for
she consistently disentangles the confused logic and mistaken social
notions ofthe other major characters (the doge, Loredano, and Jacopo).
Only she, for instance, recognizes the difference between people and
the state and understands the proper relation between them. Despite
the doge's objection that she "speaks wildly" (II.i.3t8) because of her
"clamorous grief" (IL.i.132), in fact, Marina provides a corrective to the
dominant attitude toward society and social responsibility and offers
the only balanced perspective in the play. She alone is fearless (ILi. 312)
before the state and its ministers; she alone sees through the oppressive
ways of the patricians.
  Her clear-sightedness is best illustrated in her ability to take the un-
questioned assumptions of the other characters and apply them to real
people and situations so that they become visible in practical terms. For
instance, when Memmo speaks of the ruling council's "duty" (I.i.261)
as a natural part of state matters, Marina points out to him, "'Tis their
duty / To trample on all human feelings, all / Ties which bind man
to man" (I.i.26t-63). Her exchanges with Loredano also show her
ability to define Venetian ideology in practical terms. When the patri-
cian visits Jacopo's dungeon cell Marina "let[s] him know / That he is
known" (IIIi. 267-68); that is, she shows that she does not confuse his



            170 / English Romantic Drama

"office" with his personal malice but understands that he is using one
to practice the other. Refusing to defer to his political position, she
launches a verbal attack that exposes both the real evil of his person
and of the Venetian power structure that he represents (III.i.a52-433).
The full extent of Marina's understanding emerges in her conver-
sation with the doge. With acuity and force she batters the "maxims"
(Il.i.300) that the doge and Venice live by, demonstrating how these
maxims have turned both individuals and the state into arch villains.
She maintains that the gross injustices visited on her husband have
their source not only in Venice but also in the doge. Again, the clarity
of her thinking rests in her refusal to subject herself blindly to Venetian
values and expectations. When the doge attempts to explain that she
cannot understand the workings of the state (II.i. 115), she retorts: "I
do-I do-and so should you, methinks- / That these are demons"
(II.i.116-17). The doge's remark had been the common one that those
who do not occupy a ruling position cannot understand the ways of
political power. This translates, of course, into an endorsement of mass
ignorance: it is the role of the citizenry (that is, everyone not in a posi-
tion of public authority) to be ruled, not to understand or question
the forces that rule them. Marina dashes the logic of this argument
by looking directly at people and their actions rather than at the great
mystery of the state and its power. She teaches the obstinate doge how
the political system works, showing him that underneath the exteri-
ors of noble Venetian precepts are to be found dishonor and malice:
"Venice is dishonoured; / ...'Tis ye who are all traitors, Tyrant!-ye!"
(II.i.164-67). Her viewpoint is explained best in her comment to the
doge that her thoughts are "human" rather than Venetian (II.i.277).
By refusing to accept a priori that Venetian structures of authority are
right and good, and by looking directly at the material relationships
between the people of Venice, she exposes the faults of the individuals
and power that rule the state.
The truth of Marina's assertion that Venetian ideology works
against the best interests of its citizens and, indeed, victimizes them, is
evident in the character ofJacopo who, from a purely dramatic point
of view, is perhaps the least satisfying character in the play." He seems
to possess an unnatural affection for a country bent on torturing him,
and, moreover, he is characterized by a melodramatic emotionalism
that compromises his believability. Still he is proof of the evils em-
bedded in the Venetian value system. His attachment to Venice shows


            17e / English Romantic Drama

"office" with his personal malice but understands that he is using one
to practice the other. Refusing to defer to his political position, she
launches a verbal attack that exposes both the real evil of his person
and of the Venetian power structure that he represents (111.1. 252-433).
The full extent of Marina's understanding emerges in her conver-
sation with the doge. With acuity and force she batters the "maxims"
(II.i.3oo) that the doge and Venice live by, demonstrating how these
maxims have turned both individuals and the state into arch villains.
She maintains that the gross injustices visited on her husband have
their source not only in Venice but also in the doge. Again, the clarity
of her thinking rests in her refusal to subject herself blindly to Venetian
values and expectations. When the doge attempts to explain that she
cannot understand the workings of the state (II.i. 115), she retorts: "I
do-I do-and so should you, methinks- / That these are demons"
(II.i.116-17). The doge's remark had been the common one that those
who do not occupy a ruling position cannot understand the ways of
political power. This translates, of course, into an endorsement of mass
ignorance: it is the role of the citizenry (that is, everyone not in a posi-
tion of public authority) to be ruled, not to understand or question
the forces that rule them. Marina dashes the logic of this argument
by looking directly at people and their actions rather than at the great
mystery of the state and its power. She teaches the obstinate doge how
the political system works, showing him that underneath the exteri-
ors of noble Venetian precepts are to be found dishonor and malice:
"Venice is dishonoured; / ...'Tis ye who are all traitors, Tyrant!-ye!"
(II.i.164-67). Her viewpoint is explained best in her comment to the
doge that her thoughts are "human" rather than Venetian (I.i.277).
By refusing to accept a priori that Venetian structures of authority are
right and good, and by looking directly at the material relationships
between the people of Venice, she exposes the faults of the individuals
and power that rule the state.
The truth of Marina's assertion that Venetian ideology works
against the best interests of its citizens and, indeed, victimizes them, is
evident in the character ofJacopo who, from a purely dramatic point
of view, is perhaps the least satisfying character in the play." He seems
to possess an unnatural affection for a country bent on torturing him,
and, moreover, he is characterized by a melodramatic emotionalism
that compromises his believability. Still he is proof of the evils em-
bedded in the Venetian value system. His attachment to Venice shows


            170 / English Romantic Drama

"office" with his personal malice but understands that he is using one
to practice the other. Refusing to defer to his political position, she
launches a verbal attack that exposes both the real evil of his person
and of the Venetian power structure that he represents (IlI.i.252-433).
The full extent of Marina's understanding emerges in her conver-
sation with the doge. With acuity and force she batters the "maxims"
(I.i-3oo) that the doge and Venice live by, demonstrating how these
maxims have turned both individuals and the state into arch villains.
She maintains that the gross injustices visited on her husband have
their source not only in Venice but also in the doge. Again, the clarity
of her thinking rests in her refusal to subject herself blindly to Venetian
values and expectations. When the doge attempts to explain that she
cannot understand the workings of the state (II.i.115), she retorts: "I
do-I do-and so should you, methinks- / That these are demons"
(II.i.116-17). The doge's remark had been the common one that those
who do not occupy a ruling position cannot understand the ways of
political power. This translates, of course, into an endorsement of mass
ignorance: it is the role of the citizenry (that is, everyone not in a posi-
tion of public authority) to be ruled, not to understand or question
the forces that rule them. Marina dashes the logic of this argument
by looking directly at people and their actions rather than at the great
mystery of the state and its power. She teaches the obstinate doge how
the political system works, showing him that underneath the exteri-
ors of noble Venetian precepts are to be found dishonor and malice:
"Venice is dishonoured; / ...'Tis ye who are all traitors, Tyrant!-ye!"
(II.i.164-67). Her viewpoint is explained best in her comment to the
doge that her thoughts are "human" rather than Venetian (Il.i.277).
By refusing to accept a priori that Venetian structures of authority are
right and good, and by looking directly at the material relationships
between the people of Venice, she exposes the faults of the individuals
and power that rule the state.
The truth of Marina's assertion that Venetian ideology works
against the best interests of its citizens and, indeed, victimizes them, is
evident in the character ofJacopo who, from a purely dramatic point
of view, is perhaps the least satisfying character in the play." He seems
to possess an unnatural affection for a country bent on torturing him,
and, moreover, he is characterized by a melodramatic emotionalism
that compromises his believability. Still he is proof of the evils em-
bedded in the Venetian value system. His attachment to Venice shows



            The Dramas of Lord Byron / 171

his need for society; as he explains to Marina: "[M]y soul is social"
(III.i. 109). More specifically, it shows the vital significance of place
in shaping his views of his personal identity and of the world. Venice
contains the materials of his experience and it contains his heritage,
and thus it provides the only context for whatever meaning his life
possesses. That Venice tortures him without regard to his innocence
or guilt5 substantiates Marina's claim that the state is "traitor" to its
citizens.
  The Two Foscari advances the social interests of Marino Faliero and
Sardanapalus by focusing more clearly on the relationship between indi-
viduals and the dominant ideology of their society. The social prob-
lems described in more or less general terms in the earlier dramas are
shown here to lie ultimately in rules, policies, and creeds that do not
properly acknowledge the passions and needs of individuals. As the
old doge realizes too late, the fault with Venice is that
    There's no people, you well know it,
    Else you dare not deal thus by them or me.
    There is a populace, perhaps, whose looks
    May shame you; but they dare not groan nor curse you,
    Save with their hearts and eyes. (V.i.257-6t)

Taken together, the history plays show Byron's attempt to cut through
the obvious and largely superficial explanations of why social injus-
tices exist and to uncover some of the more primary-and difficult-
causes. Marino Faliero, written first, is the least satisfying of these plays
because it turns on the easy assumption that an oppressive political
machine is solely responsible for the stifling social situation described
in the plot action, and that the overthrow of this machine is all that is
needed to create a better society. Only when the revolution fails does
it become apparent that social problems are not so easily explained or
resolved. Sardanapalus marks a step forward by illustrating that politi-
cal machinery provides only a partial explanation of social injustice;
individuals who serve in the power structure must be held equally ac-
countable. Finally, The Two Foscari attempts to show in greater detail
the precise relations between individual and state in order to suggest
that social problems arise often from the division of life into private
and public duties, which often are mutually exclusive. This gradually
sharpening perspective ofsocial reality overrides the purely political or
psychological elements in the plays and suggests that Byron's interest


            The Dramas of Lord Byron / 171

his need for society; as he explains to Marina: "[M]y soul is social"
(III.i. tog). More specifically, it shows the vital significance of place
in shaping his views of his personal identity and of the world. Venice
contains the materials of his experience and it contains his heritage,
and thus it provides the only context for whatever meaning his life
possesses. That Venice tortures him without regard to his innocence
or guilt5 substantiates Marina's claim that the state is "traitor" to its
citizens.
  The Two Foscari advances the social interests of Marino Faliero and
Sardanapalus by focusing more clearly on the relationship between indi-
viduals and the dominant ideology of their society. The social prob-
lems described in more or less general terms in the earlier dramas are
shown here to lie ultimately in rules, policies, and creeds that do not
properly acknowledge the passions and needs of individuals. As the
old doge realizes too late, the fault with Venice is that
    There's no people, you well know it,
    Else you dare not deal thus by them or me.
    There is a populace, perhaps, whose looks
    May shame you; but they dare not groan nor curse you,
    Save with their hearts and eyes. (V.i.257-61)

Taken together, the history plays show Byron's attempt to cut through
the obvious and largely superficial explanations of why social injus-
tices exist and to uncover some of the more primary-and difficult-
causes. Marino Faliero, written first, is the least satisfying of these plays
because it turns on the easy assumption that an oppressive political
machine is solely responsible for the stifling social situation described
in the plot action, and that the overthrow of this machine is all that is
needed to create a better society. Only when the revolution fails does
it become apparent that social problems are not so easily explained or
resolved. Sardanapalus marks a step forward by illustrating that politi-
cal machinery provides only a partial explanation of social injustice;
individuals who serve in the power structure must be held equally ac-
countable. Finally, The Two Foscari attempts to show in greater detail
the precise relations between individual and state in order to suggest
that social problems arise often from the division of life into private
and public duties, which often are mutually exclusive. This gradually
sharpening perspective ofsocial reality overrides the purely political or
psychological elements in the plays and suggests that Byron's interest


            The Dramas of Lord Byron / 171

his need for society; as he explains to Marina: "[M]y soul is social"
(III.i. tog). More specifically, it shows the vital significance of place
in shaping his views of his personal identity and of the world. Venice
contains the materials of his experience and it contains his heritage,
and thus it provides the only context for whatever meaning his life
possesses. That Venice tortures him without regard to his innocence
or guilt" substantiates Marina's claim that the state is "traitor" to its
citizens.
  The Two Foscari advances the social interests of Marino Faliero and
Sardanapalus by focusing more clearly on the relationship between indi-
viduals and the dominant ideology of their society. The social prob-
lems described in more or less general terms in the earlier dramas are
shown here to lie ultimately in rules, policies, and creeds that do not
properly acknowledge the passions and needs of individuals. As the
old doge realizes too late, the fault with Venice is that
    There's no people, you well know it,
    Else you dare not deal thus by them or me.
    There is a populace, perhaps, whose looks
    May shame you; but they dare not groan nor curse you,
    Save with their hearts and eyes. (V.i.257-61)

Taken together, the history plays show Byron's attempt to cut through
the obvious and largely superficial explanations of why social injus-
tices exist and to uncover some of the more primary-and difficult-
causes. Marino Faliero, written first, is the least satisfying of these plays
because it turns on the easy assumption that an oppressive political
machine is solely responsible for the stifling social situation described
in the plot action, and that the overthrow of this machine is all that is
needed to create a better society. Only when the revolution fails does
it become apparent that social problems are not so easily explained or
resolved. Sardanapalus marks a step forward by illustrating that politi-
cal machinery provides only a partial explanation of social injustice;
individuals who serve in the power structure must be held equally ac-
countable. Finally, The Two Foscari attempts to show in greater detail
the precise relations between individual and state in order to suggest
that social problems arise often from the division of life into private
and public duties, which often are mutually exclusive. This gradually
sharpening perspective of social reality overrides the purely political or
psychological elements in the plays and suggests that Byron's interest



172 / English Romantic Drama             172 / English Romantic Drama             172 / English Romantic Drama


was not simply in political structures, political actions, or in individual
characterizations, but rather in how the relations between and among
them make society what it is.
Another way of explaining the plays' social content is by looking
at the way Byron restricts and focuses his thematic concerns from
one play to the next in order to eliminate secondary considerations
and bring primary social questions into view. Marino Faliero's three
major themes-class allegiance, ideology, and political violence-too
numerous and too difficult to be treated effectively in a single histori-
cal drama, are presented indiscriminately as being equally important.
Sardanapalus attempts to alleviate this problem by minimizing the plot
significance of class and concentrating on ideology and violence. The
Two Foscari then focuses on the social content even further by omitting
violence (except as a minor issue) and examining ideology in detail.
This perhaps is a crude reduction of the plays' thematic interests, but
it nonetheless suggests their developing perception that one important
way to understand society is to understand the structures of value and
belief that govern it.
Perhaps the single greatest strength of the history plays is that they
refuse to offer quick and ready explanations of complicated social
issues. Their method is tentative, interrogative; they admit the reality
of social injustices, but they refuse to admit that simple-minded
notions of political revolution can by themselves lead to action capable
of alleviating these injustices, just as they refuse to admit that un-
critical commitment to existing social codes can make society better.
Their fundamental argument is that any positive action to improve
society must be accompanied by an understanding of a wide network
of social forces and energies. This understanding can best be achieved
by looking at the assumptions and beliefs that motivate certain kinds
of social action. In exploring these assumptions and beliefs the history
plays help to uncover problems with conventional social thinking,
point to reasons for social unrest, and provide a groundwork for social
involvement.

Heaven and Earth
The social perspective presented in the history plays is developed fur-
ther in Byron's two "mystery" plays, Cain (1821) and Heaven and Earth
(1823), which focus sharply on underlying structures of social au-
thority and value, and specifically on why and how social systems


was not simply in political structures, political actions, or in individual
characterizations, but rather in how the relations between and among
them make society what it is.
Another way of explaining the plays' social content is by looking
at the way Byron restricts and focuses his thematic concerns from
one play to the next in order to eliminate secondary considerations
and bring primary social questions into view. Marino Faliero's three
major themes-class allegiance, ideology, and political violence-too
numerous and too difficult to be treated effectively in a single histori-
cal drama, are presented indiscriminately as being equally important.
Sardanapalus attempts to alleviate this problem by minimizing the plot
significance of class and concentrating on ideology and violence. The
Two Foscari then focuses on the social content even further by omitting
violence (except as a minor issue) and examining ideology in detail.
This perhaps is a crude reduction of the plays' thematic interests, but
it nonetheless suggests their developing perception that one important
way to understand society is to understand the structures of value and
belief that govern it.
Perhaps the single greatest strength of the history plays is that they
refuse to offer quick and ready explanations of complicated social
issues. Their method is tentative, interrogative; they admit the reality
of social injustices, but they refuse to admit that simple-minded
notions of political revolution can by themselves lead to action capable
of alleviating these injustices, just as they refuse to admit that un-
critical commitment to existing social codes can make society better.
Their fundamental argument is that any positive action to improve
society must be accompanied by an understanding of a wide network
of social forces and energies. This understanding can best be achieved
by looking at the assumptions and beliefs that motivate certain kinds
of social action. In exploring these assumptions and beliefs the history
plays help to uncover problems with conventional social thinking,
point to reasons for social unrest, and provide a groundwork for social
involvement.

Heaven and Earth
The social perspective presented in the history plays is developed fur-
ther in Byron's two "mystery" plays, Cain (1821) and Heaven and Earth
(1823), which focus sharply on underlying structures of social au-
thority and value, and specifically on why and how social systems


was not simply in political structures, political actions, or in individual
characterizations, but rather in how the relations between and among
them make society what it is.
Another way of explaining the plays' social content is by looking
at the way Byron restricts and focuses his thematic concerns from
one play to the next in order to eliminate secondary considerations
and bring primary social questions into view. Marino Faliero's three
major themes-class allegiance, ideology, and political violence-too
numerous and too difficult to be treated effectively in a single histori-
cal drama, are presented indiscriminately as being equally important.
Sardanapalus attempts to alleviate this problem by minimizing the plot
significance of class and concentrating on ideology and violence. The
Two Foscari then focuses on the social content even further by omitting
violence (except as a minor issue) and examining ideology in detail.
This perhaps is a crude reduction of the plays' thematic interests, but
it nonetheless suggests their developing perception that one important
way to understand society is to understand the structures of value and
belief that govern it.
Perhaps the single greatest strength of the history plays is that they
refuse to offer quick and ready explanations of complicated social
issues. Their method is tentative, interrogative; they admit the reality
of social injustices, but they refuse to admit that simple-minded
notions of political revolution can by themselves lead to action capable
of alleviating these injustices, just as they refuse to admit that un-
critical commitment to existing social codes can make society better.
Their fundamental argument is that any positive action to improve
society must be accompanied by an understanding of a wide network
of social forces and energies. This understanding can best be achieved
by looking at the assumptions and beliefs that motivate certain kinds
of social action. In exploring these assumptions and beliefs the history
plays help to uncover problems with conventional social thinking,
point to reasons for social unrest, and provide a groundwork for social
involvement.

Heaven and Earth
The social perspective presented in the history plays is developed fur-
ther in Byron's two "mystery" plays, Cain (1821) and Heaven and Earth
(1823), which focus sharply on underlying structures of social au-
thority and value, and specifically on why and how social systems



ThIDamsVitoriBro 17                      Th DraasU odBrou7                        Th~I~U DrmslfLrdBrnp 7


of belief often create strife and unrest. Like Heaven and Earth, Cain is
not so much about theology as about what religion means in terms
of political and social reality. The play depicts a society built on a
religious foundation, allowing Byron to stress the way religion can
dictate society's conduct and outlook on life; every major character
except Cain submits unquestioningly to the sacred order that people
must toil, pray, sacrifice, and generally ignore the possibility of inde-
pendent human activity and dignity. Cain's unhappiness and restless
opposition to prevailing beliefs offer a vantage point from which to
examine the justice of a religious code that demands self-denial and to
measure religious values against the material situation in which they
find expression.
  Each act of the play treats an aspect of the social implications of
religion. Act I presents "the accepted social order,"" that is, the com-
bination of fundamental religious and political ingredients that make
Cain's society what it is. Cain at this point is not yet consciously rebel-
lious because he is as yet unsure about the source of his distress; but he
is alienated, torn by his inchoate sense that something is wrong with
what is described as God's order, and driven to question the values
that require his submission. The cosmic journey of Act II provides him
with a perspective that is larger than the narrowly ideological one ofhis
own society, enabling him to assess the way religion and society work
together to control people's thinking and behavior. The voyage shows
Cain both the insignificance of the world when measured against the
vastness of the universe, and-by revealing previous, greater races
than the human race-undercuts the assumption of humanity's central
role in God's scheme. Act III then returns Cain to the world, where
his frustration with the oppressive and evidently unjust "politics of
Paradise" (BLJ, 8:216) leads him to murder Abel. At every point the
drama makes the religious story bear on conventional assumptions
about individuals and society; it takes a hard and honest look at the
practical significance of a subject most people of Byron's day preferred
to regard as sacrosanct and to leave unconsidered; and he suggests that
social unrest often traces back to the system of values that motivates
human action. In short, the play indicates the social context in which
Byron had come to consider religion, and provides a firm foundation
for the questions he raises later in Heaven and Earth.'
  Heaven and Earth pursues many of the interests established in Cain.
The play describes both a ruling order and individual dissatisfaction


of belief often create strife and unrest. Like Heaven and Earth, Cain is
not so much about theology as about what religion means in terms
of political and social reality. The play depicts a society built on a
religious foundation, allowing Byron to stress the way religion can
dictate society's conduct and outlook on life; every major character
except Cain submits unquestioningly to the sacred order that people
must toil, pray, sacrifice, and generally ignore the possibility of inde-
pendent human activity and dignity. Cain's unhappiness and restless
opposition to prevailing beliefs offer a vantage point from which to
examine the justice of a religious code that demands self-denial and to
measure religious values against the material situation in which they
find expression.
  Each act of the play treats an aspect of the social implications of
religion. Act I presents "the accepted social order,"" that is, the com-
bination of fundamental religious and political ingredients that make
Cain's society what it is. Cain at this point is not yet consciously rebel-
lious because he is as yet unsure about the source of his distress; but he
is alienated, torn by his inchoate sense that something is wrong with
what is described as God's order, and driven to question the values
that require his submission. The cosmic journey of Act II provides him
with a perspective that is larger than the narrowly ideological one of his
own society, enabling him to assess the way religion and society work
together to control people's thinking and behavior. The voyage shows
Cain both the insignificance of the world when measured against the
vastness of the universe, and-by revealing previous, greater races
than the human race-undercuts the assumption of humanity's central
role in God's scheme. Act III then returns Cain to the world, where
his frustration with the oppressive and evidently unjust "politics of
Paradise" (BLJ, 8:216) leads him to murder Abel. At every point the
drama makes the religious story bear on conventional assumptions
about individuals and society; it takes a hard and honest look at the
practical significance of a subject most people of Byron's day preferred
to regard as sacrosanct and to leave unconsidered; and he suggests that
social unrest often traces back to the system of values that motivates
human action. In short, the play indicates the social context in which
Byron had come to consider religion, and provides a firm foundation
for the questions he raises later in Heaven and Earth.0
  Heaven and Earth pursues many of the interests established in Cain.
The play describes both a ruling order and individual dissatisfaction


of belief often create strife and unrest. Like Heaven and Earth, Cain is
not so much about theology as about what religion means in terms
of political and social reality. The play depicts a society built on a
religious foundation, allowing Byron to stress the way religion can
dictate society's conduct and outlook on life; every major character
except Cain submits unquestioningly to the sacred order that people
must toil, pray, sacrifice, and generally ignore the possibility of inde-
pendent human activity and dignity. Cain's unhappiness and restless
opposition to prevailing beliefs offer a vantage point from which to
examine thejustice of a religious code that demands self-denial and to
measure religious values against the material situation in which they
find expression.
  Each act of the play treats an aspect of the social implications of
religion. Act I presents "the accepted social order, "7 that is, the com-
bination of fundamental religious and political ingredients that make
Cain's society what it is. Cain at this point is not yet consciously rebel-
lious because he is as yet unsure about the source of his distress; but he
is alienated, torn by his inchoate sense that something is wrong with
what is described as God's order, and driven to question the values
that require his submission. The cosmicjourney of Act II provides him
with a perspective that is larger than the narrowly ideological one of his
own society, enabling him to assess the way religion and society work
together to control people's thinking and behavior. The voyage shows
Cain both the insignificance of the world when measured against the
vastness of the universe, and-by revealing previous, greater races
than the human race-undercuts the assumption of humanity's central
role in God's scheme. Act III then returns Cain to the world, where
his frustration with the oppressive and evidently unjust "politics of
Paradise" (BLJ, 8:216) leads him to murder Abel. At every point the
drama makes the religious story bear on conventional assumptions
about individuals and society; it takes a hard and honest look at the
practical significance of a subject most people of Byron's day preferred
to regard as sacrosanct and to leave unconsidered; and he suggests that
social unrest often traces back to the system of values that motivates
human action. In short, the play indicates the social context in which
Byron had come to consider religion, and provides a firm foundation
for the questions he raises later in Heaven and Earth.?
  Heaven and Earth pursues many of the interests established in Cain.
The play describes both a ruling order and individual dissatisfaction



174 / English Romantic Drama             174 / English Romantic Drama             174 / English Romantic Drama


with that order; it offers a perspective on social life that is not dic-
tated by the prevailing structures of social authority themselves; and
it presents an openly defiant reaction against the way society is set up.
But Heaven and Earth is more complex than Cain because it confuses
even further the issues of good and evil. Rather than having Lucifer
lure humanity into defiance of God's proclamations, Byron here has
God's own unfallen angels perform the deed; instead of having a tra-
ditional villain such as Cain question the laws of God and society,
Byron has one of the Elect-Japhet-do so; and rather than having the
defiant rebels punished by the Deluge, Byron allows them to escape
with God's legions-who become rebels to save them. These points
emphasize the drama's refusal to label values abstractly as sacred or
profane, and more importantly they suggest that a value system is logi-
cally subordinate to social circumstance: no predetermined structure
of values exists above and beyond society.
  As the patriarch of antediluvian society, Noah represents the con-
trolling orthodox attitude in the play; he embodies a set of idealistic
principles against which the other characters measure their individual
worth, needs, and desires. Noah believes that society is built upon
laws and morals handed down by God; they are not created by people.
In fact, he believes that people have no real control over the world in
which they live nor, indeed, any right to govern themselves. A person
gains social power, he believes, only when he is preordained (as Noah
himself has been) by God to voice the creator's wishes.
This outlook generates at least two disturbing practical conse-
quences. First, it promotes a rigidly authoritarian power structure
that uses religion tojustify political and social tyranny. By attributing
his power to God, Noah relieves himself of the human responsibility
attendant upon his position as a leader of people. As God's mouth-
piece he controls every facet of social conduct, not only sexual and
domestic habits but even geographical mobility. If individuals devi-
ate from accepted social norms Noah recalls them not by a threat of
physical punishment but by the stronger threat of God's vengeance.
To illustrate: Noah claims that his son, Japhet, has no business wan-
dering the Caucasus because "It is an evil spot" (II.91), nor any right
to seek Anah's love because she is "of a fated race" (1I.94); Japhet's
errant conduct in both cases is considered to be an affront to God,
and punishable by "doom" (III.466)? The sanctions are vague but


with that order; it offers a perspective on social life that is not dic-
tated by the prevailing structures of social authority themselves; and
it presents an openly defiant reaction against the way society is set up.
But Heaven and Earth is more complex than Cain because it confuses
even further the issues of good and evil. Rather than having Lucifer
lure humanity into defiance of God's proclamations, Byron here has
God's own unfallen angels perform the deed; instead of having a tra-
ditional villain such as Cain question the laws of God and society,
Byron has one of the Elect-Japhet-do so; and rather than having the
defiant rebels punished by the Deluge, Byron allows them to escape
with God's legions-who become rebels to save them. These points
emphasize the drama's refusal to label values abstractly as sacred or
profane, and more importantly they suggest that a value system is logi-
cally subordinate to social circumstance: no predetermined structure
of values exists above and beyond society.
As the patriarch of antediluvian society, Noah represents the con-
trolling orthodox attitude in the play; he embodies a set of idealistic
principles against which the other characters measure their individual
worth, needs, and desires. Noah believes that society is built upon
laws and morals handed down by God; they are not created by people.
In fact, he believes that people have no real control over the world in
which they live nor, indeed, any right to govern themselves. A person
gains social power, he believes, only when he is preordained (as Noah
himself has been) by God to voice the creator's wishes.
This outlook generates at least two disturbing practical conse-
quences. First, it promotes a rigidly authoritarian power structure
that uses religion to justify political and social tyranny. By attributing
his power to God, Noah relieves himself of the human responsibility
attendant upon his position as a leader of people. As God's mouth-
piece he controls every facet of social conduct, not only sexual and
domestic habits but even geographical mobility. If individuals devi-
ate from accepted social norms Noah recalls them not by a threat of
physical punishment but by the stronger threat of God's vengeance.
To illustrate: Noah claims that his son, Japhet, has no business wan-
dering the Caucasus because "It is an evil spot" (I1.91), nor any right
to seek Anah's love because she is "of a fated race" (I1.94); Japhet's
errant conduct in both cases is considered to be an affront to God,
and punishable by "doom" (III.466)? The sanctions are vague but


with that order; it offers a perspective on social life that is not dic-
tated by the prevailing structures of social authority themselves; and
it presents an openly defiant reaction against the way society is set up.
But Heaven and Earth is more complex than Cain because it confuses
even further the issues of good and evil. Rather than having Lucifer
lure humanity into defiance of God's proclamations, Byron here has
God's own unfallen angels perform the deed; instead of having a tra-
ditional villain such as Cain question the laws of God and society,
Byron has one of the Elect-Japhet-do so; and rather than having the
defiant rebels punished by the Deluge, Byron allows them to escape
with God's legions-who become rebels to save them. These points
emphasize the drama's refusal to label values abstractly as sacred or
profane, and more importantly they suggest that a value system is logi-
cally subordinate to social circumstance: no predetermined structure
of values exists above and beyond society.
As the patriarch of antediluvian society, Noah represents the con-
trolling orthodox attitude in the play; he embodies a set of idealistic
principles against which the other characters measure their individual
worth, needs, and desires. Noah believes that society is built upon
laws and morals handed down by God; they are not created by people.
In fact, he believes that people have no real control over the world in
which they live nor, indeed, any right to govern themselves. A person
gains social power, he believes, only when he is preordained (as Noah
himself has been) by God to voice the creator's wishes.
This outlook generates at least two disturbing practical conse-
quences. First, it promotes a rigidly authoritarian power structure
that uses religion to justify political and social tyranny. By attributing
his power to God, Noah relieves himself of the human responsibility
attendant upon his position as a leader of people. As God's mouth-
piece he controls every facet of social conduct, not only sexual and
domestic habits but even geographical mobility. If individuals devi-
ate from accepted social norms Noah recalls them not by a threat of
physical punishment but by the stronger threat of God's vengeance.
To illustrate: Noah claims that his son, Japhet, has no business wan-
dering the Caucasus because "It is an evil spot" (1I.91), nor any right
to seek Anah's love because she is "of a fated race" (11.94); Japhet's
errant conduct in both cases is considered to be an affront to God,
and punishable by "doom" (111.466)? The sanctions are vague but



TeDaaofLrByo/17                    TheDrmaZo LrdByo / 17                                                                                    Th Drma obfI M LodBro s 7


effectively intimidating, and they systematically overawe the sensual
through their reference to the sacred.
  A second, more disturbing consequence of Noah's Calvinist under-
standing of social power is that it deadens human sympathy for indi-
vidual people and endorses a vicious drive for self-preservation at the
expense of others. Noah shows no compassion for the daughters of
Cain; he is willing, even eager, to see them destroyed by the flood. And
he warns Japhet to dismiss them also. Noah states that ifJaphet hopes
to survive the impending flood he must "forget / That [the daughters
of Cain] exist" (111.495-96). The selfishness inherent in Noah's power
is displayed even more bluntly when it becomes evident that he is will-
ing not only to let the daughters of Cain die but also to let his own son
die for loving Anah, despite his commands that Japhet abandon her:

           Then die
           With them!
           How darest thou look on that prophetic sky,
           And seek to save what all things now condemn,
           In overwhelming unison
           With just Jehovah's wrath! (111.756-61)

   Noah's power rests not only on his ability to convince society that
he is administering God's wishes but also on his ability to keep indi-
viduals fixed in their assigned social positions. The importance of
social stratification to Noah's rule is presented most clearly in the
Caucasus scene, which brings together the range of characters repre-
senting antediluvian society: Japhet, the tempted son who must be
recalled to the moral norms of society so that eventually he can in-
herit his father's power; Anah and Aholibamah, the temptresses who
defy Noah's power, both by luring Japhet away from his father and
by consorting with beings beyond Noah's control; the angels, overt
representatives of religion and explicit justification for Noah's power;
and later Noah himself, the exemplar of proper conduct within the
prevailing social order. Noah's frantic response to these characters col-
lected together, exchanging ideas openly without any apparent regard
for their appointed social positions, suggests the important role hier-
archy plays in maintaining the social order over which he rules. He
angrily reminds the others of their proper stations, threatening them
with God's vengeance if they continue to violate the decreed order. He


effectively intimidating, and they systematically overawe the sensual
through their reference to the sacred.
  A second, more disturbing consequence of Noah's Calvinist under-
standing of social power is that it deadens human sympathy for indi-
vidual people and endorses a vicious drive for self-preservation at the
expense of others. Noah shows no compassion for the daughters of
Cain; he is willing, even eager, to see them destroyed by the flood. And
he warns Japhet to dismiss them also. Noah states that ifjaphet hopes
to survive the impending flood he must "forget / That [the daughters
of Cain] exist" (II1.495-96). The selfishness inherent in Noah's power
is displayed even more bluntly when it becomes evident that he is will-
ing not only to let the daughters of Cain die but also to let his own son
die for loving Anah, despite his commands that Japhet abandon her:
           Then die
           With them!
           How darest thou look on that prophetic sky,
           And seek to save what all things now condemn,
           In overwhelming unison
           With just Jehovah's wrath! (II.756-61)

   Noah's power rests not only on his ability to convince society that
he is administering God's wishes but also on his ability to keep indi-
viduals fixed in their assigned social positions. The importance of
social stratification to Noah's rule is presented most clearly in the
Caucasus scene, which brings together the range of characters repre-
senting antediluvian society: Japhet, the tempted son who must be
recalled to the moral norms of society so that eventually he can in-
herit his father's power; Anah and Aholibamah, the temptresses who
defy Noah's power, both by luring Japhet away from his father and
by consorting with beings beyond Noah's control; the angels, overt
representatives of religion and explicit justification for Noah's power;
and later Noah himself, the exemplar of proper conduct within the
prevailing social order. Noah's frantic response to these characters col-
lected together, exchanging ideas openly without any apparent regard
for their appointed social positions, suggests the important role hier-
archy plays in maintaining the social order over which he rules. He
angrily reminds the others of their proper stations, threatening them
with God's vengeance if they continue to violate the decreed order. He


effectively intimidating, and they systematically overawe the sensual
through their reference to the sacred.
  A second, more disturbing consequence of Noah's Calvinist under-
standing of social power is that it deadens human sympathy for indi-
vidual people and endorses a vicious drive for self-preservation at the
expense of others. Noah shows no compassion for the daughters of
Cain; he is willing, even eager, to see them destroyed by the flood. And
he warns Japhet to dismiss them also. Noah states that ifJaphet hopes
to survive the impending flood he must "forget / That [the daughters
of Cain] exist" (II1.495-96). The selfishness inherent in Noah's power
is displayed even more bluntly when it becomes evident that he is will-
ing not only to let the daughters of Cain die but also to let his own son
die for loving Anah, despite his commands that Japhet abandon her:
           Then die
           With them!
           How darest thou look on that prophetic sky,
           And seek to save what all things now condemn,
           In overwhelming unison
           With just Jehovah's wrath! (III.756-61)

   Noah's power rests not only on his ability to convince society that
he is administering God's wishes but also on his ability to keep indi-
viduals fixed in their assigned social positions. The importance of
social stratification to Noah's rule is presented most clearly in the
Caucasus scene, which brings together the range of characters repre-
senting antediluvian society: Japhet, the tempted son who must be
recalled to the moral norms of society so that eventually he can in-
herit his father's power; Anah and Aholibamah, the temptresses who
defy Noah's power, both by luring Japhet away from his father and
by consorting with beings beyond Noah's control; the angels, overt
representatives of religion and explicit justification for Noah's power;
and later Noah himself, the exemplar of proper conduct within the
prevailing social order. Noah's frantic response to these characters col-
lected together, exchanging ideas openly without any apparent regard
for their appointed social positions, suggests the important role hier-
archy plays in maintaining the social order over which he rules. He
angrily reminds the others of their proper stations, threatening them
with God's vengeance if they continue to violate the decreed order. He



176 / English Romantic Drama             176 / English Romantic Drama             176 / English Romantic Drama


describes Anah and Aholibamah as "children of the wicked" (II. 465)
who deserve no human sympathy; he insists that the angels belong
in heaven, not in the daily routines of society: "Has not God made a
barrier between Earth / And Heaven, and limited each, kind to kind?"
(111.475-76). He reminds Japhet that he is better than his associates,
and that if he is to be assured of future social and sacred favors he must
forego such unseemly company (I11.494-98).
Plainly, Noah's heated, politically motivated commands-which
go so far as to call God's angels themselves into question for intrud-
ing uninvited into the world-illuminate the requisites of the power
he wields: the regimentation of individuals, the snuffing of any pos-
sible opposition before it can solidify, and a single authoritarian ruling
voice. Moreover, his comments reveal once more the way religion can
be used to strengthen political authority: Noah justifies the division of
society not in terms of his personal aspirations to rule the world but
rather in terms of God's orders. These points not only show the close
connection between Noah's religion and politics but also suggest the
inhumanity and injustice at the heart of his religious beliefs.
One of the ways Byron makes the play's social theme more com-
plex than in Cain is by having Japhet-traditionally associated with
unquestioning conformity to God's commands-express many of the
same social and religious doubts that Cain had expressed in the earlier
mystery play. Japhet is alienated from the blind movements of society,
he is expressly unhappy, and he questions many of society's accepted
values. Although his immediate cause for distress is Anah's lack of
interest in him, he is disturbed also because his personal and emo-
tional needs cannot be satisfied within the scope of Noah's power. He
is told bluntly (111.464-66) that Anah is off-limits to him because she
is wicked and thus unacceptable to both Noah and to God. Compared
with the ringing finality of this pronouncement, it actually matters
little whether Anah loves him.
  Further, Japhet is bothered not only by his private difficulties with
Noah and God but also by the impending flood, which he doubts can
bejustified, even by God. If his initial prayer to God to preserve Anah
(1I.74-75) suggests his desire for a single exception to God's will rather
than his discontent with the decree that everyone shall die, his later
sympathy for all people doomed to die and his questioning of the logic
and virtue of God's plans show a more general concern for humanity
and a profound dissatisfaction with God's law:


describes Anah and Aholibamah as "children of the wicked" (111.465)
who deserve no human sympathy; he insists that the angels belong
in heaven, not in the daily routines of society: "Has not God made a
barrier between Earth / And Heaven, and limited each, kind to kind?"
(II1.475-76). He reminds Japhet that he is better than his associates,
and that if he is to be assured of future social and sacred favors he must
forego such unseemly company (I11.494-98).
Plainly, Noah's heated, politically motivated commands-which
go so far as to call God's angels themselves into question for intrud-
ing uninvited into the world-illuminate the requisites of the power
he wields: the regimentation of individuals, the snuffing of any pos-
sible opposition before it can solidify, and a single authoritarian ruling
voice. Moreover, his comments reveal once more the way religion can
be used to strengthen political authority: Noah justifies the division of
society not in terms of his personal aspirations to rule the world but
rather in terms of God's orders. These points not only show the close
connection between Noah's religion and politics but also suggest the
inhumanity and injustice at the heart of his religious beliefs.
One of the ways Byron makes the play's social theme more com-
plex than in Cain is by having Japhet-traditionally associated with
unquestioning conformity to God's commands-express many of the
same social and religious doubts that Cain had expressed in the earlier
mystery play. Japhet is alienated from the blind movements of society,
he is expressly unhappy, and he questions many of society's accepted
values. Although his immediate cause for distress is Anah's lack of
interest in him, he is disturbed also because his personal and emo-
tional needs cannot be satisfied within the scope of Noah's power. He
is told bluntly (I11.464-66) that Anah is off-limits to him because she
is wicked and thus unacceptable to both Noah and to God. Compared
with the ringing finality of this pronouncement, it actually matters
little whether Anah loves him.
Further, Japhet is bothered not only by his private difficulties with
Noah and God but also by the impending flood, which he doubts can
be justified, even by God. If his initial prayer to God to preserve Anah
(II.74-75) suggests his desire for a single exception to God's will rather
than his discontent with the decree that everyone shall die, his later
sympathy for all people doomed to die and his questioning of the logic
and virtue of God's plans show a more general concern for humanity
and a profound dissatisfaction with God's law:


describes Anah and Aholibamah as "children of the wicked" (111.465)
who deserve no human sympathy; he insists that the angels belong
in heaven, not in the daily routines of society: "Has not God made a
barrier between Earth / And Heaven, and limited each, kind to kind?"
(111.475-76). He reminds Japhet that he is better than his associates,
and that if he is to be assured of future social and sacred favors he must
forego such unseemly company (111.494-98).
Plainly, Noah's heated, politically motivated commands-which
go so far as to call God's angels themselves into question for intrud-
ing uninvited into the world-illuminate the requisites of the power
he wields: the regimentation of individuals, the snuffing of any pos-
sible opposition before it can solidify, and a single authoritarian ruling
voice. Moreover, his comments reveal once more the way religion can
be used to strengthen political authority: Noah justifies the division of
society not in terms of his personal aspirations to rule the world but
rather in terms of God's orders. These points not only show the close
connection between Noah's religion and politics but also suggest the
inhumanity and injustice at the heart of his religious beliefs.
One of the ways Byron makes the play's social theme more com-
plex than in Cain is by having Japhet-traditionally associated with
unquestioning conformity to God's commands-express many of the
same social and religious doubts that Cain had expressed in the earlier
mystery play. Japhet is alienated from the blind movements of society,
he is expressly unhappy, and he questions many of society's accepted
values. Although his immediate cause for distress is Anah's lack of
interest in him, he is disturbed also because his personal and emo-
tional needs cannot be satisfied within the scope of Noah's power. He
is told bluntly (111.464-66) that Anah is off-limits to him because she
is wicked and thus unacceptable to both Noah and to God. Compared
with the ringing finality of this pronouncement, it actually matters
little whether Anah loves him.
  Further, Japhet is bothered not only by his private difficulties with
Noah and God but also by the impending flood, which he doubts can
bejustified, even by God. If his initial prayer to God to preserve Anah
(11.74-75) suggests his desire for a single exception to God's will rather
than his discontent with the decree that everyone shall die, his later
sympathy for all people doomed to die and his questioning of the logic
and virtue of God's plans show a more general concern for humanity
and a profound dissatisfaction with God's law:



                     The Dramas of Lord Byron / 177

              My kinsmen,
              Alas! what am I better than ye are,
              That I must live beyond ye?

              Can we in Desolation's peace have rest?
              Oh God! be thou a God, and spare
              Yet while 'tis time. (Ill. 16-18, 703-5)

Japhet's position here recalls the defiant Cain boldly defending what he
instinctively knows to be humanly right; he tells Noah that he would
have his lot with humanity: "Let me die with this, and them" (111.498).
   Unlike Cain, however, Japhet's gnawing sense of injustice in the
world is outweighed by the heavy hand of religious and social au-
thority, and thus he never openly breaks with society. He is a potential
son of Cain in his unrest and doubt that willful harm-even if it is
decreed by God-to humanity can be good, but he does not have
the courage to side with Anah (though he loves her) in opposition to
Noah and God. Traditional attitudes eventually control his thinking
and weaken his independence until finally he succumbs to his father's
obviously unsatisfactory explanation that God's tightening hold on the
human race is necessary because "The Earth's grown wicked" (II.65),
and he denies his own power to alleviate injustice (III. 51). He expresses
his rejection of the freedom that had attracted him and, by implica-
tion, his acceptance, finally, of Noah's authority when he learns that
Anah is consorting with angels:

              [U]nions like to these,
              Between a mortal and an immortal, cannot
              Be happy or be hallowed. We are sent
              Upon the earth to toil and die; and they
              Are made to minister on high unto
              The Highest. (Ill.369-74)

 This passage echoes Noah's law that humanity's role is to "die when he
 [God] ordains, / A righteous death" (III.687-88), and indicates Japhet's
 inability to stand against the controlling codes of social and religious
 conduct. Pressed to choose between open defiance and reluctant sub-
 mission, Japhet cannot sustain the Cain-like posture, which at various
 moments he seems to embrace, because underneath his outward dis-
 content he is afraid not to believe Noah's maxim that to "Be a man"


                    The Dramas of Lard Byron / 177

             My kinsmen,
             Alas! what am I better than ye are,
             That I must live beyond ye?

             Can we in Desolation's peace have rest?
             Oh God! be thou a God, and spare
             Yet while 'tis time. (11I. 16-18, 703-5)

Japhet's position here recalls the defiant Cain boldly defending what he
instinctively knows to be humanly right; he tells Noah that he would
have his lot with humanity: "Let me die with this, and them" (III.498).
   Unlike Cain, however, Japhet's gnawing sense of injustice in the
world is outweighed by the heavy hand of religious and social au-
thority, and thus he never openly breaks with society. He is a potential
son of Cain in his unrest and doubt that willful harm-even if it is
decreed by God-to humanity can be good, but he does not have
the courage to side with Anah (though he loves her) in opposition to
Noah and God. Traditional attitudes eventually control his thinking
and weaken his independence until finally he succumbs to his father's
obviously unsatisfactory explanation that God's tightening hold on the
human race is necessary because "The Earth's grown wicked" (I1.65),
and he denies his own power to alleviate injustice (1II.51). He expresses
his rejection of the freedom that had attracted him and, by implica-
tion, his acceptance, finally, of Noah's authority when he learns that
Anah is consorting with angels:

              [U]nions like to these,
              Between a mortal and an immortal, cannot
              Be happy or be hallowed. We are sent
              Upon the earth to toil and die; and they
              Are made to minister on high unto
              The Highest. (111 369-74)

 This passage echoes Noah's law that humanity's role is to "die when he
 [God] ordains, / A righteous death" (1I1.687-88), and indicates Japhet's
 inability to stand against the controlling codes of social and religious
 conduct. Pressed to choose between open defiance and reluctant sub-
 mission, Japhet cannot sustain the Cain-like posture, which at various
 moments he seems to embrace, because underneath his outward dis-
 content he is afraid not to believe Noah's maxim that to "Be a man"


                     The Dramas of Lord Byron / 177

             My kinsmen,
             Alas! what am I better than ye are,
             That I must live beyond ye?

             Can we in Desolation's peace have rest?
             Oh God! be thou a God, and spare
             Yet while 'tis time. (Ill. 16-18, 703-5)

Japhet's position here recalls the defiant Cain boldly defending what he
instinctively knows to be humanly right; he tells Noah that he would
have his lot with humanity: "Let me die with this, and thetm" (II1.498).
   Unlike Cain, however, Japhet's gnawing sense of injustice in the
world is outweighed by the heavy hand of religious and social au-
thority, and thus he never openly breaks with society. He is a potential
son of Cain in his unrest and doubt that willful harm-even if it is
decreed by God-to humanity can be good, but he does not have
the courage to side with Anah (though he loves her) in opposition to
Noah and God. Traditional attitudes eventually control his thinking
and weaken his independence until finally he succumbs to his father's
obviously unsatisfactory explanation that God's tightening hold on the
human race is necessary because "The Earth's grown wicked" (II.65),
and he denies his own power to alleviate injustice (1II.51). He expresses
his rejection of the freedom that had attracted him and, by implica-
tion, his acceptance, finally, of Noah's authority when he learns that
Anah is consorting with angels:

              [U]nions like to these,
              Between a mortal and an immortal, cannot
              Be happy or be hallowed. We are sent
              Upon the earth to toil and die; and they
              Are made to minister on high unto
              The Highest. (111.369-74)

 This passage echoes Noah's law that humanity's role is to "die when he
 [God] ordains, / A righteous death" (III.687-88), and indicates Japhet's
 inability to stand against the controlling codes of social and religious
 conduct. Pressed to choose between open defiance and reluctant sub-
 mission, Japhet cannot sustain the Cain-like posture, which at various
 moments he seems to embrace, because underneath his outward dis-
 content he is afraid not to believe Noah's maxim that to "Be a man"



17   lis Roani    Dram                                                  17 /I Enls  oatcDaa18/EgihRmni                                                             rm


(I11.694) means to submit to the dictates of God and society. Still,
though he submits, he does point up in his final question the chilling
irony of this great system of cosmic and social order that divides indi-
viduals from their fellow beings: "Why, when all perish, why must I
remain?" (III.929). s
   Anah and Aholibamah reveal more explicitly the problems em-
bedded in antediluvian society by openly testing and challenging the
combined religious and political forces that control their world. Al-
though they display opposite personalities-Anah is introspective,
sensitive, and submissive, while her sister is proud, defiant, and caus-
tic-still they both embody the orthodox idea of human evil and
both are equally condemned by Noah and God. Aholibamah claims
that her spirit, "though forbidden yet to shine" (I.104), demands freer
movement than orthodox attitudes and authority permit; in fact, her
confidence in her independent strength not only manifests itself in
contempt for Noah's power but even prompts her to exhort angels to
"Descend and share my lot" (I.96). The gentle Anah expresses with
less assurance and vigor essentially the same radical sentiments as her
sister. While lamenting that in the world's present condition "Delight
[is] / An Eden kept afar from sight" (1.72-73), she also implies at the
same time in her patient longing for the angel Azaziel that she intends
to find what pleasures she can, despite Noah and God. Her timidity
and her natural trepidation notwithstanding (see, for instance, 1. 139),
Anah shares her sister's dogged opposition to Noah's authority and to
the existing social order.
   Their nonconformity is revealed clearly in their relationship with
the angels. This relationship not only exemplifies their decided refusal
to accept without question Noah's commands: it furnishes them with
a larger perspective of reality than Noah wants to allow individuals,
and thus challenges the absolutism of his political power. Moreover,
it implies their denial of God's cosmic scheme. Anah and Aholibamah
believe in a reality beyond the authoritarian rule that now controls
the world; they believe in a human spirit that (they feel) has been
smothered unjustly by existing laws and structures of value. Their
union with angels manifests these beliefs and actualizes their hatred
of the unnecessary and unjust restrictions which govern antediluvian
society.
   The social relevance of their affair with the angels crystallizes in
Aholibamah's exchange with Japhet, who, though frustrated with


(II1.694) means to submit to the dictates of God and society. Still,
though he submits, he does point up in his final question the chilling
irony of this great system of cosmic and social order that divides indi-
viduals from their fellow beings: "Why, when all perish, why must I
remain?" (I1I.929)."
   Anah and Aholibamah reveal more explicitly the problems em-
bedded in antediluvian society by openly testing and challenging the
combined religious and political forces that control their world. Al-
though they display opposite personalities-Anah is introspective,
sensitive, and submissive, while her sister is proud, defiant, and caus-
tic-still they both embody the orthodox idea of human evil and
both are equally condemned by Noah and God. Aholibamah claims
that her spirit, "though forbidden yet to shine" (1.104), demands freer
movement than orthodox attitudes and authority permit; in fact, her
confidence in her independent strength not only manifests itself in
contempt for Noah's power but even prompts her to exhort angels to
"Descend and share my lot" (1.96). The gentle Anah expresses with
less assurance and vigor essentially the same radical sentiments as her
sister. While lamenting that in the world's present condition "Delight
[is] / An Eden kept afar from sight" (I.72-73), she also implies at the
same time in her patient longing for the angel Azaziel that she intends
to find what pleasures she can, despite Noah and God. Her timidity
and her natural trepidation notwithstanding (see, for instance, 1. 139),
Anah shares her sister's dogged opposition to Noah's authority and to
the existing social order.
   Their nonconformity is revealed clearly in their relationship with
the angels. This relationship not only exemplifies their decided refusal
to accept without question Noah's commands: it furnishes them with
a larger perspective of reality than Noah wants to allow individuals,
and thus challenges the absolutism of his political power. Moreover,
it implies their denial of God's cosmic scheme. Anah and Aholibamah
believe in a reality beyond the authoritarian rule that now controls
the world; they believe in a human spirit that (they feel) has been
smothered unjustly by existing laws and structures of value. Their
union with angels manifests these beliefs and actualizes their hatred
of the unnecessary and unjust restrictions which govern antediluvian
society.
   The social relevance of their affair with the angels crystallizes in
Aholibamah's exchange with Japhet, who, though frustrated with


(III.694) means to submit to the dictates of God and society. Still,
though he submits, he does point up in his final question the chilling
irony of this great system of cosmic and social order that divides indi-
viduals from their fellow beings: "Why, when all perish, why must I
remain?" (III.929)0
  Anah and Aholibamah reveal more explicitly the problems em-
bedded in antediluvian society by openly testing and challenging the
combined religious and political forces that control their world. Al-
though they display opposite personalities-Anah is introspective,
sensitive, and submissive, while her sister is proud, defiant, and caus-
tic-still they both embody the orthodox idea of human evil and
both are equally condemned by Noah and God. Aholibamah claims
that her spirit, "though forbidden yet to shine" (1. 104), demands freer
movement than orthodox attitudes and authority permit; in fact, her
confidence in her independent strength not only manifests itself in
contempt for Noah's power but even prompts her to exhort angels to
"Descend and share my lot" (I.96). The gentle Anah expresses with
less assurance and vigor essentially the same radical sentiments as her
sister. While lamenting that in the world's present condition "Delight
[is] / An Eden kept afar from sight" (I.72-73), she also implies at the
same time in her patient longing for the angel Azaziel that she intends
to find what pleasures she can, despite Noah and God. Her timidity
and her natural trepidation notwithstanding (see, for instance, I.139),
Anah shares her sister's dogged opposition to Noah's authority and to
the existing social order.
  Their nonconformity is revealed clearly in their relationship with
the angels. This relationship not only exemplifies their decided refusal
to accept without question Noah's commands: it furnishes them with
a larger perspective of reality than Noah wants to allow individuals,
and thus challenges the absolutism of his political power. Moreover,
it implies their denial of God's cosmic scheme. Anah and Aholibamah
believe in a reality beyond the authoritarian rule that now controls
the world; they believe in a human spirit that (they feel) has been
smothered unjustly by existing laws and structures of value. Their
union with angels manifests these beliefs and actualizes their hatred
of the unnecessary and unjust restrictions which govern antediluvian
society.
   The social relevance of their affair with the angels crystallizes in
Aholibamah's exchange with Japhet, who, though frustrated with



Th Dram s   odUyo / 17 hirmsifLr                                                      yo /bVI t 17                                          The DramasiLodByo / 17


Noah and God, finds himself making a clumsy effort to defend the way
the world is against what Aholibamah says it can be. The awkwardness
of his position highlights the inconsistencies rooted in orthodoxy. For
example, he defends his father's willing participation in the impend-
ing destruction of humanity as both "well-doing" and "Righteous"
(111.381-82). This statement alone perhaps would not show Japhet in
such a bad light, but he follows it with a desperate pronouncement of
his love for the clearly wicked Anah, which pathetically demonstrates
his dissatisfaction with Noah's "well-doing" and "righteous" ways by
betraying his sincere longing for things expressly forbidden by Noah.
Worse, like Byron's heroes in the Eastern Tales, he rationalizes his love
for Anah by deluding himself as to her real standing in the world: "My
Anah! / Thou who dost rather make me dream that Abel / Had left
a daughter" (111.402-4). Aholibamah recognizes the inconsistencies in
Japhet's comments and condemns his spoutings as unhealthy and de-
structive hypocrisy: "Get thee hence, son of Noah; thou makest strife"
(I11.411). She knows that his attitude-less polished but essentially the
same as his father's-allows religious fear to fasten unjust authoritari-
anism and hierarchy on the human race. The clearest material example
of the fear that governs his thinking is the ark, which Aholibamah
holds up to him as "The bugbear . .. built to scare the world" (111.443)
into doing what Noah says. Japhet's bumbling exchange with Aholi-
bamah points up the social injustice at the heart of Noah's political and
religious system and, more significantly, explains the importance of
the angel-mortal union as a means of combating Noah's authoritarian
politics.
   Taken together, the various characterizations suggest the drama's
twofold interest. First, it shows the way society's religious foundation
dictates humanity's outlook on life. The dominant social order of the
play echoes that which Byron had presented in Cain: it is a paternalis-
tic, restrictive, and authoritarian order that Noah commands as God's
regent; it focuses on submission as the central human virtue and thus
at least seems to work against the better interests of people. In short,
Noah's pact with heaven creates tyranny. This is shown in the flood,
which in the context of the play does not so much represent God's
cleansing of the earth as the extreme practical consequence of Noah's
social philosophy. As the flood gains momentum, doomed humanity
repeats Aholibamah's bitter claim that "heaven and earth unite / For
the annihilation of all life" (III.770-71; see also 1I1.795-96, 840-43).


Noah and God, finds himself making a clumsy effort to defend the way
the world is against what Aholibamah says it can be. The awkwardness
of his position highlights the inconsistencies rooted in orthodoxy. For
example, he defends his father's willing participation in the impend-
ing destruction of humanity as both "well-doing" and "Righteous"
(III.381-82). This statement alone perhaps would not show Japhet in
such a bad light, but he follows it with a desperate pronouncement of
his love for the clearly wicked Anah, which pathetically demonstrates
his dissatisfaction with Noah's "well-doing" and "righteous" ways by
betraying his sincere longing for things expressly forbidden by Noah.
Worse, like Byron's heroes in the Eastern Tales, he rationalizes his love
for Anah by deluding himself as to her real standing in the world: "My
Anah! / Thou who dost rather make me dream that Abel / Had left
a daughter" (I11.402-4). Aholibamah recognizes the inconsistencies in
Japhet's comments and condemns his spoutings as unhealthy and de-
structive hypocrisy: "Get thee hence, son of Noah; thou makest strife"
(I11.411). She knows that his attitude-less polished but essentially the
same as his father's-allows religious fear to fasten unjust authoritari-
anism and hierarchy on the human race. The clearest material example
of the fear that governs his thinking is the ark, which Aholibamah
holds up to him as "The bugbear . .. built to scare the world" (III.443)
into doing what Noah says. Japhet's bumbling exchange with Aholi-
bamah points up the social injustice at the heart of Noah's political and
religious system and, more significantly, explains the importance of
the angel-mortal union as a means of combating Noah's authoritarian
politics.
   Taken together, the various characterizations suggest the drama's
twofold interest. First, it shows the way society's religious foundation
dictates humanity's outlook on life. The dominant social order of the
play echoes that which Byron had presented in Cain: it is a paternalis-
tic, restrictive, and authoritarian order that Noah commands as God's
regent; it focuses on submission as the central human virtue and thus
at least seems to work against the better interests of people. In short,
Noah's pact with heaven creates tyranny. This is shown in the flood,
which in the context of the play does not so much represent God's
cleansing of the earth as the extreme practical consequence of Noah's
social philosophy. As the flood gains momentum, doomed humanity
repeats Aholibamah's bitter claim that "heaven and earth unite / For
the annihilation of all life" (III.770-71; see also II1-795-96, 840-43).


Noah and God, finds himself making a clumsy effort to defend the way
the world is against what Aholibamah says it can be. The awkwardness
of his position highlights the inconsistencies rooted in orthodoxy. For
example, he defends his father's willing participation in the impend-
ing destruction of humanity as both "well-doing" and "Righteous"
(III.381-82). This statement alone perhaps would not show Japhet in
such a bad light, but he follows it with a desperate pronouncement of
his love for the clearly wicked Anah, which pathetically demonstrates
his dissatisfaction with Noah's "well-doing" and "righteous" ways by
betraying his sincere longing for things expressly forbidden by Noah.
Worse, like Byron's heroes in the Eastern Tales, he rationalizes his love
for Anah by deluding himself as to her real standing in the world: "My
Anah! / Thou who dost rather make me dream that Abel / Had left
a daughter" (II1.402-4). Aholibamah recognizes the inconsistencies in
Japhet's comments and condemns his spoutings as unhealthy and de-
structive hypocrisy: "Get thee hence, son of Noah; thou makest strife"
(III.411). She knows that his attitude-less polished but essentially the
same as his father's-allows religious fear to fasten unjust authoritari-
anism and hierarchy on the human race. The clearest material example
of the fear that governs his thinking is the ark, which Aholibamah
holds up to him as "The bugbear . .. built to scare the world" (III.443)
into doing what Noah says. Japhet's bumbling exchange with Aholi-
bamah points up the social injustice at the heart of Noah's political and
religious system and, more significantly, explains the importance of
the angel-mortal union as a means of combating Noah's authoritarian
politics.
   Taken together, the various characterizations suggest the drama's
twofold interest. First, it shows the way society's religious foundation
dictates humanity's outlook on life. The dominant social order of the
play echoes that which Byron had presented in Cain: it is a paternalis-
tic, restrictive, and authoritarian order that Noah commands as God's
regent; it focuses on submission as the central human virtue and thus
at least seems to work against the better interests of people. In short,
Noah's pact with heaven creates tyranny. This is shown in the flood,
which in the context of the play does not so much represent God's
cleansing of the earth as the extreme practical consequence of Noah's
social philosophy. As the flood gains momentum, doomed humanity
repeats Aholibamah's bitter claim that "heaven and earth unite / For
the annihilation of all life" (I1I.77o-71; see also III.795-96, 840-43).



80 / English Romantic Drama              18o / English Romantic Drama             80 / English Romantic Drama


The flood is the culminating illustration of the oppressive and destruc-
tive tendency of Noah's powers; it is the practical manifestation of
how religion can be used to justify even mass murder.
Second, the portrayal of Anah and Aholibamah and their union with
the angels provides a positive, even utopian, alternative to the injustice
and tragedy associated with Noah and Japhet. In joining the angels,
Anah and Aholibamah rise above the system of values and structures
of authority that control the world and, further, approach a position
that enables them to evaluate life from a perspective other than Noah's.
Anah and Aholibamah, in this regard, represent the search for a freer
reality principle, one which would allow them to achieve their full
human potential in life. Their escape from the flood with angels who
desert God's tyranny suggests both the nobility of their resistance and
the continuing physical and spiritual opposition to the clearly unjust
system administered by God and Noah.
Heaven and Earth examines the source of many social attitudes and
assumptions treated in Byron's earlier writings, showing the profound
impact of religion on society, and thereby supplying an explanation of
how systems of value can be used to manipulate people. Social con-
trol, even authoritarian social control, is not necessarily maintained by
physical power but very often by ideological means that derive their
strength from religion. Byron emphasizes the role religion can play in
causing social injustice by clouding the distinctions between charac-
ters traditionally assumed to be good or evil, illustrating more clearly
than he had in Cain that the worth of one's values must be determined
by material circumstances. That what Noah calls God's values are not
automatically good is made evident both through Japhet's frustration
and through the angels' evasion of God's command. The play con-
cludes that "The politics of Paradise," and the politics of society in
general, become dangerously oppressive when they are built upon so-
called religious ideas that in reality deny people the freedom to pursue
their full potential in the world.

Werner
Although Werner has been considered by some critics to be "about
as complete a failure as anything in literature,"" the drama in fact is
a fascinating portrayal of the way and the extent to which ideology
controls social life. One reason it has received such negative critical


The flood is the culminating illustration of the oppressive and destruc-
tive tendency of Noah's powers; it is the practical manifestation of
how religion can be used to justify even mass murder.
  Second, the portrayal of Anah and Aholibamah and their union with
the angels provides a positive, even utopian, alternative to the injustice
and tragedy associated with Noah and Japhet. In joining the angels,
Anah and Aholibamah rise above the system of values and structures
of authority that control the world and, further, approach a position
that enables them to evaluate life from a perspective other than Noah's.
Anah and Aholibamah, in this regard, represent the search for a freer
reality principle, one which would allow them to achieve their full
human potential in life. Their escape from the flood with angels who
desert God's tyranny suggests both the nobility of their resistance and
the continuing physical and spiritual opposition to the clearly unjust
system administered by God and Noah.
Heaven and Earth examines the source of many social attitudes and
assumptions treated in Byron's earlier writings, showing the profound
impact of religion on society, and thereby supplying an explanation of
how systems of value can be used to manipulate people. Social con-
trol, even authoritarian social control, is not necessarily maintained by
physical power but very often by ideological means that derive their
strength from religion. Byron emphasizes the role religion can play in
causing social injustice by clouding the distinctions between charac-
ters traditionally assumed to be good or evil, illustrating more clearly
than he had in Cain that the worth of one's values must be determined
by material circumstances. That what Noah calls God's values are not
automatically good is made evident both through Japhet's frustration
and through the angels' evasion of God's command. The play con-
cludes that "The politics of Paradise," and the politics of society in
general, become dangerously oppressive when they are built upon so-
called religious ideas that in reality deny people the freedom to pursue
their full potential in the world.

Werner
Although Werner has been considered by some critics to be "about
as complete a failure as anything in literature,"" the drama in fact is
a fascinating portrayal of the way and the extent to which ideology
controls social life. One reason it has received such negative critical


The flood is the culminating illustration ofthe oppressive and destruc-
tive tendency of Noah's powers; it is the practical manifestation of
how religion can be used to justify even mass murder.
  Second, the portrayal ofAnah and Aholibamah and their union with
the angels provides a positive, even utopian, alternative to the injustice
and tragedy associated with Noah and Japhet. In joining the angels,
Anah and Aholibamah rise above the system of values and structures
of authority that control the world and, further, approach a position
that enables them to evaluate life from a perspective other than Noah's.
Anah and Aholibamah, in this regard, represent the search for a freer
reality principle, one which would allow them to achieve their full
human potential in life. Their escape from the flood with angels who
desert God's tyranny suggests both the nobility of their resistance and
the continuing physical and spiritual opposition to the clearly unjust
system administered by God and Noah.
  Heaven and Earth examines the source of many social attitudes and
assumptions treated in Byron's earlier writings, showing the profound
impact of religion on society, and thereby supplying an explanation of
how systems of value can be used to manipulate people. Social con-
trol, even authoritarian social control, is not necessarily maintained by
physical power but very often by ideological means that derive their
strength from religion. Byron emphasizes the role religion can play in
causing social injustice by clouding the distinctions between charac-
ters traditionally assumed to be good or evil, illustrating more clearly
than he had in Cain that the worth of one's values must be determined
by material circumstances. That what Noah calls God's values are not
automatically good is made evident both through Japhet's frustration
and through the angels' evasion of God's command. The play con-
cludes that "The politics of Paradise," and the politics of society in
general, become dangerously oppressive when they are built upon so-
called religious ideas that in reality deny people the freedom to pursue
their full potential in the world.

Werner
Although Werner has been considered by some critics to be "about
as complete a failure as anything in literature,"' the drama in fact is
a fascinating portrayal of the way and the extent to which ideology
controls social life. One reason it has received such negative critical



The Dramas of Lord Byron / 181           The Dramas of Lord Byron / 181           The Dramas of Lord Byron / 181


response, even when it initially appeared, is that it resists the biographi-
cal and psychological methods of analysis most often brought to bear
on Byron's work.t5 Absent from the play are the powerful Byronic
hero, the captivating lyricism, the swift movement, the psychological
depth, and the sharp irony that characterize his more popular poems.
In their place are an unlikable, spineless main figure, a rather prosaic
and sometimes cluttered verse, and a conspicuously unspectacular set-
ting. Although they mark a radical departure from many of Byron's
previous works, these features need not be interpreted as regressions
or as a sign that Byron was "now the burlesque of what he was," as
one contemporary reviewer stated.tS
  If the play fails to meet conventional aesthetic standards of excel-
lence, it nonetheless provides a highly imaginative and compelling ac-
count ofthe social and political interests that had come to absorb Byron
completely. The play studiously avoids the Byronic trademark-with
its emphasis on the virtues of absolute individualism-concentrating
instead on a social order undergoing radical change and, specifically,
on the demise of a once powerful ruling class. This emphasis insists
that Werner's story is not his alone; it is not a psychologically compel-
ling tale of a unique individual." Rather, like Arnold (in The Deformed
Transformed) or Cain's story it is invested with and given significance
by the values and assumptions of Werner's society. To understand his
crime and his failure, despite his aspirations to honesty and integrity,
it is necessary to understand the full network of social relations within
which he is obligated to function."
  Werner is the only one of Byron's plays that begins with a stage note
indicating the time as well as the place of action. This note is impor-
tant, for it calls attention to a revision of Byron's source-Sophia Lee's
German Tale-that significantly changes the meaning of the action."
Whereas the original tale is set in the midst of the Thirty Years' War,
Byron shifts the time scheme to the close of the war and then reinter-
prets his internal materials accordingly. (For example, the celebration
of the signing of the Peace of Prague-1635-in Act V becomes a pro-
jection of Siegendorf's domestic life and a celebration of his ostensibly
splendid and just rule.67) This seemingly minor time change provides
Byron with essential artistic flexibility because it allows him to focus
the play's action at a moment of great historical crisis-the Thirty
Years' War-and to examine various fundamental social structures in


response, even when it initially appeared, is that it resists the biographi-
cal and psychological methods of analysis most often brought to bear
on Byron's work" Absent from the play are the powerful Byronic
hero, the captivating lyricism, the swift movement, the psychological
depth, and the sharp irony that characterize his more popular poems.
In their place are an unlikable, spineless main figure, a rather prosaic
and sometimes cluttered verse, and a conspicuously unspectacular set-
ting. Although they mark a radical departure from many of Byron's
previous works, these features need not be interpreted as regressions
or as a sign that Byron was "now the burlesque of what he was," as
one contemporary reviewer stated "
  If the play fails to meet conventional aesthetic standards of excel-
lence, it nonetheless provides a highly imaginative and compelling ac-
count of the social and political interests that had come to absorb Byron
completely. The play studiously avoids the Byronic trademark-with
its emphasis on the virtues of absolute individualism-concentrating
instead on a social order undergoing radical change and, specifically,
on the demise of a once powerful ruling class. This emphasis insists
that Werner's story is not his alone; it is not a psychologically compel-
ling tale of a unique individual." Rather, like Arnold (in The Deformed
Transformed) or Cain's story it is invested with and given significance
by the values and assumptions of Werner's society. To understand his
crime and his failure, despite his aspirations to honesty and integrity,
it is necessary to understand the full network of social relations within
which he is obligated to function."
  Werner is the only one of Byron's plays that begins with a stage note
indicating the time as well as the place of action. This note is impor-
tant, for it calls attention to a revision of Byron's source-Sophia Lee's
German Tale-that significantly changes the meaning of the action."
Whereas the original tale is set in the midst of the Thirty Years' War,
Byron shifts the time scheme to the close of the war and then reinter-
prets his internal materials accordingly. (For example, the celebration
of the signing of the Peace of Prague-1635-in Act V becomes a pro-
jection of Siegendorf's domestic life and a celebration of his ostensibly
splendid and just ruleI') This seemingly minor time change provides
Byron with essential artistic flexibility because it allows him to focus
the play's action at a moment of great historical crisis-the Thirty
Years' War-and to examine various fundamental social structures in


response, even when it initially appeared, is that it resists the biographi-
cal and psychological methods of analysis most often brought to bear
on Byron's work9 Absent from the play are the powerful Byronic
hero, the captivating lyricism, the swift movement, the psychological
depth, and the sharp irony that characterize his more popular poems.
In their place are an unlikable, spineless main figure, a rather prosaic
and sometimes cluttered verse, and a conspicuously unspectacular set-
ting. Although they mark a radical departure from many of Byron's
previous works, these features need not be interpreted as regressions
or as a sign that Byron was "now the burlesque of what he was," as
one contemporary reviewer stated.'
  If the play fails to meet conventional aesthetic standards of excel-
lence, it nonetheless provides a highly imaginative and compelling ac-
count ofthe social and political interests that had come to absorb Byron
completely. The play studiously avoids the Byronic trademark-with
its emphasis on the virtues of absolute individualism-concentrating
instead on a social order undergoing radical change and, specifically,
on the demise of a once powerful ruling class. This emphasis insists
that Werner's story is not his alone; it is not a psychologically compel-
ling tale of a unique individual." Rather, like Arnold (in The Deformed
Transformed) or Cain's story it is invested with and given significance
by the values and assumptions of Werner's society. To understand his
crime and his failure, despite his aspirations to honesty and integrity,
it is necessary to understand the full network of social relations within
which he is obligated to function"
  Werner is the only one of Byron's plays that begins with a stage note
indicating the time as well as the place of action. This note is impor-
tant, for it calls attention to a revision of Byron's source-Sophia Lee's
German Tale-that significantly changes the meaning of the action.0
Whereas the original tale is set in the midst of the Thirty Years' War,
Byron shifts the time scheme to the close of the war and then reinter-
prets his internal materials accordingly. (For example, the celebration
of the signing of the Peace of Prague-1635-in Act V becomes a pro-
jection of Siegendorf's domestic life and a celebration of his ostensibly
splendid and just rule") This seemingly minor time change provides
Byron with essential artistic flexibility because it allows him to focus
the play's action at a moment of great historical crisis-the Thirty
Years' War-and to examine various fundamental social structures in



            182 / English Romantic Drama

the light of this crisis, while at the same time avoiding the difficul-
ties and inevitable distortions that the immediate pressures of the war
would present to social analysis.
The Thirty Years' War represents much more than background. It
provides both the context and the pulse of the play, the social and
historical episode that the characters are most immediately caught in,
and thus it gives meaning to the specific events being dramatized. The
historical significance of the war has been variously interpreted, and
generalizations about such a signal episode are always dangerous. But
it is possible, I believe, to offer a set of general statements that, if not
pushed too far, can help to elucidate the play's rich historical vision.
It is well known that the Thirty Years' War was one of the bloodiest
and most vicious wars in modern Western history; new military tac-
tics produced unprecedented slaughter and this was accompanied by
new heights of lawlessness in international relations. Indeed, it was
largely from the sweeping chaos created by this war that Hobbes and
Locke drew inspiration for their theories of the state of nature. The
war took its character from conflicting historical forces that had been
developing for hundreds of years. As Georges Pages remarks, "The
Thirty Years' War saw the last effort of the Roman Catholic Church
and the house of Hapsburg to re-establish unity by the triumph of
Catholicism over the Protestant heresies and the renewal of the em-
peror's universal power."0 At the same time, resistance to the church
and to the house of Habsburg represented Germany's desperate at-
tempt to move from the Middle Ages into the modern world, where
most of Europe already stood. To quote Pages: "Politically it [the war]
was characterized by the formation of the first modern states; from
the religious point of view it witnessed the destruction at the hands of
Protestantism of the united Christendom which the Catholic Church
had established in the Middle Ages."0 Although Pages stresses the
religious dimension of the war, he makes clear at the same time that
this was not mainly a religious war. The causes and consequences on all
sides were sweeping, transcending any single issue, attesting that this
in fact was a violent struggle to determine the direction that European
history was to take.
  The war provided an excellent context for Byron's purposes, not
only because it was a major watershed in Western history, marking
a turn away from feudal structures of authority, but also because its
termination crystallized history at a delicate and precarious moment


            182 / English Romantic Drama

the light of this crisis, while at the same time avoiding the difficul-
ties and inevitable distortions that the immediate pressures of the war
would present to social analysis.
The Thirty Years' War represents much more than background. It
provides both the context and the pulse of the play, the social and
historical episode that the characters are most immediately caught in,
and thus it gives meaning to the specific events being dramatized. The
historical significance of the war has been variously interpreted, and
generalizations about such a signal episode are always dangerous. But
it is possible, I believe, to offer a set of general statements that, if not
pushed too far, can help to elucidate the play's rich historical vision.
It is well known that the Thirty Years' War was one of the bloodiest
and most vicious wars in modern Western history; new military tac-
tics produced unprecedented slaughter and this was accompanied by
new heights of lawlessness in international relations. Indeed, it was
largely from the sweeping chaos created by this war that Hobbes and
Locke drew inspiration for their theories of the state of nature." The
war took its character from conflicting historical forces that had been
developing for hundreds of years. As Georges Pages remarks, "The
Thirty Years' War saw the last effort of the Roman Catholic Church
and the house of Hapsburg to re-establish unity by the triumph of
Catholicism over the Protestant heresies and the renewal of the em-
peror's universal power."" At the same time, resistance to the church
and to the house of Habsburg represented Germany's desperate at-
tempt to move from the Middle Ages into the modern world, where
most of Europe already stood. To quote Pages: "Politically it [the war]
was characterized by the formation of the first modern states; from
the religious point of view it witnessed the destruction at the hands of
Protestantism of the united Christendom which the Catholic Church
had established in the Middle Ages."70 Although Pages stresses the
religious dimension of the war, he makes clear at the same time that
this was not mainly a religious war. The causes and consequences on all
sides were sweeping, transcending any single issue, attesting that this
in fact was a violent struggle to determine the direction that European
history was to take.
  The war provided an excellent context for Byron's purposes, not
only because it was a major watershed in Western history, marking
a turn away from feudal structures of authority, but also because its
termination crystallized history at a delicate and precarious moment


            182 / English Romantic Drama

the light of this crisis, while at the same time avoiding the difficul-
ties and inevitable distortions that the immediate pressures of the war
would present to social analysis.
The Thirty Years' War represents much more than background. It
provides both the context and the pulse of the play, the social and
historical episode that the characters are most immediately caught in,
and thus it gives meaning to the specific events being dramatized. The
historical significance of the war has been variously interpreted, and
generalizations about such a signal episode are always dangerous. But
it is possible, I believe, to offer a set of general statements that, if not
pushed too far, can help to elucidate the play's rich historical vision.
It is well known that the Thirty Years' War was one of the bloodiest
and most vicious wars in modern Western history; new military tac-
tics produced unprecedented slaughter and this was accompanied by
new heights of lawlessness in international relations. Indeed, it was
largely from the sweeping chaos created by this war that Hobbes and
Locke drew inspiration for their theories of the state of nature." The
war took its character from conflicting historical forces that had been
developing for hundreds of years. As Georges Pages remarks, "The
Thirty Years' War saw the last effort of the Roman Catholic Church
and the house of Hapsburg to re-establish unity by the triumph of
Catholicism over the Protestant heresies and the renewal of the em-
peror's universal power."09 At the same time, resistance to the church
and to the house of Habsburg represented Germany's desperate at-
tempt to move from the Middle Ages into the modern world, where
most of Europe already stood. To quote Pages: "Politically it [the war]
was characterized by the formation of the first modern states; from
the religious point of view it witnessed the destruction at the hands of
Protestantism of the united Christendom which the Catholic Church
had established in the Middle Ages."'7 Although Pages stresses the
religious dimension of the war, he makes clear at the same time that
this was not mainly a religious war. The causes and consequences on all
sides were sweeping, transcending any single issue, attesting that this
in fact was a violent struggle to determine the direction that European
history was to take.
  The war provided an excellent context for Byron's purposes, not
only because it was a major watershed in Western history, marking
a turn away from feudal structures of authority, but also because its
termination crystallized history at a delicate and precarious moment



ThIDams fLrdByo /418                                                    Th raasZMLrdByo /4 183VZ ThIrmsoSor yo                                                        8


in which numerous crucial social determinants stood exposed. The
long, bloody war ended in temporary victory by the old order, briefly
freezing the course of history. Arnold Hauser describes the situation
precisely: "[I]n Germany ... the land-owning nobility itself became
an official caste and the middle class was pushed back in an even more
ruthless fashion than anywhere else into the ranks of the subordinate
civil service." And this, of course, "brought the final collapse of Ger-
man commerce and destroyed the German cities economically as well
as politically."" Not until Bismarck would Germany finally be united.
   At the same time, however, this termination in favor of the aris-
tocracy foreshadowed subsequent and even more extreme turmoil,
because the forces that had gained a strong foothold in European cul-
ture at large could not be permanently subdued, as history eventu-
ally proved. From his vantage point in the nineteenth century, with
the fact of the American and French revolutions at hand (the latter
Shelley had described to him years before as "the master theme of the
epoch in which we live" [LPBS, 1:504]), Byron could see the inevi-
table struggles that still lay ahead; and he was deeply aware that these
struggles, including the pervasive European conflicts in his own cen-
tury, were born from the past. The Thirty Years' War presented him
with a clear picture of the major issues that had shaped and continued
to shape the course of history, and in Werner he used the war to cap-
ture and to re-create as precisely as possible the many dimensions of
these issues. It is in the context of the Thirty Years' War then that the
play's otherwise disparate social, political, economic, and ideological
interests are brought to a head in the form of historical fact.
   The direction of Byron's social analysis in Werner is immediately
evident in his treatment of social class, which is here more detailed,
intelligent, and imaginative than in his other dramas. He not only
offers a fully realized portrait of class structure under feudalism from
the serving classes to the nobility, but he also captures the levels of
meaning contained in class relations. Further, through his extensive
treatment of Werner's poverty, he illuminates the powerful alienation
that victimizes lower classes, not so much because they possess very
little material wealth as because they are always governed by a set
of social and cultural values not their own, values that in fact work
against their material and moral betterment.
   One of the main assumptions upon which the drama's critique of
social class rests is that a ruling order perpetuates its power not only


in which numerous crucial social determinants stood exposed. The
long, bloody war ended in temporary victory by the old order, briefly
freezing the course of history. Arnold Hauser describes the situation
precisely: "[I]n Germany ... the land-owning nobility itself became
an official caste and the middle class was pushed back in an even more
ruthless fashion than anywhere else into the ranks of the subordinate
civil service." And this, of course, "brought the final collapse of Ger-
man commerce and destroyed the German cities economically as well
as politically."" Not until Bismarck would Germany finally be united.
   At the same time, however, this termination in favor of the aris-
tocracy foreshadowed subsequent and even more extreme turmoil,
because the forces that had gained a strong foothold in European cul-
ture at large could not be permanently subdued, as history eventu-
ally proved. From his vantage point in the nineteenth century, with
the fact of the American and French revolutions at hand (the latter
Shelley had described to him years before as "the master theme of the
epoch in which we live" [LPBS, 1:504]), Byron could see the inevi-
table struggles that still lay ahead; and he was deeply aware that these
struggles, including the pervasive European conflicts in his own cen-
tury, were born from the past. The Thirty Years' War presented him
with a clear picture of the major issues that had shaped and continued
to shape the course of history, and in Werner he used the war to cap-
ture and to re-create as precisely as possible the many dimensions of
these issues. It is in the context of the Thirty Years' War then that the
play's otherwise disparate social, political, economic, and ideological
interests are brought to a head in the form of historical fact.
   The direction of Byron's social analysis in Werner is immediately
evident in his treatment of social class, which is here more detailed,
intelligent, and imaginative than in his other dramas. He not only
offers a fully realized portrait of class structure under feudalism from
the serving classes to the nobility, but he also captures the levels of
meaning contained in class relations. Further, through his extensive
treatment of Werner's poverty, he illuminates the powerful alienation
that victimizes lower classes, not so much because they possess very
little material wealth as because they are always governed by a set
of social and cultural values not their own, values that in fact work
against their material and moral betterment.
   One of the main assumptions upon which the drama's critique of
social class rests is that a ruling order perpetuates its power not only


in which numerous crucial social determinants stood exposed. The
long, bloody war ended in temporary victory by the old order, briefly
freezing the course of history. Arnold Hauser describes the situation
precisely: "[I]n Germany ... the land-owning nobility itself became
an official caste and the middle class was pushed back in an even more
ruthless fashion than anywhere else into the ranks of the subordinate
civil service." And this, of course, "brought the final collapse of Ger-
man commerce and destroyed the German cities economically as well
as politically."" Not until Bismarck would Germany finally be united.
   At the same time, however, this termination in favor of the aris-
tocracy foreshadowed subsequent and even more extreme turmoil,
because the forces that had gained a strong foothold in European cul-
ture at large could not be permanently subdued, as history eventu-
ally proved. From his vantage point in the nineteenth century, with
the fact of the American and French revolutions at hand (the latter
Shelley had described to him years before as "the master theme of the
epoch in which we live" [LPBS, 1:5041), Byron could see the inevi-
table struggles that still lay ahead; and he was deeply aware that these
struggles, including the pervasive European conflicts in his own cen-
tury, were born from the past. The Thirty Years' War presented him
with a clear picture of the major issues that had shaped and continued
to shape the course of history, and in Werner he used the war to cap-
ture and to re-create as precisely as possible the many dimensions of
these issues. It is in the context of the Thirty Years' War then that the
play's otherwise disparate social, political, economic, and ideological
interests are brought to a head in the form of historical fact.
   The direction of Byron's social analysis in Werner is immediately
evident in his treatment of social class, which is here more detailed,
intelligent, and imaginative than in his other dramas. He not only
offers a fully realized portrait of class structure under feudalism from
the serving classes to the nobility, but he also captures the levels of
meaning contained in class relations. Further, through his extensive
treatment of Werner's poverty, he illuminates the powerful alienation
that victimizes lower classes, not so much because they possess very
little material wealth as because they are always governed by a set
of social and cultural values not their own, values that in fact work
against their material and moral betterment.
   One of the main assumptions upon which the drama's critique of
social class rests is that a ruling order perpetuates its power not only



M4 / English Romantic Drama              184 / English Romantic Drama             184 / English Romantic Drama


by assuring that subordinate classes remain static but also by main-
taining exact order within its own ranks. This fundamental principle
is exemplified in Werner's personal history. He is disinherited pre-
cisely because he ignores the restraints inherent in his social position.
His marriage to Josephine, like Hesperus's marriage to Floribel in
The Brides' Tragedy, crosses class lines and thus brings upon him the
full wrath of his peers, demonstrating explicitly how the ruling class
readily and powerfully will exercise its authority, even among its own,
to protect class interests. The blow of disinheritance which falls upon
him schools him in an important fact of feudal social reality, namely
that, even at the top, individuals are always expendable. The tyranny
of class stratification described here contributes to the tragic dimen-
sion of the play, and Byron's several points of focus on class structure
represent developments and clarifications of this tyranny.
The play's emphasis on class is manifested in numerous literal de-
tails. In the first three acts of the play, for instance, Byron develops the
strong tension between Werner's lower-class disguise (with the many
difficulties of conversation, attitude, and conduct that this creates) and
his longing for open acceptance into the aristocracy, into which he was
born. Werner's deep-seated assumptions of his due social privilege-
"I was born to wealth, and rank, and power" (.i.77) --are set consis-
tently against the harsh fact of his poverty and even more revealingly
against the fact of the lower class with which he has been forced to
align himself. His discomfort among those he considers to be natu-
rally inferior and his inability to identify himself with them or even to
sympathize with them underscore the pervasive power that class strati-
fication exercises in social life. Werner never overcomes his suspicion
of Idenstein, and for no other reason than that Idenstein is a servant,
which, Werner assumes, means that he should always be deferential and
servile, laboring to produce leisure for others. That Idenstein should
display ordinary human characteristics, that he should deign to engage
Werner in conversation, for instance, insults and shocks Werner, who
believes that decency of character depends entirely on rank.
  The rigidity of this class structure is not exemplified from one side
only. The reason Idenstein approaches Werner at all on topics of every-
day life-for instance, about "the way of business" (I.i. 192)-is that he
assumes Werner to be a social equal, not a superior. Idenstein quickly
and enthusiastically fulfills the obligations of his class immediately
upon the arrival of Stralenheim, who is obviously from the ruling class;


by assuring that subordinate classes remain static but also by main-
taining exact order within its own ranks. This fundamental principle
is exemplified in Werner's personal history. He is disinherited pre-
cisely because he ignores the restraints inherent in his social position.
His marriage to Josephine, like Hesperus's marriage to Floribel in
The Brides' Tragedy, crosses class lines and thus brings upon him the
full wrath of his peers, demonstrating explicitly how the ruling class
readily and powerfully will exercise its authority, even among its own,
to protect class interests. The blow of disinheritance which falls upon
him schools him in an important fact of feudal social reality, namely
that, even at the top, individuals are always expendable. The tyranny
of class stratification described here contributes to the tragic dimen-
sion of the play, and Byron's several points of focus on class structure
represent developments and clarifications of this tyranny.
  The play's emphasis on class is manifested in numerous literal de-
tails. In the first three acts of the play, for instance, Byron develops the
strong tension between Werner's lower-class disguise (with the many
difficulties of conversation, attitude, and conduct that this creates) and
his longing for open acceptance into the aristocracy, into which he was
born. Werner's deep-seated assumptions of his due social privilege-
"I was born to wealth, and rank, and power" (I.i.77)"-are set consis-
tently against the harsh fact of his poverty and even more revealingly
against the fact of the lower class with which he has been forced to
align himself. His discomfort among those he considers to be natu-
rally inferior and his inability to identify himself with them or even to
sympathize with them underscore the pervasive power that class strati-
fication exercises in social life. Werner never overcomes his suspicion
of Idenstein, and for no other reason than that Idenstein is a servant,
which, Werner assumes, means that he should always be deferential and
servile, laboring to produce leisure for others. That Idenstein should
display ordinary human characteristics, that he should deign to engage
Werner in conversation, for instance, insults and shocks Werner, who
believes that decency of character depends entirely on rank.
  The rigidity of this class structure is not exemplified from one side
only. The reason Idenstein approaches Werner at all on topics of every-
day life-for instance, about "the way of business" (I.i.192)-is that he
assumes Werner to be a social equal, not a superior. Idenstein quickly
and enthusiastically fulfills the obligations of his class immediately
upon the arrival of Stralenheim, who is obviously from the ruling class;


by assuring that subordinate classes remain static but also by main-
taining exact order within its own ranks. This fundamental principle
is exemplified in Werner's personal history. He is disinherited pre-
cisely because he ignores the restraints inherent in his social position.
His marriage to Josephine, like Hesperus's marriage to Floribel in
The Brides' Tragedy, crosses class lines and thus brings upon him the
full wrath of his peers, demonstrating explicitly how the ruling class
readily and powerfully will exercise its authority, even among its own,
to protect class interests. The blow of disinheritance which falls upon
him schools him in an important fact of feudal social reality, namely
that, even at the top, individuals are always expendable. The tyranny
of class stratification described here contributes to the tragic dimen-
sion of the play, and Byron's several points of focus on class structure
represent developments and clarifications of this tyranny.
The play's emphasis on class is manifested in numerous literal de-
tails. In the first three acts of the play, for instance, Byron develops the
strong tension between Werner's lower-class disguise (with the many
difficulties of conversation, attitude, and conduct that this creates) and
his longing for open acceptance into the aristocracy, into which he was
born. Werner's deep-seated assumptions of his due social privilege-
"I was born to wealth, and rank, and power" (I.i.77)'"-are set consis-
tently against the harsh fact of his poverty and even more revealingly
against the fact of the lower class with which he has been forced to
align himself. His discomfort among those he considers to be natu-
rally inferior and his inability to identify himself with them or even to
sympathize with them underscore the pervasive power that class strati-
fication exercises in social life. Werner never overcomes his suspicion
of Idenstein, and for no other reason than that Idenstein is a servant,
which, Werner assumes, means that he should always be deferential and
servile, laboring to produce leisure for others. That Idenstein should
display ordinary human characteristics, that he should deign to engage
Werner in conversation, for instance, insults and shocks Werner, who
believes that decency of character depends entirely on rank.
  The rigidity of this class structure is not exemplified from one side
only. The reason Idenstein approaches Werner at all on topics of every-
day life-for instance, about "the way of business" (Ii. 192)-is that he
assumes Werner to be a social equal, not a superior. Idenstein quickly
and enthusiastically fulfills the obligations of his class immediately
upon the arrival of Stralenheim, who is obviously from the ruling class;



ThIDams fI Lor Byo a8                    Th rma fZod yo / 18 haDaa obfI Lor                   4yo 8


indeed, Idenstein cannot do enough to serve this complete stranger
(I.i.455-59) who, because of his social rank, commands authority and
respect even in someone else's domain.
The class issue is manifested in the larger structure of the play as
well. The shift of setting in Act IV to the castle of Siegendorf removes
the action from the domain of the poor to that of the wealthy. This
change in setting allows the drama to present a dual perspective on
society. In the early acts, despite Werner's expressed alienation, society
is presented mainly through the eyes ofits lower orders. Idenstein and
his colleagues are shown going about their daily work and in their
simplest statements and actions and in their unpremeditated responses
to persons of various ranks they provide a compelling social analysis.
Even Werner helps to clarify the lower-class view of rank; in an obvious
selfish effort tojustify his own criminal conduct, he asks his son, Ulric:
"Young, / Rash, new to life, and reared in Luxury's lap, / Is it for you
to measure Passion's force, / Or Misery's temptation?" (II.ii. 1o1-4).
Further, he repeatedly seeks to explain his actions as the consequence
of straitened circumstances (see, for instance, II.ii. 147-49), betraying,
albeit unintentionally, the specific difficulties with which the poor are
forced to contend.
  Act IV describes society from a radically different perspective. Here
the assumptions of the wealthy and powerful prevail; society is shown
to be functioning properly, that is, responding unquestioningly to
those who rule it. As Siegendorf explains to Ida:
   [T]he Heaven
   Which gave us back our own, in the same moment
   It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims
   On us for thanksgiving: first, for our country;
   And next, that we are here to share its blessings. (IV.i.251-55)

As far as Werner is concerned, his personal return to aristocracy vindi-
cates the social system, proving its rightness and its durability. These
divergent class perspectives not only provide a means of measuring
the underlying causes and ramifications of the tragedy that culminate
in Act V: in addition, they demonstrate the importance Byron now
attached to a social analysis that would sweep fully across society.
  These simple yet compelling insights offered in the plot indicate
the drama's sensitivity to the power and unquestioned divisions gov-
erning class society. Its emphasis on the central importance of class


indeed, Idenstein cannot do enough to serve this complete stranger
(I.i.455-59) who, because of his social rank, commands authority and
respect even in someone else's domain.
The class issue is manifested in the larger structure of the play as
well. The shift of setting in Act IV to the castle of Siegendorf removes
the action from the domain of the poor to that of the wealthy. This
change in setting allows the drama to present a dual perspective on
society. In the early acts, despite Werner's expressed alienation, society
is presented mainly through the eyes of its lower orders. Idenstein and
his colleagues are shown going about their daily work and in their
simplest statements and actions and in their unpremeditated responses
to persons of various ranks they provide a compelling social analysis.
Even Werner helps to clarify the lower-class view of rank; in an obvious
selfish effort to justify his own criminal conduct, he asks his son, Ulric:
"Young, / Rash, new to life, and reared in Luxury's lap, / Is it for you
to measure Passion's force, / Or Misery's temptation?" (II.ii.1o1-4).
Further, he repeatedly seeks to explain his actions as the consequence
of straitened circumstances (see, for instance, II.ii. 147-49), betraying,
albeit unintentionally, the specific difficulties with which the poor are
forced to contend.
  Act IV describes society from a radically different perspective. Here
the assumptions of the wealthy and powerful prevail; society is shown
to be functioning properly, that is, responding unquestioningly to
those who rule it. As Siegendorf explains to Ida:
   [T]he Heaven
   Which gave us back our own, in the same moment
   It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims
   On us for thanksgiving: first, for our country;
   And next, that we are here to share its blessings. (IV.i.251-55)

As far as Werner is concerned, his personal return to aristocracy vindi-
cates the social system, proving its rightness and its durability. These
divergent class perspectives not only provide a means of measuring
the underlying causes and ramifications of the tragedy that culminate
in Act V: in addition, they demonstrate the importance Byron now
attached to a social analysis that would sweep fully across society.
  These simple yet compelling insights offered in the plot indicate
the drama's sensitivity to the power and unquestioned divisions gov-
erning class society. Its emphasis on the central importance of class


indeed, Idenstein cannot do enough to serve this complete stranger
(I.i.455-59) who, because of his social rank, commands authority and
respect even in someone else's domain.
The class issue is manifested in the larger structure of the play as
well. The shift of setting in Act IV to the castle of Siegendorf removes
the action from the domain of the poor to that of the wealthy. This
change in setting allows the drama to present a dual perspective on
society. In the early acts, despite Werner's expressed alienation, society
is presented mainly through the eyes of its lower orders. Idenstein and
his colleagues are shown going about their daily work and in their
simplest statements and actions and in their unpremeditated responses
to persons of various ranks they provide a compelling social analysis.
Even Werner helps to clarify the lower-class view of rank; in an obvious
selfish effort tojustify his own criminal conduct, he asks his son, Ulric:
"Young, / Rash, new to life, and reared in Luxury's lap, / Is it for you
to measure Passion's force, / Or Misery's temptation?" (II.ii. tt-4).
Further, he repeatedly seeks to explain his actions as the consequence
of straitened circumstances (see, for instance, II.ii. 147-49), betraying,
albeit unintentionally, the specific difficulties with which the poor are
forced to contend.
  Act IV describes society from a radically different perspective. Here
the assumptions of the wealthy and powerful prevail; society is shown
to be functioning properly, that is, responding unquestioningly to
those who rule it. As Siegendorf explains to Ida:
   [T]he Heaven
   Which gave us back our own, in the same moment
   It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims
   On us for thanksgiving: first, for our country;
   And next, that we are here to share its blessings. (IV.i.251-55)

As far as Werner is concerned, his personal return to aristocracy vindi-
cates the social system, proving its rightness and its durability. These
divergent class perspectives not only provide a means of measuring
the underlying causes and ramifications of the tragedy that culminate
in Act V: in addition, they demonstrate the importance Byron now
attached to a social analysis that would sweep fully across society.
  These simple yet compelling insights offered in the plot indicate
the drama's sensitivity to the power and unquestioned divisions gov-
erning class society. Its emphasis on the central importance of class



186 / Enlish Romantic Drama              186 / English Romantic Drama             186 / English Romantic Drama


is given ballast by numerous seemingly minor touches, all of which
illuminate the degree to which the social world depicted in the drama
stands divided. For instance, names are given special attention. Werner
is highly reluctant to identify himself to Idenstein, and when at last he
does so Idenstein uses his name to place him socially (Ii.173-98), even
to the extent of calling him "cousin." General vocabulary is similarly
focused. When Stralenheim enters the palace in Act I, Werner displays
extreme difficulty speaking the language of the class to which he osten-
sibly belongs. In response to a question from Stralenheim, Werner
states: "When I know it [the question] such / I will requite-that
is, reply-in unison" (Li.532-33). Such details are carefully handled
throughout, and collectively they display the way language is used as
a class weapon. Names, vocabulary, and rhetorical expertise are never
in the play simply as a means of conveying objective information:
they reflect profound class biases that hold existing social hierarchies
in place.
  Central to the play's emphasis on class is the question of natural
rights and natural order. Werner's disinheritance focuses this question
initially by placing him in a position that challenges his most funda-
mental assumptions about his personal and public role. His various
responses to his situation consistently confuse social life and natu-
ral life, displaying not only the ahistorical character of his thought
but more importantly emphasizing the assumptions that sustain class
stratification. His alienation exists not simply because he lacks wealth
but also because, in his view, his poverty violates natural order. In-
deed, it is the deeper distress of being cast out by his class upon "this
desolate frontier" (Ii. 50) that he cannot comprehend: "Something be-
yond our outward sufferings (though / These were enough to gnaw
into our soul) / Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, now" (I.i.46-
48). For Werner, the loss of social position is the loss of "my rights"
(I.i.86). His attitude, at least from his standpoint, is not selfish but in
fact highly moral, for it is grounded upon his honest desire to be in a
position to provide for his family and, ultimately, to serve the society
to which he belongs (for instance, see Ii. 149-65).
Werner, in fact, never understands the social dimension of his situa-
tion. Even in the end, when his position is destroyed by his son's
confession of murder and open embrace of an independent, criminal
life, he confuses social reality with natural order; if Ulric before was
suspected of being unnatural, he is now perceived as completely trans-


is given ballast by numerous seemingly minor touches, all of which
illuminate the degree to which the social world depicted in the drama
stands divided. For instance, names are given special attention. Werner
is highly reluctant to identify himself to Idenstein, and when at last he
does so Idenstein uses his name to place him socially (Ii.173-98), even
to the extent of calling him "cousin." General vocabulary is similarly
focused. When Stralenheim enters the palace in Act I, Werner displays
extreme difficulty speaking the language of the class to which he osten-
sibly belongs. In response to a question from Stralenheim, Werner
states: "When I know it [the question] such / I will requite-that
is, reply-in unison" (I.i.532-33). Such details are carefully handled
throughout, and collectively they display the way language is used as
a class weapon. Names, vocabulary, and rhetorical expertise are never
in the play simply as a means of conveying objective information:
they reflect profound class biases that hold existing social hierarchies
in place.
  Central to the play's emphasis on class is the question of natural
rights and natural order. Werner's disinheritance focuses this question
initially by placing him in a position that challenges his most funda-
mental assumptions about his personal and public role. His various
responses to his situation consistently confuse social life and natu-
ral life, displaying not only the ahistorical character of his thought
but more importantly emphasizing the assumptions that sustain class
stratification. His alienation exists not simply because he lacks wealth
but also because, in his view, his poverty violates natural order. In-
deed, it is the deeper distress of being cast out by his class upon "this
desolate frontier" (Ii. 5o) that he cannot comprehend: "Something be-
yond our outward sufferings (though / These were enough to gnaw
into our soul) / Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, now" (I.i.46-
48). For Werner, the loss of social position is the loss of "my rights"
(I.i.86). His attitude, at least from his standpoint, is not selfish but in
fact highly moral, for it is grounded upon his honest desire to be in a
position to provide for his family and, ultimately, to serve the society
to which he belongs (for instance, see I.i.149-65).
Werner, in fact, never understands the social dimension of his situa-
tion. Even in the end, when his position is destroyed by his son's
confession of murder and open embrace of an independent, criminal
life, he confuses social reality with natural order; if Ulric before was
suspected of being unnatural, he is now perceived as completely trans-


is given ballast by numerous seemingly minor touches, all of which
illuminate the degree to which the social world depicted in the drama
stands divided. For instance, names are given special attention. Werner
is highly reluctant to identify himself to Idenstein, and when at last he
does so Idenstein uses his name to place him socially (Ii. 173-98), even
to the extent of calling him "cousin." General vocabulary is similarly
focused. When Stralenheim enters the palace in Act I, Werner displays
extreme difficulty speaking the language of the class to which he osten-
sibly belongs. In response to a question from Stralenheim, Werner
states: "When I know it [the question] such / I will requite-that
is, reply-in unison" (I.i.532-33). Such details are carefully handled
throughout, and collectively they display the way language is used as
a class weapon. Names, vocabulary, and rhetorical expertise are never
in the play simply as a means of conveying objective information:
they reflect profound class biases that hold existing social hierarchies
in place.
  Central to the play's emphasis on class is the question of natural
rights and natural order. Werner's disinheritance focuses this question
initially by placing him in a position that challenges his most funda-
mental assumptions about his personal and public role. His various
responses to his situation consistently confuse social life and natu-
ral life, displaying not only the ahistorical character of his thought
but more importantly emphasizing the assumptions that sustain class
stratification. His alienation exists not simply because he lacks wealth
but also because, in his view, his poverty violates natural order. In-
deed, it is the deeper distress of being cast out by his class upon "this
desolate frontier" (I.i. So) that he cannot comprehend: "Something be-
yond our outward sufferings (though / These were enough to gnaw
into our soul) / Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, now" (I.i.46-
48). For Werner, the loss of social position is the loss of "my rights"
(I i.86). His attitude, at least from his standpoint, is not selfish but in
fact highly moral, for it is grounded upon his honest desire to be in a
position to provide for his family and, ultimately, to serve the society
to which he belongs (for instance, see Ii.149-65)-
Werner, in fact, never understands the social dimension of his situa-
tion. Even in the end, when his position is destroyed by his son's
confession of murder and open embrace of an independent, criminal
life, he confuses social reality with natural order; if Ulric before was
suspected of being unnatural, he is now perceived as completely trans-



Th rma fZ Lor ByronM* /S 187lM                                                                                                                              Ih DrmsoSodBrn/17TeDaa fLr yo 8


mogrified (V.ii.57). And, likewise, Werner expresses his own demise
entirely in terms of natural order: "No, no; I have no children: never
more / Call me by that worst name of parent" (V.ii.S4-55). The as-
sumption here is that events are determined by forces that, despite
their social consequences, are not of social origin.
  The extent to which Werner is governed by this ideology of natural
right and natural order is illuminated by his crime against Stralen-
heim. That his theft of Stralenheim's gold represents more than a
momentary lapse of character, more than a psychological quirk, is im-
mediately evident from the context in which Byron places the crime.
Werner is consistently described as an aristocrat who lacks the ma-
terial means upon which aristocracy is predicated. Thus if he appears
personally weak and unattractive it is because he has endured twelve
poverty-ridden years that necessarily have injured his once power-
ful independence of mind (recall, for example, his earlier defiance of
authority in marrying Josephine). Without wealth his attitudes, his
values, and his entire being are hollow. The particular character of his
distress is manifested at the moment of the theft, when he compares
his present weakened situation with that of the confident, aristocratic,
and wealthy Stralenheim:

            I'm alone-
            He with a numerous train: I weak-
            In gold, in numbers, rank, authority.
            I nameless, or involving in my name
            Destruction, till I reach my own domain;
            He full-blown with his titles, which impose
            Still further on these obscure petty burghers
            Than they could do elsewhere. (I.i.625-32)

From this perspective (although Werner does not fully understand
this), the theft is a social act, like Fazio's in Milman's play, represent-
ing Werner's desperate and impulsive attempt to overcome alienation,
to realign himself with his own class (and thus with his own char-
acter), and once more to become a fully social individual.7 As he
tells Josephine, the gold "Will rescue us from this detested dungeon"
(I.i.738) and "will make us way" (I.i.742), presumably to aristocracy,
freedom, and power.
   The public response to the theft elaborates the ideological and class
pressures controlling the world depicted in the play. When Idenstein


mogrified (V.ii.57). And, likewise, Werner expresses his own demise
entirely in terms of natural order: "No, no; I have no children: never
more / Call me by that worst name of parent" (V.ii.54-55). The as-
sumption here is that events are determined by forces that, despite
their social consequences, are not of social origin.
  The extent to which Werner is governed by this ideology of natural
right and natural order is illuminated by his crime against Stralen-
heim. That his theft of Stralenheim's gold represents more than a
momentary lapse of character, more than a psychological quirk, is im-
mediately evident from the context in which Byron places the crime.
Werner is consistently described as an aristocrat who lacks the ma-
terial means upon which aristocracy is predicated. Thus if he appears
personally weak and unattractive it is because he has endured twelve
poverty-ridden years that necessarily have injured his once power-
ful independence of mind (recall, for example, his earlier defiance of
authority in marrying Josephine). Without wealth his attitudes, his
values, and his entire being are hollow. The particular character of his
distress is manifested at the moment of the theft, when he compares
his present weakened situation with that of the confident, aristocratic,
and wealthy Stralenheim:

            I'm alone-
            He with a numerous train: I weak-
            In gold, in numbers, rank, authority.
            I nameless, or involving in my name
            Destruction, till I reach my own domain;
            He full-blown with his titles, which impose
            Still further on these obscure petty burghers
            Than they could do elsewhere. (I.i.625-32)

From this perspective (although Werner does not fully understand
this), the theft is a social act, like Fazio's in Milman's play, represent-
ing Werner's desperate and impulsive attempt to overcome alienation,
to realign himself with his own class (and thus with his own char-
acter), and once more to become a fully social individual.7" As he
tells Josephine, the gold "Will rescue us from this detested dungeon"
(I.i.738) and "will make us way" (1.i.742), presumably to aristocracy,
freedom, and power.
   The public response to the theft elaborates the ideological and class
pressures controlling the world depicted in the play. When Idenstein


mogrified (V.ii. 57). And, likewise, Werner expresses his own demise
entirely in terms of natural order: "No, no; I have no children: never
more / Call me by that worst name of parent" (Vii. 54-55). The as-
sumption here is that events are determined by forces that, despite
their social consequences, are not of social origin.
  The extent to which Werner is governed by this ideology of natural
right and natural order is illuminated by his crime against Stralen-
heim. That his theft of Stralenheim's gold represents more than a
momentary lapse of character, more than a psychological quirk, is im-
mediately evident from the context in which Byron places the crime.
Werner is consistently described as an aristocrat who lacks the ma-
terial means upon which aristocracy is predicated. Thus if he appears
personally weak and unattractive it is because he has endured twelve
poverty-ridden years that necessarily have injured his once power-
ful independence of mind (recall, for example, his earlier defiance of
authority in marrying Josephine). Without wealth his attitudes, his
values, and his entire being are hollow. The particular character of his
distress is manifested at the moment of the theft, when he compares
his present weakened situation with that of the confident, aristocratic,
and wealthy Stralenheim:
            I'm alone-
            He with a numerous train: I weak-
            In gold, in numbers, rank, authority.
            I nameless, or involving in my name
            Destruction, till I reach my own domain;
            He full-blown with his titles, which impose
            Still further on these obscure petty burghers
            Than they could do elsewhere. (I.i.625-32)

From this perspective (although Werner does not fully understand
this), the theft is a social act, like Fazio's in Milman's play, represent-
ing Werner's desperate and impulsive attempt to overcome alienation,
to realign himself with his own class (and thus with his own char-
acter), and once more to become a fully social individual.7" As he
tells Josephine, the gold "Will rescue us from this detested dungeon"
(I.i.738) and "will make us way" (I.i.742), presumably to aristocracy,
freedom, and power.
   The public response to the theft elaborates the ideological and class
pressures controlling the world depicted in the play. When Idenstein



188 / English Romantic Drama 88 / English Romantic Drama                          188 / English Romantic Drama


remarks that the crime is a blot on the city's honor (II.i.7), he ex-
presses a generally assumed, albeit unconscious, social fact, namely
that honor is a concept with distinctive class dimensions. Indeed, his
concern arises not simply because there has been a crime but specifi-
cally because "A Baron [has been] pillaged in a Prince's palace" (l.i.2).
According to this statement, honor clearly is equated with the pres-
ervation of aristocracy; a dishonorable act is any act that injures the
ruling class. In this view, of course, honor ultimately works against the
lower orders by ossifying their subordinate social position. This atti-
tude stands at the center of the prevailing social system and the drama
describes its consequences explicitly. When the crime is learned, every-
one from Stralenheim to Idenstein automatically assumes the thief to be
poor. Stralenheim's assertion that to be poor is to be suspect (IIi.290)
is carried to its most vicious extreme by Idenstein, who proposes to
"send out villains to strip beggars, and / Search empty pockets; also,
to arrest / All gipsies and ill-clothed and sallow people" (Il.i.69-71).
Such a response, of course, indicates the pervasiveness and extreme
power of controlling ideas; but, more than this, it focuses the way
these values perpetuate ruling class domination. Society assumes that
any social disruption (such as the theft) is always attributable to the
lower classes; this causes the lower classes perpetually to blame one
another (stated bluntly it causes the oppressed to turn on one another)
which in turn "proves" their "natural" inferiority and at the same time
demonstrates the sanctity and ultimate rightness of aristocratic au-
thority. Or, put differently, the play maintains that class stratification
generates an encompassing system of values that in turn perpetuates
(or even continues to create) further class stratification. To conduct an
honest investigation from the start, to acknowledge the equal possi-
bility of the theft having been committed by an aristocrat, is out of the
question; not only would this insult the assumed integrity of the aris-
tocratic class but also it would admit that aristocracy is potentially less
than honorable, hence weakening its "natural right" to rule. In short,
the controlling system of values protects its rulers by exempting them
automatically from suspicion of all wrongdoing.
  Byron exposes the faulty assumptions behind the beliefs in natural
right and natural order by presenting the various and often contradic-
tory ways circumstance is perceived. This focus anticipates an issue
later developed in Marxist thought, namely that individuals cannot be
satisfactorily understood in terms of their own perceptions of them-


remarks that the crime is a blot on the city's honor (II.i.7), he ex-
presses a generally assumed, albeit unconscious, social fact, namely
that honor is a concept with distinctive class dimensions. Indeed, his
concern arises not simply because there has been a crime but specifi-
cally because "A Baron [has been] pillaged in a Prince's palace" (Ii..2).
According to this statement, honor clearly is equated with the pres-
ervation of aristocracy; a dishonorable act is any act that injures the
ruling class. In this view, of course, honor ultimately works against the
lower orders by ossifying their subordinate social position. This atti-
tude stands at the center of the prevailing social system and the drama
describes its consequences explicitly. When the crime is learned, every-
one from Stralenheim to Idenstein automatically assumes the thief to be
poor. Stralenheim's assertion that to be poor is to be suspect (II.i.290)
is carried to its most vicious extreme by Idenstein, who proposes to
"send out villains to strip beggars, and / Search empty pockets; also,
to arrest / All gipsies and ill-clothed and sallow people" (II.i.69-71).
Such a response, of course, indicates the pervasiveness and extreme
power of controlling ideas; but, more than this, it focuses the way
these values perpetuate ruling class domination. Society assumes that
any social disruption (such as the theft) is always attributable to the
lower classes; this causes the lower classes perpetually to blame one
another (stated bluntly it causes the oppressed to turn on one another)
which in turn "proves" their "natural" inferiority and at the same time
demonstrates the sanctity and ultimate rightness of aristocratic au-
thority. Or, put differently, the play maintains that class stratification
generates an encompassing system of values that in turn perpetuates
(or even continues to create) further class stratification. To conduct an
honest investigation from the start, to acknowledge the equal possi-
bility of the theft having been committed by an aristocrat, is out of the
question; not only would this insult the assumed integrity of the aris-
tocratic class but also it would admit that aristocracy is potentially less
than honorable, hence weakening its "natural right" to rule. In short,
the controlling system of values protects its rulers by exempting them
automatically from suspicion of all wrongdoing.
  Byron exposes the faulty assumptions behind the beliefs in natural
right and natural order by presenting the various and often contradic-
tory ways circumstance is perceived. This focus anticipates an issue
later developed in Marxist thought, namely that individuals cannot be
satisfactorily understood in terms of their own perceptions of them-


remarks that the crime is a blot on the city's honor (II.i.7), he ex-
presses a generally assumed, albeit unconscious, social fact, namely
that honor is a concept with distinctive class dimensions. Indeed, his
concern arises not simply because there has been a crime but specifi-
cally because "A Baron [has been] pillaged in a Prince's palace" (li.2).
According to this statement, honor clearly is equated with the pres-
ervation of aristocracy; a dishonorable act is any act that injures the
ruling class. In this view, of course, honor ultimately works against the
lower orders by ossifying their subordinate social position. This atti-
tude stands at the center of the prevailing social system and the drama
describes its consequences explicitly.When the crime is learned, every-
one from Stralenheim to Idenstein automatically assumes the thief to be
poor. Stralenheim's assertion that to be poor is to be suspect (II.i.290)
is carried to its most vicious extreme by Idenstein, who proposes to
"send out villains to strip beggars, and / Search empty pockets; also,
to arrest / All gipsies and ill-clothed and sallow people" (II.i.69-71).
Such a response, of course, indicates the pervasiveness and extreme
power of controlling ideas; but, more than this, it focuses the way
these values perpetuate ruling class domination. Society assumes that
any social disruption (such as the theft) is always attributable to the
lower classes; this causes the lower classes perpetually to blame one
another (stated bluntly it causes the oppressed to turn on one another)
which in turn "proves" their "natural" inferiority and at the same time
demonstrates the sanctity and ultimate rightness of aristocratic au-
thority. Or, put differently, the play maintains that class stratification
generates an encompassing system of values that in turn perpetuates
(or even continues to create) further class stratification. To conduct an
honest investigation from the start, to acknowledge the equal possi-
bility of the theft having been committed by an aristocrat, is out of the
question; not only would this insult the assumed integrity of the aris-
tocratic class but also it would admit that aristocracy is potentially less
than honorable, hence weakening its "natural right" to rule. In short,
the controlling system of values protects its rulers by exempting them
automatically from suspicion of all wrongdoing.
  Byron exposes the faulty assumptions behind the beliefs in natural
right and natural order by presenting the various and often contradic-
tory ways circumstance is perceived. This focus anticipates an issue
later developed in Marxist thought, namely that individuals cannot be
satisfactorily understood in terms of their own perceptions of them-



The Drm fLrByo /4iqh DramaLd Bron / 8ITeDmso I                                        VLord* Brn/iS


selves: they must be understood in terms of the discrepancies between
their perceptions and actual material life.4 While expressing their fun-
damental and identical belief in a fixed order based on the natural rights
of aristocracy, Werner and Stralenheim rely on circumstance to jus-
tify their private and mutually exclusive aims; both men assume that
their respective values and social situation are or can be made consis-
tent with one another. In his effort to escape poverty and regain his
former social position, Werner ardently states that "there are crimes /
Made venial by the occasion" (II.ii.147-48), and one such crime of
course is his own against Stralenheim. At the same time, the ambitious
Stralenheim asserts that "circumstances ... have made / This man
[Werner] obnoxious-perhaps fatal to me" (IIii.343-45). In a larger
sense, too, Werner believes that circumstance (his birth) gives him the
indisputable right of aristocracy (I.i.86), while Stralenheim believes
just as strongly that because of circumstance (that is, because Werner is
"A disinherited prodigal" [I.ii.388]), Werner has absolutely no rights.
  The contradictions here are plain and they suggest that neither char-
acter actually understands circumstance, despite his repeated appeals
to it, because each interprets as natural and absolute what is in fact
ideological and subject to social pressures. Obviously, both men can-
not be correct; carried to their extreme, these attitudes cancel one
another, which is precisely what happens as Stralenheim is murdered
and Werner is destroyed. Notwithstanding the strong mutual claims
to universal, indisputable definitions, and the repeated efforts to sub-
stantiate these claims by reference to circumstance, neither Werner nor
Stralenheim can free himself from social and class reality; their inability
demonstrates exactly the fallacy in assuming that an encompassing,
ahistorical structure of ideas and relations governs social life.
  The extent to which the social world of the play is limited and
shaped by ideology is developed in Byron's handling of religion. Like
Cain and Heaven and Earth, Werner refuses to exempt religion from the
exchanges of social life, and in fact clearly depicts the particular class
role that religion often plays in sustaining a structure of social au-
thority. The melodramatic, sad, comical exchange between Werner and
the prior captures the way religion and class often complement one
another to maintain and perpetuate the ruling order. Once he regains
his aristocratic position, with its accompanying power and wealth,
Werner is, not surprisingly, guilt-ridden because of his earlier crime
against Stralenheim; he thus donates the dishonest gold to the church


selves: they must be understood in terms of the discrepancies between
their perceptions and actual material life.7 While expressing their fun-
damental and identical belief in a fixed order based on the natural rights
of aristocracy, Werner and Stralenheim rely on circumstance to jus-
tify their private and mutually exclusive aims; both men assume that
their respective values and social situation are or can be made consis-
tent with one another. In his effort to escape poverty and regain his
former social position, Werner ardently states that "there are crimes /
Made venial by the occasion" (Il.ii.147-48), and one such crime of
course is his own against Stralenheim. At the same time, the ambitious
Stralenheim asserts that "circumstances . . . have made / This man
[Werner] obnoxious-perhaps fatal to me" (II.ii.343-45). In a larger
sense, too, Werner believes that circumstance (his birth) gives him the
indisputable right of aristocracy (I.i.86), while Stralenheim believes
just as strongly that because of circumstance (that is, because Werner is
"A disinherited prodigal" [II.ii.388]), Werner has absolutely no rights.
  The contradictions here are plain and they suggest that neither char-
acter actually understands circumstance, despite his repeated appeals
to it, because each interprets as natural and absolute what is in fact
ideological and subject to social pressures. Obviously, both men can-
not be correct; carried to their extreme, these attitudes cancel one
another, which is precisely what happens as Stralenheim is murdered
and Werner is destroyed. Notwithstanding the strong mutual claims
to universal, indisputable definitions, and the repeated efforts to sub-
stantiate these claims by reference to circumstance, neither Werner nor
Stralenheim can free himselffrom social and class reality; their inability
demonstrates exactly the fallacy in assuming that an encompassing,
ahistorical structure of ideas and relations governs social life.
  The extent to which the social world of the play is limited and
shaped by ideology is developed in Byron's handling ofreligion. Like
Cain and Heaven and Earth, Werner refuses to exempt religion from the
exchanges of social life, and in fact clearly depicts the particular class
role that religion often plays in sustaining a structure of social au-
thority. The melodramatic, sad, comical exchange between Werner and
the prior captures the way religion and class often complement one
another to maintain and perpetuate the ruling order. Once he regains
his aristocratic position, with its accompanying power and wealth,
Werner is, not surprisingly, guilt-ridden because of his earlier crime
against Stralenheim; he thus donates the dishonest gold to the church


selves: they must be understood in terms of the discrepancies between
their perceptions and actual material life.74 While expressing their fun-
damental and identical belief in a fixed order based on the natural rights
of aristocracy, Werner and Stralenheim rely on circumstance to jus-
tify their private and mutually exclusive aims; both men assume that
their respective values and social situation are or can be made consis-
tent with one another. In his effort to escape poverty and regain his
former social position, Werner ardently states that "there are crimes /
Made venial by the occasion" (lii. 147-48), and one such crime of
course is his own against Stralenheim. At the same time, the ambitious
Stralenheim asserts that "circumstances . . . have made / This man
[Werner] obnoxious-perhaps fatal to me" (II.ii.343-45). In a larger
sense, too, Werner believes that circumstance (his birth) gives him the
indisputable right of aristocracy (I.i.86), while Stralenheim believes
just as strongly that because of circumstance (that is, because Werner is
"A disinherited prodigal" [Il.ii.388]), Werner has absolutely no rights.
  The contradictions here are plain and they suggest that neither char-
acter actually understands circumstance, despite his repeated appeals
to it, because each interprets as natural and absolute what is in fact
ideological and subject to social pressures. Obviously, both men can-
not be correct; carried to their extreme, these attitudes cancel one
another, which is precisely what happens as Stralenheim is murdered
and Werner is destroyed. Notwithstanding the strong mutual claims
to universal, indisputable definitions, and the repeated efforts to sub-
stantiate these claims by reference to circumstance, neither Werner nor
Stralenheim can free himselffrom social and class reality; their inability
demonstrates exactly the fallacy in assuming that an encompassing,
ahistorical structure of ideas and relations governs social life.
  The extent to which the social world of the play is limited and
shaped by ideology is developed in Byron's handling of religion. Like
Cain and Heaven and Earth, Werner refuses to exempt religion from the
exchanges of social life, and in fact clearly depicts the particular class
role that religion often plays in sustaining a structure of social au-
thority. The melodramatic, sad, comical exchange between Werner and
the prior captures the way religion and class often complement one
another to maintain and perpetuate the ruling order. Once he regains
his aristocratic position, with its accompanying power and wealth,
Werner is, not surprisingly, guilt-ridden because of his earlier crime
against Stralenheim; he thus donates the dishonest gold to the church



wg Eng~lhRmnti Drmwt/Enlis Rmani Drm                                              io/EnglishRmatc rm


in order to expiate his sin. Werner's sincerity here is complete; he does
indeed wish to atone for an act that he perceives as immoral. In fact,
he is desperate to know the full integrity of his character. But his hon-
esty is very narrowly defined; he is so entirely governed by his desire
to preserve his aristocracy that he never really considers making a full
confession, even to the prior. To do so, of course, might jeopardize his
social position, tarnish his public image, or both. This is not simple
hypocrisy on his part (at least in the usual sense), for he cannot per-
ceive the inconsistencies in his position; rather, it is a sign of his need
to be personally and socially whole. That the prior readily accepts his
donation and his explanations exemplifies the way religion endorses
and sanctifies aristocracy's choices:

     Werner: I bestow this sum
     For pious purposes.
     Prior: A proper deed
     In the behalf of our departed friends.
     Werner: But he who's gone was not my friend, but foe,
     The deadliest and the stanchest.
     Prior: Better still!
     To employ our means to obtain Heaven for the souls
     Of our dead enemies is worthy those
     Who can forgive them living.
     Werner: But I did not
     Forgive this man. I loathed him to the last,
     As he did me. I do not love him now,
     But-
     Prior: Best of all! for this is pure religion!
     You fain would rescue him you hate from hell-
     An evangelical compassion. (IV.i.483-95)

This exchange describes the religious justification for Werner's social
conduct. The very real issues of social life-the theft, the murder-
are insistently relegated by religion to an abstract level that ostensibly
transcends class reality, thus freeing Werner from his immediate re-
sponsibilities as a social being. In this view, religion serves a very
real if subconscious purpose; it subsumes the contradictions in the
social order, thus making possible the perpetuation of that order. Once
Werner is convinced that "I am not guilty" (IV.i.522), he can comfort-
ably resume his position of wealth and exercise his ruling power with


in order to expiate his sin. Werner's sincerity here is complete; he does
indeed wish to atone for an act that he perceives as immoral. In fact,
he is desperate to know the full integrity of his character. But his hon-
esty is very narrowly defined; he is so entirely governed by his desire
to preserve his aristocracy that he never really considers making a full
confession, even to the prior. To do so, of course, might jeopardize his
social position, tarnish his public image, or both. This is not simple
hypocrisy on his part (atleast in the usual sense), for he cannot per-
ceive the inconsistencies in his position; rather, it is a sign of his need
to be personally and socially whole. That the prior readily accepts his
donation and his explanations exemplifies the way religion endorses
and sanctifies aristocracy's choices:

     Werner: I bestow this sum
     For pious purposes.
     Prior: A proper deed
     In the behalf of our departed friends.
     Werner: But he who's gone was not my friend, but foe,
     The deadliest and the stanchest.
     Prior: Better still!
     To employ our means to obtain Heaven for the souls
     Of our dead enemies is worthy those
     Who can forgive them living.
     Werner: But I did not
     Forgive this man. I loathed him to the last,
     As he did me. I do not love him now,
     But-
     Prior: Best of all! for this is pure religion!
     You fain would rescue him you hate from hell-
     An evangelical compassion. (IV.i.483-95)

This exchange describes the religious justification for Werner's social
conduct. The very real issues of social life-the theft, the murder-
are insistently relegated by religion to an abstract level that ostensibly
transcends class reality, thus freeing Werner from his immediate re-
sponsibilities as a social being. In this view, religion serves a very
real if subconscious purpose; it subsumes the contradictions in the
social order, thus making possible the perpetuation of that order. Once
Werner is convinced that "I am not guilty" (IV.i.522), he can comfort-
ably resume his position of wealth and exercise his ruling power with


in order to expiate his sin. Werner's sincerity here is complete; he does
indeed wish to atone for an act that he perceives as immoral. In fact,
he is desperate to know the full integrity of his character. But his hon-
esty is very narrowly defined; he is so entirely governed by his desire
to preserve his aristocracy that he never really considers making a full
confession, even to the prior. To do so, of course, might jeopardize his
social position, tarnish his public image, or both. This is not simple
hypocrisy on his part (at least in the usual sense), for he cannot per-
ceive the inconsistencies in his position; rather, it is a sign of his need
to be personally and socially whole. That the prior readily accepts his
donation and his explanations exemplifies the way religion endorses
and sanctifies aristocracy's choices:

     Werner: I bestow this sum
     For pious purposes.
     Prior: A proper deed
     In the behalf of our departed friends.
     Werner: But he who's gone was not my friend, but foe,
     The deadliest and the stanchest.
     Prior: Better still!
     To employ our means to obtain Heaven for the souls
     Of our dead enemies is worthy those
     Who can forgive them living.
     Werner: But I did not
     Forgive this man. I loathed him to the last,
     As he did me. I do not love him now,
     But-
     Prior: Best of all! for this is pure religion!
     You fain would rescue him you hate from hell-
     An evangelical compassion. (IV.i.483-95)

This exchange describes the religious justification for Werner's social
conduct. The very real issues of social life-the theft, the murder-
are insistently relegated by religion to an abstract level that ostensibly
transcends class reality, thus freeing Werner from his immediate re-
sponsibilities as a social being. In this view, religion serves a very
real if subconscious purpose; it subsumes the contradictions in the
social order, thus making possible the perpetuation of that order. Once
Werner is convinced that "I am not guilty" (IV.i522), he can comfort-
ably resume his position of wealth and exercise his ruling power with



ThIDams fILr Brn u                        h Drma Ib fZLrMyon/n                     h Drma obfZ I LodByow/n


a clear conscience. This fact is emphasized in the scene immediately
following, which describes a grand celebration in Count Siegendorf's
elaborately decorated castle. Marx explains this social perspective on
religion perfectly:

[M]an is no abstract being encamped outside the world. Man is
the world of man, the state, society. This state, this society, produce
religion, an inverted world-consciousness, because they are an inverted
world. Religion is the general theory of that world, its encyclopae-
dic compendium, its logic in a popular form,... its moral sanc-
tion, its solemn complement, its universal source of consolation
and justification.'

The play's most penetrating and original insight into the struc-
tures of social order lies in its portrayal of personal life. Here Byron
demonstrates the full social character of his imagination, denying
conventional abstract assumptions in order to develop an encompass-
ing, socially consistent concept of the family. Restored to aristocracy,
Werner responds to strong social pressures-evident in his past life
as well as in his continuing doubts about Stralenheim's murder-by
drawing his family closely about him. In fact, his family becomes
vitally important to him as virtually an open symbol of his personal
worth, providing a sanctuary, a source of meaning that he believes,
or at least hopes, is independent and self-contained. With its emphasis
on personal emotions and on love, his family constitutes for him a
domain that is not dominated by everyday public life. It is this under-
standing and need that prompt his desperate remark to his son, Ulric,
that "thou lovest me not! / All hearts but one may beat in kindness
for me- / But if my son's is cold!" (IV.i.323-25), as well as his stern
warning to Ulric to embrace a conventional domestic life (IV.i.332ff.).
But as with his understanding of religion, Werner's domestic choices
and attitudes, though perhaps honest, in fact respond to and perpetu-
ate the ruling class as well as his particular position within that class.
Not only does he insist on family presence at the Prague festival for
the sake of public show, explaining in response to Ulric's proposed
absence that "'twould be mark'd in any house, / But most in ours, that
ONE should be found wanting / At such a time and place" (IV.i.249-
51); but more significantly, he has adopted the orphaned Ida, daughter
of the murdered Stralenheim, thus consolidating his power by in-
corporating a potential enemy into his own camp. As Ulric honestly


a clear conscience. This fact is emphasized in the scene immediately
following, which describes a grand celebration in Count Siegendorf's
elaborately decorated castle. Marx explains this social perspective on
religion perfectly:
[M]an is no abstract being encamped outside the world. Man is
the world of man, the state, society. This state, this society, produce
religion, an inverted world-consciousness, because they are an inverted
world. Religion is the general theory of that world, its encyclopae-
dic compendium, its logic in a popular form,... its moral sanc-
tion, its solemn complement, its universal source of consolation
  and justification.?

  The play's most penetrating and original insight into the struc-
tures of social order lies in its portrayal of personal life. Here Byron
demonstrates the full social character of his imagination, denying
conventional abstract assumptions in order to develop an encompass-
ing, socially consistent concept of the family. Restored to aristocracy,
Werner responds to strong social pressures-evident in his past life
as well as in his continuing doubts about Stralenheim's murder-by
drawing his family closely about him. In fact, his family becomes
vitally important to him as virtually an open symbol of his personal
worth, providing a sanctuary, a source of meaning that he believes,
or at least hopes, is independent and self-contained. With its emphasis
on personal emotions and on love, his family constitutes for him a
domain that is not dominated by everyday public life. It is this under-
standing and need that prompt his desperate remark to his son, Ulric,
that "thou lovest me not! / All hearts but one may beat in kindness
for me- / But if my son's is cold!" (IV.i-323-25), as well as his stern
warning to Ulric to embrace a conventional domestic life (IV.i.332ff.).
But as with his understanding of religion, Werner's domestic choices
and attitudes, though perhaps honest, in fact respond to and perpetu-
ate the ruling class as well as his particular position within that class.
Not only does he insist on family presence at the Prague festival for
the sake of public show, explaining in response to Ulric's proposed
absence that "'twould be mark'd in any house, / But most in ours, that
ONE should be found wanting / At such a time and place" (IV.i.249-
5S); but more significantly, he has adopted the orphaned Ida, daughter
of the murdered Stralenheim, thus consolidating his power by in-
corporating a potential enemy into his own camp. As Ulric honestly


a clear conscience. This fact is emphasized in the scene immediately
following, which describes a grand celebration in Count Siegendorf's
elaborately decorated castle. Marx explains this social perspective on
religion perfectly:

[M]an is no abstract being encamped outside the world. Man is
the world ofman, the state, society. This state, this society, produce
religion, an inverted world-consciousness, because they are an inverted
world. Religion is the general theory of that world, its encyclopae-
dic compendium, its logic in a popular form, . . . its moral sanc-
tion, its solemn complement, its universal source of consolation
and justification.'t

The play's most penetrating and original insight into the struc-
tures of social order lies in its portrayal of personal life. Here Byron
demonstrates the full social character of his imagination, denying
conventional abstract assumptions in order to develop an encompass-
ing, socially consistent concept of the family. Restored to aristocracy,
Werner responds to strong social pressures-evident in his past life
as well as in his continuing doubts about Stralenheim's murder-by
drawing his family closely about him. In fact, his family becomes
vitally important to him as virtually an open symbol of his personal
worth, providing a sanctuary, a source of meaning that he believes,
or at least hopes, is independent and self-contained. With its emphasis
on personal emotions and on love, his family constitutes for him a
domain that is not dominated by everyday public life. It is this under-
standing and need that prompt his desperate remark to his son, Ulric,
that "thou lovest me not! / All hearts but one may beat in kindness
for me- / But if my son's is cold!" (IV.i.323-25), as well as his stern
warning to Ulric to embrace a conventional domestic life (IVi.332ff.).
But as with his understanding of religion, Werner's domestic choices
and attitudes, though perhaps honest, in fact respond to and perpetu-
ate the ruling class as well as his particular position within that class.
Not only does he insist on family presence at the Prague festival for
the sake of public show, explaining in response to Ulric's proposed
absence that "'twould be mark'd in any house, / But most in ours, that
ONE should be found wanting / At such a time and place" (IV.i.249-
51); but more significantly, he has adopted the orphaned Ida, daughter
of the murdered Stralenheim, thus consolidating his power by in-
corporating a potential enemy into his own camp. As Ulric honestly



19  gishRmni rm                          g w nls Roani Drm                         1 / nls omni rm


summarizes the situation: "[T]his union with / The last bud of the rival
branch at once / Unites the future and destroys the past" (IV.i.131-
33). If Werner's family serves private needs, these needs clearly are
connected to social realities and express very real and powerful social
values. The full social dimension of his personal life is shown explic-
itly at the end of the play when the strong pressures with which he has
been struggling explode within the family itself, destroying both his
domestic and his public life.?
  One way Byron connects these various social threads is through his
characterization of Gabor. Unlike other characters in the play, Gabor is
socially unattached, a foreigner, and this fact serves at least two impor-
tant purposes. First, the vulnerability that issues from his ambiguous
social position allows Byron to emphasize the fundamental unity of
existing social attitudes. Despite the fact, for instance, that his only
real act in the play is to rescue a drowning man, he is suspected by the
laboring and ruling classes alike both of theft and of murder. As an
unknown he is a convenient victim of social manipulation; his guilt
in these crimes would leave the social order innocent and intact, and
more significantly would "prove" society's righteousness by cleansing
it (with no harm to itself) of an evil that has surfaced. It is thus per-
fectly understandable that Idenstein and Fritz as well as Stralenheim
(and later Siegendorf) would immediately suspect him of the theft that
Werner committed.
  Further, Gabor's distance from the play's prevailing social order
makes him a perceptive critic who sees through complacent assump-
tions to the serious contradictions threatening the stability of the world
he has entered. It is Gabor who announces that the poor are always
the first to be suspected of guilt (III.i.23-24) and who explains as well
the full social significance of this response to crime. As he tells Ulric:
"[Y]ou spared me for / Your own especial purpose, to sustain / An
ignominy not my own" (V.i.214-16); and later he makes the same
point to Siegendorf: "I conceived myself/ Betray'd by you and him
[Ulric] . . . into this / Pretended den of refuge, to become / The vic-
tim of your guilt" (V.i.342-46). The issue at hand here is not a purely
private matter emerging from the accusations against an innocent indi-
vidual; as the play makes clear, guilt is socially assigned to protect
ruling-class interests. Gabor, for instance, makes this point explicit
numerous times in the play. He explains to Josephine when he first
talks with her that "I know well these nobles. and / Their thousand


summarizes the situation: "[T]his union with / The last bud of the rival
branch at once / Unites the future and destroys the past" (IV.i.t31-
33). If Werner's family serves private needs, these needs clearly are
connected to social realities and express very real and powerful social
values. The full social dimension of his personal life is shown explic-
itly at the end of the play when the strong pressures with which he has
been struggling explode within the family itself, destroying both his
domestic and his public life.0
One way Byron connects these various social threads is through his
characterization of Gabor. Unlike other characters in the play, Gabor is
socially unattached, a foreigner, and this fact serves at least two impor-
tant purposes. First, the vulnerability that issues from his ambiguous
social position allows Byron to emphasize the fundamental unity of
existing social attitudes. Despite the fact, for instance, that his only
real act in the play is to rescue a drowning man, he is suspected by the
laboring and ruling classes alike both of theft and of murder. As an
unknown he is a convenient victim of social manipulation; his guilt
in these crimes would leave the social order innocent and intact, and
more significantly would "prove" society's righteousness by cleansing
it (with no harm to itself) of an evil that has surfaced. It is thus per-
fectly understandable that Idenstein and Fritz as well as Stralenheim
(and later Siegendorf) would immediately suspect him of the theft that
Werner committed.
  Further, Gabor's distance from the play's prevailing social order
makes him a perceptive critic who sees through complacent assump-
tions to the serious contradictions threatening the stability of the world
he has entered. It is Gabor who announces that the poor are always
the first to be suspected of guilt (III.i.23-24) and who explains as well
the full social significance of this response to crime. As he tells Ulric:
"[Y]ou spared me for / Your own especial purpose, to sustain / An
ignominy not my own" (V.i.214-16); and later he makes the same
point to Siegendorf: "I conceived myself / Betray'd by you and hims
[Ulric] . . . into this / Pretended den of refuge, to become / The vic-
tim of your guilt" (V.i.342-46). The issue at hand here is not a purely
private matter emerging from the accusations against an innocent indi-
vidual; as the play makes clear, guilt is socially assigned to protect
ruling-class interests. Gabor, for instance, makes this point explicit
numerous times in the play. He explains to Josephine when he first
talks with her that "I know well these nobles. and / Their thousand


summarizes the situation: "[T]his union with / The last bud of the rival
branch at once / Unites the future and destroys the past" (IV.i.t3t-
33). If Werner's family serves private needs, these needs clearly are
connected to social realities and express very real and powerful social
values. The full social dimension of his personal life is shown explic-
itly at the end of the play when the strong pressures with which he has
been struggling explode within the family itself, destroying both his
domestic and his public life.76
  One way Byron connects these various social threads is through his
characterization of Gabor. Unlike other characters in the play, Gabor is
socially unattached, a foreigner, and this fact serves at least two impor-
tant purposes. First, the vulnerability that issues from his ambiguous
social position allows Byron to emphasize the fundamental unity of
existing social attitudes. Despite the fact, for instance, that his only
real act in the play is to rescue a drowning man, he is suspected by the
laboring and ruling classes alike both of theft and of murder. As an
unknown he is a convenient victim of social manipulation; his guilt
in these crimes would leave the social order innocent and intact, and
more significantly would "prove" society's righteousness by cleansing
it (with no harm to itself) of an evil that has surfaced. It is thus per-
fectly understandable that Idenstein and Fritz as well as Stralenheim
(and later Siegendorf) would immediately suspect him of the theft that
Werner committed.
  Further, Gabor's distance from the play's prevailing social order
makes him a perceptive critic who sees through complacent assump-
tions to the serious contradictions threatening the stability of the world
he has entered. It is Gabor who announces that the poor are always
the first to be suspected of guilt (III.i.23-24) and who explains as well
the full social significance of this response to crime. As he tells Ulric:
"[Y]ou spared me for / Your own especial purpose, to sustain / An
ignominy not my own" (V.i.214-16); and later he makes the same
point to Siegendorf "I conceived myself / Betray'd by you and hit
[Ulric] . . . into this / Pretended den of refuge, to become / The vic-
tim of your guilt" (V.i.342-46). The issue at hand here is not a purely
private matter emerging from the accusations against an innocent indi-
vidual; as the play makes clear, guilt is socially assigned to protect
ruling-class interests. Gabor, for instance, makes this point explicit
numerous times in the play. He explains to Josephine when he first
talks with her that "I know well these nobles. and / Their thousand



            The Dramas of Lord Byron / 193

modes of trampling on the poor" (I.i.655-56); and when Stralenheim
questions him about the theft he retorts: "[Y]ou / Are practising your
power on me-because / You have it; but beware! you know not
whom / You strive to tread on" (II.i.261-64).
While other characters conduct themselves according to principles
that appear to be universal and beyond criticism, Gabor remains rela-
tively independent from those principles. His relative freedom (as a
foreigner) from the structures of authority controlling the world in-
habited by all of the other characters enables him to expose the actual
social basis of human values and, moreover, to explain how these
values in reality can be used to support specific class interests. His
perceptions illuminate the social context encompassing the play's dis-
parate issues and amplify the deep-seated contradictions that ultimately
destroy the existing social order.
The collapse of the prevailing structures of social authority involves
at the same time the slow creation of a new system of values. Both the
direction of and the particular motivating impulses behind this system
are most fully embodied in Ulric. Of course, Ulric is a product of the
social world into which he is born, as is evidenced in his aristocratic
hauteur, his assumptions of privilege, and his readiness to command
authority; and his character is necessarily shaped by the various social
and personal contexts of his life. But he is also an imaginative indi-
vidual, attempting to overcome these contexts and to carve a new life
free of the contradictions that demand ever greater compromises from
his father. Werner's life magnifies the very real inadequacies of the pre-
vailing system, bringing fully into Ulric's view the "inherent weak-
ness, half-humanity, / Selfish remorse, and temporising pity, / that
sacrifices your whole race" (V.ii.36-38). Thus while Werner, Stralen-
heim, and most of the others accept the natural and universal validity
of ideas binding their society, only to find themselves victimized in
trying to justify their beliefs by means of religion, family, circum-
stance, and so on, Ulric attempts to live unhypocritically, without
relying on an abstract system to justify his life. He abandons entirely
the ethic to which his father blindly subscribes in favor of a more indi-
vidual, private, even bourgeois ethic, one that places the value and
right of "ownership" and privilege on one's ability to attain them-
hence his life of murder and plunder. He always takes the most expedi-
ent course of action to attain his goals, without respect to conventional
assumptions about right and wrong. Along with his large group of


            The Dramas of Lord Byron / 193

modes of trampling on the poor" (I.i.655-56); and when Stralenheim
questions him about the theft he retorts: "[Y]ou / Are practising your
power on me-because / You have it; but beware! you know not
whom / You strive to tread on" (II.i.26t-64).
While other characters conduct themselves according to principles
that appear to be universal and beyond criticism, Gabor remains rela-
tively independent from those principles. His relative freedom (as a
foreigner) from the structures of authority controlling the world in-
habited by all of the other characters enables him to expose the actual
social basis of human values and, moreover, to explain how these
values in reality can be used to support specific class interests. His
perceptions illuminate the social context encompassing the play's dis-
parate issues and amplify the deep-seated contradictions that ultimately
destroy the existing social order.
  The collapse of the prevailing structures of social authority involves
at the same time the slow creation of a new system of values. Both the
direction of and the particular motivating impulses behind this system
are most fully embodied in Ulric. Of course, Ulric is a product of the
social world into which he is born, as is evidenced in his aristocratic
hauteur, his assumptions of privilege, and his readiness to command
authority; and his character is necessarily shaped by the various social
and personal contexts of his life. But he is also an imaginative indi-
vidual, attempting to overcome these contexts and to carve a new life
free of the contradictions that demand ever greater compromises from
his father. Werner's life magnifies the very real inadequacies of the pre-
vailing system, bringing fully into Ulric's view the "inherent weak-
ness, half-humanity, / Selfish remorse, and temporising pity, / that
sacrifices your whole race" (V.ii.36-38). Thus while Werner, Stralen-
heim, and most of the others accept the natural and universal validity
of ideas binding their society, only to find themselves victimized in
trying to justify their beliefs by means of religion, family, circum-
stance, and so on, Ulric attempts to live unhypocritically, without
relying on an abstract system to justify his life. He abandons entirely
the ethic to which his father blindly subscribes in favor of a more indi-
vidual, private, even bourgeois ethic, one that places the value and
right of "ownership" and privilege on one's ability to attain them-
hence his life of murder and plunder. He always takes the most expedi-
ent course of action to attain his goals, without respect to conventional
assumptions about right and wrong. Along with his large group of


            The Dramas of Lord Byron / 193

modes of trampling on the poor" (I.i.655-56); and when Stralenheim
questions him about the theft he retorts: "[Y]ou / Are practising your
power on me-because / You have it; but beware! you know not
whom / You strive to tread on" (II.i.261-64).
While other characters conduct themselves according to principles
that appear to be universal and beyond criticism, Gabor remains rela-
tively independent from those principles. His relative freedom (as a
foreigner) from the structures of authority controlling the world in-
habited by all of the other characters enables him to expose the actual
social basis of human values and, moreover, to explain how these
values in reality can be used to support specific class interests. His
perceptions illuminate the social context encompassing the play's dis-
parate issues and amplify the deep-seated contradictions that ultimately
destroy the existing social order.
  The collapse of the prevailing structures of social authority involves
at the same time the slow creation of a new system of values. Both the
direction of and the particular motivating impulses behind this system
are most fully embodied in Ulric. Of course, Ulric is a product of the
social world into which he is born, as is evidenced in his aristocratic
hauteur, his assumptions of privilege, and his readiness to command
authority; and his character is necessarily shaped by the various social
and personal contexts of his life. But he is also an imaginative indi-
vidual, attempting to overcome these contexts and to carve a new life
free of the contradictions that demand ever greater compromises from
his father. Werner's life magnifies the very real inadequacies of the pre-
vailing system, bringing fully into Ulric's view the "inherent weak-
ness, half-humanity, / Selfish remorse, and temporising pity, / that
sacrifices your whole race" (V.ii.36-38). Thus while Werner, Stralen-
heim, and most of the others accept the natural and universal validity
of ideas binding their society, only to find themselves victimized in
trying to justify their beliefs by means of religion, family, circum-
stance, and so on, Ulric attempts to live unhypocritically, without
relying on an abstract system to justify his life. He abandons entirely
the ethic to which his father blindly subscribes in favor of a more indi-
vidual, private, even bourgeois ethic, one that places the value and
right of "ownership" and privilege on one's ability to attain them-
hence his life of murder and plunder. He always takes the most expedi-
ent course of action to attain his goals, without respect to conventional
assumptions about right and wrong. Along with his large group of



194 / English Romantic Drama             194 / English Romantic Drama             194 / English Romantic Drama


marauders, he illustrates, as it were, the inchoate existence of a new
class; born into a crumbling aristocracy, he frees himself from its con-
fining value system and way of life and begins constructing his own
renegade social context.
This, of course, is not to say that Ulric is morally right in the life he
has chosen. Indeed, the extreme physical violence he unquestioningly
and unflinchingly performs foreshadows future atrocities to match or
surpass those of the culture he rejects." Rather my point is that he,
like Cain, faces a given set of circumstances and assumptions that de-
termine his choices. His conduct simply exemplifies the developing
process of social change being charted in the play: just as Werner had
defied the right of society to govern personal life (note, for instance,
his marriage to Josephine), Ulric defies the right of society to gov-
ern public life. His final confession and then departure with his fellow
banditti ("men-who are worthy of the name" [V.ii.48]) mark the tri-
umph of the strongly individual ethic he represents, illuminating the
dominant characteristic of a new social order beginning to emerge.
The diverse social issues and perspectives developed in the play
bring into focus the complex role and significance of inheritance. The
conventional psychological explanation generally brought to bear on
this issue (that the son inherits the sins of the father) is inadequate,
because it reduces a contextual matter to purely private terms that are
badly inconsistent with the public character of inheritance as it is pre-
sented in the drama. The various social issues around which the plot
revolves, I believe, combine into a unified and highly critical reevalua-
tion of inheritance. The main concern here is neither psychological nor
legal (that is, the concern is not with the question of who is entitled
to succeed Werner's father as count), but social. In ascending to the
position of count, Werner does not simply achieve a private aim; he
inherits and accepts a full system of beliefs with its attendant social
reality. Karl Mannheim (writing in a different context) clarifies this
larger social view of inheritance:

  Strictly speaking it is incorrect to say that the single individual
  thinks. Rather it is more correct to insist that he participates in
  thinking further what other men have thought before him. He
  finds himself in an inherited situation with patterns of thought
  which are appropriate to this situation and attempts to elaborate
  further the inherited modes of response or to substitute others for


marauders, he illustrates, as it were, the inchoate existence of a new
class; born into a crumbling aristocracy, he frees himself from its con-
fining value system and way of life and begins constructing his own
renegade social context.
This, of course, is not to say that Ulric is morally right in the life he
has chosen. Indeed, the extreme physical violence he unquestioningly
and unflinchingly performs foreshadows future atrocities to match or
surpass those of the culture he rejects." Rather my point is that he,
like Cain, faces a given set of circumstances and assumptions that de-
termine his choices. His conduct simply exemplifies the developing
process of social change being charted in the play: just as Werner had
defied the right of society to govern personal life (note, for instance,
his marriage to Josephine), Ulric defies the right of society to gov-
ern public life. His final confession and then departure with his fellow
banditti ("men-who are worthy of the name" [V.ii.48]) mark the tri-
umph of the strongly individual ethic he represents, illuminating the
dominant characteristic of a new social order beginning to emerge.
The diverse social issues and perspectives developed in the play
bring into focus the complex role and significance of inheritance. The
conventional psychological explanation generally brought to bear on
this issue (that the son inherits the sins of the father) is inadequate,
because it reduces a contextual matter to purely private terms that are
badly inconsistent with the public character of inheritance as it is pre-
sented in the drama. The various social issues around which the plot
revolves, I believe, combine into a unified and highly critical reevalua-
tion of inheritance. The main concern here is neither psychological nor
legal (that is, the concern is not with the question of who is entitled
to succeed Werner's father as count), but social. In ascending to the
position of count, Werner does not simply achieve a private aim; he
inherits and accepts a full system of beliefs with its attendant social
reality. Karl Mannheim (writing in a different context) clarifies this
larger social view of inheritance:

  Strictly speaking it is incorrect to say that the single individual
  thinks. Rather it is more correct to insist that he participates in
  thinking further what other men have thought before him. He
  finds himself in an inherited situation with patterns of thought
  which are appropriate to this situation and attempts to elaborate
  further the inherited modes of response or to substitute others for


marauders, he illustrates, as it were, the inchoate existence of a new
class; born into a crumbling aristocracy, he frees himself from its con-
fining value system and way of life and begins constructing his own
renegade social context.
This, of course, is not to say that Ulric is morally right in the life he
has chosen. Indeed, the extreme physical violence he unquestioningly
and unflinchingly performs foreshadows future atrocities to match or
surpass those of the culture he rejects." Rather my point is that he,
like Cain, faces a given set of circumstances and assumptions that de-
termine his choices. His conduct simply exemplifies the developing
process of social change being charted in the play: just as Werner had
defied the right of society to govern personal life (note, for instance,
his marriage to Josephine), Ulric defies the right of society to gov-
ern public life. His final confession and then departure with his fellow
banditti ("men-who are worthy of the name" [V.ii.48]) mark the tri-
umph of the strongly individual ethic he represents, illuminating the
dominant characteristic of a new social order beginning to emerge.
The diverse social issues and perspectives developed in the play
bring into focus the complex role and significance of inheritance. The
conventional psychological explanation generally brought to bear on
this issue (that the son inherits the sins of the father) is inadequate,
because it reduces a contextual matter to purely private terms that are
badly inconsistent with the public character of inheritance as it is pre-
sented in the drama. The various social issues around which the plot
revolves, I believe, combine into a unified and highly critical reevalua-
tion ofinheritance. The main concern here is neither psychological nor
legal (that is, the concern is not with the question of who is entitled
to succeed Werner's father as count), but social. In ascending to the
position of count, Werner does not simply achieve a private aim; he
inherits and accepts a full system of beliefs with its attendant social
reality. Karl Mannheim (writing in a different context) clarifies this
larger social view of inheritance:

  Strictly speaking it is incorrect to say that the single individual
  thinks. Rather it is more correct to insist that he participates in
  thinking further what other men have thought before him. He
  finds himself in an inherited situation with patterns of thought
  which are appropriate to this situation and attempts to elaborate
  further the inherited modes of response or to substitute others for



Th rmsVfLr Brn/ 9                         h Drma Ib f L wdBro 9                   Th    VZ Drms Igod yo 9


  them in order to deal more adequately with the new challenges
  which have arisen out of these shifts and changes in his situation.7t

This point is exemplified in Werner's adoption of Ida, in his search
for the (presumed) guilty Gabor, and in his public show of power and
wealth-all public actions that reflect his embracement of a received
situation and which are meant to secure his personal integrity, as well
as the integrity of the ruling class, within that situation.
  Such an explanation of inheritance within the broad historical con-
text of social life illuminates more immediate concerns of the play.
That Werner is implicated in crime after crime (both material and
moral) and that finally these destroy entirely his private and public
life are signs of the severe evils that necessarily emerge when social
principles go unexamined. In this view, inheritance becomes a sym-
bol of the entire social order that the play describes; although it is
never explicitly defined or fully understood by Werner, inheritance (or
the idea of inheritance) is perceived as natural and universally valid,
just as the existing social and class relations are perceived as natural
and universally valid. The conclusion of the play powerfully illustrates
the narrowness of these assumptions and stresses the true social and
historical conditions that have governed the action from the begin-
ning. When Ulric blatantly refuses to become "the vain heir / Of your
[Werner's] domains" (V.ii. 44-45) and leaves his father for the last time,
the stunned Werner announces that "The race of Siegendorf is past"
(V.ii.f66). Even if his remark is understandable because of the pressures
on him at the moment, it is incorrect (Ulric is not dead), and this fact is
important. Given his class position and its absolutely encompassing set
of beliefs, Werner cannot understand that in fact what is past is a way
of life, a social system in which individuals passively and uncritically
inherit their wealth (or poverty), their status, and their values, and
that it is being replaced by a new system in which merit is determined
by individual action. His confusion ofnatural and social phenomena at
this extreme moment illuminates the complete control that his society
exerts over him and, in larger terms, it represents the final blow to a
system destroying itself by its own internal limitations, injustices, and
contradictions.
  Without attempting to press the issue too far, I should note that
Werner's story parallels exactly the course of the Thirty Years' War, so
that the play may be viewed as a particular manifestation of a larger


  them in order to deal more adequately with the new challenges
  which have arisen out of these shifts and changes in his situation.t

This point is exemplified in Werner's adoption of Ida, in his search
for the (presumed) guilty Gabor, and in his public show of power and
wealth-all public actions that reflect his embracement of a received
situation and which are meant to secure his personal integrity, as well
as the integrity of the ruling class, within that situation.
  Such an explanation of inheritance within the broad historical con-
text of social life illuminates more immediate concerns of the play.
That Werner is implicated in crime after crime (both material and
moral) and that finally these destroy entirely his private and public
life are signs of the severe evils that necessarily emerge when social
principles go unexamined. In this view, inheritance becomes a sym-
bol of the entire social order that the play describes; although it is
never explicitly defined or fully understood by Werner, inheritance (or
the idea of inheritance) is perceived as natural and universally valid,
just as the existing social and class relations are perceived as natural
and universally valid. The conclusion of the play powerfully illustrates
the narrowness of these assumptions and stresses the true social and
historical conditions that have governed the action from the begin-
ning. When Ulric blatantly refuses to become "the vain heir / Of your
[Werner's] domains" (V.ii.44-45) and leaves his father for the last time,
the stunned Werner announces that "The race of Siegendorf is past"
(V.ii.66). Even if his remark is understandable because of the pressures
on him at the moment, it is incorrect (Ulric is not dead), and this fact is
important. Given his class position and its absolutely encompassing set
of beliefs, Werner cannot understand that in fact what is past is a way
of life, a social system in which individuals passively and uncritically
inherit their wealth (or poverty), their status, and their values, and
that it is being replaced by a new system in which merit is determined
by individual action. His confusion ofnatural and social phenomena at
this extreme moment illuminates the complete control that his society
exerts over him and, in larger terms, it represents the final blow to a
system destroying itself by its own internal limitations, injustices, and
contradictions.
  Without attempting to press the issue too far, I should note that
Werner's story parallels exactly the course of the Thirty Years' War, so
that the play may be viewed as a particular manifestation of a larger


  them in order to deal more adequately with the new challenges
  which have arisen out of these shifts and changes in his situation.78

This point is exemplified in Werner's adoption of Ida, in his search
for the (presumed) guilty Gabor, and in his public show of power and
wealth-all public actions that reflect his embracement of a received
situation and which are meant to secure his personal integrity, as well
as the integrity of the ruling class, within that situation.
  Such an explanation of inheritance within the broad historical con-
text of social life illuminates more immediate concerns of the play.
That Werner is implicated in crime after crime (both material and
moral) and that finally these destroy entirely his private and public
life are signs of the severe evils that necessarily emerge when social
principles go unexamined. In this view, inheritance becomes a sym-
bol of the entire social order that the play describes; although it is
never explicitly defined or fully understood by Werner, inheritance (or
the idea of inheritance) is perceived as natural and universally valid,
just as the existing social and class relations are perceived as natural
and universally valid. The conclusion of the play powerfully illustrates
the narrowness of these assumptions and stresses the true social and
historical conditions that have governed the action from the begin-
ning. When Ulric blatantly refuses to become "the vain heir / Of your
[Werner's] domains" (V.ii.44-45) and leaves his father for the last time,
the stunned Werner announces that "The race of Siegendorf is past"
(V.ii.66). Even if his remark is understandable because of the pressures
on him at the moment, it is incorrect (Ulric is not dead), and this fact is
important. Given his class position and its absolutely encompassing set
of beliefs, Werner cannot understand that in fact what is past is a way
of life, a social system in which individuals passively and uncritically
inherit their wealth (or poverty), their status, and their values, and
that it is being replaced by a new system in which merit is determined
by individual action. His confusion ofnatural and social phenomena at
this extreme moment illuminates the complete control that his society
exerts over him and, in larger terms, it represents the final blow to a
system destroying itself by its own internal limitations, injustices, and
contradictions.
  Without attempting to press the issue too far, I should note that
Werner's story parallels exactly the course of the Thirty Years' War, so
that the play may be viewed as a particular manifestation of a larger




            196 / English Romantic Drama

historical crisis. Although the war ended in momentary triumph by the
old order, it sounded at the same time the certain eventual demise of
aristocratic hegemony; likewise, Werner's inheritance marks a tempo-
rary restoration ofsocial order and also crystallizes the various incon-
sistencies that eventually must destroy this order. Or, put differently,
just as Werner is defeated in his efforts to reestablish his personal life
as it once was, his social class is defeated in its efforts to halt the course
of history.
  These, of course, are vast simplifications, but nonetheless they may
be used as a gloss on the drama's method of presenting history. It sets
the action at the time of the Thirty Years' War to focus the impor-
tance of specific events, to give them historical depth and dimension.
This particular appropriation and presentation of historical and social
life have never been fully appreciated because, as the foregoing discus-
sion stresses, the drama avoids conventional positivistic biases. Werner
is not concerned with charting a linear, cause-effect course for his-
torical events; rather, it dramatizes social structure, emphasizing the
contradictions, the faulty assumptions, the dominant philosophy and
character types, the economic forces at the center of a specific social
system.
  The lengthy analysis that I have here provided of Werner should in-
dicate my belief that this is Byron's most sophisticated and historically
compelling drama. Behind this portrayal of deep and severe social
contradictions are Byron's extensive reading in history, literature, and
politics; his personal experiences in family and public life; the tur-
moil and apocalyptic fervor of the American and French revolutions;
the unprecedented extravagance, oppression, and poverty of Regency
England; the Peterloo Massacre; the revolutionary writings and politi-
cal activities of Shelley; the Napoleonic campaigns; the Austrian domi-
nation of Italy; the Carbonari resistance; and more.?5 In Werner, as in
all of his works after about 1820, Byron attempts an imaginative syn-
thesis, not of the details of these forces but rather of their ideological
currents; implicit in this attempt is the assumption that social change
can become truly progressive and productive only when the structures
of authority and belief encompassing events and attitudes are clearly
understood.


            196 / English Romantic Drama

historical crisis. Although the war ended in momentary triumph by the
old order, it sounded at the same time the certain eventual demise of
aristocratic hegemony; likewise, Werner's inheritance marks a tempo-
rary restoration of social order and also crystallizes the various incon-
sistencies that eventually must destroy this order. Or, put differently,
just as Werner is defeated in his efforts to reestablish his personal life
as it once was, his social class is defeated in its efforts to halt the course
of history.
  These, of course, are vast simplifications, but nonetheless they may
be used as a gloss on the drama's method of presenting history. It sets
the action at the time of the Thirty Years' War to focus the impor-
tance of specific events, to give them historical depth and dimension.
This particular appropriation and presentation of historical and social
life have never been fully appreciated because, as the foregoing discus-
sion stresses, the drama avoids conventional positivistic biases. Werner
is not concerned with charting a linear, cause-effect course for his-
torical events; rather, it dramatizes social structure, emphasizing the
contradictions, the faulty assumptions, the dominant philosophy and
character types, the economic forces at the center of a specific social
system.
  The lengthy analysis that I have here provided of Werner should in-
dicate my belief that this is Byron's most sophisticated and historically
compelling drama. Behind this portrayal of deep and severe social
contradictions are Byron's extensive reading in history, literature, and
politics; his personal experiences in family and public life; the tur-
moil and apocalyptic fervor of the American and French revolutions;
the unprecedented extravagance, oppression, and poverty of Regency
England; the Peterloo Massacre; the revolutionary writings and politi-
cal activities of Shelley; the Napol6onic campaigns; the Austrian domi-
nation of Italy; the Carbonari resistance; and more?' In Werner, as in
all of his works after about 1820, Byron attempts an imaginative syn-
thesis, not of the details of these forces but rather of their ideological
currents; implicit in this attempt is the assumption that social change
can become truly progressive and productive only when the structures
of authority and belief encompassing events and attitudes are clearly
understood.


            196 / English Romantic Drama

historical crisis. Although the war ended in momentary triumph by the
old order, it sounded at the same time the certain eventual demise of
aristocratic hegemony; likewise, Werner's inheritance marks a tempo-
rary restoration of social order and also crystallizes the various incon-
sistencies that eventually must destroy this order. Or, put differently,
just as Werner is defeated in his efforts to reestablish his personal life
as it once was, his social class is defeated in its efforts to halt the course
of history.
  These, of course, are vast simplifications, but nonetheless they may
be used as a gloss on the drama's method of presenting history. It sets
the action at the time of the Thirty Years' War to focus the impor-
tance of specific events, to give them historical depth and dimension.
This particular appropriation and presentation of historical and social
life have never been fully appreciated because, as the foregoing discus-
sion stresses, the drama avoids conventional positivistic biases. Werner
is not concerned with charting a linear, cause-effect course for his-
torical events; rather, it dramatizes social structure, emphasizing the
contradictions, the faulty assumptions, the dominant philosophy and
character types, the economic forces at the center of a specific social
system.
  The lengthy analysis that I have here provided of Werner should in-
dicate my belief that this is Byron's most sophisticated and historically
compelling drama. Behind this portrayal of deep and severe social
contradictions are Byron's extensive reading in history, literature, and
politics; his personal experiences in family and public life; the tur-
moil and apocalyptic fervor of the American and French revolutions;
the unprecedented extravagance, oppression, and poverty of Regency
England; the Peterloo Massacre; the revolutionary writings and politi-
cal activities of Shelley; the Napol6onic campaigns; the Austrian domi-
nation of Italy; the Carbonari resistance; and more.? In Werner, as in
all of his works after about 1820, Byron attempts an imaginative syn-
thesis, not of the details of these forces but rather of their ideological
currents; implicit in this attempt is the assumption that social change
can become truly progressive and productive only when the structures
of authority and belief encompassing events and attitudes are clearly
understood.



The Dramas of Lord Byron / 197           The Dramas of Lord Byron / 197           The Dramas of Lord Byron / 197


The Deformed Transformed
That The Deformed Transformed (1822) has rarely been viewed as a work
with anything serious to say about politics and society is at least partly
Byron's fault. He wrote the drama with even less patience and preci-
sion than usual, allowing his ego and impulse toward autobiography
to obscure other interests. Consequently, readers unanimously have
brought an exclusive psychological perspective to the play, arguing
that in it can be found autobiographical references to Byron's physical
deformity, his turbulent relationship with his mother, and his long-
standing fascination with the idea of a doppelginger.80 These psycho-
logical imperatives notwithstanding, The Deformed Transformed is most
fully understood in terms of its radical critique of social order. The
play presents an array of ostensibly isolated topics from   alienation
to violence, from religion to art, affirming their vital connectedness
in society. Moreover, it articulates the complex relation between ab-
stract or transhistorical ideals and the material conditions of everyday
personal and social life, thus demystifying the powerful ideological
processes that both reflect and shape human perceptions of the world.
  These matters are presented through the experiences of what must
be Byron's oddest character creation, an ugly and physically de-
formed social outcast named Arnold. Like the stereotypical romantic
hero, Arnold displays a "natural" attraction to the noblest qualities in
life: "beauty" (Ii.191), "peace" (Lii.21), "honor" (II.iii.8o), "mercy"
(II.iii.93-94), and "forgiveness" (I1.iii.111); and he sincerely wishes to
be loved (I.i.29-31, 421-22).tt But these noble and abstract ideals em-
phatically elude him, never becoming part of his ordinary everyday
experience. His mother looks on him as an "incubus" (Ii. 2), a "night-
mare" (I.i.2), an "abortion" (I.i.3), and a "monstrous sport of Nature"
(Ii.15); and when he reflects upon his situation he reluctantly agrees
that he is despicable (I.i.46), fit only for slave labor despite his desperate
and sincere longing for something better.
  Arnold's unfortunate predicament, of course, traces immediately to
his physical deformity but, as the drama gradually shows, this is only
the literal manifestation of a deeply ingrained and unquestioned set of
social beliefs. The public scorn generated by his ugliness rests upon
the prevailing assumption in his world that he is too ugly and weak to
deserve better than what he has, that his situation is his fault alone. Or,
put bluntly, he is despised because he is unable to be anything other


The Deformed Transformed
That The Deformed Transformed (1822) has rarely been viewed as a work
with anything serious to say about politics and society is at least partly
Byron's fault. He wrote the drama with even less patience and preci-
sion than usual, allowing his ego and impulse toward autobiography
to obscure other interests. Consequently, readers unanimously have
brought an exclusive psychological perspective to the play, arguing
that in it can be found autobiographical references to Byron's physical
deformity, his turbulent relationship with his mother, and his long-
standing fascination with the idea of a doppelginger5 These psycho-
logical imperatives notwithstanding, The Deformed Transformed is most
fully understood in terms of its radical critique of social order. The
play presents an array of ostensibly isolated topics from alienation
to violence, from religion to art, affirming their vital connectedness
in society. Moreover, it articulates the complex relation between ab-
stract or transhistorical ideals and the material conditions of everyday
personal and social life, thus demystifying the powerful ideological
processes that both reflect and shape human perceptions of the world.
  These matters are presented through the experiences of what must
be Byron's oddest character creation, an ugly and physically de-
formed social outcast named Arnold. Like the stereotypical romantic
hero, Arnold displays a "natural" attraction to the noblest qualities in
life: "beauty" (I.i.191), "peace" (lii.21), "honor" (Il.iii.80), "mercy"
(II.iii.93-94), and "forgiveness" (Il.iii. t1); and he sincerely wishes to
be loved (l.i.29-31, 421-22).1 But these noble and abstract ideals em-
phatically elude him, never becoming part of his ordinary everyday
experience. His mother looks on him as an "incubus" (L.i.2), a "night-
mare" (I.i.2), an "abortion" (Li. 3), and a "monstrous sport of Nature"
(Ii. ts); and when he reflects upon his situation he reluctantly agrees
that he is despicable (I.i.46), fit only for slave labor despite his desperate
and sincere longing for something better.
  Arnold's unfortunate predicament, of course, traces immediately to
his physical deformity but, as the drama gradually shows, this is only
the literal manifestation of a deeply ingrained and unquestioned set of
social beliefs. The public scorn generated by his ugliness rests upon
the prevailing assumption in his world that he is too ugly and weak to
deserve better than what he has, that his situation is his fault alone. Or,
put bluntly, he is despised because he is unable to be anything other


The Deformed Transformed
That The Deformed Transformed (1822) has rarely been viewed as a work
with anything serious to say about politics and society is at least partly
Byron's fault. He wrote the drama with even less patience and preci-
sion than usual, allowing his ego and impulse toward autobiography
to obscure other interests. Consequently, readers unanimously have
brought an exclusive psychological perspective to the play, arguing
that in it can be found autobiographical references to Byron's physical
deformity, his turbulent relationship with his mother, and his long-
standing fascination with the idea of a doppelginger."0 These psycho-
logical imperatives notwithstanding, The Deformed Transformed is most
fully understood in terms of its radical critique of social order. The
play presents an array of ostensibly isolated topics from alienation
to violence, from religion to art, affirming their vital connectedness
in society. Moreover, it articulates the complex relation between ab-
stract or transhistorical ideals and the material conditions of everyday
personal and social life, thus demystifying the powerful ideological
processes that both reflect and shape human perceptions of the world.
These matters are presented through the experiences of what must
be Byron's oddest character creation, an ugly and physically de-
formed social outcast named Arnold. Like the stereotypical romantic
hero, Arnold displays a "natural" attraction to the noblest qualities in
life: "beauty" (I.i.191), "peace" (I.ii.21), "honor" (Il.iii.80), "mercy"
(Il.iii-93-94), and "forgiveness" (lI.iii. t1); and he sincerely wishes to
be loved (I.i.29-31, 421--22)?. But these noble and abstract ideals em-
phatically elude him, never becoming part of his ordinary everyday
experience. His mother looks on him as an "incubus" (I.i.2), a "night-
mare" (I.i.2), an "abortion" (Li.3), and a "monstrous sport of Nature"
(Ii. I); and when he reflects upon his situation he reluctantly agrees
that he is despicable (.i..46), fit only for slave labor despite his desperate
and sincere longing for something better.
  Arnold's unfortunate predicament, of course, traces immediately to
his physical deformity but, as the drama gradually shows, this is only
the literal manifestation of a deeply ingrained and unquestioned set of
social beliefs. The public scorn generated by his ugliness rests upon
the prevailing assumption in his world that he is too ugly and weak to
deserve better than what he has, that his situation is his fault alone. Or,
put bluntly, he is despised because he is unable to be anything other



19/nlis Romanticrm9                                                           nglis Roani Drma19 / Enls                                                    oani rm


than what he is; he cannot attain full integration into the mainstream of
life because of his own limitations. These assumptions make human life
fundamentally individual, untouched by historical and social determi-
nations, and they deny that real human value derives in any way from
the texture of material social existence. Further, it makes circumstance
a fixed, static, unyielding arena that does little more than test one's
private strength and serves as a measure of one's success or failure. In
short, the assumptions behind the public condemnation of Arnold set
up an absolute dichotomy between private character and overriding
"real" values, without admitting the active, mediating role of history
and society. In this view, to be loved and appreciated, to experience
freedom and meaning, Arnold would need first the strength to over-
come the severe limitations that presently make him seem worthless;
and then he would need somehow to embody the ideals held up to
him as sacred.
   The consequences of this ethic, which he has inherited and fully em-
bodied, are exemplified in his eventual transformation into the physi-
cally beautiful Achilles. His transformation (he thinks) marks his first
step toward social acceptance and love, and therefore toward personal
fulfillment; it gives him a near perfect human form and bestows on him
unsurpassed physical skills as well, enabling him to overcome those
individual deficiencies that previously had limited him and made him
the scorn of other people. That he understands his heroic acquisitions
in moral rather than selfish terms is evidenced in his initial exclama-
tion as Achilles: "I love, and I shall be beloved! Oh, life! / At last I feel
thee! Glorious spirit" (I.i.421-22). Yet, once he has actually achieved
his idealized vision of himself, his desire for love modulates rapidly
into a wish to go "Where the World / Is thickest" (I.i.494-95), or as his
accomplice, the Stranger, realistically states it, where "the whole race
are just now / Tugging as usual at each other's hearts" (Li. Soo-Sot).
And once he finds his way into the thick world, moreover, he begins
to display gross selfishness and inhumanity. As a soldier in action, for
instance, not only does he insist on preceding his commander, Bour-
bon, into battle but he also fights with savage disdain of bodily injury
and even skirmishes bitterly with his own soldiers when they beat
him to the spoils of war. He proceeds relentlessly until he becomes the
single greatest living man, blatantly superior to his fellow soldiers and
in complete possession not only of fallen Rome but also of Olimpia,
Rome's most beautiful and distinguished survivor.


than what he is; he cannot attain full integration into the mainstream of
life because of his own limitations. These assumptions make human life
fundamentally individual, untouched by historical and social determi-
nations, and they deny that real human value derives in any way from
the texture of material social existence. Further, it makes circumstance
a fixed, static, unyielding arena that does little more than test one's
private strength and serves as a measure of one's success or failure. In
short, the assumptions behind the public condemnation of Arnold set
up an absolute dichotomy between private character and overriding
"real" values, without admitting the active, mediating role of history
and society. In this view, to be loved and appreciated, to experience
freedom and meaning, Arnold would need first the strength to over-
come the severe limitations that presently make him seem worthless;
and then he would need somehow to embody the ideals held up to
him as sacred.
   The consequences of this ethic, which he has inherited and fully em-
bodied, are exemplified in his eventual transformation into the physi-
cally beautiful Achilles. His transformation (he thinks) marks his first
step toward social acceptance and love, and therefore toward personal
fulfillment; it gives him a near perfect human form and bestows on him
unsurpassed physical skills as well, enabling him to overcome those
individual deficiencies that previously had limited him and made him
the scorn of other people. That he understands his heroic acquisitions
in moral rather than selfish terms is evidenced in his initial exclama-
tion as Achilles: "I love, and I shall be beloved! Oh, life! / At last I feel
thee! Glorious spirit" (I.i.42t-22). Yet, once he has actually achieved
his idealized vision of himself, his desire for love modulates rapidly
into a wish to go "Where the World / Is thickest" (I.i.494-95), or as his
accomplice, the Stranger, realistically states it, where "the whole race
are just now / Tugging as usual at each other's hearts" (I.i.So0-5ot).
And once he finds his way into the thick world, moreover, he begins
to display gross selfishness and inhumanity. As a soldier in action, for
instance, not only does he insist on preceding his commander, Bour-
bon, into battle but he also fights with savage disdain of bodily injury
and even skirmishes bitterly with his own soldiers when they beat
him to the spoils of war. He proceeds relentlessly until he becomes the
single greatest living man, blatantly superior to his fellow soldiers and
in complete possession not only of fallen Rome but also of Olimpia,
Rome's most beautiful and distinguished survivor.


than what he is; he cannot attain full integration into the mainstream of
life because of his own limitations. These assumptions make human life
fundamentally individual, untouched by historical and social determi-
nations, and they deny that real human value derives in any way from
the texture of material social existence. Further, it makes circumstance
a fixed, static, unyielding arena that does little more than test one's
private strength and serves as a measure of one's success or failure. In
short, the assumptions behind the public condemnation of Arnold set
up an absolute dichotomy between private character and overriding
"real" values, without admitting the active, mediating role of history
and society. In this view, to be loved and appreciated, to experience
freedom and meaning, Arnold would need first the strength to over-
come the severe limitations that presently make him seem worthless;
and then he would need somehow to embody the ideals held up to
him as sacred.
   The consequences of this ethic, which he has inherited and fully em-
bodied, are exemplified in his eventual transformation into the physi-
cally beautiful Achilles. His transformation (he thinks) marks his first
step toward social acceptance and love, and therefore toward personal
fulfillment; it gives him a near perfect human form and bestows on him
unsurpassed physical skills as well, enabling him to overcome those
individual deficiencies that previously had limited him and made him
the scorn of other people. That he understands his heroic acquisitions
in moral rather than selfish terms is evidenced in his initial exclama-
tion as Achilles: "I love, and I shall be beloved! Oh, life! / At last I feel
thee! Glorious spirit" (I.i.421-22). Yet, once he has actually achieved
his idealized vision of himself, his desire for love modulates rapidly
into a wish to go "Where the World / Is thickest" (I.i.494-95), or as his
accomplice, the Stranger, realistically states it, where "the whole race
are just now / Tugging as usual at each other's hearts" (I.1.500-501).
And once he finds his way into the thick world, moreover, he begins
to display gross selfishness and inhumanity. As a soldier in action, for
instance, not only does he insist on preceding his commander, Bour-
bon, into battle but he also fights with savage disdain of bodily injury
and even skirmishes bitterly with his own soldiers when they beat
him to the spoils of war. He proceeds relentlessly until he becomes the
single greatest living man, blatantly superior to his fellow soldiers and
in complete possession not only of fallen Rome but also of Olimpia,
Rome's most beautiful and distinguished survivor.



Th Draas    odBro     g                                                  h Drma of VLordt Byo /a                                               lbgZM* Th Drms 'aod yo


   Although he confesses at one point that his path to glory "Has been
o'er carcasses" (I.ii.2), he never realizes that there has been a radical
change in his thinking. Worse, he never realizes that his actions, from
the moment of his transformation into Achilles, produce the exact
reverse of what he most desires. His inability to evaluate experience
accurately and to discriminate such significant shifts of thought illumi-
nates the true object of his desire. His consuming effort to free himself
from all restraints and thereby to confirm his real virtue translates into
his strong need to embody an image of himself that always stands just
outside experience as he knows it; he envies what he might be, and this
of course always precludes satisfaction with what he is (even if he is
Achilles and the conqueror of Rome). In the final, incomplete section
of the drama the Stranger makes this point explicit:

         The Stranger: You are jealous.
         Arnold: And of whom?
         The Stranger: It may be of yourself, for Jealousy
         Is as a shadow of the Sun. The Orb
         Is mighty-as you mortals deem-and to
         Your little Universe seems universal;
         But, great as He appears, and is to you,
         The smallest cloud-the slightest vapour of
         Your humid earth enables you to look
         Upon a Sky which you revile as dull;
         Though your eyes dare not gaze on it when cloudless.
         Nothing can blind a mortal like to light.
         Now Love in you is as the Sun-a thing
         Beyond you-and your Jealousy's of Earth-
         A cloud of your own raising. (lIIl.i.69-82)

This view of Arnold's character explains why he sees his persistent
campaign to make himself "the superior of the rest" (I.i.317) as both
moral and consistent with his original desires, and why at the same
time he becomes increasingly frustrated with every achievement. His
ongoing search for his elusive and ever changing Self steadily destroys
his public or social awareness, and necessitates the continual redefi-
nition of values in progressively narrow terms. Like Mary Shelley's
Frankenstein, his motives and goals are honest but sadly misguided
by an isolating subjectivism, and thus doom him to confusion and
despair.


  Although he confesses at one point that his path to glory "Has been
o'er carcasses" (I.ii.2), he never realizes that there has been a radical
change in his thinking. Worse, he never realizes that his actions, from
the moment of his transformation into Achilles, produce the exact
reverse of what he most desires. His inability to evaluate experience
accurately and to discriminate such significant shifts of thought illumi-
nates the true object of his desire. His consuming effort to free himself
from all restraints and thereby to confirm his real virtue translates into
his strong need to embody an image of himself that always stands just
outside experience as he knows it; he envies what he might be, and this
of course always precludes satisfaction with what he is (even if he is
Achilles and the conqueror of Rome). In the final, incomplete section
of the drama the Stranger makes this point explicit:

         The Stranger: You are jealous.
         Arnold: And of whom?
         The Stranger: It may be of yourself, for jealousy
         Is as a shadow of the Sun. The Orb
         Is mighty-as you mortals deem-and to
         Your little Universe seems universal;
         But, great as He appears, and is to you,
         The smallest cloud-the slightest vapour of
         Your humid earth enables you to look
         Upon a Sky which you revile as dull;
         Though your eyes dare not gaze on it when cloudless.
         Nothing can blind a mortal like to light.
         Now Love in you is as the Sun-a thing
         Beyond you-and your Jealousy's of Earth-
         A cloud of your own raising. (III.i.69-82)

This view of Arnold's character explains why he sees his persistent
campaign to make himself "the superior of the rest" (I.i-317) as both
moral and consistent with his original desires, and why at the same
time he becomes increasingly frustrated with every achievement. His
ongoing search for his elusive and ever changing Self steadily destroys
his public or social awareness, and necessitates the continual redefi-
nition of values in progressively narrow terms. Like Mary Shelley's
Frankenstein, his motives and goals are honest but sadly misguided
by an isolating subjectivism, and thus doom him to confusion and
despair.


   Although he confesses at one point that his path to glory "Has been
o'er carcasses" (I.ii.2), he never realizes that there has been a radical
change in his thinking. Worse, he never realizes that his actions, from
the moment of his transformation into Achilles, produce the exact
reverse of what he most desires. His inability to evaluate experience
accurately and to discriminate such significant shifts of thought illumi-
nates the true object of his desire. His consuming effort to free himself
from all restraints and thereby to confirm his real virtue translates into
his strong need to embody an image of himself that always stands just
outside experience as he knows it; he envies what he might be, and this
of course always precludes satisfaction with what he is (even if he is
Achilles and the conqueror of Rome). In the final, incomplete section
of the drama the Stranger makes this point explicit:
         The Stranger: You arejealous.
         Arnold: And of whom?
         The Stranger: It may be of yourself, for Jealousy
         Is as a shadow of the Sun. The Orb
         Is mighty-as you mortals deem-and to
         Your little Universe seems universal;
         But, great as He appears, and is to you,
         The smallest cloud-the slightest vapour of
         Your humid earth enables you to look
         Upon a Sky which you revile as dull;
         Though your eyes dare not gaze on it when cloudless.
         Nothing can blind a mortal like to light.
         Now Love in you is as the Sun-a thing
         Beyond you-and your jealousy's of Earth-
         A cloud of your own raising. (III.i.69-82)

This view of Arnold's character explains why he sees his persistent
campaign to make himself "the superior of the rest" (Ii.317) as both
moral and consistent with his original desires, and why at the same
time he becomes increasingly frustrated with every achievement. His
ongoing search for his elusive and ever changing Self steadily destroys
his public or social awareness, and necessitates the continual redefi-
nition of values in progressively narrow terms. Like Mary Shelley's
Frankenstein, his motives and goals are honest but sadly misguided
by an isolating subjectivism, and thus doom him to confusion and
despair.



200 / English Romantic Drama 2o / English Romantic Drama                          200 / English Romantic Drama


The dangers of self-idealization, associated here with the character
of Arnold, are presented as well in some of Byron's earlier poems,
and it may be helpful to consider them briefly in this context. "Ode
from the French," written shortly after the Battle of Waterloo, depicts
Napoldon's rise to greatness and his subsequent demise, emphasiz-
ing that the powerful general's downfall was due at least partly to his
diminishing understanding that accompanied his successful military
exploits. Though beginning with a sincere desire to secure France's
liberty, and building a broad power base from popular support, Napo-
l6on gradually became consumed by his lust for ever greater control
over those he was fighting to defend; and once "goaded by Ambition's
sting, / The Hero sunk into the King" ("Ode from the French" [32-
33]).2 This transformation from noble hero into despised conqueror
involved a steadily narrowing vision to the point of private desire only,
and the poem would have Napoleon realize this: "I [Napoleon] have
warred with a World which vanquished me only / When the meteor
of conquest allured me too far" ("Napoleon's Farewell" [5-6]). He is
depicted similarly in Childe Harold 3. To achieve his increasingly pri-
vate vision of greatness he was compelled to ignore public concerns;
he became obsessed with his own accomplishments, losing touch with
the masses of people who were the ultimate source of his greatness.
And finally, when he became "A God unto thyself" (Childe Harold 3,
xxxvii), he became vulnerable.0
  The Deformed Transformed expands the subjectivist and self-idealizing
perspective associated in these poems with Napoleon by depicting in
greater detail its social implications. These implications are pursued
primarily through the mysterious and often misunderstood character
of the Stranger. With bitterness and cynicism unrivaled even by the
narrator of DonJuan, the Stranger assails those idealizations which pass
for truth and which deny the social dimension of the most cherished
human values. He makes the drama more than a psychological curi-
osity, more than a study in the disparity between individual ideals and
actions, by insisting that every facet of human life is vitally connected
with every other; that every act, on some level, has both public motive
and consequence; and that the pervasive violence around him traces
directly to ignorance of these facts.
  The Stranger's role as spokesperson for the realities of everyday
social life is established from the beginning. His initial appearance as a
black man emerging from a smoke screen immediately causes Arnold


The dangers of self-idealization, associated here with the character
of Arnold, are presented as well in some of Byron's earlier poems,
and it may be helpful to consider them briefly in this context. "Ode
from the French," written shortly after the Battle of Waterloo, depicts
Napolion's rise to greatness and his subsequent demise, emphasiz-
ing that the powerful general's downfall was due at least partly to his
diminishing understanding that accompanied his successful military
exploits. Though beginning with a sincere desire to secure France's
liberty, and building a broad power base from popular support, Napo-
l6on gradually became consumed by his lust for ever greater control
over those he was fighting to defend; and once "goaded by Ambition's
sting, / The Hero sunk into the King" ("Ode from the French" [32-
33]) 82 This transformation from noble hero into despised conqueror
involved a steadily narrowing vision to the point of private desire only,
and the poem would have Napoleon realize this: "I [Napoleon] have
warred with a World which vanquished me only / When the meteor
of conquest allured me too far" ("Napolion's Farewell" [5-6]). He is
depicted similarly in Childe Harold 3. To achieve his increasingly pri-
vate vision of greatness he was compelled to ignore public concerns;
he became obsessed with his own accomplishments, losing touch with
the masses of people who were the ultimate source of his greatness.
And finally, when he became "A God unto thyself" (Childe Harold 3,
xxxvii), he became vulnerable?  
  The Deformed Transformed expands the subjectivist and self-idealizing
perspective associated in these poems with Napoleon by depicting in
greater detail its social implications. These implications are pursued
primarily through the mysterious and often misunderstood character
of the Stranger. With bitterness and cynicism unrivaled even by the
narrator of DonJuan, the Stranger assails those idealizations which pass
for truth and which deny the social dimension of the most cherished
human values. He makes the drama more than a psychological curi-
osity, more than a study in the disparity between individual ideals and
actions, by insisting that every facet of human life is vitally connected
with every other; that every act, on some level, has both public motive
and consequence; and that the pervasive violence around him traces
directly to ignorance of these facts.
  The Stranger's role as spokesperson for the realities of everyday
social life is established from the beginning. His initial appearance as a
black man emerging from a smoke screen immediately causes Arnold


The dangers of self-idealization, associated here with the character
of Arnold, are presented as well in some of Byron's earlier poems,
and it may be helpful to consider them briefly in this context. "Ode
from the French," written shortly after the Battle of Waterloo, depicts
Napolion's rise to greatness and his subsequent demise, emphasiz-
ing that the powerful general's downfall was due at least partly to his
diminishing understanding that accompanied his successful military
exploits. Though beginning with a sincere desire to secure France's
liberty, and building a broad power base from popular support, Napo-
lon gradually became consumed by his lust for ever greater control
over those he was fighting to defend; and once "goaded by Ambition's
sting, / The Hero sunk into the King" ("Ode from the French" [3a-
33]).82 This transformation from noble hero into despised conqueror
involved a steadily narrowing vision to the point of private desire only,
and the poem would have Napoleon realize this: "I [Napolion] have
warred with a World which vanquished me only / When the meteor
of conquest allured me too far" ("Napolion's Farewell" [5-6]). He is
depicted similarly in Childe Harold 3. To achieve his increasingly pri-
vate vision of greatness he was compelled to ignore public concerns;
he became obsessed with his own accomplishments, losing touch with
the masses of people who were the ultimate source of his greatness.
And finally, when he became "A God unto thyself" (Childe Harold 3,
xxxvii), he became vulnerable.t
  The Deformed Transformed expands the subjectivist and self-idealizing
perspective associated in these poems with Napoleon by depicting in
greater detail its social implications. These implications are pursued
primarily through the mysterious and often misunderstood character
of the Stranger. With bitterness and cynicism unrivaled even by the
narrator of DonJuan, the Stranger assails those idealizations which pass
for truth and which deny the social dimension of the most cherished
human values. He makes the drama more than a psychological curi-
osity, more than a study in the disparity between individual ideals and
actions, by insisting that every facet of human life is vitally connected
with every other; that every act, on some level, has both public motive
and consequence; and that the pervasive violence around him traces
directly to ignorance of these facts.
  The Stranger's role as spokesperson for the realities of everyday
social life is established from the beginning. His initial appearance as a
black man emerging from a smoke screen immediately causes Arnold



The Dramas of Lord Byron / 2-i           The Dramas of Lord Byron / 201           The Dramas of Lord Byron / 201


to suspect him of being a diabolical figure (I.i.85). Conventional oc-
cultish descriptions associate him both with soul-selling (I.i. 144) and
with the standard devilish blood-compact (I.i.154). But this entire
scene is farcical, a devil-man encounter only because Arnold insists
on making it one. It is Arnold, after all, who labels the Stranger a
devil-a term, incidentally, applied earlier in the drama to Arnold
himself (I.i.4off.)-and it is Arnold who introduces the issue of soul-
selling, as well as the blood-compact. The Stranger does nothing more
than play along good-humoredly with Arnold's wild surmisings and
accusations, occasionally providing revealing glimpses into Arnold's
shallowness. (For example, while Arnold never realizes it, the Stranger
lambastes conventional notions of devil-man agreements by accepting
blood from an accidental rather than self-inflicted wound.) He is not so
easily made into the devil that Arnold perceives him to be; and if he is a
tempter, he is so in the same way Lucifer is a tempter in Cain: "I tempt
none, / Save with the truth" (Cain, I.i.196-97). He functions mainly as
a satirical practical consciousness, remaining throughout essentially a
truth-representing force who sees through the assumptions, motives,
and goals that bind Arnold's character and society at large, and who
offers a sometimes bitter, sometimes humorous commentary on the
limited views that perpetuate social strife and injustice. '
  The Stranger criticizes Arnold's purely private ethic and estab-
lishes his own opposing perspective by transforming himself into
Arnold's old, deformed shape. By confidently embracing the body
which Arnold disdainfully rejects as "horrible" (I.i.482), the Stranger
condemns Arnold's belief that his difficulties are entirely physical,
but more importantly he asserts the unavoidable truth of historical
context. Although Arnold prefers to forget his past, even to deny it,
the Stranger insists upon its continuing influence. According to the
Stranger, Arnold's deformity is biological fact and thus cannot be re-
fused or ignored, despite Arnold's total commitment to beauty and
truth. In this view, the Stranger's transformation is much more than
cynicism in action: it is positive criticism that places a supposed indi-
vidual matter in its proper historical perspective. It is a corrective, a
bitterly realistic statement of what Arnold must understand if he hopes
to survive. As the play bears out, only at his own peril can Arnold
ignore the Stranger's wisdom.
  Central to the Stranger's philosophy-and in contrast to Arnold's
thinking-is the assumption that social relations are the basic principle


to suspect him of being a diabolical figure (li.85). Conventional oc-
cultish descriptions associate him both with soul-selling (I.i.144) and
with the standard devilish blood-compact (Ii.154). But this entire
scene is farcical, a devil-man encounter only because Arnold insists
on making it one. It is Arnold, after all, who labels the Stranger a
devil-a term, incidentally, applied earlier in the drama to Arnold
himself (I.i.4off.)-and it is Arnold who introduces the issue of soul-
selling, as well as the blood-compact. The Stranger does nothing more
than play along good-humoredly with Arnold's wild surmisings and
accusations, occasionally providing revealing glimpses into Arnold's
shallowness. (For example, while Arnold never realizes it, the Stranger
lambastes conventional notions of devil-man agreements by accepting
blood from an accidental rather than self-inflicted wound.) He is not so
easily made into the devil that Arnold perceives him to be; and if he is a
tempter, he is so in the same way Lucifer is a tempter in Cain: "I tempt
none, / Save with the truth" (Cain, I.i.196-97). He functions mainly as
a satirical practical consciousness, remaining throughout essentially a
truth-representing force who sees through the assumptions, motives,
and goals that bind Arnold's character and society at large, and who
offers a sometimes bitter, sometimes humorous commentary on the
limited views that perpetuate social strife and injustice.s"
  The Stranger criticizes Arnold's purely private ethic and estab-
lishes his own opposing perspective by transforming himself into
Arnold's old, deformed shape. By confidently embracing the body
which Arnold disdainfully rejects as "horrible" (L.i.482), the Stranger
condemns Arnold's belief that his difficulties are entirely physical,
but more importantly he asserts the unavoidable truth of historical
context. Although Arnold prefers to forget his past, even to deny it,
the Stranger insists upon its continuing influence. According to the
Stranger, Arnold's deformity is biological fact and thus cannot be re-
fused or ignored, despite Arnold's total commitment to beauty and
truth. In this view, the Stranger's transformation is much more than
cynicism in action: it is positive criticism that places a supposed indi-
vidual matter in its proper historical perspective. It is a corrective, a
bitterly realistic statement of what Arnold must understand if he hopes
to survive. As the play bears out, only at his own peril can Arnold
ignore the Stranger's wisdom.
  Central to the Stranger's philosophy-and in contrast to Arnold's
thinking-is the assumption that social relations are the basic principle


to suspect him of being a diabolical figure (I.i.85). Conventional oc-
cultish descriptions associate him both with soul-selling (I.i. 144) and
with the standard devilish blood-compact (I.i.154). But this entire
scene is farcical, a devil-man encounter only because Arnold insists
on making it one. It is Arnold, after all, who labels the Stranger a
devil-a term, incidentally, applied earlier in the drama to Arnold
himself (I.i.4off.)-and it is Arnold who introduces the issue of soul-
selling, as well as the blood-compact. The Stranger does nothing more
than play along good-humoredly with Arnold's wild surmisings and
accusations, occasionally providing revealing glimpses into Arnold's
shallowness. (For example, while Arnold never realizes it, the Stranger
lambastes conventional notions of devil-man agreements by accepting
blood from an accidental rather than self-inflicted wound.) He is not so
easily made into the devil that Arnold perceives him to be; and if he is a
tempter, he is so in the same way Lucifer is a tempter in Cain: "I tempt
none, / Save with the truth" (Cain, I.i.196-97). He functions mainly as
a satirical practical consciousness, remaining throughout essentially a
truth-representing force who sees through the assumptions, motives,
and goals that bind Arnold's character and society at large, and who
offers a sometimes bitter, sometimes humorous commentary on the
limited views that perpetuate social strife and injustice."
  The Stranger criticizes Arnold's purely private ethic and estab-
lishes his own opposing perspective by transforming himself into
Arnold's old, deformed shape. By confidently embracing the body
which Arnold disdainfully rejects as "horrible" (I.i.482), the Stranger
condemns Arnold's belief that his difficulties are entirely physical,
but more importantly he asserts the unavoidable truth of historical
context. Although Arnold prefers to forget his past, even to deny it,
the Stranger insists upon its continuing influence. According to the
Stranger, Arnold's deformity is biological fact and thus cannot be re-
fused or ignored, despite Arnold's total commitment to beauty and
truth. In this view, the Stranger's transformation is much more than
cynicism in action: it is positive criticism that places a supposed indi-
vidual matter in its proper historical perspective. It is a corrective, a
bitterly realistic statement of what Arnold must understand if he hopes
to survive. As the play bears out, only at his own peril can Arnold
ignore the Stranger's wisdom.
  Central to the Stranger's philosophy-and in contrast to Arnold's
thinking-is the assumption that social relations are the basic principle



202 / English Romantic Drama             2o2 / English Romantic Drama             202 / English Romantic Drama


of human life, and that failure to understand their truth and absolute
priority produces humanity's alienation. This view develops with in-
creasing poignancy as the Stranger witnesses the impact of Arnold's
self-absorption. The Stranger maintains that Arnold is discontented,
even after his transformation, because he "know[s] no better than
the dull / And dubious notice of your eyes and ears" (II.ii.14-15).
And what is true for Arnold is true in general; humanity "thinks
chaotically" (I.ii.318) about social relations. Society, the Stranger em-
phatically states, is all-embracing, created by people, and connected
by human thought and actions on every level; the many elements of
social life-language, religion, art, law, and morals-are a single, uni-
fied human product. Any system of values (such as the idealist one to
which Arnold subscribes) that divides the social properties of human
existence from one another and from basic individual concerns must
ultimately collapse:
  [People] have built
  More Babels, without new dispersion, than
  The stammering young ones of the flood's dull ooze,
  Who fail'd and fled each other. Why? why, marry,
  Because no man could understand his neighbors. (I.i.676-8o; italics mine)

  The drama sharpens this focus and establishes Arnold's thinking
as part of a set of social relations by moving the action to Rome,
which manifests socially those issues heretofore manifested personally
in Arnold's character. The city shows how extreme individualism and
idealist thinking can both control life and breed pestilence through
an entire culture. Built upon the most extreme selfishness-"Rome's
earliest cement / Was brother's blood" (I.ii.83-84)-the city symbol-
izes in both its art and religion Western culture's most esteemed values.
This biting irony is captured in the Stranger's running commentary,
which describes in gory detail the vile contradictions embedded in
Roman culture. The Stranger does not merely lament the sack of the
ancient city at the hands of Charles of Bourbon, but rather explains it
as an inevitable result of a system of values that has actually sanctified
violence and caused strife through the course of Western historytt
  In its description of Rome the drama concentrates on art and reli-
gion to express the Roman experience. But it stresses that these are
not simply passive reflections of Rome's character. While they do in-


of human life, and that failure to understand their truth and absolute
priority produces humanity's alienation. This view develops with in-
creasing poignancy as the Stranger witnesses the impact of Arnold's
self-absorption. The Stranger maintains that Arnold is discontented,
even after his transformation, because he "know[s] no better than
the dull / And dubious notice of your eyes and ears" (II.ii.14-15).
And what is true for Arnold is true in general; humanity "thinks
chaotically" (Iii.318) about social relations. Society, the Stranger em-
phatically states, is all-embracing, created by people, and connected
by human thought and actions on every level; the many elements of
social life-language, religion, art, law, and morals-are a single, uni-
fied human product. Any system of values (such as the idealist one to
which Arnold subscribes) that divides the social properties of human
existence from one another and from basic individual concerns must
ultimately collapse:
  [People] have built
  More Babels, without new dispersion, than
  The stammering young ones of the flood's dull ooze,
  Who fail'd and fled each other. Why? why, marry,
  Because no man could understand his neighbors. (I.i.676-8o; italics mine)

  The drama sharpens this focus and establishes Arnold's thinking
as part of a set of social relations by moving the action to Rome,
which manifests socially those issues heretofore manifested personally
in Arnold's character. The city shows how extreme individualism and
idealist thinking can both control life and breed pestilence through
an entire culture. Built upon the most extreme selfishness-"Rome's
earliest cement / Was brother's blood" (I ii.83-84)-the city symbol-
izes in both its art and religion Western culture's most esteemed values.
This biting irony is captured in the Stranger's running commentary,
which describes in gory detail the vile contradictions embedded in
Roman culture. The Stranger does not merely lament the sack of the
ancient city at the hands of Charles of Bourbon, but rather explains it
as an inevitable result of a system of values that has actually sanctified
violence and caused strife through the course of Western history."
  In its description of Rome the drama concentrates on art and reli-
gion to express the Roman experience. But it stresses that these are
not simply passive reflections of Rome's character. While they do in-


of human life, and that failure to understand their truth and absolute
priority produces humanity's alienation. This view develops with in-
creasing poignancy as the Stranger witnesses the impact of Arnold's
self-absorption. The Stranger maintains that Arnold is discontented,
even after his transformation, because he "know[s] no better than
the dull / And dubious notice of your eyes and ears" (II.ii. t4-t5).
And what is true for Arnold is true in general; humanity "thinks
chaotically" (I.ii.318) about social relations. Society, the Stranger em-
phatically states, is all-embracing, created by people, and connected
by human thought and actions on every level; the many elements of
social life-language, religion, art, law, and morals-are a single, uni-
fied human product. Any system of values (such as the idealist one to
which Arnold subscribes) that divides the social properties of human
existence from one another and from basic individual concerns must
ultimately collapse:

  [People] have built
  More Babels, without new dispersion, than
  The stammering young ones of the flood's dull ooze,
  Who fail'd and fled each other. Why? why, marry,
  Because no man could understand his neighbors. (I.i.676-8o; italics mine)

  The drama sharpens this focus and establishes Arnold's thinking
as part of a set of social relations by moving the action to Rome,
which manifests socially those issues heretofore manifested personally
in Arnold's character. The city shows how extreme individualism and
idealist thinking can both control life and breed pestilence through
an entire culture. Built upon the most extreme selfishness-"Rome's
earliest cement / Was brother's blood" (I.ii.83-84)-the city symbol-
izes in both its art and religion Western culture's most esteemed values.
This biting irony is captured in the Stranger's running commentary,
which describes in gory detail the vile contradictions embedded in
Roman culture. The Stranger does not merely lament the sack of the
ancient city at the hands of Charles of Bourbon, but rather explains it
as an inevitable result of a system of values that has actually sanctified
violence and caused strife through the course of Western history.
  In its description of Rome the drama concentrates on art and reli-
gion to express the Roman experience. But it stresses that these are
not simply passive reflections of Rome's character. While they do in-



            The Dramas of Lord Byron / 203

deed powerfully articulate a set of values, they also operate as rigid
controls, holding those values in place by reacting back on every facet
of human experience.
This point becomes clear in the play's brief but telling depiction of
Benvenuto Cellini, one of the most representative of Italian Renais-
sance sculptors. In fewer than fifteen lines the drama introduces and
dismisses Cellini, as though the artist were an afterthought or a minor
concern. But the brief treatment accomplishes several very significant
tasks. First, it allows Byron to mention an otherwise unacknowledged
major source for the play; his description of the sack of Rome is taken
directly from Cellini's autobiography." But, more significantly, the
presence and role of Cellini provide a compelling analysis of art in
its social context. By having the sculptor simply appear and disappear
without forewarning or comment, Byron creates the impression that
there is no need to question the artist's actions. Cellini's noble, even
ethereal sculpture speaks for itself, attesting to his belief in the values
and ideals of Roman culture; in common with his fellow Romans, he
would naturally defend this culture against siege.
But as a source for the play, the autobiography provides a behind-
the-scenes look at Cellini and a gloss on the real significance of his
art. Cellini's defense of Rome was not exactly what we commonly
regard as natural, patriotic, and noble. His involvement was vigor-
ous, to be sure, but not because he was inspired by high purpose and
patriotic passion; according to his own account he was motivated by
his love for bloodshed and physical violence. Three passages from the
autobiography illustrate his character:

  [D]irecting my arquebuse where I saw the thickest and most ser-
  ried troop of fighting men, I aimed exactly at one whom I re-
  marked to be higher than the rest.... When we had fired two
  rounds apiece, I crept cautiously up to the wall, and observing
  among the enemy a most extraordinary confusion, I discovered
  afterwards that one of our shots had killed the Constable of Bour-
  bon; and from what I subsequently learned, he was the man whom
  I had first noticed above the heads of the rest.

  I fired, and hit my man exactly in the middle. He had trussed his
  sword in front, for swagger, after a way those Spaniards have; and
  my ball when it struck him, broke upon the blade, and one could


            The Dramas of Lord Byron / 23

deed powerfully articulate a set of values, they also operate as rigid
controls, holding those values in place by reacting back on every facet
of human experience.
This point becomes clear in the play's brief but telling depiction of
Benvenuto Cellini, one of the most representative of Italian Renais-
sance sculptors. In fewer than fifteen lines the drama introduces and
dismisses Cellini, as though the artist were an afterthought or a minor
concern. But the brief treatment accomplishes several very significant
tasks. First, it allows Byron to mention an otherwise unacknowledged
major source for the play; his description of the sack of Rome is taken
directly from Cellini's autobiography." But, more significantly, the
presence and role of Cellini provide a compelling analysis of art in
its social context. By having the sculptor simply appear and disappear
without forewarning or comment, Byron creates the impression that
there is no need to question the artist's actions. Cellini's noble, even
ethereal sculpture speaks for itself, attesting to his belief in the values
and ideals of Roman culture; in common with his fellow Romans, he
would naturally defend this culture against siege.
  But as a source for the play, the autobiography provides a behind-
the-scenes look at Cellini and a gloss on the real significance of his
art. Cellini's defense of Rome was not exactly what we commonly
regard as natural, patriotic, and noble. His involvement was vigor-
ous, to be sure, but not because he was inspired by high purpose and
patriotic passion; according to his own account he was motivated by
his love for bloodshed and physical violence. Three passages from the
autobiography illustrate his character:

  [D]irecting my arquebuse where I saw the thickest and most ser-
  ried troop of fighting men, I aimed exactly at one whom I re-
  marked to be higher than the rest.... When we had fired two
  rounds apiece, I crept cautiously up to the wall, and observing
  among the enemy a most extraordinary confusion, I discovered
  afterwards that one of our shots had killed the Constable of Bour-
  bon; and from what I subsequently learned, he was the man whom
  I had first noticed above the heads of the rest.
  I fired, and hit my man exactly in the middle. He had trussed his
  sword in front, for swagger, after a way those Spaniards have; and
  my ball when it struck him, broke upon the blade, and one could


            The Dramas of Lord Byron / 203

deed powerfully articulate a set of values, they also operate as rigid
controls, holding those values in place by reacting back on every facet
of human experience.
This point becomes clear in the play's brief but telling depiction of
Benvenuto Cellini, one of the most representative of Italian Renais-
sance sculptors. In fewer than fifteen lines the drama introduces and
dismisses Cellini, as though the artist were an afterthought or a minor
concern. But the brief treatment accomplishes several very significant
tasks. First, it allows Byron to mention an otherwise unacknowledged
major source for the play; his description of the sack of Rome is taken
directly from Cellini's autobiography.t But, more significantly, the
presence and role of Cellini provide a compelling analysis of art in
its social context. By having the sculptor simply appear and disappear
without forewarning or comment, Byron creates the impression that
there is no need to question the artist's actions. Cellini's noble, even
ethereal sculpture speaks for itself, attesting to his belief in the values
and ideals of Roman culture; in common with his fellow Romans, he
would naturally defend this culture against siege.
But as a source for the play, the autobiography provides a behind-
the-scenes look at Cellini and a gloss on the real significance of his
art. Cellini's defense of Rome was not exactly what we commonly
regard as natural, patriotic, and noble. His involvement was vigor-
ous, to be sure, but not because he was inspired by high purpose and
patriotic passion; according to his own account he was motivated by
his love for bloodshed and physical violence. Three passages from the
autobiography illustrate his character:

  [Dlirecting my arquebuse where I saw the thickest and most ser-
  ried troop of fighting men, I aimed exactly at one whom I re-
  marked to be higher than the rest.... When we had fired two
  rounds apiece, I crept cautiously up to the wall, and observing
  among the enemy a most extraordinary confusion, I discovered
  afterwards that one of our shots had killed the Constable of Bour-
  bon; and from what I subsequently learned, he was the man whom
  I had first noticed above the heads of the rest.
  I fired, and hit my man exactly in the middle. He had trussed his
  sword in front, for swagger, after a way those Spaniards have; and
  my ball when it struck him, broke upon the blade, and one could



            204 / English Romantic Drama

 see the fellow cut in two fair halves. The Pope, who was expecting
 nothing of this kind, derived great pleasure and amazement from
 the sight.

 I was perhaps more inclined by nature to the profession of arms
 than to the one [sculpture] I had adopted, and 1 took such pleasure
 in its duties that I discharged them better than those of my own art. [ital-
 ics mine]87'

Cellini's art stands in direct contrast to this savage mockery of human
life. His best work-the Nymph of Fontainebleau, the Apollo and Hya-
cinth, even the violent Perseus-is ornate, intricate, and sensitive, and
enthusiastically celebrates the beauty of the nude human figure. De-
fective as much of the sculpture is, it offers an impassioned vision of
unchanging beauty and truth (the very ideals that Arnold early in the
play had admired) that is characteristic of so much Italian Renaissance
art." In relying on the autobiography, however, Byron's play is not
simply depicting the grave disparity between Cellini's personal char-
acter and art in order to call attention to a psychological curiosity;
rather, it focuses on the ideological function of art. Cellini's sculp-
ture in all its grandeur embodies the highest values to which Roman
culture aspired. The universal laws of beauty upon which it insists
mystify actual experience-including the violence to which Cellini is
partner-and thus mask the ugly machinations of the culture from
which it grew. In this way it actually shapes and controls individual
expectations, preventing a true knowledge of society.
The drama's depiction of Cellini, however, does not dismiss all art
out of hand as deceptive or useless; nor does it suggest that biogra-
phy is the determining property of the value of art. Rather, it deplores
the common tendency of ignoring the contextual nature of art, sug-
gesting that to do so is to reduce artistic expression to a largely ideo-
logical function of endorsing existing power structures (if only tacitly
by throwing obstacles in the way of social and political awareness).
Viewed as the sacred preserver of transhistorical, timeless ideals, art
relegates to virtual insignificance complex social relations, thus radi-
cally limiting people's social knowledge and social power. The drama
implies that if it is to realize its full human potential, art must be
understood as a social product within a full network of social rela-
tions. By presenting Cellini as a momentary, almost intrusive element
in the action, the play punctuates our persistent ignorance of this social


            204 / English Romantic Drama

 see the fellow cut in two fair halves. The Pope, who was expecting
 nothing of this kind, derived great pleasure and amazement from
 the sight.
 I was perhaps more inclined by nature to the profession of arms
 than to the one [sculpture] I had adopted, and I took such pleasure
 in its duties that I discharged them better than those ofmy own ar. [ital-
 ics mine]"

Cellini's art stands in direct contrast to this savage mockery of human
life. His best work-the Nymph of Fontainebleau, the Apollo and Hya-
cinth, even the violent Perseus-is ornate, intricate, and sensitive, and
enthusiastically celebrates the beauty of the nude human figure. De-
fective as much of the sculpture is, it offers an impassioned vision of
unchanging beauty and truth (the very ideals that Arnold early in the
play had admired) that is characteristic of so much Italian Renaissance
art.88 In relying on the autobiography, however, Byron's play is not
simply depicting the grave disparity between Cellini's personal char-
acter and art in order to call attention to a psychological curiosity;
rather, it focuses on the ideological function of art. Cellini's sculp-
ture in all its grandeur embodies the highest values to which Roman
culture aspired. The universal laws of beauty upon which it insists
mystify actual experience-including the violence to which Cellini is
partner-and thus mask the ugly machinations of the culture from
which it grew. In this way it actually shapes and controls individual
expectations, preventing a true knowledge of society.
The drama's depiction of Cellini, however, does not dismiss all art
out of hand as deceptive or useless; nor does it suggest that biogra-
phy is the determining property of the value of art. Rather, it deplores
the common tendency of ignoring the contextual nature of art, sug-
gesting that to do so is to reduce artistic expression to a largely ideo-
logical function of endorsing existing power structures (if only tacitly
by throwing obstacles in the way of social and political awareness).
Viewed as the sacred preserver of transhistorical, timeless ideals, art
relegates to virtual insignificance complex social relations, thus radi-
cally limiting people's social knowledge and social power. The drama
implies that if it is to realize its full human potential, art must be
understood as a social product within a full network of social rela-
tions. By presenting Cellini as a momentary, almost intrusive element
in the action, the play punctuates our persistent ignorance of this social


            204 / English Romantic Drama

 see the fellow cut in two fair halves. The Pope, who was expecting
 nothing of this kind, derived great pleasure and amazement from
 the sight.
 I was perhaps more inclined by nature to the profession of arms
 than to the one [sculpture] I had adopted, and I took such pleasure
 in its duties that I discharged them better than those of my own an. (ital-
 ics mine] 8

Cellini's art stands in direct contrast to this savage mockery of human
life. His best work-the Nymph of Fontainebleau, the Apollo and Hya-
cinth, even the violent Perseus-is ornate, intricate, and sensitive, and
enthusiastically celebrates the beauty of the nude human figure. De-
fective as much of the sculpture is, it offers an impassioned vision of
unchanging beauty and truth (the very ideals that Arnold early in the
play had admired) that is characteristic of so much Italian Renaissance
art.0 In relying on the autobiography, however, Byron's play is not
simply depicting the grave disparity between Cellini's personal char-
acter and art in order to call attention to a psychological curiosity;
rather, it focuses on the ideological function of art. Cellini's sculp-
ture in all its grandeur embodies the highest values to which Roman
culture aspired. The universal laws of beauty upon which it insists
mystify actual experience-including the violence to which Cellini is
partner-and thus mask the ugly machinations of the culture from
which it grew. In this way it actually shapes and controls individual
expectations, preventing a true knowledge of society.
The drama's depiction of Cellini, however, does not dismiss all art
out of hand as deceptive or useless; nor does it suggest that biogra-
phy is the determining property of the value of art. Rather, it deplores
the common tendency of ignoring the contextual nature of art, sug-
gesting that to do so is to reduce artistic expression to a largely ideo-
logical function of endorsing existing power structures (if only tacitly
by throwing obstacles in the way of social and political awareness).
Viewed as the sacred preserver of transhistorical, timeless ideals, art
relegates to virtual insignificance complex social relations, thus radi-
cally limiting people's social knowledge and social power. The drama
implies that if it is to realize its full human potential, art must be
understood as a social product within a full network of social rela-
tions. By presenting Cellini as a momentary, almost intrusive element
in the action, the play punctuates our persistent ignorance of this social



The DraasoLrd*ro / 20-h rmso LordVL               Bron / -0                       The Drmaso oruyo / -0


dimension, and implies that outside its social and historical context
Cellini's art is mere abstraction, an illusion that ever further alienates
people from their real social world.
Religion serves essentially the same ideological function as art. It is a
structurally coherent system that both mirrors a society's noblest prin-
ciples and at the same time creates social attitudes consistent with the
prevailing structures of a specific social authority. The drama captures
this vital connection between religious belief and social reality, and
traces the pervasive trouble and discord that plague Western culture
to a set of values protected by Christian religion. This radical posi-
tion is evidenced in the Stranger's sporadic jibes at Christianity (for
instance, II.i.137ff., 161-62), but Byron makes the point vivid by mov-
ing the play's climactic and goriest scene into the interior of St. Peter's
Church. This scene magnifies the gross contradictions that Roman
society allows to go unquestioned and that somehow are upheld and
even sanctified by prevailing attitudes.
The Stranger has carefully guided Arnold to the very center of
Western culture, and now exposes him to "the two great professions"
(IIiii.30)-of priest and soldier-which are its most powerful repre-
sentatives. It becomes evident in St. Peter's Church that Arnold's char-
acter cannot be understood in purely psychological terms; he is shown
to be merely one participant in a sick culture. Ignorance, violence,
and noble rhetoric are pervasive and presented indiscriminately, con-
stituting an uncamouflaged savage critique of the motivating values
that have stood behind Arnold's character from the beginning. The
cries for "eternal glory" (II.iii.22) and the pleas "In the holy name of
Christ" (II.iii.6) justify murder and plunder; the altar becomes both
a place of death and a vantage point for killing (see, for instance, the
various stage directions in this scene); and even the crucifix is used as
a murder weapon (II.iii.63ff.). This scene represents the play's most
extreme and inclusive statement about the power and pervasiveness
of ideology. The events in St. Peter's Church bring to a head the
Stranger's contention that alienation and social strife trace directly to
the comprehensive system of values that determine human actions
and hopes. From the very start of the play he has maintained that
idealist thinking governed by assumptions of transhistorical truth is
destructive, and that deeds are the only true measure of human virtue
(I.i. 15-52). And here his point is made convincingly, as the desper-
ate struggle for love, honor, glory, and beauty-for a permanently


dimension, and implies that outside its social and historical context
Cellini's art is mere abstraction, an illusion that ever further alienates
people from their real social world.
Religion serves essentially the same ideological function as art. It is a
structurally coherent system that both mirrors a society's noblest prin-
ciples and at the same time creates social attitudes consistent with the
prevailing structures of a specific social authority. The drama captures
this vital connection between religious belief and social reality, and
traces the pervasive trouble and discord that plague Western culture
to a set of values protected by Christian religion. This radical posi-
tion is evidenced in the Stranger's sporadic jibes at Christianity (for
instance, IIi.137ff., 161-62), but Byron makes the point vivid by mov-
ing the play's climactic and goriest scene into the interior of St. Peter's
Church. This scene magnifies the gross contradictions that Roman
society allows to go unquestioned and that somehow are upheld and
even sanctified by prevailing attitudes.
The Stranger has carefully guided Arnold to the very center of
Western culture, and now exposes him to "the two great professions"
(II.iii.30)-of priest and soldier-which are its most powerful repre-
sentatives. It becomes evident in St. Peter's Church that Arnold's char-
acter cannot be understood in purely psychological terms; he is shown
to be merely one participant in a sick culture. Ignorance, violence,
and noble rhetoric are pervasive and presented indiscriminately, con-
stituting an uncamouflaged savage critique of the motivating values
that have stood behind Arnold's character from the beginning. The
cries for "eternal glory" (II.iii.22) and the pleas "In the holy name of
Christ" (II.iii.6) justify murder and plunder; the altar becomes both
a place of death and a vantage point for killing (see, for instance, the
various stage directions in this scene); and even the crucifix is used as
a murder weapon (II.iii.63ff.). This scene represents the play's most
extreme and inclusive statement about the power and pervasiveness
of ideology. The events in St. Peter's Church bring to a head the
Stranger's contention that alienation and social strife trace directly to
the comprehensive system of values that determine human actions
and hopes. From the very start of the play he has maintained that
idealist thinking governed by assumptions of transhistorical truth is
destructive, and that deeds are the only true measure of human virtue
(I.i.151-52). And here his point is made convincingly, as the desper-
ate struggle for love, honor, glory, and beauty-for a permanently


dimension, and implies that outside its social and historical context
Cellini's art is mere abstraction, an illusion that ever further alienates
people from their real social world.
Religion serves essentially the same ideological function as art. It is a
structurally coherent system that both mirrors a society's noblest prin-
ciples and at the same time creates social attitudes consistent with the
prevailing structures of a specific social authority. The drama captures
this vital connection between religious belief and social reality, and
traces the pervasive trouble and discord that plague Western culture
to a set of values protected by Christian religion. This radical posi-
tion is evidenced in the Stranger's sporadic jibes at Christianity (for
instance, II.i.137f ., 161-62), but Byron makes the point vivid by mov-
ing the play's climactic and goriest scene into the interior of St. Peter's
Church. This scene magnifies the gross contradictions that Roman
society allows to go unquestioned and that somehow are upheld and
even sanctified by prevailing attitudes.
The Stranger has carefully guided Arnold to the very center of
Western culture, and now exposes him to "the two great professions"
(II.iii.30)-of priest and soldier-which are its most powerful repre-
sentatives. It becomes evident in St. Peter's Church that Arnold's char-
acter cannot be understood in purely psychological terms; he is shown
to be merely one participant in a sick culture. Ignorance, violence,
and noble rhetoric are pervasive and presented indiscriminately, con-
stituting an uncamouflaged savage critique of the motivating values
that have stood behind Arnold's character from the beginning. The
cries for "eternal glory" (II.iii.22) and the pleas "In the holy name of
Christ" (II.iii.6) justify murder and plunder; the altar becomes both
a place of death and a vantage point for killing (see, for instance, the
various stage directions in this scene); and even the crucifix is used as
a murder weapon (II.iii.63ff.). This scene represents the play's most
extreme and inclusive statement about the power and pervasiveness
of ideology. The events in St. Peter's Church bring to a head the
Stranger's contention that alienation and social strife trace directly to
the comprehensive system of values that determine human actions
and hopes. From the very start of the play he has maintained that
idealist thinking governed by assumptions of transhistorical truth is
destructive, and that deeds are the only true measure of human virtue
(I.i. 151-52). And here his point is made convincingly, as the desper-
ate struggle for love, honor, glory, and beauty-for a permanently














            2o6 / English Romantic Drama

ennobling ideal-totally deadens Arnold and the warring soldiers to
genuine human compassion (see, for instance, the exchange between
Arnold and Olimpia, II.iii.t05ff.), and makes them contributors to
public chaos and madness.
The play's final fragmentary section restates in simpler terms the
issues that have been presented heretofore, namely that Arnold's un-
happiness results from his obsessive search for "the Philosopher's
stone" (Ii-. 57), that his desire in fact is for self-idealization (III.i.69-
82), and that social relations alone are redemptive and truly meaningful
(III.i.99-1o1). But the play does not develop these concerns beyond
what is suggested in the first two acts, perhaps because Byron feared
that the introduction of Olimpia threatened to reduce the larger social
interests to a simple love relationship. Still, even in its fragmentary
state The Deformed Transformed stands as a radical and compelling analy-
sis of the powerful function of ideology. It bitterly records the funda-
mental contradictions at the core of Western culture that are concealed
by the specific structures of social authority and belief. These contra-
dictions-as the depictions of Arnold and of Rome graphically illus-
trate-produce alienation and perpetuate a social system that demands
human sacrifice.


            2o6 / English Romantic Drama

ennobling ideal-totally deadens Arnold and the warring soldiers to
genuine human compassion (see, for instance, the exchange between
Arnold and Olimpia, Il.iii.105ff.), and makes them contributors to
public chaos and madness.
The play's final fragmentary section restates in simpler terms the
issues that have been presented heretofore, namely that Arnold's un-
happiness results from his obsessive search for "the Philosopher's
stone" (III.i.57), that his desire in fact is for self-idealization (III.i.69-
82), and that social relations alone are redemptive and truly meaningful
(III.i.99-1o). But the play does not develop these concerns beyond
what is suggested in the first two acts, perhaps because Byron feared
that the introduction of Olimpia threatened to reduce the larger social
interests to a simple love relationship. Still, even in its fragmentary
state The Deformed Transformed stands as a radical and compelling analy-
sis of the powerful function of ideology. It bitterly records the funda-
mental contradictions at the core of Western culture that are concealed
by the specific structures of social authority and belief. These contra-
dictions-as the depictions of Arnold and of Rome graphically illus-
trate-produce alienation and perpetuate a social system that demands
human sacrifice.


            2o6 / English Romantic Drama

ennobling ideal-totally deadens Arnold and the warring soldiers to
genuine human compassion (see, for instance, the exchange between
Arnold and Olimpia, Il.iii.1s5ff.), and makes them contributors to
public chaos and madness.
The play's final fragmentary section restates in simpler terms the
issues that have been presented heretofore, namely that Arnold's un-
happiness results from his obsessive search for "the Philosopher's
stone" (III.i.57), that his desire in fact is for self-idealization (Ill.i.69-
82), and that social relations alone are redemptive and truly meaningful
(III.i.99-1o1). But the play does not develop these concerns beyond
what is suggested in the first two acts, perhaps because Byron feared
that the introduction of Olimpia threatened to reduce the larger social
interests to a simple love relationship. Still, even in its fragmentary
state The Deformed Transformed stands as a radical and compelling analy-
sis of the powerful function of ideology. It bitterly records the funda-
mental contradictions at the core of Western culture that are concealed
by the specific structures of social authority and belief. These contra-
dictions-as the depictions of Arnold and of Rome graphically illus-
trate-produce alienation and perpetuate a social system that demands
human sacrifice.




               CHAPTER


                  tO


           "The Act Seals All"

               Conclusion









Before offering a final set of general remarks about the place of drama
in the historical study of Romanticism, I want to comment briefly on
Keats's Otho the Great (t819), an important drama omitted from ex-
amination in the above chapters only because I have written in the
past at some length about its historical and social dimensions: In re-
calling here certain details of the main argument of my earlier discus-
sion, I hope to suggest the relevance of Otho to any historical study of
English Romantic drama and, more specifically, to recall once more
the concentration of much Romantic drama on the deteriorating social
authority of aristocracy.
  Among the many rich historical interests in Otho-ranging from
religion to patriarchy, from love to madness-is its primary and intelli-
gent consideration of the material and ideological dimensions of feudal
state authority. Specifically, it elaborates the contradictions between
that authority's representation of its own interests and values and the
actual political apparatus in place to preserve itself. These issues unfold
on at least two levels in the plot action. First, the story begins with a
description of the just-ended military confrontation between Hungary
and Otho's Germany in the tenth century and describes the apparent
benevolence of the victorious Otho toward Gersa, a captured Hun-
garian soldier. Second, the military conflict finds a corollary trauma
in the relationship between Otho and his prodigal son, Ludolph, who


CHAPTER


                  go


           "The Act Seals All"

               Conclusion









Before offering a final set of general remarks about the place of drama
in the historical study of Romanticism, I want to comment briefly on
Keats's Otho the Great (t81g), an important drama omitted from ex-
amination in the above chapters only because I have written in the
past at some length about its historical and social dimensions.' In re-
calling here certain details of the main argument of my earlier discus-
sion, I hope to suggest the relevance of Otho to any historical study of
English Romantic drama and, more specifically, to recall once more
the concentration of much Romantic drama on the deteriorating social
authority of aristocracy.
  Among the many rich historical interests in Otho-ranging from
religion to patriarchy, from love to madness-is its primary and intelli-
gent consideration of the material and ideological dimensions of feudal
state authority. Specifically, it elaborates the contradictions between
that authority's representation of its own interests and values and the
actual political apparatus in place to preserve itself. These issues unfold
on at least two levels in the plot action. First, the story begins with a
description ofthe just-ended military confrontation between Hungary
and Otho's Germany in the tenth century and describes the apparent
benevolence of the victorious Otho toward Gersa, a captured Hun-
garian soldier. Second, the military conflict finds a corollary trauma
in the relationship between Otho and his prodigal son, Ludolph, who


               CHAPTER


                  10


           "The Act Seals All"

               Conclusion









Before offering a final set of general remarks about the place of drama
in the historical study of Romanticism, I want to comment briefly on
Keats's Otho the Great (1819), an important drama omitted from ex-
amination in the above chapters only because I have written in the
past at some length about its historical and social dimensions.' In re-
calling here certain details of the main argument of my earlier discus-
sion, I hope to suggest the relevance of Otho to any historical study of
English Romantic drama and, more specifically, to recall once more
the concentration ofmuch Romantic drama on the deteriorating social
authority of aristocracy.
  Among the many rich historical interests in Otho-ranging from
religion to patriarchy, from love to madness-is its primary and intelli-
gent consideration ofthe material and ideological dimensions offeudal
state authority. Specifically, it elaborates the contradictions between
that authority's representation of its own interests and values and the
actual political apparatus in place to preserve itself. These issues unfold
on at least two levels in the plot action. First, the story begins with a
description of thejust-ended military confrontation between Hungary
and Otho's Germany in the tenth century and describes the apparent
benevolence of the victorious Otho toward Gersa, a captured Hun-
garian soldier. Second, the military conflict finds a corollary trauma
in the relationship between Otho and his prodigal son, Ludolph, who



2o8 /   * Enls RoatcDrmSo / Enlih oanicDrm                                                                                                      2o /. Enlis Roatcrm


(according to one of Keats's possible historical sources) led an unsuc-
cessful revolt against his fathert but who, at the time of the action
described in the drama, fights secretly on behalf of Germany against
Hungary. This loyal activity wins for Ludolph the affection of his
father, who embraces his son warmly upon welcoming him back into
the good graces of state and family.
   Both of these plot-level episodes focus on an important dimension
of state authority, namely its exercise of both physical and ideological
force to maintain and extend its command of German society. As the
drama compellingly demonstrates, when the contradictions of social
life intensify to the point of threatening the prevailing structures of au-
thority-as they necessarily do in the tightly controlled world ruled by
Otho-military force is called in as a proper, order-restoring response.
The preferred force ofsocial control, however, is ideological in nature
(as exemplified most clearly in Otho's ostensible benevolence toward
Gersa and Ludolph), not only because ideological authority is socially
more palatable but also because it publicly demonstrates the ability of
the state to incorporate dissidence into itself and therefore gives the
appearance of integrity and liberality. Thus it is that Otho, while rely-
ing on military force when he must, throughout attempts to control
society by showing that the specific political interests of the state he
governs are consistent with the personal interests of individuals.
   One remarkable feature of the drama is that it recognizes and ex-
poses the impossibility of Otho's position, revealing the contradic-
tions inherent in the German state's own representation of itself and
of the better interests of society. As both Keats's historical sources and
the text of his drama emphatically show, the benevolent authority of
which Otho is so fond is ineluctably tied to the violent abuse of people,
though he makes every effort to hide this fact. He pardons Gersa, for
example, not simply because he has a generous heart but because he
knows that Gersa had not been a conspirator against him; as he puts
it, with the pardon of Gersa "a marble column do I build / To prop
my empire's dome" (I.ii.16o-61). The same is true with his warm and
fatherly handling of Ludolph, which is motivated, at least partly, by
his knowledge that Ludolph had fought secretly on behalf of Germany
in the recent Hungarian uprising. Only after verbally toying with his
son, using the most violent terms-"No, obstinate boy, you shall be
kept cag'd up, / Serv'd with harsh food, with scum for Sunday-drink"


(according to one of Keats's possible historical sources) led an unsuc-
cessful revolt against his father,t but who, at the time of the action
described in the drama, fights secretly on behalf of Germany against
Hungary. This loyal activity wins for Ludolph the affection of his
father, who embraces his son warmly upon welcoming him back into
the good graces of state and family.
  Both of these plot-level episodes focus on an important dimension
of state authority, namely its exercise of both physical and ideological
force to maintain and extend its command of German society. As the
drama compellingly demonstrates, when the contradictions of social
life intensify to the point of threatening the prevailing structures of au-
thority-as they necessarily do in the tightly controlled world ruled by
Otho-military force is called in as a proper, order-restoring response.
The preferred force of social control, however, is ideological in nature
(as exemplified most clearly in Otho's ostensible benevolence toward
Gersa and Ludolph), not only because ideological authority is socially
more palatable but also because it publicly demonstrates the ability of
the state to incorporate dissidence into itself and therefore gives the
appearance of integrity and liberality. Thus it is that Otho, while rely-
ing on military force when he must, throughout attempts to control
society by showing that the specific political interests of the state he
governs are consistent with the personal interests of individuals.
   One remarkable feature of the drama is that it recognizes and ex-
poses the impossibility of Otho's position, revealing the contradic-
tions inherent in the German state's own representation of itself and
of the better interests of society. As both Keats's historical sources and
the text of his drama emphatically show, the benevolent authority of
which Otho is so fond is ineluctably tied to the violent abuse of people,
though he makes every effort to hide this fact. He pardons Gersa, for
example, not simply because he has a generous heart but because he
knows that Gersa had not been a conspirator against him; as he puts
it, with the pardon of Gersa "a marble column do I build / To prop
my empire's dome" (I.ii. 16o-61).' The same is true with his warm and
fatherly handling of Ludolph, which is motivated, at least partly, by
his knowledge that Ludolph had fought secretly on behalfof Germany
in the recent Hungarian uprising. Only after verbally toying with his
son, using the most violent terms-"No, obstinate boy, you shall be
kept cag'd up, / Serv'd with harsh food, with scum for Sunday-drink"


(according to one of Keats's possible historical sources) led an unsuc-
cessful revolt against his father,t but who, at the time of the action
described in the drama, fights secretly on behalf of Germany against
Hungary. This loyal activity wins for Ludolph the affection of his
father, who embraces his son warmly upon welcoming him back into
the good graces of state and family.
  Both of these plot-level episodes focus on an important dimension
of state authority, namely its exercise of both physical and ideological
force to maintain and extend its command of German society. As the
drama compellingly demonstrates, when the contradictions of social
life intensify to the point of threatening the prevailing structures of au-
thority-as they necessarily do in the tightly controlled world ruled by
Otho-military force is called in as a proper, order-restoring response.
The preferred force of social control, however, is ideological in nature
(as exemplified most clearly in Otho's ostensible benevolence toward
Gersa and Ludolph), not only because ideological authority is socially
more palatable but also because it publicly demonstrates the ability of
the state to incorporate dissidence into itself and therefore gives the
appearance of integrity and liberality. Thus it is that Otho, while rely-
ing on military force when he must, throughout attempts to control
society by showing that the specific political interests of the state he
governs are consistent with the personal interests of individuals.
   One remarkable feature of the drama is that it recognizes and ex-
poses the impossibility of Otho's position, revealing the contradic-
tions inherent in the German state's own representation of itself and
of the better interests of society. As both Keats's historical sources and
the text of his drama emphatically show, the benevolent authority of
which Otho is so fond is ineluctably tied to the violent abuse of people,
though he makes every effort to hide this fact. He pardons Gersa, for
example, not simply because he has a generous heart but because he
knows that Gersa had not been a conspirator against him; as he puts
it, with the pardon of Gersa "a marble column do I build / To prop
my empire's dome" (I.ii.16o-61)s The same is true with his warm and
fatherly handling of Ludolph, which is motivated, at least partly, by
his knowledge that Ludolph had fought secretly on behalf of Germany
in the recent Hungarian uprising. Only after verbally toying with his
son, using the most violent terms-"No, obstinate boy, you shall be
kept cag'd up, / Serv'd with harsh food, with scum for Sunday-drink"



Conclusion / 209                         Conclusion / 209                         Conclusion / 209


(II.i.88-89)-that is, only after emphasizing in the grossest terms the
boundlessness of his authority, does Otho pardon Ludolph and em-
brace him once more as a member of the family and citizen of the state.
Clearly, the real power of Otho's regime, despite the ruler's many
expressions of humane regard for others, is grounded ultimately in
tight physical control over both the political and everyday structures
of social life; his leadership is compassionate only in self-description
and only after all opposition has been entirely crushed.
The contradiction between ideological representation and material
reality is tracked through the course of the plot action, and is shown
to increase in intensity until it explodes the stability that Otho has in-
sistently (and convincingly) associated with his position as emperor.
In tracking this growing contradiction the drama discloses a full range
of anxiety-ridden feudal relations, including religion, family life, law,
marriage, and so on. While its portrayal of these relations is silent about
class conflict or about the threat to an old aristocracy by an emergent,
hostile, and external social force, the drama effectively displays-in its
presentation of these feudal relations among the larger contradictions
of feudal society-the internal erosion of feudalism; in its final por-
trayal of Ludolph's madness, indeed, we recognize that personal and
historical moment when neither material nor ideological authority is
sufficient any longer to preserve social stability.

The abiding concerns of the preceding chapters have been to show that
Romantic drama is haunted by class anxiety and social instability and
to elaborate the various social relations that become visible through
a materialist critique of that anxiety. From The Borderers, where an
aristocratic worldview is shown to be under fire from the modern
intellect of Rivers, to The Deformed Transformed, where the old struc-
tures of authority in Western culture are tracked to their source in
Rome and exposed in all their dehumanizing atrocity, the dramas are
shaped by the fact of historical change from aristocratic to bourgeois
forms of social life. Even when they do not place class conflict at the
level of plot or theme (as, for instance, in Halidon Hill, Otho the Great,
or Heaven and Earth), they vividly describe both vicious, threatening
turmoil and paralyzing convictions of imminent doom in their social
worlds, thus encouraging historically minded readers to investigate
the deeper structures of social life that may account for the intimations


(II.i.88-89)-that is, only after emphasizing in the grossest terms the
boundlessness of his authority, does Otho pardon Ludolph and em-
brace him once more as a member of the family and citizen of the state.
Clearly, the real power of Otho's regime, despite the ruler's many
expressions of humane regard for others, is grounded ultimately in
tight physical control over both the political and everyday structures
of social life; his leadership is compassionate only in self-description
and only after all opposition has been entirely crushed.
The contradiction between ideological representation and material
reality is tracked through the course of the plot action, and is shown
to increase in intensity until it explodes the stability that Otho has in-
sistently (and convincingly) associated with his position as emperor.
In tracking this growing contradiction the drama discloses a full range
of anxiety-ridden feudal relations, including religion, family life, law,
marriage, and so on. While its portrayal ofthese relations is silent about
class conflict or about the threat to an old aristocracy by an emergent,
hostile, and external social force, the drama effectively displays-in its
presentation of these feudal relations among the larger contradictions
of feudal society-the internal erosion of feudalism; in its final por-
trayal of Ludolph's madness, indeed, we recognize that personal and
historical moment when neither material nor ideological authority is
sufficient any longer to preserve social stability.

The abiding concerns of the preceding chapters have been to show that
Romantic drama is haunted by class anxiety and social instability and
to elaborate the various social relations that become visible through
a materialist critique of that anxiety. From  The Borderers, where an
aristocratic worldview is shown to be under fire from the modern
intellect of Rivers, to The Deformed Transformed, where the old struc-
tures of authority in Western culture are tracked to their source in
Rome and exposed in all their dehumanizing atrocity, the dramas are
shaped by the fact of historical change from aristocratic to bourgeois
forms of social life. Even when they do not place class conflict at the
level of plot or theme (as, for instance, in Halidon Hill, Otho the Great,
or Heaven and Earth), they vividly describe both vicious, threatening
turmoil and paralyzing convictions of imminent doom in their social
worlds, thus encouraging historically minded readers to investigate
the deeper structures of social life that may account for the intimations


(II.i.88-89)-that is, only after emphasizing in the grossest terms the
boundlessness of his authority, does Otho pardon Ludolph and em-
brace him once more as a member of the family and citizen of the state.
Clearly, the real power of Otho's regime, despite the ruler's many
expressions of humane regard for others, is grounded ultimately in
tight physical control over both the political and everyday structures
of social life; his leadership is compassionate only in self-description
and only after all opposition has been entirely crushed.
The contradiction between ideological representation and material
reality is tracked through the course of the plot action, and is shown
to increase in intensity until it explodes the stability that Otho has in-
sistently (and convincingly) associated with his position as emperor.
In tracking this growing contradiction the drama discloses a full range
of anxiety-ridden feudal relations, including religion, family life, law,
marriage, and so on. While its portrayal of these relations is silent about
class conflict or about the threat to an old aristocracy by an emergent,
hostile, and external social force, the drama effectively displays-in its
presentation of these feudal relations among the larger contradictions
of feudal society-the internal erosion of feudalism; in its final por-
trayal of Ludolph's madness, indeed, we recognize that personal and
historical moment when neither material nor ideological authority is
sufficient any longer to preserve social stability.

The abiding concerns of the preceding chapters have been to show that
Romantic drama is haunted by class anxiety and social instability and
to elaborate the various social relations that become visible through
a materialist critique of that anxiety. From The Borderers, where an
aristocratic worldview is shown to be under fire from the modern
intellect of Rivers, to The Deformed Transformed, where the old struc-
tures of authority in Western culture are tracked to their source in
Rome and exposed in all their dehumanizing atrocity, the dramas are
shaped by the fact of historical change from aristocratic to bourgeois
forms of social life. Even when they do not place class conflict at the
level of plot or theme (as, for instance, in Halidon Hill, Otho the Great,
or Heaven and Earth), they vividly describe both vicious, threatening
turmoil and paralyzing convictions of imminent doom in their social
worlds, thus encouraging historically minded readers to investigate
the deeper structures of social life that may account for the intimations



21 / Enls Roani Dram                     21 / Enls RoatcDaa20/EgihRmni                       rm


of mortality besieging the characters who inhabit those worlds. I have
tried to show that the result of such dramatic description is a body of
work that is rich in social and historical significance.
  At the same time, the very details that make the dramas ripe for
historical investigation make them problematic for literary critics who
like their literature formally stable and stylistically consistent. Histori-
cally prepared to describe the activities and values of an aristocratic
world in the early nineteenth century, while facing the hard realities of
a triumphant bourgeoisie, drama was incapable of presenting a sharply
defined worldview or of sustaining a strong and stable dramatic voice.
From a purely formal point of view, Romantic drama was fatally in-
jured by its inability to negotiate these competing sets of historical
pressure-it suffered defeat along with the worldview that had given
it life during the Renaissance. As Raymond Williams remarks, the re-
sult is that "the period from 1750 to 1850 is the most barren in our
dramatic history, if it is work of any lasting value we are looking for."'
As if to assure that the drama of the period will continue to be seen
as lacking durable value, most scholars and critics of Romanticism
have complacently ignored it, written only disparagingly about it, or
studied it only for its expressions of conventional Romantic themes
and attitudes.
  But Williams's comment, while certainly accurate in a narrowly
critical sense-many of these dramas, such as Halidon Hill, are simply
difficult to like-too readily accepts the standard portrayal of Roman-
tic drama as a form unable to bear close investigation. As the above
chapters demonstrate, the specific historical situation that Williams
rightly adduces to explain the unhappy fate of Romantic drama in lit-
erary history is not simply an external authority that assigns death to
certain literary forms while energizing and valorizing others. That his-
torical situation is necessarily inscribed in those literary forms most
vulnerable to its pressure. That is, although Romantic drama had a
vested interest in social structures of value and belief that were on the
verge of extinction by the early nineteenth century, it is not a simple
literary record of a dead or dying world. Rather, it is a complicated,
historically dense record of the struggle between competing structures
and relations of social life. Class, religion, family, personal life, state,
law, economics, labor, gender, and more: these social relations were all
transformed during the transition from aristocratic to bourgeois struc-
tures of authority and belief, and one record of that transformation


of mortality besieging the characters who inhabit those worlds. I have
tried to show that the result of such dramatic description is a body of
work that is rich in social and historical significance.
  At the same time, the very details that make the dramas ripe for
historical investigation make them problematic for literary critics who
like their literature formally stable and stylistically consistent. Histori-
cally prepared to describe the activities and values of an aristocratic
world in the early nineteenth century, while facing the hard realities of
a triumphant bourgeoisie, drama was incapable of presenting a sharply
defined worldview or of sustaining a strong and stable dramatic voice.
From a purely formal point of view, Romantic drama was fatally in-
jured by its inability to negotiate these competing sets of historical
pressure-it suffered defeat along with the worldview that had given
it life during the Renaissance. As Raymond Williams remarks, the re-
sult is that "the period from 1750 to 1850 is the most barren in our
dramatic history, if it is work of any lasting value we are looking for."'
As if to assure that the drama of the period will continue to be seen
as lacking durable value, most scholars and critics of Romanticism
have complacently ignored it, written only disparagingly about it, or
studied it only for its expressions of conventional Romantic themes
and attitudes.
  But Williams's comment, while certainly accurate in a narrowly
critical sense-many of these dramas, such as Halidon Hill, are simply
difficult to like-too readily accepts the standard portrayal of Roman-
tic drama as a form unable to bear close investigation. As the above
chapters demonstrate, the specific historical situation that Williams
rightly adduces to explain the unhappy fate of Romantic drama in lit-
erary history is not simply an external authority that assigns death to
certain literary forms while energizing and valorizing others. That his-
torical situation is necessarily inscribed in those literary forms most
vulnerable to its pressure. That is, although Romantic drama had a
vested interest in social structures of value and belief that were on the
verge of extinction by the early nineteenth century, it is not a simple
literary record of a dead or dying world. Rather, it is a complicated,
historically dense record of the struggle between competing structures
and relations of social life. Class, religion, family, personal life, state,
law, economics, labor, gender, and more: these social relations were all
transformed during the transition from aristocratic to bourgeois struc-
tures of authority and belief, and one record of that transformation


of mortality besieging the characters who inhabit those worlds. I have
tried to show that the result of such dramatic description is a body of
work that is rich in social and historical significance.
  At the same time, the very details that make the dramas ripe for
historical investigation make them problematic for literary critics who
like their literature formally stable and stylistically consistent. Histori-
cally prepared to describe the activities and values of an aristocratic
world in the early nineteenth century, while facing the hard realities of
a triumphant bourgeoisie, drama was incapable of presenting a sharply
defined worldview or of sustaining a strong and stable dramatic voice.
From a purely formal point of view, Romantic drama was fatally in-
jured by its inability to negotiate these competing sets of historical
pressure-it suffered defeat along with the worldview that had given
it life during the Renaissance. As Raymond Williams remarks, the re-
sult is that "the period from 1750 to 1850 is the most barren in our
dramatic history, if it is work ofany lasting value we are looking for."'
As if to assure that the drama of the period will continue to be seen
as lacking durable value, most scholars and critics of Romanticism
have complacently ignored it, written only disparagingly about it, or
studied it only for its expressions of conventional Romantic themes
and attitudes.
  But Williams's comment, while certainly accurate in a narrowly
critical sense-many of these dramas, such as Halidon Hill, are simply
difficult to like-too readily accepts the standard portrayal of Roman-
tic drama as a form unable to bear close investigation. As the above
chapters demonstrate, the specific historical situation that Williams
rightly adduces to explain the unhappy fate of Romantic drama in lit-
erary history is not simply an external authority that assigns death to
certain literary forms while energizing and valorizing others. That his-
torical situation is necessarily inscribed in those literary forms most
vulnerable to its pressure. That is, although Romantic drama had a
vested interest in social structures of value and belief that were on the
verge of extinction by the early nineteenth century, it is not a simple
literary record of a dead or dying world. Rather, it is a complicated,
historically dense record of the struggle between competing structures
and relations of social life. Class, religion, family, personal life, state,
law, economics, labor, gender, and more: these social relations were all
transformed during the transition from aristocratic to bourgeois struc-
tures of authority and belief, and one record of that transformation






















is Romantic drama. Further, the anxieties, violence, and fear accom-
panying the structural change of social life haunt Romantic drama,
which compellingly (if at times awkwardly) reveals the astonishing
scope of that change during the Romantic period. For this reason,
rather than dismissing it, historical criticism and scholarship should
recover Romantic drama from the margins of literary history and sub-
ject it to systematic historical explanation. Such an effort-to which
the present study is meant to contribute-would bring into the light
of literary history the social historical imperatives that not only govern
Romantic drama, but also all other literary forms of the period.


is Romantic drama. Further, the anxieties, violence, and fear accom-
panying the structural change of social life haunt Romantic drama,
which compellingly (if at times awkwardly) reveals the astonishing
scope of that change during the Romantic period. For this reason,
rather than dismissing it, historical criticism and scholarship should
recover Romantic drama from the margins of literary history and sub-
ject it to systematic historical explanation. Such an effort-to which
the present study is meant to contribute-would bring into the light
of literary history the social historical imperatives that not only govern
Romantic drama, but also all other literary forms of the period.


is Romantic drama. Further, the anxieties, violence, and fear accom-
panying the structural change of social life haunt Romantic drama,
which compellingly (if at times awkwardly) reveals the astonishing
scope of that change during the Romantic period. For this reason,
rather than dismissing it, historical criticism and scholarship should
recover Romantic drama from the margins of literary history and sub-
ject it to systematic historical explanation. Such an effort-to which
the present study is meant to contribute-would bring into the light
of literary history the social historical imperatives that not only govern
Romantic drama, but also all other literary forms of the period.






                NOTES




















a Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama

  1. A younger generation of scholars and critics has, in one way or another,
absorbed these ideological biases in their own work. Jerome J. McGann dis-
cusses these biases in The Romantic Ideology: A Critical Investigation, especially
19, 21-24,59-63.
2. For a discussion of these matters in terms of categories put forward by
Michel Foucault, see Clifford Siskin, The Historicity of Romantic Discourse.
3. McGann's Romantic Ideology is now the standard work on this topic.
4. I am here offering a thumbnail sketch of now common ideas. For a
thorough discussion of these and related matters, see, for instance, Marjorie
Levinson, Marilyn Butler, Jerome McGann, and Paul Hamilton, Rethinking
Historicism: Critical Readings in Romantic History; Marjorie Levinson, Keats's Life
of Allegory; and Fredric Jameson's important theoretical work, The Political
Unconscious: Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act.
  5. See Joseph W. Donohue, Jr., Dramatic Character in the English Romantic
Age; Terry Otten, The Deserted Stage: The Search for Dramatic Form in Nineteenth-
Century England; and Erika Gottlieb, Lost Angels ofa Ruined Paradise: Themes of
Cosmic Strife in Romantic Tragedy.
  6. I want to be clear here that I am not offering a negative assessment of the
outstanding work of Cox, Burwick, and Richardson, but rather attempting
to situate their arguments within recent critical debates over Romanticism. It
should be mentioned as well that Cox's recent work shows that he is acutely
aware of the sorts of issues I am raising and that he engages directly certain


                NOTES




















a Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama

  1. A younger generation of scholars and critics has, in one way or another,
absorbed these ideological biases in their own work. Jerome J. McGann dis-
cusses these biases in The Romantic Ideology: A Critical Investigation, especially
19, 21-24,59-63.
a. For a discussion of these matters in terms of categories put forward by
Michel Foucault, see Clifford Siskin, The Historicity of Romantic Discourse.
  3. McGann's Romantic Ideology is now the standard work on this topic.
  4. I am here offering a thumbnail sketch of now common ideas. For a
thorough discussion of these and related matters, see, for instance, Marjorie
Levinson, Marilyn Butler, Jerome McGann, and Paul Hamilton, Rethinking
Historicism: Critical Readings in Romantic History; Marjorie Levinson, Keats's Life
of Allegory; and Fredric Jameson's important theoretical work, The Political
Unconscious: Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act.
  5. See Joseph W. Donohue, Jr., Dramatic Character in the English Romantic
Age; Terry Otten, The Deserted Stage: The Search for Dramatic Form in Nineteenth-
Century England; and Erika Gottlieb, Lost Angels of a Ruined Paradise: Themes of
Cosmic Strife in Romantic Tragedy.
  6. I want to be clear here that I am not offering a negative assessment of the
outstanding work of Cox, Burwick, and Richardson, but rather attempting
to situate their arguments within recent critical debates over Romanticism. It
should be mentioned as well that Cox's recent work shows that he is acutely
aware of the sorts of issues I am raising and that he engages directly certain


                NOTES




















i Toward a Theory of Romantic Drama

  1. A younger generation of scholars and critics has, in one way or another,
absorbed these ideological biases in their own work. Jerome J. McGann dis-
cusses these biases in The Romantic Ideology: A Critical Investigation, especially
19, 21-24,59-63.
2. For a discussion of these matters in terms of categories put forward by
Michel Foucault, see Clifford Siskin, The Historicity of Romantic Discourse.
3. McGann's Romantic Ideology is now the standard work on this topic.
4. I am here offering a thumbnail sketch of now common ideas. For a
thorough discussion of these and related matters, see, for instance, Marjorie
Levinson, Marilyn Butler, Jerome McGann, and Paul Hamilton, Rethinking
Historicism: Critical Readings in Romantic History; Marjorie Levinson, Keats's Life
of Allegory; and Fredric Jameson's important theoretical work, The Political
Unconscious: Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act.
  5. See Joseph W. Donohue, Jr., Dramatic Character in the English Romantic
Age; Terry Otten, The Deserted Stage: The Searchfor Dramatic Form in Nineteenth-
Century England; and Erika Gottlieb, Lost Angels of a Ruined Paradise: Themes of
Cosmic Strife in Romantic Tragedy.
6. I want to be clear here that I am not offering a negative assessment of the
outstanding work of Cox, Berwick, and Richardson, but rather attempting
to situate their arguments within recent critical debates over Romanticism. It
should be mentioned as well that Cox's recent work shows that he is acutely
aware of the sorts of issues I am raising and that he engages directly certain



                004 / Notes

 mterialitquetions that er on thtdy ofRomntic dram. See especially
hisftinettssy, "Ideologytand enre intheBitih Anieoltionay Drama
of the 17900," 579-610.
7. Laembos faouoo comenet, diteeted opeciftcally to the w'otk of Shake-
speare, reads to follows:Ul "Ittytseem oparadox, hot I cannot help being of
opieion ohat the playt of Shaketpeare aoe lett calceloted for peoforcee 000a
tege, thee thote of almtost aoy othee dotamatitt wehateer. Their distingeith-
ing excellene it a reatee thtt they thould he to. There it to muoch in themt,
wehich coes not oundet the peov'ince oftacting, with wehich eye, aed tooe, tand
getore, haveeethiog to do. . .. Bet the poactice of tago repretetattioe re-
docet everything to t cootrov'ertyof elocotioe." See Chares Lamob, "On the
Teagediet of Shakeopette," in The Comylete Works ted Letteors of Chaoles Loch,

8. Foe etlent conoiderationo of thete qettioet, teeoJohe D. Kinnaiod,
Wtillitm Hazolitt: Critic ofPoowe, 167-71; ted Marilyo Gaell, Etglish Romaticioom:
The Heueae Cooteot, 8t-to8.
9. The reltoiont between dramat ted theatoerin the Romaoetic period hoot
beonodiscussed indeotailyTeece A. Hoagw'ood, "Prolegoeon foroa
Theory of RomaticDrtama,"49-64;tady Geg Kcic, "'A HauntedllReio':
Romoonoic Dotama, RenaissanoeeToadition, ted the Ceiticti Eotblishet," 64-
76. Both estays appear ie tospecitl itsee of The Wordsoth Circle 00 Romotntic
dooeoo. Alto oo this sebject, toe Gtull, English Rhomaticism, 8t-to8.
  to. Christopheo Caudwelil, Illuoion ted Realioy: A Soudy ofthe Soourc of Poetry,

  Ct . V. Plekhaov, Atead Socil Lfe, 04.
  to. Johe Fekete, The Critical Towiligho, 6.
  o13. Rtyonod Willitomt, The Loeg Recoltion: An Aetlysih of the Demoocrtic,
Inodustrial, ted Celteral Chatges Trtesforminog O Society, 064.

  t5. For to ecelleet ditcettion of thete mttero, tee Hoagwcood, "Prole-
gomoenone"; Kecich, "'A Haunted Ruin'"; ted Caell, English Romatntichsm. Foe
to eocellent ted ueful ditcuosioe of Colooidg'o atteempts to reformo the otage,
tee Jolie Corltoe, "Commootd Perforomtocet: Berhe, Coleoidge, ted Schilleots
Drtamatic Reflectio on the Reolutioe in Fotoce," t17-34.
  oh. Kenneth Neill Camerone, Shelley: The Goldee Yotrs, 396.
  17. 1 take the 00000 politicol uecoescious fromJtameone, The Political Uecon-

  oh. Rtymtond Willitamo, The Sociology of Ctee, 064.
  09. Leciten Coldomatn, Toocords a Sociology ofothe Notel, 13.
  to. Ihid., 14.
  to1. Foota discutoion of the social dimoensions of Cait, seeTeence A. Hoag-
woood'o foothcomoing hook Byon's Dilcoic: Skeyticism ted the Critique of Celte.


                004 / Notes

emoteoitlist qestions ohat hete on the tudy of Romatocic dotoot. See especitily
hit floe essay, "Ideology ted Genre in the Brioish Aotirevoletionary Detoma
of the 07900," 579-600.
7. Loecho faoos ceoomeot, dioetoed specifically oo the cook of Shake-
opetre, oteado to follows: "It moay seemo apradoxt, butoIcannot holy beiog of
opinion ohat the plays of Shaespee too loot calcultod foe perfoomcon a
tage, thee ohote of almot toy other dotomttist whteve. Their distingeith-
     00000 eclecisarsohat they thoeld he to. Thee it to muoch in ohemo,
wthich 000000 oo under the prooince ofoacoing, w'ith which eye, ted toot, ted
gestuere,haeotohing to do. . .. Butothe pracoice ofstageoepesentation ro-
dues toteryohing 00 aecontrooersy of elocution." See Charles Laomh, "On the
Teogedito of Shekeopetre," in The Coclet Works ted Lettr of Charles Loch,
291-92.
  8. Foe ecelflent considerationsof tfheot qotstieo, see John D. Kinntird,
Willioc Haoliott Critic of Power, 067-70; ted Marilyn Cooll, English Rocmanoicioc:
The Humaon Context, 8o-to8.
9. The reltions hetween detect ted theatter in the Romaentic period htve
heen dioceoted in detdi by Terence A. Hoagweood, "Frolegomoenon foota
Theory ofllRomantic Drama," 49-64o;andby Greg Kcich, "'AHaunted Ruin':
Romanotic Detect, Rentisotnce Toodition, ted the Coitictl Eotabliohent," h4-
76. Bothessaysoappearoinaopecil isseof TheWodworh Cirde onRomantoic
detect. Alto on this oubjeco, tee Gtull, English Romanthcism, 8c-oo8.
  1.Chritopher Ctodo'ell, Illociot and Relioy: A Soody ofohe Socec ofPoeoy,

  to. C. V. Plekhaov, Artead Social Life, 14.
  to. John Fekote, The Critical Twcilogho, 6.
  13. Rayecond Williteco, The Lcong Reoletion: Ae Aetlyis of the Demeocrtic,
Iedtial, ted Cuttral Chonges Trtecforming Otr Socity, 064.

  15. Foe an ecellent diocuotion of ohese 00000er0, 000 Hotgwcood, "Poole-
goenon"; Kecich, "'A HauetedRi"';ad     Gull, E glih Romanthcism. Foe
to eclleno ted eteful diocussion of Coleridge's tteecpts to reforec the tage,
oeelie Carlson, "Coececod Ferforectnceo: Berke, Coleridge, ted Schiller't
Drtectoic Reflectiono on the Revoluoion in France," 007-34.
  1h. Kenneth Neill Cteeon, Shelley: The Coldee Yoarc, 396.
  07. I toke the 00000 polioical unconscious fromecJaeon, The Polioicol Uecon-

  18. Rayecond Williaeco, The Sociology of Culture, 064.
  09. Lucien Coldectne, Towtdo a Sociobogy ofothe Novel, 03.
  2.Ihid., 04.
  t1. Foroadiscussioneoftheosocial dieneioes of Cain, see Teece A. Hoag-
woodos forthcoecing hook Byones Diolecoic Skeyticism ted ohe Critique of Clture.


                004 / Notes

merialiot questions tht hetroe the stoedy of Roectoic detect. See eopecially
hiohfieeooty, "Ideologytandene inheBiih AieolionaryDrteca
of the 07900," 579-ho.
7. Laecho ftecoeo comeet, directed opecificelly to the wook of Shake-
opee, ceads to followso: "t ecty oeeecaparadoo, butIcotohelF being of
opinion ohot ohe playo of Shakesypee toe loot calculted foe perforecance octa
otage, ohan ohoot of tlecost toy other drtectit whateve. Their disoinguioh-
     in  xelnei  eton thao obey ohoeld bo to. Thee it to ecoch in thec,
wchich coestnottue rthyproiceofaoig,ihwhichoye, tnddoone, ted
gesoue, havenothingodo..Bt theprciceofteepeettoo   e-
dues evtrythieg to aocontoverty of elocution." See Chtleo Ltech, "On the
Tragodito of Shakespearo," in The Comylee Works ted Lterso of Chales Lamh,
291-92.
6. Forexcellent consideations ofothete qeotions, too John D. Kinntird,
Willioc Hooliot;: Critic of Pow'e, 067-70; ted Mtrilyn Ctull, English Roconoicioc;
The HumcneConteot,9o-o8.
9. The tolationo beoteen detect ted ohetto in the Roectntic Fperiod have
heen discessed in detoil by Teence A. Hoagwcood, "Frolegoeon foe
Thory of Romantoic Drama,"49-64; andy Geg Kuich, "'A Haunoed Ruin':
Roectetie Detect, Renaisoance Trtdition, ted the Coitictl Establishent," 64-
76. Both essays appeareinoaospcitl iosue of The Wordsotch Circle on Roecantic
detect. Alto 00 ohio oubject, 000 Coull, English Rocaneicic, 8o-oo8.
  to. Chisop~her Ctudw'ell, lluosionad Relity: A Study ofohe Sources of oetry,

  it. C. V. Flekhtoo, Artoad Social Li,14.
  t2. John Fekete, The Critical Towilight, 6.
  13. Rayecond Williteco, The Lcong Reolton: An Analysih of the Deocratohc,
Industril,and CturalolChagesTransforming OurSociety, 26.

  oj. Foe to ecelleno discussion of these 00000000, see Hotgwcood, "Frole-
goeon"; Kocich, "'A Haunoed Ruin'"; ted Ctull, English Romaeticioc. Fot
to excellent ted usefol discussion of Coleoidge'o ttetto 00eforec the stage,
teoe lie Ctrlon, "Coecectd Ferforectnces: Buoke, Coltoidge, ted Schillerot
Drtectoic Reflectionson the Revolotion in Frtece," 007-34.
  oh. Keneth Neill Caeon, Shelbey: The Colden Yearc, 396.
  07. 1 take the 00000 political onconscious froecJteoo, The Polioicol Uecce-

  oh. Rtyecond Williteco, The Sociology of Cltue, o64.
  09. Lucien Coldecten, Towatrdota Sociolbgy oftheNoel, t3.
  t0. Ihid., 04.
  210. Forttdicooionoofheoocil dienscionsoof CiseeTeece A. Hoag-
wcoodos forthcoecing hook Byreo' Ditleoctc Sketicisc ted the Critiqee of Culture.





See also Edwtaed E_ Besete, The domnttic Venetriloquists. Wordswcoeth, Coleridge,
Keaet, Shelley, Byrott, 282-9t. Fee discessien of the secial dienseions ef The
Cenci, tee Micheel H. Scrieee, Radical Shelley: The Philoscphical Anerchism ted
Utcpiett Thought of Percy Bysshe Shelley, 187-96.
  2.The phrase appeart both int The Borderers (Il. ve146) and int The Pr'elude,
eand ithethplestit caeeies explicit pliticea assciation. InThe  Bodeer,
Rivees says te Mertimer:

     Yeuhaeeteghteeatkindtoeseek theeasurte ofjustice
     By divineg fee it inte their own hboeoms.
     Toeday youhaeethrowntoff atyranny
     Thet lies Sut hy the teepid acquieecenee
     Of oemculaeitedteouit,theyyeanny
     Ofeemoralists andcsaints and lawgier.
     Yee heve eheyed the ettiy law chat weitdeom
     Caee ever eecognie: the jemmcediete leaw
     Fleched frect the light efeicmseteeces
     Upon eat independent hnteliect. (il. t. 148-96)

Int The Prelude Weedsworth desceihes hit eerly enthutsiatsm fee the Fentch Reve-
lutionary peeied intttrikinglytimileeteetts:

     Whet delight!
     Heow gieeieet! int self-keewiedge eand teif-eeie
     Te ieeh threugh all the freilciet ef the werld,
     Aed, wteih a reselute mteey thaing eff
     Infertitiet ef Natere, tieme, eed piece,
     Buildtscialpon personl Liety,
     Which, te the hlind retreiets of genteral Lews
     Suerier, maegiteerielly adepts
     Gee geide, the light ef ciecuetancces, fleehed
     Upeon an indepentdent inetellece. (XI.eee-44c)

The eeference te The Prelede it taee frete Williecm Weedswoeech, The Fourteen-
Beeh "Prelude." All refeteeceste The Bcedeers ete takene fleet Wiilieam Werds-
woreth, The Borderers, ed. Roeet Oebeen. Act, tcene, and hine numerset
cited parethetically int the cext.
  23. Weedsweeeth't eaeiy attitudeteweed peliticeleience iseplicily ei-
dent inthe felloienig quetetiee fleet hit letter te the bithep ef Lietndaff
"Alec! theehbtinecy & pereresienteftmeeeis sech thaetshe [Liherty] isteeftene
ehiigedceheboreowtheeeyarmstefdeptistooeerethrewehim, aed ineedee
to eign ice peace muset estaeblith hereef by vieleece." This passage eppeeet
ice Williett Weedswoeeth, The Prose Werks ef Wiliem Wordswcorth, ed. W. J. B.
Owen eand Jante Werthingten Smeysee, 1:3.


See else Edwared E. Beetettee, The Romatnetic Vetreilquists: Wordesecreh, Coieridge,
Kceats, Shelley, Byrot, 282-91. Fee e ditcetsien of the seciel dimetntietnt ef The
fCenci, tee Michaei H. Scrivente, Redicel Shelley: The Philosophicel Anachism eatd
Utepiane Thocght of Percy Bysshe Shelley, a87-9h.
22. The phrase eppeert beth int The Bordereet (Il. v.496) ettd int The Prelede,
ettd ice beth placet it cerriet exeplicit peiitical asteciaions. Int The Bordeers,
Riere taye te Mortier:

     Yee heve teeght manekind to tech the meaetere ofjustice
     By diving fee it into their own beoeoms.
     Te dey yeeheethrewneeff ayetyran
     Thee flet bet by the teepid ecquietcence
     Of oemculatedteol, the tyeettty
     Ofmoraliststeandtsaintsand lawgier.
     Yee have oeeed the ettly iae thee wciedeom
     Can ever reccognize: the imcmediate iae
     Flatbed ferom the light of cieceumttacet
     Upont ac independent Ineellece. (IIe..1486-96h)

In The PreludeWrdworthdecibethistearly enthusiasmforetheFech Rev-
lutionary periodinetikinglytimcilarterms:

     Whet deiight!
     How glorious! int self-kcceiedge ettd self-rule
     Tc lock eheough ail the fraiities of the eoeid,
     Antd, weith e resoiute macterey shahing off
     Infiermitiet of Naete, timee, and plece,
     BuildesocialcponpersoalLibery,
     Which, tc the huend etrecicnts cf geneecl Laws
     Superioe, meagiteriaiiy adopec
     0ce guide, the lighe cf ciecumsctences, flcshed
     Upon cc independenteitelect. (XI.ais-44)

The refereceeeo The Peelude it tahen fleet Williae Woedswoeth, The Foureen-
Beoh "Peelude." All teferecesceo The Bordeere cre taken fleet Willicet Woeds-
woeth, The Borderers, ed. Roert Ocboen. Ace, scene, and lice nuetbers ce
citedpaectheticllyinetheext.
  23. Woedswoeth's eaely attitede towaed politicalieiolenceistepliiciycei-
dentein the followting qeotation fleet hit lettee to the hishop of Licndaff:
"Ales! the ohstinccy & perereien ofee it tech thee the [Libeecy] isto o fec
ohliged toboreewetheveeyeetstof despotiste    oeetheowhit, and icerdee
to reige int peace et cestaeblish heecelf by violence." Thie pascageeappears
int Williaet Woedseoeth, The Pecse Worhe ef William Wordewoceh, ed. W. J. B.
Owen and Jane Woechington Setysee, 133


See cite Edwaed F. Boseeeeee, The Romaneic Veetrileqcists: Wordswoeth, Coereidge,
Keets, Shelley, Bypeoe, 2e82-91. Fee a dicuscioe of the eocial dienseioes of The
Ceeci, see Michael H. Sceivenee, Radical Shelley: The Philosophical Aeachism aed
Utopiae Thought ef Pecy Bysshe Shelley, 187y-96.
22. The pheace appeaec beth int The Bordercers (ilt. a496) and int The Prelude,
and inthplacesit cariesepicit piticalasscitionst.IThe B rdeer,
Rierec tape to Mortier:

     Yoe have taught etankind eo tech the estre of jestice
     By diving fee it into theireown boseoms.
     To day yee hae thrown off a tyranny
     Thee lies hue by the torpid acqeiesceece
     Ofeoureemaclated teuls, the tyranny
     Ofemoralitstandsintseand lawgiers.
     Yoe have oeyed the only law thee wisdoet
     flee ever reccgnize: the ieteediate lew
     Flatbed feret the light ef ciecumetces
     Upon cc independene Intellect. (il.v.148h-9)

In ThePrelude Wdwoth describeshisteaelyethusiasmetfrthe Fenchflev-
letionary period int steikingly simtilae teets:

     Whet delight!
     How gloeiouc! int self-knoweledge aed self-eule
     To leek cheough all the flaileies ef the eoeld,
     And, wtith a resolute etery chaking off
     Infieeties of Natere, tiete, and piece,
     BuildcsocialuponepersonaiLiberty,
     Which, eo the huend retreaints of geereal Lawse
     Superioe, etagisteilly edopes
     Gee guide, the hight of ciecumsccances, flatbed
     Upon cc inependenteintellect.(X.3-4
The refereceeco The Prelade isteaken fleet Williaet Wordswoeth, The Foureene-
Beek "Peelude." All refereceecto The Beedeers ae eaken fleet Williaet Woede-
woeth, The Boedeers, ed. Rebere Oshoen. Act, scece, and lice nuethers ae
cited paenthetically intheexte.
  23. Wordsworthsearlyattitude towardpoliticaleioleneciseplcitly ei-
dent int the followting quoeacion fleet hit letter to the bishop of Llandaif:
"Alec! the ohstinacy & pereresion of en it tech that the (Libeecy] it tee oftee
obliged cc Settee the ery aeets ofdespotismeto ertherow hiet, and int order
to reige int peece musct ectablich herelf by violence." This peceage appeaec
int Williaet Woedsworech, The Peose Woeks cf Williae Woedswcerth, ed. W. J. B.
Owen and Jane Woethington Setysee, 1:3.



                2tt / Notes

 24. Seo Reeve Parker, "'Oh Could You Hear His Voice!': Wordsorth,
Coleridge, and Ventriloqutoo," 125-43; and Thrs Kelley, Wordswrth' Rea-
oisiotnaty Aesthetict, 72-90. Both of thes tudies eoplooe tho wtayt io which
actioad idntity areformeod by language.Myoncern is qoitedifferent,
focusigiteadoupoho     lagag,   dercetaitirdtancest o met
btenas having authority overtheodtermtiiogpoerofoialrlation.
Foroaooollnt hioaaysoifThBodere-onthat is    osider-.
ably omoro thoroogh thao ohat I can offer hoot-oo Alao Lio, Wordoth, The
Settse of History, 225-310 passim.
25. Feketo, Critital Twilig/o, 20.
26. All qootatiots from tbo teond editioo of tho Lyrical Balodsaret taboo
Broot Wordtotht, rosoark /of aWilliama Wordstoaoh, vol. t. Pago ootobort aro
citod paroothotito/ly io tho toot.
27. Fekote, Critical Towilig/tt, 4.
28. Pot a bolpfol, briof dittotsioo of the itoportanto of T/o Bordeters
int totrot of Wordtorth's dooo/opiog coototvativo ojtion, too Jatoos K.
Chand/er, Wodstawot's Seonod Natore: A Stody oft/to Pootry aod Politjcs, 227-29.


2 Samuool Taylor Coloridgots Osoroo

  1.Coloridge'ttoonsitivity totheopolitialtatoo of hitpoeorytcao botooon in
a ootooeot bo moado to Wi/loot Litlo Bowles oocernjog tbo Odo: 'Mt Odo
yooowi/llooado'ithaidly fobaraoto astto it's[ic]pliticaltoontimtst.-
Theobatoof ooopolitics it, I doubtonot, thesameo.Weoboth foltongly for
womeooor iotaginatioot proteot tot joint ho attitodo of soffrig.-/ too-
fott, that otioo it too oftoo a stormty pity." Satotel Taylor Coloridgo, Collotod
Lettrsa ofSamueol Taylor Coltoidgo, od. Fool Losljo Coiggt, t:318. All tohtoqooot
rofotootot to Co/oridgots lottoot are titod in tho toot at LC.
2. Soo John Co/too, Coloridge: Critit of Socioty, 49-52.
3t. For toot/loont ditouttiont of the tonnoootionst between Otorjo antd Colt-
ridgots politiot inotho t79ot, too Carl Woodrjog, Politias int/t Poetry of Coloidge.
204-5; andPal Mgnuso,Colridg adodsorh: ALyial Dialogu, 52-6.
4. Soo Co/oridgots lottor to Shoridan int Fobroary 1797: "1 roteivod a lte
latt Satorday Broot a frjood of tho Rood W. L. Bowlot, iotportiog that Sot
w'ithodtmeo'toowoito atragedyon oootpopolaotsubjott.'/IoodonottsaythatI
oat goatifiodantdtsomeowhato/oatodby theoproposal; atnd whatoveroour Ioo/an
owinfroootteaototionst,hbywhichb/oarnoty immotdiattobitooco, shall bo
tacrod to tho atttypt" (LC, 1:o0).
  5. Magnuoooitpaotito/ao/y good ondraw'ing outthi theoeoof thdoota.
Sot Magootoo, Coleidgo atd /Woodsoth, 6to-6o.
  6. Onothotcritical tondoentytoduplitatetRootantitoaloot andattitdet, too
JeromeoJ. McGoano, Toe Rotoantit Ideology: A Crjtical Inoestigation.


                ot6 / Notet

 24. Sot Reevo Paokot, "'Oh Could Yoo Hoar Hit Voito!' Wordtorth,
 Co/oridgo, antd Vettiloqoitot," t25-43; and IToorsa Kolloy, Wordsort/t' I/a-
 totootary Aethettics, 72-9o. Both of thoto stodiot ooplooo tho wtayt int whith
 attionoanodidentity aofoootodby laogoago.Mytoorn it quito difforoot,
 fotutingintoadouponowlanguago,oondortoertainotirtcotttatttot,tootstto
 botooon asthaving authority overtheodeterotioingpoweoroftoial rltion.
 Pot ant toot//tot hittorical attalytit of The Boodtrer-otto that is toonsidoo-
 ably mooo thotoogh thao what / cao offer hero-oo A/att Lio, Woodoroth, T/te
 Stost of Hitory, 225-3to pattiot.
 25. Pokoto, Critiaal Ttwilig/tt,20
 o6. All qootationt froo tho teood oditioo of tho Lyritol Bolladsaret taboo
 Broot Wordtorth, root Wooks of William Woodsothb, vol. t. Pago oootbort art
 oited parentheticaly iotheoteot.

 o8. For a he/pfol, brjof ditcossioo of tho iotportatce of Tho Booderors
 int terott of Woodsw'orth's dovtlopiog tootervativeoviion, teeJaotet K.
 Chaod/to, W/ordsoroh's Sttatd Natort: A Stody aftto Potry atd Politits, 227-29.


 2 Samtool Taylor Coleridgots Otoroo

 1.Coleridge'ttoentitivity to thepoitiloature ofhitypootrytcaobeosoooio
 a toototot ho otado to Wil/iaot Litlo Bowlet tonteooiog tho Ode: "My Odo
 yoouowil/ooeadwithoakitdyforboaraote asttoit's[ic]politial/sentimetsot.-
 Tho boot of oor polititt is, I doobtonot, tho tooto. Wo both fool stoogly for
 w'homerouoriotagintations protoot toots int tho attitodo oftsuffering.-I too-
 fets, that otiot it too often a stooty pity." Samool Tayloo Coltoidgo, Collected
 Leters of Samuael Taylor Coleidge, od. Earl Lot/to Griggs, 1:3t8. All tobsoqoet
 rtfotootot to Coleridgots lottort art titod int tho toot at LC.
 2.SooJoho Co/otto, Coleidge: Critic of Society, 49-52.
 3. Fot toot//tot dittotsioos of tho tonnettioot botwoto Otorio and Colt-
 tidgots p0/itict inotho 179os, too Cool Woodriog, Politis int/t Potry of Coleidge,
 204-5; and Pao/ Magnutoo, Coleridgetatd Wordoth:b A Lyrical Dialogtte, 52-66.
 4. Sot Coloridgots loettor to Sheridao in Fobtoary 1797: "/ reteived a lte
 las~t Saturday fromt a friend of the Rood W. L. Bowles, imtporting that ouo
 wihedot'too'riteoatragedyon ootpopolartoubjoct.'/oooedootay, thatlI
 'wasgratifiodandtsootewhattlated by thepopoa;od htoer hoorstIan
 wino froot tho avocationts, by which / 0200 oty jototdioto tobtitooto, sholl ho
 tatrod to tho attoetyt" (LC, t1:304).
 5. Magootoo isparticularly good oodrawing ootthitbeotoof thedata.
 Sot Magousoo, Coltoidgo atd Wordorth, 6o-62o.
 6. Onotheritical/teodoncytodplhcato Rotaoticooalusad attitaadot, sot
,JeomeotJ. Mc~aoo, Tho Romatc Idology: A Critital Itoostigatiot.


                2tO / Notot

 24.SeeoReeveoPrke, "'OhbCould YouHearHisVoic!':Wordswoorth,
 Coloridgo, aod Vootriloqoisot," 125-43; aod Thorota Keloey, Wordsoth'st Ro-
 oisionary Aetht/ttics, 72-9o. Both of thoto todiot top/ott tho 'oays int which
 actionoandidootity aro formeodby lagag.Myo     ncorn istqoitediffrent,
 focusing insteadouponohowlaguage,oonderoetainoircuotstancs, cmst
 bototon asthavingouthority overthedtermoining powerooftsoialreation.
 Fot an tooteI/tot hittorical oanalytit of TheaBorderers-one that is cootider-
 ably moot thoroogh thao whbot I can offot hoto-tot A/ott Lio, Wordstwort/t, Toe
 Sooto of Hitor/o, 225-3t0 pattiot.
 25. Peketo, Coitital Ttwiig/tt, 2o.
 26. All qootationt Broot tho teood editioo of tho Lyrital Ba//ado art taboo
 Broot Wordsworth, root Wooks of Wi//tao Wordsworoh, vol. t. Pago oootbrs art
 cited pareothoticalyinotheteot.

 o28. Pot a holpfol, briof ditcotioo of tho iotportaoco of Toe Borderors
 int toeott of Wordtoworth't dovelopintg contoroative vision, too Jaotot K.
 Chandler, Woodoth'sb Seonod Natore: A Study of the Potry atd Politits, 227-29.


 2oSamueol TayloroColoridg'oOsorio

 tColeridg'stootsitiityto thepoitia/oatreof hispotrycanobeseenin
 a tommotot ho otodo to Williaot Litlo Boolet concoroiog tho Odo: "My Odo
 yooowi/llradoithahidy forbearaoce asttoit's[i]yoliticatootimetsot.-
 Tho boot of oor politiot is, 1 doubt not, the taot. Wo both fool stroogly for
 ohoottootoor iotaginationt pretent to ot io tho attitodo oftoufforing.-I too-
 fett, that otiot it too often a stooty pity." Saotuol Taylor Coleridgo, Co/loetod
 Lottr of Samoel Taylor Coltoidgo, od. Earl Lot/it Griggt, t:t/8. ASl sobsoqoet
 roforottootto Coleridge's lottoot art cited io tho toot at LC.
 2Seoon Co/otto, Coleidgo. Critit of Society, 49-52.
 3. P0r00000Soot ditcussioos of tho onnectiont betweeo Otoojo and Colt-
 tidgo's po/i tict jot ho t79ot, too Carl Woodrjog, Politits int/t Potry of Coleidgo,
 204-5; antdPaul Magnuso, ColeridgetantdWordoth:/tA LyricalDialoguo,52-66t.
 4. Sot Coloridge't ltt to Shoridan int Pobroary 1797: "1 rocoivod o lottor
 last Satorday froot a frieod of the Rood W. L. Bowlot, imtporting that S'ou
 wtithod oto'to writo atragedyon otootpopolorsoubjoct.'/oooedoot toy, that 1
 woatgratified andotewhatlatd bytheopropoal; adhatever boors/t ao
 wino froot tho avoocationt, by wioh I taro oty jototdiatotoubtistooto, shall ho
 satrod to rho atteoyt" (LC, 1:304).
 S. Magnosoo is particularly good ondrawing oot tis themeoof thedraot.
 Sot Magnosoo, Cotoidgo atd Wordsorth, 6to-6o.
 6. Onothooritical/tndoocytodpicateoRootanticoaluostandattitds, see
JeromeoJ. McGanno, T/tt Romtattic Idoology: A Coititol Invetigationt.



.oe* /27Noe                                                                  21Ntw                                     / 17


7. Roert Weimann, Strctuere ted Society it Literary History: Studies in the
Histad Theyf Hitcl Citiism,h.
8. This quotetien it taen freet the ttage note at the begintting of the play.
This and all quotetient froem Osorio are teken frome Samucel Tayloe Coleridge,
The Complete Petical Works qfSamuel Taylor Coeidge, ed. Eret Hatley Cole-
ridge, vci. a. Act, sente, and line numersare peeted parenthetically i
the et
9. Coleridge's motimdiae source fee Osorio it Robert Wetson, The
History of the Reignc of Philip the Second, Kicng of Spain, 1341-66. While it it not
mcy ietention to offer asucstdyof Osoio, I should enetion that inc this
wach catty of the naes Coleridge usces inc his dreama eppear inc Watton'a his-
tory, icluhding Velez, theegh Coleridge hat eltered their cales for the cake oaf
dramaticeneedand action.
The vielence enected egeinst the Moors, eed about which Celeridgere
  maiilent, it described vividly by Watsoas follows:

  Philip had disepproved of the lenity cith ehich the Moesces had
  beeceteated by the mcacquis ofMeondejar, acnd, while he listetned ocnly
  tte viceoftspersition o eentt, fogotchateey  ie
  King will regard a the most acrced maexim of his policy, that the
  strength and glory of a price depenad on the numerand prosperity of
  hit subjeects.
  Bet chit bigoted moarch steo hounds to his abhorenace of those
  who deviated, cr home he suspected of deiating, froma the Catholic
  faith. Agreeaeblytohisinstrctionst, greatttnumbersof the Meces,
  liintg peaeeabiy inc the plaice of Graencada, eree, eponcsuspiciona ef
  theicrpodinag twith the insurgents, pet te death. All the ichebi-
  tateftsome cillaget ettd districts, mcena, coenec, anad ehiidrenere
  excirpaced. All the pisoners ofho hexe  etherexced  or
  deprived ef their liberty. And of these Moeces who bad tefueted
  toejin int the rebellijee, all bet afew, withouct whomt certeinctnu
  facuecuceldeeotbeearriedcn,cweetorn feomctheirttative homtes,
  ettdttatntpotted intatheinteeiet proeices;cwheetteyceeepoed
  ccthe injutieteand insttco ahaughcy pepe, ettdtttetyeoftbemt
  byctheircpcvertyredueede t ttee of depentdenceon the Catilianst,
  cehich differed little fromc the conditiont ef tuch ef tbeir ecuctrymtenc et
  bed been told fee slaese. (c:36e-hi)

  cc. Byroc's Gulnate (tee Tbe Corseir, t8c4) ditpleyt anty cf the tamce ehar-
aetecittiet et Alhedea-courege, wilitget tc t, held cnvietien-and, et
with Alhedea, it ene ef the mostt intcerectinag femeale figuret ice Retmantie lit-
erataee. Petea diteeuttieot of the tociel signaifieacee of Gcitaetehaecacteee


7. tRcbert Weimcaenn, Streute end Seciecy it Literary History: Stadies it the
Histary and Theoey af Hiteieei Criticiem, 6.
8. Thit qeoaaion it taeet freet the stege nete at the beginntintg ef the pley.
Thit and all quececieons fromc Osaria ace cehetn froea muheeel Teylort Coleridge,
The Cemplete Poeticel Woerks ofSeamuei Teylee Celeridge, ed. Eret Hartley Cele-
ridge, eel. e. Act, sene, aned bene nerse ace preeteed paretchetcally int
the et
9. Celeridgets moeec ittmaediate teoucce fee Osoio it Roeret Watsone, The
Hiscery of the Reige of Philip the Secend, King of Spei, 1:341-66. While it it eat
mty intetiontoeeffer eteeuce studyofOsoric, Itshaldeeentiothatcinchi
werk mtany ef the naese Celeridge ues int hit dreama appeer inc Wtteets bit-
cocy, includineg Velee, theugh Celeridge hat altered theie relet fee the tahe ef
dramcaicneeedeandeactio.
The violece ettacted againsat the Macca, and ahout chich Caleridge re-
meains slent, it desccibed cividly by Wattett at follows:

Philip had disapproved of the lenicy cith chich the Moeces had
beencceated by the emacqeis efMondeja, aed, while be littened only
to thevceefaepestiieaeoereetet, forgot chat every cite
King will regaed at the eot sacred ecacim of hit policy, that the
streenthatdgloryeofaprince dependatt theenumberad prosperityof
hit tebjects.
   Bet this bigoted eoatchbact no hounds to hit abhorence ef thcte
   cho deviated, or whomt he tetpected ef deviatieg, fromt the Catholhc
   faith. Ageeably to hit iestructieet, greac neres of the Moretcoet,
   liig peaceably int the plinie of Graeada, cee, upoe tatpicien of
   theircoesepondieg cith the ietcrgentt, pet to death. All the inhabi-
   an fseme villaget aed ditricts, en, coen, and childene, e
   extirpaced. AUl the peisaners of both tecec were eicher execuced or
   deprived of their libeety. Attd of chece Mocetscoet cho had refeced
   to joie int the rebellice, all bet a few, wichouc cheem ceetainmau
   facuecoualdeaotbe carriedaen,cweetarn fremttheireeative httes,
   and trantpartedintoatheieriorepravincet;cwheretheycweeepoted
   toatheinjariesandinsultscaf ahaeghty people, andemattyofthemt
   by their poerey ceduced to aettace of dependeece cc the Catiliant,
   chieh differed little fraom the cenditice of tech of their countrymene at
   had heen teld fee slavec. (1:364-65)

   cc. Byronec Guleare (tee The Ceeseir, 18c4) diaplayt matty ef the tamt chat-
acteristics at Alhadea-coueage, cilliegessc to act, bald convicioe-and, at
cich Alhadra, it oe of the emest ineetieg femtale figues int Roantic lit-
eracere. Pee a ditsctsioe of the scal signifiance effreleacets ehacaccer tee


7. Robeet Weimanne, Scecctuee and Society ie Litercary Histerj: Stadies it the
H-istorp ced Theory oflistoeical Ceiicisme, 6.
8. Thic quotatioe istcakee fromc the stege note at the hegiennieg of the play.
Thit aed all quoaaions free Oeacia ace takee from Saemuel Tayloc Colecidge,
The Comaplete Pecicel Woebs of Seael Taylor Ceidge, ed. Erett Hactley Cole-
ridge,vol.2. Act,tcene, and lienumbersae precentedparenthetcaliy in
the ext.
9. Colecidgees most eimmediate souce fee Osocio it Robeet Wattoe, The
History of the Reige ef Philip the Second, Kieg of Spain, 1:34-66. While it it not
mey itteioe to offer acsouece scudy of Osoio, I thould centciec chat intt his
corh etany of the eamces Coleridge utet it hit dramae appeac int Watont hit-
tory, inceluding Velez, chough Coleridge bet alcered theic eolet fee the eahe of
dramcatitteed and actiont.
The violence ettacced againt the Moece, attd ahout chich Coleridge cc-
   misslnit desceibed vividly by Wattoe at follocs:

 Philip bad ditapproved of the lecity cith chieh the Moceeces had
 bececcteaced by the marcquis ofModeja, aed, chile he lietented only
 toethecvicefspersition oresaenttmtet,forgotcwhateverycwie
 King will regard at the mot sacred maciem of hit polhcy, that the
 streeegthend gloryofa pieedepentdeenchetnuberad propeityaf
 hit tubjeects.
   Bee chit bigoted mcoeac et noe boundsto hlis abboeceece ofcthose
   cho deviaced, cr choec he tuspeected of deiating, froem the Catholie
   faith. Agreeablyctohiscintctioes, greattnumbersof the Morce,
   living peaceably int the plaitts ofGranada, cere, upon tutpieien cf
   theirecarrespceding cich the inscegencs, pet cc death. All the inhabi-
   anfaseme villages and discricts, mten, coeen, attd childene, e
   excirpaced. Allctheprisotterstofbthaexeseeeiheeecedaer
   depeived of their libeccy. And of thote Moceecoet cho bad refuced
   tojoin int the rebellion, all bee a few, cithouc chomecertainmnu
   factuceeacouldeaotbe caeriedaen,cweetarn from theireeative homes,
   aedctraespotedintocheinterioreprovieces;cwhereecheycweeepoed
   tcthe injurietand instcstafahaghy peple, aned emanyofcthem
   by their poveccy eeduced te a sate of depeedence on the Catiliansa,
   chieb differed little fecom the cndicicn cf tech of theie ceectrytten at
   bad beet acid fce alaves. (1:364-65)

   cc. Bycon's Geinaec (sec The Corsair, 18te) ditpiayt mcany of the esece chae-
   atrsisat Alhadra-courage, cillingeto ace, held convicticce-aced, at
cich Alhadra, it ace ef the mosat inteeeting feecale figuee  int Romcantic lit-
eracue. Pacea discessicn of the tocial significace of Gelnace' teharcee tee



                218 / Noee

Daiel P. Watkins, Sociatl Reltions it Byron's Estern Tales, 83-85; ted Susan
Wtlfsett, "Ceeplets, Self, ted The Corsair," 491-513.
  11. Nete, fee inttnce, hee remteek it Act Ill, ts he feelt hertelf drcewn te
the ditguited Alhert:

     Thistdead confuedepain![Apae-     she gzesttAlet.]
          Mysteritet mane!
     Methintkt, I cannoet fete thee-fee thine eye
     Doth sweim with pity-I 'eill lean en thee. (11. 145-47)

Her egd foAle    i hee accompaiedhy illieg depedeceupen himt.
  12. Fetr a ery different view ef Alhadea't fital tpeech, tee John Beee, Cole-
ridge's Poetic Ittelligetce. Beer views the drattt't ettdittg ast cell fee bloedthed
antdtherefoeastcyical:

  Aftee the itng elath ef Meeeith ted Cathelic forcet in the pity,
  the [Alhadeea] ... deliveet the fettl tpeech, tettetncittg thtt if the
  had htbatd of tsuitahle men the woeeld desttey all the streongheldt ef
  the cettel,
        Till detelationt seemt'd t heautifel thing,
        And alI that were ettd had the tpicit ef life
        Santgaewestng tohimttwhoehad goefoth
        Ctotquerintgeandtilltecoqe!

  Sutch eat entdittg etplicitly affiettt the "tpirit ef life" tely te ttteet
  thtt hefoe the spieit ecan attett itselIf peoperly int tech apltce, hloed-
  shedmtteedeed. The lgicfdram, w'ith ittneed fetttterotg
  endittg, haseforcedeafinl dctntttttteetht ittadotited een
  borderstonthe cynical. (tte-tt)


,3Jeeeee Baillie's DeMonfort

  t. Stutet Cueren, "The I Alteeed," 185-86.
  2. Fer an extample of the typical critical tttitttde te'e'ed Bailliets 'etch,
tee Omt Prakash Mathur's retatrk that "She tentdt te forget the mtant it hee
pettion, tatdtsoeeet withinthe limtedrangeeofpasionsttheattptedcto
poetcey, thetcteincheeectestteettttoebeiinttthcate-hitoeieeeporedin
mtedicel belletittt eathee thae humte e ingt wteih w'homte c m  ncotc
eerey dty." The Cheset Dreama efthe Remaetic Revivel, 315; er W. L. Rentwick't
ditstittive cemmete eheec Beillie thtt "Ne teel deemtit woetld deliherately
tit dowec to 'wcite e whole teeiet of Plays et the Peseions." English Litecetteet 1789-
1815, 232. Petea emect favocehle asettetnt, see Beeteacd Eant, Gothic Dramat
frem Wlpole te Shelley, eee-215.


                213 / Noes

Deniel P. Wechint, Sociel Relatiots int Byronts Eaetere Tales, 83-85; ted Setee
Welftee, "Ceeplects, Self, aed The Corsaer," 491-513-
  It. Nete, fee ietace, her remetek it Act Ill, et the feelt herselfdrawnt to
the ditgeited Alhert:

     Thisdead cofed pi![A pause-he gaesetAlbet.
          Mysterieut teae!
     Methieht, I caeeet feet thee-fee thiee eye
     Deth twitm wtih pity-I till lean en thee. (Ill. 145-47)

H er regard fee Albect it hete accetpaned hy w'illing depentdentce epeon hitm.
  te. Petea very different titew efAlhedeet heeal speech, tee Jehn Beet, Cole-
ridge's Poetic Itelligce. Beet viewst the drate't eedieg aslacall for hleedthed
and therefere tt cyeical:

  After the leeg clath ef Meetith ted Cathelic fercet ie the plty,
  the [Alhadre] ... deliet the heeal tpeech, aenoeecieg thet if the
  had e heed ef tuitable en the weld destrty ell the treegholdt ef
  the cruel,

        Till desteeien tseem'd a heettiful thing,
        And al that ere ted hed the tpirit ef life
        Seng a tee' seng to him w'hohad gone feth
        Cenqeringeendtstill tcoqe!

  Sech tn tendieg texplicitly effirtms the "tpirit ef life" enly ce etterc
  thet hefere the tpirit c attert itseIf properly it sech apiece, hlood-
  thed mtust he endeced. The legic ofdratma, weith its teed feet atroneg
  eedieg, hetenforcedeafinal domtinte  tetht isttardonicendeene
  horderstonchecynical. (tte-t)


3,Jtttttt Beillite DeMonfort

  1Steert Curree, "The I Alteced," 185-8t.
  e. Pee te teeaeple of the typical criticel attitede towarcd Baiehs wech,
tee Omt Prakath Mathur't remark that "She tendsto forget the mate it her
pattio,eendtsoeven wtihie thehlimied rangeof passions shetttemepted to
pertrey, the matie chertersc tetet to he it lice w'ith cete-hiteriet cepeeted it
meedicel hulletiet cechee thee huette heingt with wheme'    com   ncotc
tevery dey." The Closet Octet of the Rementic Revival, 3t5; ec W. L. Reenwick't
ditsmittive comenect abot Bedllie thac "Ne retl dramatcitt woueld deliheretely
st dowc teewcite a whole seriet of lays et the Passions." Etglish Liteceteret 789-
1815, 232. Pee a me favorehlettsesente, tee Berttand Evant, Gothic fDrata
fret Welpoe to Shelley, eee-215.


                ztt / Netes

Datiel P. Wtkint, Sociel Reletions in Byronts Eateec Telee, 83-83; ted Setee
Wolftec, "Ceeplets, Self, ted The Corsair," 49t-513.
  1i. Nece, for iettance, her reeterh it Act B11, at the feels hertelf drawn te
the disgeited Alhert:

     Thus deed ceefuted peit! [A peese-she gaestet Alhert. ]
          Myttetiout meee!
     Methinks, I ceneet fetc thee-fec thie eye
     Doth swimt with pity-I will lean en thee. (I1. 145-47)

Hee cegerd fee Alhert it hece aeccmpetied hy e'illieg dependence upon himc.
  c2. Petea very different dite' of Alhtdct't final speech, tee Jehe Beet, Cole-
ridge's Peetie Intelligece. Beet tiewst the drama's tendieg astc cell fee hloodthed
aedctherefoeastcyical:

  After the leng clath ef Meerith ted Cechelic fercet it the plty,
  the [Alhtdra] . .. deliert the fieel tpeech, ennouecieg thet if the
  hed e heed of suitable mene the weld detroey all the trengholdt ef
  the ceuel,

        Till desoleat teemt'd a heautifel thing,
        And ell that ere ted htd the tpirit of life
        Seng a tew' tong to himt whe had gone forth
        Conqeringandtstill tocoqe!

  Sech ee tendieg texphicitly tfirmste the "tpiit of life" enlytoasr
  thec hefere the tpirit ec aseet itself properly it tech a plece, Slted-
  thed musect hetendured. The logic of dram, with its teed fetea trong
  eedieg, hasteeforcedtafinal dominaetete that istardonictnd een
  borderstonche cyicl. (Itt-1t)


3Jtettte Bailliets DeMonfort

  t. Sctat Cerrte, "The I Altered," 185-8t.
  e. Pee te exeample of the typicel ceiticel ettitede tewtrd Baiedhs wech,
tee Omt Prakash Mathur't temarkh that "Shetends to forget the mane it her
patsioe, and so even within the limited range of passions the atem'pted to
peecrey, the maein characters tetem toehe it lintewith cate-hitoies reported it
tmedical helletint rether thee hutmen beings with wheme' e'   eincntc
eery dey." The Clet Dreet efcthe Romaentic Revivel, 315; oe W_ L. Reenwich't
dism'issiecomethbot Billetht "N e  ldramaetistwolddeliertely
tit dewnect write e whle teciet of lays on the Peteiott." Engish Litertuee 1789-
1815, 232. Peta moere fedoraeasetetet, tee Berltad Event, Gothic Dretma
fret Welpole to Shelhey, eee-215.





  3. Currant, "ThelI Altered," 203.
  4. It istreof course, thtatthe leelcfpotRzenelt isloctedecely
wcithine the etatkt efthe aristocracy: he it toteqetit whe, taceerding toeJtate
DeMeonfort's ceomenet tecwted the entd of the pity, will likely be betied "wcith
hit noble tecestors" (Vie). Bet hit seciai petitien, wchich givet his charac-
tee credibility wcithie the plet actieon, tmut he dittingeithed feeom the ethic,
ercsteectuce of values, tht defies ehit eliatieeteoher chate rsec  antdtoehit
twerld that ethic isuniqeiyheourgecit intcftr ttiitei hpedtdeergized
by teif-iteeet, conereitsm, aed ceempetitien.
  5. All quetttieet aee freom Jeteea Btiiiie, DeMotnfor, int British Thete:
Eigbteeth-Centtry tEnglisb Detect, ed. Ntatteht Wurzbtch, eel. te. Act ted
  s ee ubers tee cited poreethetically ie the text.
  6. It it woeth reettrkieg thee the peetrayai ef geedee reltticee in ehittsee
reelectttc common ececerne amctgtome femeinitsinethee179otewieteaemtcu-
liee tendency to treat wenee merely as oretst ted objects, lacking the
ability ee thick or aceto aen do. Mary Wellsteonecrtft't A Vindicttien ef the
Rights ef Woeee specifically ditcettet the eans by wchich tecitlly poerelest
womteeetteeeptoattchethemttelvestoecuiepe. See Mary Well-
teeeceaft, The Works of Mary Wollestocrafi, ed. Jaeet Tedd ted Mtrilye Betler,
eel. 5
  7. Ie theseeepectt, the relattioethip betwceeJaee ted DeMeefeec eet oely
  realo eof the dettils oef Celeridgets Doo, bet tite leehs feecarted
the temti-incestuoue celtionships depicted in Byroeet peey, fee extemple the
Seliim-Zuelika tifftie in The Bride ofAbydos, oe the Huge-Parisina tiftaic in Pael-
siea. Pee a ditcuttiee ef the tecitl diension of incest tie thete teethe, tee
Daniel P. Wttkins, Social Relattions it Byron's Ettere Tales, Sc-5o, t34-35.
  8. Other cwriceet ef the Rematic peciod maode mete explicitcettemcents
abcut the effect of ltrge-tcale tecietal structces oc individetl life. Nete, fee
instance, Wordscweeth's lettee te the bithep of Llandaff defeedieg the French
Revelctien; Mtry Wolistoeceft, Vindicttion of the Righto of Mien, in Works of
Mta-y Woletoceafi, vol. 5; ted Willitem Gedecin, At Inqeiry Conceing Politia
Justice ted bes Ieflueece on Mortle ted Hatppineso, ed. P. E. L. Priettley.
  9.1 teem, efceourse, bere using the vecabultryefcoemeporaey feminiest.
See, tamong other woethe, Simonee de Betueoiets The Secoed See, etpecitliy
xix-oxv, 16o-63.
  to. Eans, Gothic Draceofrom Walpole to Shelley, too.


4 Chtes Ltamb'sJohneWoodvil

  DeeO Prtkath Mtthur, The Closte Detect ofethe Romatic Revietl, 328.
Mathurcgoetontoemartekht"theeeeysoulcfethe dramatis ... diseased"
(3t8). See tlto A. H. Thoredike, Tragedy (London, 19o8), echo ealit the detamt


3. Cuerae, "The I Aiteced," 003.
4.It itree, ofecouete, thatttheievelofplt Rezenelt itlcted tecurely
ecithie the raeks of the aristocracy: he isa motrquit echo, according to Jtne
DeMonfort comeente cowaerd the tend of the pity, wciii lihely be bcried "ecith
hit eobletacetors" (Vie). Bet hit eocial potitioe, echich gives hit cherac-
tee credibility ecithin the ylot action, cut he dietiegeiched feet the ethic,
   orsrcueofvlesc, thtdefiesethierelationetotheeharctert and tohis
worlid;ctht ethic is uniquelyhbourgeoistinsofar ttit isthpededeegied
by telf-ineest, costerisem, ted comepecicioe.
  5. All quotations tee from Jctanct Baillie, DeMoefoct, in Brttish Thete:
Eighteeeeh-Ceetury Englioh Detect, ed. Natascha Wurzbach, vol. to. Act ted
tcene nuembers tee cited ptenethetically in the text.
  6. It it ecoeth remaotking thtt the potrtyal of gender reittioee in thit cn
reflectacomoc  cerneetongecsomefemoiitstinthe1790sewithtacmtc-
hieteedencyecotet weneeleytaconet    anedcobjcts, lackingcthe
ability tc thick cr act te toen do. Mary Wolietonetcraft's A Vindictioe of the
Rights of Womenespecificaliy ditscuses the meetnt by echich tocitlly poerlett
weattcemeptceto tchthemsteivestoeotecuehpoe. See Mary Well-
econeccaft, The Worko of Mary Wollstoeretft, ed. Janet Todd ted Marilyn Bute,
cci. 5.
  7. In these epects, theerelttionthiphbeteeeeJaneeandDeMcnfoctnotcoly
  eecllssoe of the detaidt of Coleridge's Oeoio, bet cite lookt forected to
the semei-incecesus reltiinehips depicted in Bytoe's pcetry, foexttple the
Seliec-Zuelika tiftaie in The Bride ofAbydos, or the Hugo-Pacieint tiftair in Pand-
sina. Poeta diectetioe of the tocial dimenesioe of incest in thete worekt, tee
Daniel P. Wathinc, Social Relatioet it Byron's Easterc Talee, 5c-5o,1t34-35.
  8. Other eceitecs of the Reotantic period maede torec explicittteets
abouctthe effectcftage-caeociectal stctenindiidutl life. Note, foe
intaece, Wordsworeth's letter to the bithop of Litedtff defending the Prenech
Revoieticn; Macy Woiletcnecraft, Viedication of the Rights of Met, in Wotks of
Mary Wolltoecraet, col. 5; ted Willitam Godecie, At Inquiry Conterieg Political
,Justice ted It Iefluecce on Morae ted Happiess, ed. P. P. L. Pritestley.
  9Itto, oftcourte, hecetusingthecabuhlayfoe  moracty femeiism.
tee, tatoeg othee wocckt, tiemone de Beauoir't The Scond Sto, tepecitlly
etc-eec, 16o-63.
  to. Evtns, Gothic Deteaofroec Walpole to Shelley, too.


4 ChaeseLamb'soJohncWoodil

  c. Oto Praktsh Mthur, The Clooset Detect of the Roecantic Retival, 328.
Mathcr get on to remtotk tht"the very soui of the dettot it ... dittosed"
(328). See also A. H. Thocedike, Tragedy (London, 19o8), echo ealit the detect


3. Curran, "The I Alerced," 003.
4. Itie teue, ofecoucee, thttttheilevelof ploteencelt ilocted tecuely
wcithie the raeke of the teitocrtcy: he it amtrquit echo, accordieg to Jae
DeMonfort't comentt toectrd the tend of the pity, will likely he beried "ecith
hit cobit tneetors" (Vie). But hit tocial postion, whick gicee hit chtrac-
ter teedibility ecithin the plot action, muset be dittiegished frcem the ethic,
cc trctuce of vticet, thtt defies hit celttion to other charctes ted to hit
wcoeld; thetethictis uniquely bocrgeois insofte as it it shaped ted energized
byeself-ineeset, constereit,tendcceepetitio.
  5. All quottiont tee froem Joanna Baillie, DeMonfoc, in ritioh Thete:
Eighteeth-Centuy Englioh Detect, ed. Ntattha Wurzbach, ccl. to. Ace ted
tscenecnumbersecited ptrenthetictllyinethe teot.
6. It it ecoeth cetotekieg thtt the pcortyal of gender relatioet intchit scene
eeflectscommn coneccerne tmongeomefemcinits iithee1790sewithtatmac-
hieendency tctret we   neeleyctsornaents antdcbjects, lackingethe
ability to thick oe act as toen dc. Marcy Wollstonecraft's A Viedicton of the
Rights of Woen specifically discusees the eane by echich socially poerlett
  woenatemopt to ateach themeles to mcuelie poer. See Mary Wcll-
etonecratf, The Worko of Mtry Wollseoneceat, ed. Janet Todd ted Mtrilyn Butlec,
cci. S.
  7. Inetheeespects, theelionsehipybetweeneJaneeandDeMonfortnotcenly
  real oeof the decodes of Coleridge's Doo, hoc altc locks focected to
the semci-incestuout relttioeships depicted in Bycon's poetry, foe exteeple the
Seim-Zuelika tiftaie in The ride ofAbydo, cc the Hugo-Paritint tiftie in toed-
siea. Feeta diecussion of the eocial dienscion of incest in theteeworkt, see
Daniel P. Watkint, Sotial Relatioto it Byrot' Eater Tales, 5t-52, 134-35.
  8. Other ecritert of the Romanotic pericd maede tee texplicitaeentsec
tboet the effect of large-ecale societal truccturet cc iedividualilhfe. Ncte, fee
intanece, Woedeeccethes letter to the biehop of Llandtff defending the Peech
Recolutioe; Maty Wollstonect, Vindicaiion of the Rights of Met, in Works of
Mary Wollsonteceat, col. 5; ted Williame Dodecie, An Inequiry Coecercieg Polietcl
Justice ted to eflecce ot Morals ted Happiess, ed. P. E. L. Pritestley.
  9.1 tee, oftcocte, bee using the vcbultyf coeporty feiism.
See, amoegctherewoek, Simoneede Beucir's The Seond Sex, especially
xix-ox, 16o-63.
  cc. Ecaes, Gothic Detecofroec Walpole to Shelley, too.


4 Chtles Loec's John Woodvil

  e. Dec Prakteh Mthu, The Closte Detect of the Romtntic Retival, 3t8.
Mtthuregesoet e     marck that "theceryeeoulcfhe dramaotis ... diteteed"
(328). tee tleo A. H. Thcrndike, Tragedy (London, 19o8), echo ctlls the detect






silly (343); and W. L. Renwoick, Eng/ish Literature 1789-1815, woho seesit as a
unqiocal failreo (233).
  2.Otte singular exception it Jotoph Nicholes't importat tessay, "Politior
by Indirection:; Charlet Lamlb's Seetet-etr Rooogade, John Wood-
vil," 49-55. Aong gthe reent godkworo    Lambhoertepastteny
yeaor ose especlially Winifrod F. Couotney, Yootng Charles Lamb, 1775-1802;
Gerald Monsmant, Cofssio  ofProacDer:ChalLamb'At ofAuo-
kiography; George L. Barett, Charles Lamb; Wayneo McKennao, Ckarles Lamtbt
and the Theater; and John1 1. Adet, "Charles Lam1b, Shakotpeare, an1d Early
Ninteenoth-Century Theatro," 514-26.
  3. Thto gnrl pointo 1am1 making heto itrlatod, inl ways7 thar wjill become
clear thortly, to Roymond Williams1's laoger argument11 aout rho declinting aod
eegentrelemenltslofocuture. See Raymond Williamst, Marxismad Literatureo,
120-27.
  4. Loaob, of couroto, is atmajor corioi of Shokespetart and Renaoissantoo
droamo, and heandhistite,Mary,boughr out sevraolimportantoeditionstof
Reoaittanco dorma, as110 wllorerting maony of Shaketpeare't playt to makeh
themo aooertible to ohildreo. Seo, foo instance, thoir ohildroo's volumeo Ta/es
from Shakeseare, orCharles Lambh's essay "On tho Tragediot of Shahospeare,"
in The Compote Works and1 Leters of Charl/s Lootb.
  5. Mathor, The Closet Dramat of the Romatio Revival, 323. Fot an outstnd-
ing discsoofhhiorialeltiothobeweRenissancead Romanotric
dramao, seeGreg Kuich, "'   ane     un: oatcDaa Roenaittanco
Traditiott, aod the Critioal Etablithmenot."
  6. W. L. Roenwiok, Etglioh Literature 1789-1815, 233. Thit particularreato
it explooed iotolligontly io Nioholot't "Politiot by Indirootioo."
  7.looamthikig hereofLei'CastlSpetre, whih treatssuch pressinlg
political issues as1racis0 and slavery w'ithinoa000010x1 oft amelodrama~tic antd
aorion-doieo p/l, ood Sholoey's Proomethouo Uttbottd, o'hioh idoolizos ood dis-
plaooto m10ythic structures actua1 hittotioal trogglo aod poliricol confliot.
  8. All quotatioos froomJohn Wooed/e Ita ken forom rho Modooo Liboary odi-
tioo of Chaolot Lamob, Tho Comtplote Works and! Letters of Chat/et Lattb, 426-57.
Aot aod 100n0 nuoobeoo are cited paorttioally io the toot.
  9. Thit ioadmitoedlyoorthorooonfotiogoeoo thatotay boooadotsoaprolodo
to a plon to oovool Sio Wal/rot w'hooeaoots. Cootaioly rhit it tho waoy old
Soodfordooeadtthoirooteotoortohooohoothirooooeoottio. Eveooto,
the oveoall intent of the soeno appearsto m0e0 to/hoolet rho servants' admrat-
tioo foo Sit Wolteo; Soodfood't acoootrioor, whiob imooediotoly follow thoio
speculations 00 Sio Wa/rer hidiog plaoo, oeflect the old ttewarod't intense foor
that hit lat hopo of social stobility, anod hence personal integrity, it being
thoeoteood.
  to. Ono oeoample oftho toot ofohaoaotor that hot 00me010 definteJohn Wood-


tilly (343); aod W. L. Reoowioh, Ettglisk Litertureo' 1789-1815, woho toot it as an
uneoquiocal failure (233).
  2.Ooo tiogolar oooeptionr it Jotoph Nioholet't itmporrtntosy, "Politiot
by lIrdireotion: Chaolot Larob't Sevontoonth-Centroy Ronegado, John Wood-
vil," 49-55. Amroogtheoeeor goodoronorLamoveorotho pattweoty
70011 01 s0, too etpeoially Winrifred F. Coourtnoy, Y'oung C/rleo Lamtb, 1775-1802;
Gerald Monsmanr, CotfessiosofoaPosaioDreamort CharleoLmb' ArofdAto-
biogrophy; Googe L. Baonott, Charl/s Lottt; Wayne MoKenna, Ckoo/es Lambk
and the Theatet; and Joho I. Adot, "Charlet Loaob, Shahotpeaoo, ood Early
Ninotoenth-Contory Theateo," 514-26.
  3. Theogooeralpoiont  a ohainlgherooisoelated, inwaytht ilbecome
oloao shortly, to Raymonod Wilam's laogeo 0030um001 ohout rho doclining ood
emerogent elomts of oultuoe. hoe Raymon0d Williormt, Matrxiso and Litertore,
120-27.
  4. Lamb, ofourto, is aomajoo ooitio of Shahetspearean and Renaistsance
draora, andheoand hit sitr, Maoy, broooghtoottseoeoalitopoortanredirionstof
Ronaittanoedramta, as 1109 01 rewiting tmary of Shakespoaoe's plays to maoho
thorm aooettibleo 10childoeo. hoe, foo instance, theio children's 0010010 Tal/es
frott S/thkepeate, 00 Chaolet Larob's 01107 "GOn tho Toogodiot of hakhospearo,"
in The Coopowe Wotko atd Lotteto of Chaes Look.
  5. Mathuo, The C/oset 01200 oftke R/omattio Revioa/, 329. Foo an outstand-
ing discussioo of tho hittooioal oolationt berween Reoaissanoe and Romantric
dorma,tse Grg Kooioh, "'AHaoted Rin':Romanoti Dram,Rnisance
Toadition, ood rho Coriica Etab/ishmenot."
  6. W. L. Reowiok, Etgish Literature 1789-1815, 233. Thit patioularoe/aoion
  isoep/oood inte//igent/y in Nioholet't "Politiot by Iodiooorion."
  7. 10am thiohiog here of Lewis's Cast/e Specre, whioh treolts sooh pootting
politica/ issues as 0r0cism ood tlavooy wirhirr 00001001t of0 aoolodramatio ood
actton-doioen p/ot, ood Sholeyts Prooethous Utnbootnd, owhioh idea/iest ood dit-
p/aoet onto m1ythic 100010101s actual histrioal strugg/e and po/itica/ onflior.
  8. A/l quotationt fromJohn Woodei/ 00re ofom rho Modern Lirarty odi-
tooof CharlestLamb, TheoComtp/eteWokoand Lttrs of Charles Lamb, 426-57.
Actoandtooene numberstareoited pareorheticallyinotherot.
  9. Thislisadmittedlyoaeraherooofuintgooeno thatomayhbereadotsoaplud
to o p/lan to reveal Sit Wo/trot whoooaboott. Coraint/y thit it the wayo old
Sandfodredtrheitromentoashe overhearsthir onverstion. Eveno,
tho ooooall iontnt of rho soono 0pp0001 to me 1 to/hoolet thotoorvantt' admra-
rion foo Sio Waltr; Saodfood't aoousationt, whioh immoetdiately follow their
spooulations on Sir Wolteots hidinrg p/aoe, tofloor rho old sterood't itente foor
rhot hit last hopo of social tability, ood henroo pettonal integrity, is being
rhooatonod.
  t0. Onootexampleofthe otofohrterhtht 01co0 to defineJohnoWood-


rilly (343); arrd W. L. Roenwioh, Etglioh Literturo 1789-1815, who sees i10 00 a
uneqivocal fodoooe (233).
  2. Ono singulaooexooption it Jotoph Nioholot't imtpoortant essa, "Politics
by Indireotion: Chotlot Lamob't Sooooteenth-Contuoy Renegade, John Wood-
oil,' 49s-55. Amonogtheooooeot good woorkonLambooortheopastwenty
years1or1s, teotepociallyWioifred F.Cotney, Young CharesoLambk,1775-102;
Gera/d Monsmano, ConfessiosofaoProsaioDtreamr:Char/esoLamb'sArof Ao-
biograpky; Gorge L. Boooott, Chareo Lamtt; Woyoo MoKenna, Charles broth
old the Tkoater; ood John I. Adot, "Choolot Look, Shahotpeaoo, ood Eaody
Nineteonth-CetryTheteo," 514-26.
  3. The geneoal/pointlIoam0mhing hereistrelated, inwaysthatillkbecome
0/000 thortly, to Raytontd Williams's laogortaogotmtot aout rho deolining ood
emergent10/lements of coltre. See Raymond Williamt, Marismt atrd Litertute,
120-27.
  4. Look, ofooote, it a mjoo ocrioi of Shahespoarean ood Rotnaistanoo
drama,and hoond hittitero, Mary,hbouoght ooutoooverlimportoditionstof
Renaoissancedramao, as11106 as rewriting many of Shahetpoaoe't plays to makeo
them1 aooottiblo to ohildoon. Soo, fot intanoo, theio ohildoon't vooluore Tales
from Shakespeate, ot Choolot Lamob't 01107 "On theToagedies of Shahotpearo,"
in The Coople Worko ood Letters of Charleo Lamtt.
  5. Mathoo, The Coset Dtrttt of tho Romatio Reoioa/, 329. Foo an oortstand-
ing ditoottion of tho hittooioal relations botw'een Renaittanoo ood Romanotio
drama,tseeGreg Kuich,"'AHantd Ri':RomanttricDramao,Renissance
Toadition, ood tho Coitioal Ftablishtoettt"
  6. W. L. Roen'ioh, Etgish Literre 1789-115, 233. This paortiotulao oelation
it explored iotolligeotly io Nichole's "Politc by lndireorion."
  7. Ioamrhiohing hereof Lewis' Caste Spetoe, o'hioh ttoreatsuhpressing
political issuestasoraismandslaeryihino acottofoa mlodramaoticad
aotion-driven plot, ood Shelleyts Pr'otheus Unbound, tohioh idealizet ood dit-
p/laces0010 m1ythicotructres aotoal hitrioal s100gg/0 ood polirical oo/hior.
  8. All quotations fromohno Woodoil artakeno frot the Modeto Libroty edi-
tion of Charlet Lomb, The Comple Wotbo oand Lettrs of Ckarles Look, 426-37.
Actoand sconenumbers aoeocited paorenhorioally ithettr.
  9o. This it admoittedlyooorthereonfoting 10000 thor oaybeooeadoaoaprolurdo
to 0 plano to ooeooal Sir Wolteots o'hoeeaouts. Coraio/y rhit istrho ooy old
Sandfordtreadstheir ommorentslashe oehearshi o  nversation. Evenrto,
rho ovooall intoot of rho scene appeasoot 10011 to/eooet the servants' admroia-
tion foo Sir Walteo; Sandford's accusatios, whiob immediaroly follow rhoio
speculations on Sir Woltrot hiding plaoo, rofleor the old steward's itenoe fear
that his lat hope ofoil stailiyad hene peona/itrity, isbig
ohrearened.
  10. 0On000001310 of the sort ofochaorotr ht as010e10 defineJohnWood-





tilts woerld it Harry Fteemant, whoeepelitict ae defined enticely inetecmscef
alcehel. The excheege hetcweee Freemaee, Weoedi, eed Lecvel illectratec this
wocrld perfectly:

   Feemanc (weho it drenh): HoestcJack Woodvil,
   I w'ill getdrunk with youet-morrow.
   Wodi:Antd whytc-mcroew, hoetMr. Feemaet?
   Freean:Icet taitritht quetioe.Abeatly quetioe.
   It it net Hit Maljettycs hitthdey? the dey of all dayc
   inc the yeae, ee wehich Kincg Checlec the Second
   wascgraciously pleased to eborn.
     (Siege.) "Geat pity 'tic tech deys et
     thoeeshould coet  beteeceeayea."
   Lovel Drunk ieamorig; fh!how he sink!
   Freemanc: Aed wehy net dteeh in e moerning? ceact tell, hully?
   Woodvil: Beceuse, heieg the csweet aed ceeder ittfeecy ef the dey,
     mcethinks, it cheuld ill edue sutch early hlightiegc.
   Freeman:cIgantyeu,ctiet oescctethe youtheedede
     eoeege of the dey. Youth it hechful, eed I gice it
     acup to ececcege it. (Il. i)

  i.Reytmoed Willieemc, Ptobleme it Materialism and Celcere, Sc.
  2.Sec Christophet Caeelcl, Illusien and Reelity: A Scedy ef the Soces ej
Peetty, te?; eed Johe Fehcte, The Criticel Tw-ilight, 6.
  t3. Thic leeguegeemay bectoccsceegct ecihcMargaecteaccurtely inthe
ecrly pecticnt of the pley, het I amc thiehieg of the ctae eote int Act I that
descrihet hec "ec icea fright, pecceed hy e Gentlteeen," ecd efJehn Weodvil's
belittlieg temacckc eboet bee efter the bee left him:; "Gone! goe! mey girl? sc
hestyMergaret /l.. /I.. Foolihhw-ech"(Li).


5 Heny HatMilman's Fazio
  tSec Heery Hect Milmcee, The Hiececy efctheJewsefrm the Earliet Peried
Downt to Modemc Timcee, n:9-cc; eed Heecy Hert Miltae, Histery ef Latin Chris-
tiecity, Icluding Thet efcthe Pepee te the Ponccgicece of Nicholas V, /. vi
  e. Pechapt the teect facmouc eeample ef the hictoricict thought durieg chit
peciod it Dav-id Friedrich Strauss's Dec LebeneJesu (The Life of Jesus).
  3. QuotetienscfromeFazioetenefromtHey HctMilmae, ThePeti-
cal Workhef the Revc. H. H1. Milmaec, v-el. 3. Act eand sceecnutbers ae cited
paentheticelly int the cext.
  4. 1 eec hece dreawing epee Merx's discucsioe ef commocdity fetishitsm:
"Velue, thecefoce, does not stelk ebouc weith e lebel descrihieg cehet it it. It
it cvelue, recher, theteconetste-ery pceduct into a cociel hiceglyphic. Laer


vilts wortld it Harry Frceean wchose politics ae defined enirely in t erms of
elcohol. The echeege between Fcreean Woed end Level illutte tchit
worcld pefectly:

   Freemaec (who it drunk): Hoest Jeck Weedvil,
   I ccill get drunkh wcith you to-morrowc.
   Woedcil: Aed c-hy to-mortrew, boet M. Feemee?
   Fr-eemec: I scent e trioecinthetqcestiee. A heettly qescien.
   Is it not Hit Mejeccycs bicthdey? thc dey ef all deyc
   inc the yecr, ee whtich Kieg Cherlec the Secoed
   c-cc greciously pleesed to be born.
     (Siege.) "Geaec pity 'cit tech deyc ec
     thoecshould coe  butcoceaeyear."
   Lee: Drunk inc aeornincg; foh! howc he stinkc!
   Fr-eemec: Aed c-by not drunh ie e morneing? ceect tell, belly?
   Woodcil: Beceete, heing thc cc-et eed tedcer infeecy ef the dey,
   ethinks, it choeld ill educe tech ecrly blightiegs.
   rceean:;Igantyeutii oe rtccthecyeuttendttender
   cecege of the day. Youch it bashful, eed I gice it
     acucp ce encourege it. (ILi)

  cc. Reaecond Willieamc, Probllems it Meterieliesm ecd Celcere, 8c.
  6ccSe Chcistcpher Ceaddwell, Illesioc ecd Reality: A Scudy ef the Sece of
Petry, ccl; end John Fehece, The Criticel Twcilight, 6.
  t3. Thisclenguageceayhbectooctrog todcibeMatgaret ecceretely inthe
ecrly poctiones of the pley, bet I amc chieking ef the stege noe inc Act I thec
decrihes bee "ec icea fright, perceed byea Geetleecen," eed of Jchn Woodvil's
helittlieg crecark ebthe beafter the hac left him:~ "Gone! gone! ecy girl? so
hasty, Marget! /... /... Folish wench"(I.i).


5 Henry Hart Mlmanet'sFazio
  tSec HenryHertcMdlman, The Historyef the Jewsfrom theElicetPeiod
DownctoeModern Timtet:9-; and HenryHartMdlmc, Historyof LinChr-is-
tiecicy, Including Thec of the Pepee te the PentiJlcate of Nicholee V, nc -ti.
  e. Pecheps the ecect famucs ecample of the hiccericict choeght ducieg thic
period isDaid Fidichtrauss'sDos ebejes(TeLife fjese).
  3. QuocecionstfromclFazioe taceneefrcmHency HrtMilme, ThetPoeti-
eel WorkseoffteRe. H. H. Milmec, c-el.3. Act and scnecumersec  aec cited
paentehetically inc the text.
  4. 1 bmee dracwing upon Metecs disceccioc cf cececodicy fetishicec:
"Velce, cherefore, does not stelk ebcct twith a lebel decribing cwbet it it. It
it c-lel, rechet, thatconcertevery product into a cociel hieroglyphi. Leter


tiles wcrld it Herry Frceea, wehoepolitics are defined entirely ie termse of
elcchcl. The echaege betceen Feeecee, Woodvil, end Lec-el illuscrecec chit
wocrld perfectly:

   Feemanec(w-hoistdrun): HoesJckWodil,
   Icwdllget drunkwith yutc-morrow.
   Woedvil: Aed cchy to-morroc, hoest Mc. Feemen?
   rceecean:Icetectritrinthatcquestion. Aeatlyqustiont.
   It it ect Hit Majescy's birthday? the dey cf all deys
   int the yeer, cc wehich Kieg Charlec the Secced
   c-cc greciously pleesed to be horn.
     (Sings.) "Geaec pity 'tic tech dayc as
     thosecshould coebuheoceaeyea."
   Lovel Drunk inamorning; foh! how hetink!
   Fteetcen: And c-by nct drunk ice amcrning? cecnc tell, belly?
   Woodil Becs, beingthetswt a tencdeinfancyof thedy,
     ethinhs, it chould ill endure tech early blightingc.
   FeemanecI grantyou, ctic insceeccrt thecyoutheandteder
   ncnege cf the dey. Youth it beshful, ecd I give it
     acep to ecourage it. (I. i)

  i.Reaeccnd Willieamc, Problems it Maereielism ecd Culcue, 8c.
  ti. See Chrictopher Ceudwcell, Illusion and Reelity: A Study of the Souces oJ
Poetrp, ccl; end Jchn Pehete, The Critheal Tiiht, 6.
  13. Thisclenguageceay betoostcog tdecibeMgaet eccuretely in the
early poecionc of the play, hec I amc thinhieg of the stege ncte inc Act I that
describether"asincfigh, pursedbyaentclemaen,"eandofJhnWodvil's
helittling remarekh ehouc her after the bet left him:~ "Gone! goe! ecy girl? cc
hasty, Margete! /... /...Folhth  wech"'(I.i).


5 Henry HartMilmanc'sFazio

  6ccSe Henry Hert Mdlmec, The Hictory offthe jewsfrom the Erliest Reried
Decwn to Medemc Ties, c9-cc; eed Hency Hect Milecen, Hitory ofLetic Chis-
ciecicy, Iccledicg Thec efcthe Popee tc the Pontficete of Nichls V, nc -ci.
  e. Perheps the ecoct feecocs eample of the historicist thought ducing thic
period it Dav-id Friedrich Scraess's Doc LebencJesu (The Lie of Jesus).
  3. Quccations froec Fezio aetacen froec Henry Hart Mdlman, The Peti-
cal Weorhe efthe Ree. H. H. Milmen, c-cl.3. Acceandescencechumert ae cited
paentheticelly int thete.
4. Ieamhee deaigp  nM  x'dic ssicnef commdiy feihism:
"Vele, thecefoe, does not ctelk ehoec weith e lebel describing c-bet it it. It
it velee, rethet, thee conetsc ec-ery prodct inco a cociel hieoglyphic. Laer




                aa / Ntes

ota, we try te decipher the hieaoglyphic, te get hehiad the secret ef our ewe
social prodct; fatoettamtp antojectfautility atavalue,istjutasmach
a sacial product at laegutage." See Karl Maca, Capital A Critiqae f Pliial
Eicrotomy, 1:79.
5. The caoatects ae pateiacchy that fallow ace jenfautnced, amatt itmmedi-
ately, hy Veranica Beechey, Utequal oh, 95-tt6. Bat tee alta Zilla R. Eiten-
tein, The Radical Fatace af Libecal Fottirtismt, 14-26.
6. Hidden in thete contradictiont it an even gceatec irecy that 'wcald he
a proper tchject fee futarecontideratiae, eamely that the dahe, ae aristectat
frotm a clearly feadal traditioe, oftentites ie the dcatma tecads very muach
lihe the defeedec af haargeeit valaet.


6 Charles Rebert Matacit's Bectraw

  .Ianejach, Eaglish Literturetl1t15-32, t8t.
  2. Bectcand Eeattt, Gothic Dramta fromt Walpele te Shelley, 192-99. Nate hit
remark,fortinstance, that "merefailuretoelate Betramtoethat largeshareaf
the eighteenth centucyrepcetentedhbythe Gathic traditian waald pechapstnet
iitself he a grave ttatte. Bat thit faiue illastratet a geeral mtisconception
which it iamportatnt. Ta mtitjadge the relationt ofBertramt to the Gethic traditioa
it to teitjadge the celatian af the Byrontic ie geereci ta that tcaditiae" (199).
3. Jaseph W. Danahae, Jr., Dramtatic Character it the Entglish Roantic Age,
88-89.
4. Dale Kratmer, Charlea Robert Matacit, 69.
  5. See Willete Schalten, Charles Rohert Matarin: The Teor-Novelist, 3a-4a,
which affect a tetettaey af the playts plat, a contideratian af Maturin't her-
rawittg frctm Schillec, Scott, and othect, and a discattion af preproductiaon
revaisians of the dratwa that were arged apart Matarin; Rahert E. Loagyts
hrief comets ae Maturin't revitiont aed apon the extretme papalacity af
the drataa, Charles Robert Maturin, 44-49; aed Jeiftrey Coxct teecetaed
flee discattian offBertramt ie hit hoch, It the Shadowse of Roance: Rortattic Tragic
Drarta it Germaty, Etgland, atd France, 1t9-26.
  8. Sateuel Taylac Galecidge, Biographia Literaria, or Biagraphical Sketches aJ
My Literary Life and Opirtions, ad. Jamtet Engell ted W. Jachsan Bate, att.
Suhtequent ceferecee appeac parenthetically in the teat.
  7. Ta cite only two ecameples, nate the Hetperus-Oliia tmacriage int
Thomtas Lavell Beddaet's The Brides' Tragedy and the Elvita-Coede dc las
Citteceat tmarciage ie Matthew Lewit't The Moth. Far a ditcatsioe af clatt
itsestiethete worhs, tee the chapter cn The Brides' Tragedy helaw; aed
Daniel P. Wathiet, "Social Hieratchy ie Matthew Lewit't Tic Math," t15-24.
  8. Quatatiant ace fratm Charles Rohect Matatie, Bertramt, in Britioh Theatre:


owe try ta deciphec the hieoglyphic, to get hehind the teceet of ace awe
social prodcs;fortoastamp anobjectofautility astavalue, isjut astmch
a tocial product at language." See Karl Mace, Capital; A Critiqae of Political
Econtomy, t: 79.
5. The catets aa pattiachy that follow ate influeeced, matt immtedi-
ately, hy Vecoeica Beechey, Unequal ork, 95-tt6. Bat tee alto Zilla R. Piee-
tteie, The Radical Future of Liberal Feminiosm, t4-a6.
6. Hiddee ie theta contradictioet it an even geatec iroey that woald he
a propec tahject for fetete catsideration, natmely that the dake, aearitcrat
from aaclearly feudaletaditioe,coftentimes inethedaatoudsveymach
like the defeeder of hourgeis values.


6 Charles Robert Mataria's Bectraw

  l. aeJach, English Literatare a8t5-t832, t8t.
  a. Bertraed Paat, Gothic Drartafrort Walpole to Shelley, t9a-99- Nate hit
remarke,foreinttaece, that "meefailetoelate Berramatothalagehae of
the eighteeath century repreented hy the Gothic traditioe woald perhapt act
ia itself he a grave mattet. Bat thit failare illutteatet a geereal mitscenceptioe
which it imteat. Ta tmitjudge the telatioe ofBertram to the Gothic traditioa
it to tmisjudge the relatioe of the Bytonic ie genetal to that teaditioa" (199).
  3. Joteph W. Docohur, Jt., Draatic Characer it the Ertglioh Roanatic Age,
88-89.
4. Dale Keatmer, Charles Robert Matarit, 69.
  5. See Willemt Scholten, Charlee Robert Macarin: The Tenrro-Novelist, 30-4a,
which offets a saummary of the playts plot, a contidetatioa of Maturin's hoc-
rowtng freem Schiller, Scott, and othert, and a ditscussion of preprodction
cevttions of the dramca that wee urgad apse Matacia; Robert P. Locgy't
hrief coamaeents cn Maturin't ceviticnt and upon the extretme popularity of
the dratma, Charles Robert Matarirt, 44-49; and Jeffrey Cox't tmore recent and
flee ditcattioa of Bertrm ia hit hooh, It the Shadoaws ofRotatce: Romtatic Tragic
Dramta it Gerrtary, Ertglartd, antd Francae, 119-26.
  6. Saatuel Taylor Coleridge, Biogeaphia Literaria, or Biographical Sketches of
My Literary Lfe and Opintions, ed. Jamtes Engell and W. Jckston Bate, alt.
Subsequentcreferencet appear parenthetically inthe tet.
  7. Ta cite oely two exawplet, aote the Hetperus-Oliia watciage ic
Thoaa Lovell Beddoet't The Brides' Tragedy and the Elvira-Coade de lat
Cittteat warriage ia Matthew Lewis's The Moth. Poe a ditcattion of clatt
  isusia theta worhs, tee the chapter cn The Brideo' Tragedy belaow; aad
Daniel P. Watkint, "Social Hierarchy in Macthew Lewit's The Mortk," 115-24.
  8. Quotations ate flaw Charlet Rohert Matacin, Bertrm, int British Theatre:


owe try to deciphec the hiecoglyphic, to get hehind the tecret of car awe
socialproduct; fortttamp anobjectaofcutiiy asavalue,isjut asmch
a social product at laaguage." See Kati Mate, Capital: A Critiqae of Political
Eicontomy, 1:79.
5. The cowweatt cc patriarchy that fallow are influenced, watt iwwedi-
ately, by Vecoaica Beechey, Untequal Work, 95-1116. Bat tee alto Zilla R. Eiten-
taia, The Radical Fature of Liberal Fertirtism, 14-26.
6. Hiddea ia theta contradictioat its aeae geater iracy that would ha
a peeper subject for fatuace contideration, nawely that the dahe, ac aristoceat
froaaclecrly feudal teaditioa,coftentiwetinathe dawatecd erya wuch
lihe the defeadec of boargeoit valaet.


6 Charles Robert Malaria's Bertrcam

  I ajach, Entglith Literatare 18t3-1832, t81.
  a. Bertrcand Eact, Gothic Draca frort Walpole to Shelley, 192-99. Nate his
rewarh, fat inttance, that "were failute to relate Bertecm to that large thare of
the eighteenth century teptetented by the Gothic traditioa woald perhapt act
ia itself be agavewmatter. Butthi filre illustrte a genaelwmitcoception
which it iwportant. Ta witjudge the telatioa of Bertamr to the Gothic teadition
isto mcitjudge the relation of the Bytocic int geceral to that traditio" (199).
3. Joteph W. Doachut, Jr., Dramtatic Charcter it the Entglish Romtantic Age,
88-89.
4. Dale Krawee, Charles Robert Maturit, 89.
  5. See Willew Scholtee, Chares Robert Maturit: The Tenocr-Novelist, 30-42,
which ofert a tuwwary of the playts plot, a coatideration of Matacin't bar-
rowing frow Schillee, Scott, aad othert, aed a ditscustioa ofpreprodaction
evitiont of the deawa that weerged apse Matarin; Robert P. Lougyts
brief cowwents cc Matariets revitions and apse the extemwe popuarity of
the dtawa, Charles Robert Matarit, 44-49; and Jeffrey Cox't were racent and
flee discatsioe of~ert he hit bach, la the Shadows ofRomacre:; Romtantic Tragic
Drma irt Germaty, Bnglartd, antd Frace, t09-26.
6. Sawuel Taylor Coleridge, Biographic Litewria, or Biographical Sketches of
My Literary Life and Opiniows, ed. James Eagell and W. Jackson Bate, 211.
Sahteqaenteeference appeae parenthetically int the teat.
  7. Ta cite only two exawplet, note the Hatpetut-Olia warriage int
Thowat Lovell Beddoret' The Bride' Tragedy and the Plvira-Conde do las
Cittereat warriage ic Matthew Lewit't The Moth. Poe a ditscustion of clatt
  isusie theta worht, tee the chapter cc The Brides' Tragedy below; and
DanielRP.Wathins, "Social Hierarchy inMatthew Lewis' The Motk," tt5-24.
  8. Quotationt are flew Charlet Rabert Mcturin, Berram, int British There:




Note /q 223                                                                                                                                                                                                      Ioe        uj23Nte                                                                                                                                            2


Eghteeneth-Ceturey Englisht Drtamat, ed. Natatche Wurethach, vel. t9. Act eatd
  scenethers ae cited paentthttically iet the texct.
  9. Tot tey thit, ofteourte, ist toC detty the imepoertce of intdividuals htt
toiistuepon theiehtctlte imtporetnct withinthecotext oftsocial life.
   to. Itshouldhbetnoted that oettmaintdiffeeebetwheenttMatuint'shan-
dlintg of ctost-class marreiege iet the Gothic itmagittetion oef 18i6 etnd Metthew
Lewit't hatndlintg of it jin The Monkt itn 1795 it that Letwit cettdettnts it,re
solvingtsociltensionstbye-cetiganaeitcaticadtaewrldewhich
teclttdtesllotertclaes frometthterealmtfel scialtauhoriity.Matuint,
etttheethethand, deettoetteek eatyteert oftrtsthtietn, allowinghiseplayto
etndettetnteftter ieeatdsoiltdeigiotteconftttietn-which,
otfcourtse, explains Celetidgets particulet cetndemtntation of Meturin's woeth.
Fort ditscteiont ef thit mttee in Lewtis, tee Wttkittt, "hecial Hieratchy int
Matthewe Lew'it't The Monkh."
    i.Matuein's heandling ef thit ittee of cless authority ateicipatee Byront't
teetmeett ef it int Weer (tee chepter 9), wthee Byeron't aeitectetic hettt pes-
   sesslittle individual idetityeandatonomey.
   t.Tot cite onely onte examtple ef Berttetete defiettt attitudeteowaredereligiont,
ntethe prior'seatemept te conincehito eekecyferSinteAldohbrand
haeenetmuredeed:

   Betram:e Why at theou [the peioe] hete?-Thete tote an hoering eangel
   Justhightintgeontmy heat-antdthouehattceeed it-
   Prior: Yea, rthertewith mty prayers ['ltwo it heck,
   Inery pityofethyetsoullIcoeee
   To weeptuponththeaertIcanttstenet-
   (A log pause.)
   Oh! thett at ett the veege tofawful deth-
   Thinkh ef the mentt, whee the v'eilintg eceef
   That hittdt thitte eyet, the!! thet outt eaeth foreere-
   Wheneinethydizzy ea, hutess the greett
   Ofeheteseewhe tee the tsmitittg hettd upteared,
   Thouecattfeel-thact met comeesetpae-
   (Betratetmlese.)
   Bttt teeeees tmotve int thee ahoreidjey,
   Andethouartthadentedhyhahituldager
   Beyeond the tense ef eeght het peide int death.
   (Betramtt turnst attway.)

   t3. My genteralthinekingeheot theeigntificanceeofpeuihetinthe drama
htt hecen ittflenced hy Miche! Foutecut't Disciplite andt Puneish: The Rirth of the
Prison,thoutgh certainlytmy inttteptie commtenetstdonot teecetoeFoucaultt.


Eigheenth-Cenety English Dramate, ed. Netaecha Weurehach, eel. t9. Act ted
sceneenumeetes tee cited paentehetically in the text.
  9. Te tey thit, ef ceette, it net te deety the impeeteance ef individualt het
  tinstisteupentheie ahtelete imtpeeteance weithitt the ceontext ef teciel hife.
    to Itsheeld he tteted thet ette matin differeece heteen Meturin't hean-
dlintg of ctots-clatt mtaetiage int the Gethie iemegittetiett ef 1816 ettd Meethew'
Lewites hettdhttg efit int The Moth int 1795 it thet Lewit cendemnse it,re
solvingtsociaenseionsthye-ceeiganaitiecriceandtahleworldetwhich
extcludetealleoheedettese feromttheealeofel socialeathoity.Mtuint,
onthtetheeheatd, dotesnteek anyteert oftresolutiont, alloweighisplay to
entdeotanoetettereeientcetandsocialeandtrehgioustcontfutiont-which,
of course, explains Celetidgees peetielee contdemnaetiont ef Matutin's wcoek.
Fee e diecettieon ef thit ttttteeitt Lewit, tee Wetkittt, "hecie! Hierarchy int
MettheLewis's The Moth."
    i.Maturin'e hetndling ef thit ittee of clast athority eanticipatet Byroeet
    tet enof ititt Weer (tee chaptet 9), where Byron't ariticretic heee pet-
sessesthttle idiidual idetityeadautonomy.
    z.Toeciteonly oeexamtpltefBetet's edfiatt eattdetow'eedelhgiont,
ntethetpio'seattemptetoconviciethito eekecyfterSit Adobrad
has been muered:ei

   Bertram: Why art thoue [the prior] here?-There waee ean hoering eangel
   Juthightitngtontty heart-anettdhouhastscaredit-
   Prior: Yet, etheeewithety praytetsll wee itheack,
   Inery pityof thy tee!! om
   To eeup     oneththetIcant  sftent-
   (Along pause.)
   Oh! thee at en the verge of etwful deth-
   Thittk ef the toentt, wchen the v'eilitng tcaef
   Thet hindt thitte eyet, the!! thet eet teerth fee evee-
   Whent in thy dizzy tee, hurtlets the groan
   Of thoeewho tee the smeiting heed upeared,
   Thouecat utfeel-tht momnteecmesapce-
   (Bertram smtiles.)
   Bet teerreet mtove ino thee e hoteid joy,
   Attd thee at heedetted hy hehitee! dengee
   Beyontd the tenste ef aught het Fride int death.
   (Beretam tteett away.)

   t3. My general thintkinghbot theigifcacef puihetinthe detma
has heten inlenced hy Michel Fouceault Disciplie teed Putish: The Birth of the
Priteon, though certatnly mty intereetie tomenttete do not teece to Fouceult.


Eighteeenth-Century English Draemt, ed. Netetcha Werohech, vel. eg. Act teed
scentenuerret ecited paentheticelly inthe text.
  9. Te tey thit, eftcetre, it nt te denty the imtpeetente of itndividuals hee
te inseit upon their ehtolute imtpeetence wciehin the ceontext ef tecie! ife.
   te. It theeld he noeed thee ette emain diffeenece hbetweene Matetin't han-
dheng ef ceets-cless maeteiege ie the Geehic imaegintteion ef et816 ted Meethewe
Lewis'e heandhing of it int The Monkh in 1795 it thee Lewis conedemnes it,re
solvintgtsociel tenstionshye-creeig enaeisteocreticeandtaehleewoeldtwich
extcludeeealleohee clsses feometehereelmtofelscil auhoity.M tuei,
oneehethehtnd, deeteeeh ettyset efeseeletioe, aflowinghiseplayto
tend tee eceoe of uteer vtioence ettd teciel ettd reehgious cotnfusion-which,
efteetes, explainse Coeridg's Fpeeticulee tendemnaetion ef Meturin's worek.
Fee a discusstion ef ehie maettein Lewis, see Waehiet, "hecie! Hieteechy in
Mettheew Ltewis'e The Meek."
    t.Materin't heandlintg ef thit isse of cless eutherity eteicipeetes Byeron's
tretentt efi it Werer (tee cheptee 9), whee Byroeet earietecretic hete pee-
   sese  ittletindiidul idtityeandatonomey.
   2.Toeciteeonlyoe examepltef Beretam'sdefiant ettitudeeteadereligiont,
notetthepio'sattempttoconice him toeekecyfterSit Adobrantd
haeenmuredeed:

   Bertrem: Why ate thee [the priot] hee?-Thee wee tee hoeeing anege!
   Justehghtingeeontmy heaet-eandthouheastscaeedit-
   Prior: Ye, retheewitheey prayes'llwootitheck,
   In veey pity of thy tee! I coet
   Teeweepeupeethet heertelcanntesoften-
   (A long pause.)
   Oh! thee et ett the veege efeeawfel deth-
   Think of the motete, w'hen the eiling ecaef
   Thee hinde ehitte eyes, the!! ehet ett teerth fee tvte-
   Whentitehydizzeytee, hutless the geroee
   Ofeh the t ee the tsmiting heed upeeted,
   Thouecatttbtefteetateomettcoesetapae-
   (Bereetram smiles.)
   Bet teerreet mete int thee e horrid joy,
   And thee eart heedeeted hy hehitue! deegee
   Beyontd the esene of teght hee peide int deeth.
   (Betrattr aweaeeey.)

   t3. My genteeel hthikig eheet the significetnce ofputishet in the deeamt
hee heene ittflenced hy Miche! Feecaeltes Diociplie and Puish: The Bith of the
Pritone, though ceeteitnly mty interprettive cometse do noet trace to Fouceut.



                224 / Note

These haeeeiflecdrathrhy(amogothers)EliZarsky's argmet
about the historica formtion of subjectivity and Antonio Cramsc's com-
  met  nthe stocial funtons of law'. See Eli Zaretsky, Capitaliosm, the Family,
ad PronL    if; and Antniramsci, Selectios from the PrsonNoteook,
especially 195-96, 246-53
  14. Zaretshy, Capitaliass, she Family, and Perssnal Lfe, 40.
  a5. For an excellet discossicn of the intepretive ansd reeption history of
the Rime, see Jerome J. McGanns, "The Meanieg of the Ancient Marinser'"
35-67.
  16. Coleridge, Biographtia Lireraria, 286.


  7Thomas Lovell Beddoe's The Brides' Tragedy

  a. For studies pursuinag onte or bosh liues ef argoment, see Northrop Frye,
A Stady of Englioh Romasticismt, 5a-55; James R. Thompson, Thomtas Lot'ell Bed-
does, 24-41t; Lytoe Strachey, "The Last Elioabethae," in Boohs asd Charactert:
French and Enghish, a35-65; ted Harold Bloom, The V~isiosary Comepasy: A Read-
isg of Rsglioh Rocastic Poetry, 428-34. While these convts'ional explanations
may help to clarify certaie isolated psychological or literary historical mat-
ters, as the tame time they rue the rich of distorting literary hissory ie their
attempt to fled a soitahle socahulary for discossing the drama. To identify
Bride primarily ie terms of Jacoheae tragedy, for instaece, is to forget that
she central featere of mostsJacob eae trage dies is the destructive poweor of lest;
ie Bride this is eot the case. Hesperus's murder of Florihel is encouraged eat
at all by less hut rasherhbyjealousy in conjuction with thelencarceration of
Hesperus's fatherand by she larger domestic and social situations flowing
from these. Moreosver, rhe argumeet shot Beddoes's ohsession 'with death in
she drama represents rho end of Romanticism is conusieg whee we consider
that earlier Romansic woths-fur instance, The Monk or even she Rime of the
Asciest Marisee, hothswrittencinthersy9os-are ascextrcmeinethrir portrayal
ofsthesermasets as Bride, aed shot worhs w'ritteinethe latcrneteeth ceu-
sery-for instance, James Thomson's "City of Dreadful Night" (1874) and
Thomas Hardy's Jde the Obscare (s898)-are equally gisec so physical vio-
lene and existectial despair. If she curb signals she demise of Romanticism,
itsis for reasons other shae those most oftsee cired.
  Two ssudies that, in my view', prooide more helpful consideratioes ofBride
are Horace Gregory, "The Gothic Imagination and she Survival of Thomas
Lovell Beddues," 81-95; aed especially Eleanor Wilner's excelleet historical
assess meet of Beddoos in Gathering the Winst V-isiouary Imagisatios and Radical
Transformatior of Selfand Society, 73-tsfl.
  a. Foe an excollect discussion of this dark tide of the Romantic imagina-


                220 / Notes

Theserhaverhbeeniflueced rathrby(among othrs) EiZaretsy's argumet
about she historical formation of subjectiv'ity and Antonio Gramsci's com-
meets cc she social fuections of law'. See Eli Zareskhy, Capitaism, the Family,
and Peeoonal Life; aed Aesueio Gramsci, Seletos froc the Prisos Noteooks,
especially 195-96, a46-53.
  t4. Zareskhy, Capitahosm, the Family, and Pesonal LJi, 40.
  t5. Per an rexcollect discussion of the interpreivce and reception history of
she Rime, see Jerome J. McGane, "The Meaning of the Aecient Marnr,"
35-67y
  16. Coleridge, Biographia Literaria, a86.


  7Thomas Lorell Beddoesas The Brides' Tragedy

  s. For studies pursuieg oneor bothhliesof argumet, see Northrop Frye,
A Study of Englihoatcsmo, 5t-55; James R.Thompso, Thomas Lovell Bed-
dooo, 24-41; Lyttoe Strachey, "The Last Elizahethan," is Boohs and Chtaraoters:
FrenchasdEsglioh,a23-65; andHarold Bloom, The V'isionar-y Company: ARead-
leg of Engliah Romantic Poetry, 428-34. While these concenticnal extplanations
may help so clarify certain isolated psychological or literary historical mat-
ters, at she same rime they rue the rish of dittorting literary history in their
attempt to fled a suitable ocabulary for discutsing the drama. To identify'
Bride primarily ie terms of Jacobeae tragedy, for instance, is so forget that
she central feature of mostsJacobean tragedics is she dessructive poccer of lest;
in Bride this is not the case. Hrtperus's murder of Ploribcl is encouragedenos
as all by lost bus rather by jealousy in conjunctioe with the incarceration of
Hesperus's father andby thelargrdomestic and social situations floswing
from these. Moreover, the argument that Bcddoes's obsession with death in
the drama represents the cud of Romanticism is confuting when e consider
that earlier Romantic works-for inssance, The Mosh or core the Rico of the
Anciest Marier, bosh wtritten in the ty9us-are as exatre me in their portrayal
of these masters as Bride, aed that works swritten in the later nieteenth cen-
tory-foe iessance, James Thomsoe's "City of Drradful Night" (1874) aed
Thomas Hardy's Jade the GOcr (1898)-are equally gioen to physical s'io-
lenceanedistetial despai. If theworrhsigals she demise of Romanticism,
is is fur reasoes othertshanushose mostoftenucited.
  Two studies that, ie my vicw, provide mote helpful considcrations of Bride
are Hoerae Gregory, "The Gothic Imagination aed the Suroioal of Thomas
Looell Beddoes," 81-95; aed especially Eleanor Wilner's exacellent historical
attestsmeet of Beddoes in Catherisg the Wisds: Visioay Imaginatiot asd Radical
Trasformatios of Self asd Society, 73-ts6.
  2. Foranexcellent discussion of this dash side of the Romansic imagina-


                224 / Noteo

These haoe heren influenced rather by (amoeg others) Eli Zaretsky's argument
about the historical formation of subjetivity and Antonio Gramsci's com-
meets on she social functions of lasw. See Eli Zaretsky, Capitalism, the Famly,
andProonalLife; andAtoeio Gramsci, Selectios from the Prisos Notebooko,
especially 195-96, 246-53.
  t4. Zareskhy, Capitalism, the Family, and Perosal Lit, 40.
  t5. Poreanecellent discussion of she itserpretioe and reception history of
she Rice, mee Jerome J. McGann, "The Meaning of the Anciecs Marnr,"

  16. Coleridge, Biographia Literaria, a86.


  7Thomas Lorell Beddoes's The Brides' Tragedy

  P. orstudies purseing oeorhbothlinsf argument, see Northrop rye,
A Study of Esglish Romasticism, 51-55; James B. Thoompson, Thomas Lotell Bed-
does, 24-41; Lyssoe Strachey, "The Last Elizabeshan," in Books and Characters:
Fr'enchand Englih,a35-65; andHarold Bloom, The Visionary Company:;A Road-
ing of Rsglish Romantic Poetry, 428-34. While these conentional explanatioes
may help so clarify certain isolated psychological or litrary historical mat-
ters, as she same time they sue she risk of distorsing literary history in their
attempt to fled a suitable vocabulary for discussing the drama. To idensify
Bride primarily in terms of Jacob ean tragedy, for inssace, is to forget that
she ceesral feature of mostsJacobean tragedies is the destrucsioe poswer of lost;
in Bride this is cot she ease. Hesperos's murder of Florihel is encouraged cot
at all by lest hut rather by jealousy in coejunction swith the incarceration of
Hesperus's fathersaedhbythelargrdomesicand social situationslowing
from these. Moreorer, she arguenct that Beddoes's ohsession with death in
she drama represoents she rend of Romanticism is confusingswhenswe consider
that earlier Romansic w'orhs-for instane, The Moth or ree the Rico of the
Anciet Marier, bthuwrtiteithety79os-are as etreme inthir portraal
ofsthese matters as Bride, andsthatsworkssrrittenuinthe latereieteeeth ce-
tory-for instance, James Thomso's "City of Dreadful Night" (t874) and
Thomas Hardy's Jude the GOscre (t898)-are equally giren so physical vio-
lecerand existetial despair.If therwork sigalsthe demise ofRomaticism,
it is for reasons othersthan those must of tee cited.
  Two studies that, in my view', pruovide mote helpful consideratious of Bride
are Horace Gregory, "The Gothic Imagieasiotn and the Suroiral of Thomas
Lovell Beddoes," 8t-95; and especially Eleanor Wilner's exellent historical
assess meet of Beddoes in Catherisg she Winds: V'lisuoary Imagiation and Radical
Tramformatios of Self and Society, 73-ts6.
  a. Por an excceet discussion of this dark tide of the Romantic imagina-






tioe, fremta psychological perspectire, tee Edard P. Bostetter, The Rotmanttic
Venctriloquitt: Wot-dstorth, Cleridge, Ketst, Shelley, Byreot.
3. Quetatiens feetm Bride tee takbee frect Theemas Leoveli Beddes, The
Worksof Thomas Loell Beddoes, ed. H_ W. Doner.e Act, sceead lie numers
are cited pat-ethetically int the texet.
4. Eli Zacetsky, Ctpitlismt, the Ptamily, ted Petstned Life, 7e.

6. Ibid., 40.
7. It shecld be ceted that Hesperus't jetlecty awbee he catches Plecihel
kissitng Orlattde's page it ceated as tmuch hy the ptriarchal presture fleet hit
father te cted Glt-it as by hit selfith aed heaegeeit desire tc poessec Plecihel
abseluetely apart fleet the teat-d.
8. This disemtpoerenet, whdle endurieg fleet ac aeistecratic to hear-
geeisesocialforematien,geteredefied ieawaythattOlivia caenet het-esee. As
saggeted ietheahoeredeciptieont ef Hesperus, the isolatioe ef thecceomae
freetfemtalecomtpaienship icvleat thette timechecenercienietoae
ideal of pare value divrced feeoe the a-acid, acenereiec which secues the
iedividualcaujectiv-itytand poerefce.
9. Zilla R. Eiceecteie, The Radicl Fuctreof Liberaclemin-ism, c5. My geeral
ceguets here eegardintg the distinectieee beeteen houegeeis ted hourgeois
pat-itt-thy draw- vry hearily cn Eicensctebe, epecially '4-49.


8Sir Walter Scott's Haliden Hill
  i. Inaddititcomtposig fouredram,Scttlotaslatdeerl da-
  msflcet Gecette, ncludieg Augece Wilhelet Ifflaedts Die Macdel, Jtkob
Maie' Fist von Stromber-g, Steiebergcs adtptttioe of Joseph Peace Mteias von
Babo'c Otto von Wittehsbach, aed Friedrich von Schiller't Fieskbc. See Daccan M.
Mene, "Sit-Walter Scotccs Ucpublished Traetlatioes of Germtae Pltyt'" 234-
39. SealcoOmtPaash Mahth'-bief dicuationfhtanlationstciaThe
Cloee Dratce cfthe Roatic Revivael, t8e-St.
  c. Ac accoueec ofthe ca-postiin ofdthe dramat cae he faced ie J. G.
Lockhart, Memoeirs of the Life of Si- Walter Scott, Bee., t:t67-68h.
  3. Noe, fat- intacae, the dramasc of Byrone (Sardanatpalus, The Tawo Focari,
ted Mearicc Pele-a) that potray the debiditaticg ietptct on cultuct-c of intec-
nal conflict. Keatt approachec a sia-ilar view- ie Ocho the Greet, ted llhelley ie
The Cenci.
  4. Ge thic lattec point, eote Sw-ictn'ceremt-cidetocthecomcplainieg
Reycald: "Peace, Reynald! Whe-c the geeral plants the soldier-, / Thee it
his place of hoeou, ted thece only / Hit ralouc can c-ic worechip. Thou'rc
of those, /Who wold have ar's dee-p at barthewildcsemblance/GOf


cioe, frocm a peychological perspectire, tee Edard E. Boctette, The Rottantic
Ventriloquists: Wcordsworeh, Coleridge, Keets Shelley, Byronc.
3. Qaotationc flea- Bride ace caen flea- Theaa Let-elI Beddesc, The
Wa-be of Thocae Lovetll Beddes, ed. H. W. Doece. Act, scene, ted lice nua-hert
ace cted parenthetieally inthe tect.
4. Eli Zat-etchy, Capitalism, the Pettily, and Pet-oac-l Lf, ye.

6. Ibid., 40.
  7It should he noted that Hesperus'sjealousy w-henche catchec Flor-ibel
kissing Orlando'cpage-isceated asa-chbyhe patiachal pt-ca-ee froa-hic
fathee to c-cd Glivit at by hit selfsh aed bourgeis desire to possecs Ploribel
absolutely apart ft-ca thea-ct-Id.
8. Thic disea-poweca-ect, a-hil- enducing flea- ac acistoccatic to heat-
geoiscsocialfoermation, getscredefined icawaysthat Oliiacannot hcc- ct-c. Ac
suggested int the there descciptionc of Hespecus, the icolatioe of the c-caa
flea- ft-aale ca-panionship inrolrves at the taa-etia-cherconttrsioneinto an
ideal of puectale divrced flea- the a-acid, aconvrsion a-hit-h sccat-c the
individualcsubjectivity and poa-erof-me.
9a. Zilla R. Eiseesteic, The Radicalturccf Libeal em-inisc, 25. My geceral
argua-entsht-ct-cgardintgthe distinctinschteehcaugeoictcdhcecgcci
patitt-hy draa- vry hearily cc Eisecnste, epecially t4-49.


8Sir Welter Scott's Halidec Hill

  i. Inadditionetoecompoig foudaa,Scottalsoctanlatedcseel dra-
aa flea- Get-aac includittg Augusc Wilhela- Iffiand's Die Muctdel, Jakob
Maitet' PFit von Strocherg, Steinertg's adaptatioe of Joeph Pt-eec Mat-icc voe
Babo's Ott-cco Wictelbaech, ted Predrich vae St-billet-c Pit-the. St-c Dcecac M.
Menne, "Sic Walter Scot' Unpabliched Tranclations of Get-aa Plays," c34-
3a. Set-alec Ga- Prahath Macbet-c brief discussiont of the tracslatioes int The
Clcset Dratta ofthe Rcaattic Ret-it-el, the-8a.
  a. Ac acceunt of the ca-potitioc of the draa-a ec be foucd incJ. G.
Lockhart, Mema-irsc ofthe Life ef Sir Wahte- Secot-, Beet., 2:267-68.
  3. Nate, fee icstance, the draas of Byroc (Sardanapalus, The Ta-c Foscar-i,
ted Mearicc Pele-c) that poctety the debilicating ia-pact oned cut-ce of intec-
nal cocflict. Keats approaches a cia-ilar ricw-ic Othc the Ga-at, ted Shelley int
The Ceci.
  4. Ge this latere point, cece Sa-iton'scsten-ea-indertothte ca-plaicing
Reynala: "Pt-ace, Reycald! Whe-c the gener-al plants the soldie, / There it
hic place of hocoa, ted thee ondy / Hit raloca etwaitt a-ct-hip. Thoc't
of bthos,/ Whoawold have-ar'sdeep atbea t-hewildcsemblanec/ Of


tioc, flea- a psychological pet-spectire, see Edard E. Bescette, The Rcaatic
Vetriloquists: Wcordswoceh, Coleridge, Keen, Shelley, Byrcc.
3c. Quotatioes flea- Bride ace cakee flea- Thea Lorell Beddes, The
Wcrkscf TheasLoell Bedde, ed. H. W. Goneee. Act, scee, acd lieeaa-berc
act- cited par-ethetically inthe tet.
4. Eli Zacetshy, Capitalism, the Pamidy, acd Pereonal Life, ye.

6. Ibid., 40.
  7. It chould he eoted that Hespe-ce'c jealousy a-ben he catches Plocibel
kissintg Gelaedo's page it created ta-at-ch by the pateitrchal pe-te ft-ca hit
fatherctoawed Ohriaeashy hi elfhc ad bougei deietopscet Ploribel
abtolutely aptet flea- the a-ald.
  h. Thes dia-empowera-ect, a-hil- eeduring flea- an aristocratic to bour-
geoiscsocialfaoa-atioe, getseredefined inawaysthat Olriaecannt hereee. Ac
suggested int the there decrtiptiocs of Hespteus, the icolation ofcthe wa-c-a
flea- fealecoa-paeionchip invoeles at the caa-ctia-chconenrsioe entc an
ideal of puet- ralue divreced flea-the-ct-Id, acoersion a-hic-h cseces the
individual subjectivity and poect-f a-en.
  9. Zilla R. Eisecsteic, The RadicalFucur of Liberal Pea-it-ha-, 25. My genecal
argaa-ents be-c regat-dieg the distiections beta-eec bourgeis tand bourgeis
patriarchy deaw- vrcy hearily cc Pienteit, epecially t4-49.


8 Sir Welter Scott's Halidon Hill
  t. Inaddiionatcomapoig foudaa,ctt alsoanlatedseveal da-
a ft-ca Get-aa, icluding Auguct Wilhela- Iffitnd's Di- Met-del, Jakb
Maie' Pist von Snromherg, Steicbeeg's adaptation of Joseph Pt-tee Macice voe
Baho's Geeo vet- Wittelbach, ted Predeich vn Schillec's Pieske. See Guecac M.
Mt-caic, "Sir-Waltec Scot' Unpublished Translations of Get-aa Plays," t34-
39. Sec also Ga- Pt-tkach Mathuret brief dietca-sice of the transltions- int The
Cla-csettam ofthe Rocanic Ret-iaI, the-ha.
  t. An accoact of the ca-positioc of the draa-a ec be faced intJ. G.
Lockhact, Ma-ci-c of the Life ofSi- Welta- Scott, Beet., t:t67-6h.
  3. Nate, for inctace, the deta-as of Byroc (Sat-danapalus, The Ta-c Pocarei,
acd Merit-c Pele-c) that porcay the debilitating ia-pact on cultures of intec-
eel conelict- Keats approachet a sia-ilar rica-it Gtho the Greet, tand Shelley int
The Cet-ci.
  4. Ge chistlacter-pict, cote Sa-inton's stecn emaind ctt the ca-plaining
Reyntald: "Peace, Reyntald! Whe-e the gecneral placcs the soldiec, / There it
hit place of honou, ted there only / Hit ralour can c-icc-at-chip. Thou'ct
ofcthose, /Whoawold havear'scdeep artbearcthecwidcsemblacec/GOf



                            226 / Noes

some disorder'd honsing" (Li). Quoetations from Ho/ideon H/i ote taen ftem
Sit Wa/tee Scott, Scett: Poeticel Wee/s, ed. J. Logie Rohertsots. Act oodscn
tom/tees are cited pareothetical/y its the text.
   5. Foreatveybief discssionsof thecoomic dimenssionoof the Crosds,
see Codl L. Bet/tee, Modemn Hisory: The Rice of a Demcocrtoic, Sdietific, esd Is-
dousriolized Civi/izotiont, 08-30. See else Azie Sotyal Atiye, Crcsedee, Commtee,
oatd Coltore; cod Edmard W. Soid, Oriete/ict, passim.
  6. He didnot leoveEngland seking foreoeho s inofccst outhy his
countrymen. Note Chandos'sttemark toPercy, inteetpoosestooacommeoshy
Be/iol lameotinog she tioet milisory defect of his fotmercouttymen: "His
conqoeroes, he meacs, who cat him out / [tom his osoeped ktingdom" (I/i).
   7. Poe a sketch of some of these matsees, see David Etdmcan's ecccI/ct
essays 00 Byron: "Byron cod Rete/s its Fog/mnd," 2/0-40; "Byrotneand 'she
New Foece of she People,"'"47-64;" '[are Thee Wel'-Byron's Lost Doys its
Enoglaod," 203-27; "Loed Byton anod she Genteel Reformets," 1065-94; aod
"Lord Byron s o Rinal/do," 189-231. Set c/so A. Di. Harvey's tocel/enot sociol
history of early nsinteenttth-cturtoy Ecgland, Beitain is she Eae/y Nineteeth
Cmntury.
   8. The referente hee is so Hob Hassely, mho remaths so Swinton: "It is
my puepose, / Havinglivedoathief, to dieoa/reeman'stdeeth; /And ocete
hedlIoamoegloios chace foreit"'(l~iii).


9 The Deamas of Loed Byron

   t. The hest moe/too Byron's telation to Shakespeate is G. Wi/son Knight,
Byronead Shepmee.
    2Sosen Wo/fson hot hegun so examine in dtaoi/ she foctsion of gender
in Byron's moth, including the drame. See, foe inssaoce, her fiot essay, "'A
Problem [em Dae Imitote': Sardanapa/us and 'Effemiocte Cherectere."'
   3. All quotctions feom Byron's lestees aod journals aretasken from Loed
Blyron, Byroe' Letters and joursa/o, ed. Leslie A. Maechaod, cod appear in she
sees as BLJ.
   4. Nose, foe inseance, Shelley's comment to Mary Shelley shot Byeon hed
adopted "a system of criticism fit only foe the peodocsion of mediocity,"
Petty Bysshte Shelley, The Lettees of PercylBysshe She/Icy, ed. Feederick L. Jones,
2:317. All qosations from Shelleyts lessees are from this edision cod ae cited
paenthetically it he text as LPBS.
   5. Foec desiedostody offyton's developing polisical attitude, see Dcvid V.
Erdmcn's pistokinglyeeseeched essy, "Lodflyoand thtGenteellR-
formees"; see c/so his teIcoet essayt 00 Byroo, "'Poe Thee Wel'-Byron's
Let Dacys its Fog/cod," and "Lord Byron," 161-227.
   6. See Let/it A. Maechaod, Byron: A Porsrad, 341; see a/so BLJ, 8:45-46.


                            226i / Noeso

some disoedee'd hoosing" (Li). Quotesions from Hlidon HUi ae teken from
She Woltee Scott, Scott: Poesicel Woe/to, ed. J. Logic Ro/tson. Act cod scene
nomberset  citedpaenotheticollyinotheex.
   5. Poe a vey breief discootion of the economic dimeosion of the Crusades,
see Cael L. Bet/tee, Modemn Hisore: The Rice of e Demsoceesic, Scimntfic, and It-
dustrialized Civilizetios, c8-3o. See c/to Ami Suryol Atiya, Cecoedes, Comerce,
and Culhue;condEdward W. Scid, Ortime, pessim.
  6. Hetdidonot/lecveEglnd seeingfotunetho  waotiofctcat oustby his
countrymen. Note Chandos'seremarkto Percyinoresponsestocacommentsby
Baliol lomensiog she violent militory defect of his foemerecounteymen: "Hit
cooqueeoes, he means, echo tots him outs/Perom his usoeped kingdom" (I/i).
   7. Foe c sketch of tome ofttest mattees, see David Edmanos ecccI/ct
esays ont Byton: "Byron cod Revoht its Fogland," 234-48; "Byron cod 'she
Nem Poece of she People,"' 47-64; "'Poe Thee Wel'-Byroo's Lcst Dcyt its
Englaod," 203-27; "Loed Byroo cod the f/totedl Reformees," 1065-94; cod
"Lordflyronas Rinaldo," 189-231. SeeoalsoA. D. Harecy's eoel/lentssocial
histoey of early nineeteth-censty Englond, Briseit is the Ely Nineteenth
Century.
   8. The refeence hee is so Hobt Hcttely, echo rematks so Swioton: "It is
my purpose, /Havinghlivedcashief,to dieh    reoma's death; /Adeer
hadlcamoegoioos chaoce forsit"'(l~iii).


9 The Deamasof fLord Byros

   o. The hest moe/too Byroo's relasion so Shakespeaee is G. Wi/too Knight,
Byron and Shaespcyeae.
    zSuscn Wolfsoo hot btegoo so examine its descil the fuction of gendee
its Byeoo's moth, ioclodiog she decma. See, foe instcoce, hoer floe escay, "'A
Peoblem [em fle Imitete': Seedesepaluo cod'ffemiocte Chcracter."'
   3. All quotations from Byron's lessees cod journals artaen from Loed
Byron, Ryrons Lette and joomnal, ed. Leslie A. Moechond, cod appeor in she
  tet s BLJ.
  4. Nose, foe inestace, Shelley's commens so Maty Shelley shot Byron Fed
adopted "asystem ofcriticism fit onlyfoe thepodctionof mdioity,"
Peecy Bysshe Shelley, The LtteosoflPeryBysshe Shelly, ed. Feederick L.Jones,
2:317. All qosasions feom Shelley's lessees are feom this editioo cod cee cited
paenoshesically in she sees as LPBS.
   5. Forca desciled stody ofByro's deelopiog polisicol assisude, see David V.
Erdmon's painostingly reseceched essey, "Loed B yeon and she Getoteel Re-
foemers"; see c/to his tote//tot escays 00 Byron, "'Fcee Thee Wel'-Byeo's
Lot Deyt io Englond," eod "Loed Byton," 16t-o27.
   6. See Let/ic A. Mete/teed, Ryron: A Porteait, 341; see c/to BLJ, 8:45-46.


                            226 / Noes

some disoedee'd hunsing" (Ii). Quotatioos feom Halhdon Hidl cee sc/tee feom
Sit Walter Scott, Scot Pot/tel Wloerko, ed. J. Logic Rohersoo. Act cod sceoc
oem/tees are cited poentehesicolly it he text.
   5. Fora eryherief discusioo of theeoomic dimenion of the Croscdes,
see Ccel L. Bece/te, Modemn Hhstory: The Rhoe of e Deocraic, Scimntfic, and Is-
dusrielized Civilizasion, 28-30. See c/so Aziz Suryal Atiya, Cmoadeo, Comece,
and Co/tom; cod Edwaed W. Said, Crette/ho, passim.
  6. He dido  eeeEglad seeig fortuoe hot was inofact tess out/by his
counteymen. Note Chandos'stremcrktotPerty, io espoose toaot     mmoensty
Boliol lamensing she violent milisaey defect of his foemerecouotrymen: 'Hit
cooquerors, he meons, wcho cast him oot / [tom his usueped kingdom" (I/i).
  7. Poe a sketch of tome of these mossees, see Dovid Edman's ecolt//o
  00ay o Byron: "Byton cod Resole io Fog/cod," 234-40; "Byton and 'she
New Poece of she People,' 47-64; "'Poe Thee Well'-Byroo's Last Days its
Fog/cod," 203-27; "Loed Byton and she Censeel Refoemers," se65-9; cod
"Lord Byronos Rico/do," 189-231. Seecaho A. D. Harey'stoxcelletsocial
hissoty of early oioeteenth-century Fog/cod, Beitain intshe Erly Ninesteeth
Cmeuy.
   8. The refeeoce hee is so Hoh Hassely, mho remaths so Swintoo: "It is
my purpose,/ Having liedcathief, todite rae man's death;/ And ocete
hacdlIamoegoios chance foreit"'(Biii).


g The Dramao of LoedByron

   s. The hess moth oo Byroo's elosion so Shcakespeae is C. Wi/soc Knight,
Byroead Shaespeae.
    2Susco Wolfson hot begun so eoomine its desail she fuoctioo of geodee
its Bytons's moth, icloding she drcmc. See, foe instaoce, hee floe essay, "'A
Prohlem Pew Dote Imitate': Seedesepehos cod 'ffeminase Chcrccter."'
   3. All quotatioos from Byton's lessees cod jooroals are schen feom Loed
Byroo, Byeons Letters and oomhl, ed. Leslie A. Moechand, cod appece io she
textas BLJ.
   4. Nose, foe iostance, Shelley's commens so Mcry Shelley shot Byron had
adopted "c system of ceiticism 6it only foe she peoducsion of medioceisy,"
Petty Bysshte She/Icy, The Lesees of ecy Byoshe Shelley, ed. Peedetick L. Jones,
2:317. AUl qosations from Shelley's lessees ce from this edision cod aee cited
paensthetically io she sees os LPBS.
   5. Foreadetailed study of Byeoo'sdeeloping poiicl cttitode, sefDavid V.
Edmanos paiostakiogly reseaceched esscy, "Loed Byron and she Ceoseel Re-
formers"; see c/to hit tote//cot essays 00 Byron, "'Pare Thee Well-Byro's
Loss Doys in Fog/cod," cod "Loed Byron," 161o-2c7.
   6. See Let/it A. Machand, Byes.: A Poeteait, /41; sec chso RUJ, 8:45-46.





7. See Aristotele's Politico, Book 2, is his Works, ed. W. D. Ross, 52:2060-
74. Bytes seay hae had Aristotle's ideas directly hefore hims is the works of
Sal Jhsn. See especially The Rambler, no. 154, ins enhichJohnsn sttes:
"The Diection of Aristtle toehos'ethat study Politicks, is, first   xmn
and undesadnhathaees       witen hyetheAnietsupn goenment,
theset st thei Eys roudpn hewld,adcnside by      hatCases
the Prosperity of Communeities is visibly ittfluenced, end enhy sm  r  os
etsd others heter admtinistered" (The Rambsler, ed. Doseld D. Eddy, 2:917).
8. Cheistephee Ceudenell, Illenios and Reality: A Stedy ofthe Sesrces of Petry,
105.
9. Note, fee istence, Scont's es sesset ofByron:

Ousntiet s acgeedgode    al, ecpepupnhjecsfeli-
gieos and pelitics, ssyes nseither ofenhich I seas incelisned en beliesvs
that LordByrns entertaineds'ery fixedopinins.Onspliishesed
       soeie  oepesahigh strains ef what is seow celled Liherelisem;
 hut is eppeeted te mes thee the pleasure is effeeded hissas en  vehicle ef
 ditplcyintg his wnit aned satire against individuccls is office ens at the
 hetetm ef this hahit efethisking. At heat, I eneeld hes'e teermed Bytes
 apcatisian ofprisciyle. (Jehn Nichel, Bytes, Is-It)

Hazliet's cassessmesns, eheegh msnee seere, alse isteepetes Bytes's pelisics is
stems of persenclity. Fee Hasliss, Byese's expressed peliticel pesitions
inesiscete, no smote thee asotherseample of his wsish "to shise hycontst":
"His [Bytes's] euling moetie is see she lee of she peepie, hes of distisction;
see eftuth, hes of singliy." Is sheet, fee Heslies Bytes waes "e paempered
egetist." Willicam Haslies, Cesplete Wetks of Willieam Hazlitt, ed. P. P. Hoess,
9!70-77.
  ts. This fnsyhbteryserious po'emeppears isLordByos, Lord Byron:
The Ceomplete Petictl Weeks, ed. Jereome J. McGcss, eel. 4. Thee is xrse
stuch sense thee siemply contempt fee Hobhouse's esociatin with "the mobs"
hases eeonincingly argeed hy David V. Erdmancsin "Bytes eed 'the News
Fore of the Peple,"' 57ff. Fee she difficehties she pems ccesed Bytes see
BLJ, 7:99,10.
  I1. less relying hers macisly es E. P. Thosepson, The Making ef she Englih
Weehing Glens, 451-71. Noe else R. W. Hersis's comenst thee "After 1807
Cohhsss, Sir Psancis Butdett, Mejos Catwnight, Oreter Hess esd Francis
Plece wee the leeding Radicels, csd see of themse ne crevoeletiesesy. Theit
enay ens ef she perplexing difficunhies ef she site Icy through pethiaetarey
tefotrs." Restcsmhntd the Social Orde, ty8e-5530, 77.
  12. Queted is Herris, Romaneticisme and she Social Order, 77. Its hould he
remacrhed thee tech commntets as this ntweithseanding, Cohhett did is fect
support lahes uniens, especially laer is his scaeer as he hecaeeincreesingly


7. See Ariseetle's Politico, Beok c, is his Worko, ed. W. D. Ros', tn:tche-
74. Bytes masy hae had Asistetle's ides diectly hefote hiss is she enerks oef
Scamuel Johnsos. See especially The Ramlee, no. 154, is enhich Johnsn stetes:
"The Direction of Aristotle to these thee seedy Peliticks, is, firsttonexeteie
andnderstendenhatehashbeenswitten hystheAntisesupon goerntet,
thesnocastetheireEyeseronduponehenwold, end considerhyenhat Cses
she Prnspesity ofCommutiesi is v'isihly iteluensced, cnd enhy toes wrs
cnd others hetter edmsisistered" (The Ramhlee, ed. Doneld D. Eddy, 2:917).
8. ChristopherCeudnell, Ilhuieoad Reality:A Stdy ofthe Souces ef Poetry,
105.
9. Noe, fee intessece, Seent's essessent ofByron:

One sentimensts agreedeagood deel, exceppnthe sehjectseofeli-
gin end politics, upen neither efenhich I enes inclined en helieves
thee Lord Bytneertaesined ery fieed opisions. Os politics he used
soetimestoenrtssa high strcis ef enhct is sen called Liheeclisme;
hus it cppeed to see thct she plecase it cifforded hisses c ehicle of
displeying his enit and setire egaist individnls is office enas et the
hetoem of this hehit efethishing. At heest, I enould hcave termsed Bytes
  apattician of principle. (John Nichel, Byros, In-It)

Hazlitt's essessments, though seseee, else interprets Bytes's pelitics is
terses of pesnaclity. Fee Haeliet, Bytes's enpressed political positin encs
isiencese, nmore thancanothersexampleof hisewish "tohiey cots":
"His [Bytes's] ruling testis's is see the lee of she peeple, hus of distinctin;
see efetruth, ht of singulartiy." Is sheet, fee Hesliet Bytes enas "c pcsepered
egosist." Williate Hczlitt, Complete Weeks of Willieam Hazlit, ed. P. P. Hoene,
9: 70-77.
  t.This funny but ery serious pemt appears is Lord Bytes, Lord Byron:
The Comeplete Peicl Weeks, ed. JeroseeJ. Mocean, eel. 4. Thee it expresses
seuch te thae simeply coemspt fee Hohouse's associatin enith "she steb'
hhs esconincinglyeargedhyDaid V. Erdmansins"Byrnand'theNen
Fstee ef the Peeple,"' 57ff. Pet the difficulsies the pems ceesed Byes's see
BLJ, 7:99, 104.
  it. test eelying here stainly en E. P. Thotepsos, The Makhing ofthe Englih
Weehing Clasos, 451-71. Noe else B. W. Harris's comenet thee "Aftet 1807
Gnhhett, Sit Frencis Burdett, Mejer GCarenright, Decet Hess eted Francis
Plece ee the leading Radicals, and noe of them enes e revolutiencry. Their
enay eut s'f the petplexing difficulhies ofethe site ley through perliaenetary
refeest." Roseanticise asd she Social Or'de, e78e-1830, 77.
  t2. Quoted is Harris, Romantsiciosm aed else Social Order, 77. It should he
testeshed thee tech comesets es this noenithsanding, Cohhett did is fect
suppors lehos nins, especially laer is his ctres es he hecaste increasingly


                Note/c227

 7.5See Aristotle's Politico, Beekbe, inshis Woeks, ed. W. 0. Rent, 10:126o-
 74. Bytes teey hae had Aristntle's ides directly hefoe hist is she enrs of
 Seseuel Johnsn. See especielly The Rambhle, no. 154 is enhich Jonsn tstes:
 "The Direction of Astotle en these thee seedy Politicks, is, fertes sexamieis
 andssndestesdenhathasheen wtn     bytheAnsiseseupon gnestsmest,
thes tncast theit Eyes tend epos she enoeld, and consider hy enhas Ceuses
she Prosperity of Commuteiies is s'isihly isflunced, and enhy sm  r  os
and oehers heser adstiistered" (The Reamble, ed. Dosald 0. Eddy, 2:917).
8. Chrissopher Caudenell, Illusion and Reality: A Study ofthe Sees's' of Poetry,
105.
9. Noe, fee istnece, Sense's assessmenet ofByro:

Ourssentimtsagreedeagood del, ex'ceptuponethe subjects o eli-
gin end polisics, upon either of enhich I wacs inclined en helieves
thee Lord Bytes etetined ery fixed opinins. Os politics he used
sosetimestexrepss a high strein of enhat is seen celled Liheralisse;
het t appeared tests thee she pleasure is afforded hite esea ehicle of
displeying his enis esd satire agaist individuels is oedicene eas sthe
hbeott of this hahit ofethisking. As heert, I enould hae terseed Bytes
  apatricies of principle. (John Nichol, Byros, In-Is)

Heelles's essesset, though te seere, else isseretss Bytes's pelitics is
ttems of pesnaelisy- Fee Haolist, Bytes's enpressed polisicel position enas
   isneeno sense thee esnother enxample of his enish "so shie hycotrast":
"His [Bytes's] ruling soe' is enst she loe of she people, hut of distisctin;
tnot of trush, hue oftiglaity." Is sheet, fee Haslitt Bytes enas "c pamepered
egotiss." Willieam Helits, Cempyhte Works of Williom Halits, ed. P. P. Hoe,
9:70-77.
  en. Thisfunnyhbtce sersious pemappears insLordBytn, Lor'dByron:
The Coseplee Poetical Weeks, ed. Jetoese J. Mc~enn, eel. 4. That itsenpresses
muech tense thee simeply cntempt fee Hohoue's associatios enith "she mobh"
hashbeencnicinglycarguedhby DaidV. Erdmaesis "Byronand 'he Nen
Fete of she People,' 57ff. Pee she difficulties the pes caused Bytes see
BLJ, 7:99,104.
  it. lest relyisg hers seeinly on E. P. Thomepsos, The Mehing ofthe Esglih
Woehing Clase, 451-71. Noe else R. W. Harris's comtet that "After 1807
Gnohbett, Sit Peencis Burdest, Majoe Cetwenight, Orator Hess and Prencis
Place ere she leading Redicals, esd see of them enas e revolusinacey. Their
eney net of she perplexng difficulhies of she site lcy through pariehtary
reforms." Romancsmh and she Socia Ordee, 1780-13e, 77.
  12. Quoted is Harris, Romanicism seed she Sociasl Orde, 77. It should he
seseerked thee tech cmeseents as this snoenithstanding, Cohhett did is fact
support labrhnesins, specielly later is his caeer es he heceame inceasingly



                ca8 / Notes

radicalited, theough he reisted all via/ent political actisisma. Pea Cebbett's
  veta o aunions, tee Raymosnsd Williams, Caute and Seeiety, tycotc-95e, 16-18.
  13. Williass, Ca/tare and Seciety, a9. Cobbett's statemsenst (quesed its ibid.,
t3) dates frees 1807. Pat Cebbett's chantgintg attistade, see Thaompsaon, Mabitng
cf the Englisb Weskisg Claes, 459.
  14. Fat a discuasieos ofCai ita the tight ef its pressineg ead immasediate po/iti-
cal coenst, see Edweard E. Bessetset, The Rosmantic Vest/aleqaists: Wetdca'cah,
Coeridge, Keats, Shelley, Byres, 282-91. See altoaTeensce A. Hoagsweod, Byron's
Dialectic: Skeyticissm atd she Cr/tiqae cf Ca/ste.
  as. It shoeld be nosed that ahile Byront wasesally crisical of the sadicals,
henetaaeheless seletivelyatsed theirssritinsgs andidees inahi eownsserk. Nate,
fasr instaace, his teadintg af Cabbett's Pel//ical Registet during the comapesitiona
of The Agecof Brone(1823). Itshoueldhbetnotedass'ellsthatinthet1818Westmsin-
stee eleciost Ce/abettsupported Cartserighat oes Bysron's frienad Hobhoase;
it is pattiale that this evens helped as shape Byron's prejudices.
  a/a. Ota this tepic, see Edweaed Dudley HuesJo/ansoe, "A Pelitical Iner-
petsas/tio of Byeon's Meassn Fe/aero," 417-25; and Leslie A. Matchatad, Byton'c
Pery: A Ctitical Iattodaetion, sat.
  17. The qaotation is frames/a itttdaction as A/an Ba/lee/a and Maarie
S/ass/, eds., The Liberel Ttad/icao free Fcx tc Keyns, xxi. The eeduting ie-
flatne of cersaina li/aerals as Byron is seeta, fat itastatace, in the fast that the
spigraph to Byron's The Taws Foscari is ta/aen frees S/ass/dee's The Citic.
  Al. That artists ad ins/teleastensentdorettneadesp/seelsheerte ideas
that they sejecsta anothes/levelhas baen tasted ftequent/y. See, fat inastatace,
G. V. Plekhanoe, Aat and Scicl Lfe, pasties; es Antataio Graesci, Se/ectices
frot he Pticon Noteacoks, 333
  a9. Iedeed, it ia psecisely this pseoblees that historica/ly has trouab/ed li/a-
eralthaugbt. Foeaeple, liberalhavetattetesdsrepeated/yatesoleiethir
assuesptioneofananithesisabsetwenindividualandsoiety, asell asheir
soaflicsieg tappet fast bath fe/l deesocracy ad a poerful rulieg class. Evsen
Jehn Stuass Mill's faeosea clasiftcation of libeasslise s a defeatse of inellectaal
and esosal fsrees sashes s/ae of political fssees baa ass beesatsfactory,
es the tebseqent writinags ofT. H. Gree and Leoard Heobouse (aeseng
otherss)behae sow. Ons/ais iassseeBulck/andShocka, ads., The Liberal
Tradition froms Fee ts Keynes, xxeiv-le. Poass etaeestt genesal saudy of she
csisis of liberalisesin eat eown cenasty sea Getrge Dangerfield, The Stange
Death ef Libal Rag/cand, 1910-14.
  2s. Pee a discusiona of she Estae Ta/es frees a histoeical esatesialist pet-
spectie, see Deaiel P. Was/a/as, Social Re/a/ices is Bytes's Eastern Tlac.
  et. JetromeJ. McGanta has tasted this particuar characteistic of Byrona's
iesagiatio. See JeromesJ. McGeata, "Dee/Jae" is Conseet, isa.


                ec8 / Notes

radicalised, sheagh he rsiated a/I vic/ast pa//isial ass/vitsm. Past Ce/abets's
  veta onauions, sse Rayesond Williaess, Ce/tate and Sosiety, tybe-195e, tb-a8.
  a3. Williaess, Cul/ae asd Scisty, s4. Cobbets ssetesent (quesed ita ibid.,
a3) dates frome sla7. Pet Ce/abets's chagiag ass/tue, sse Thosey n, Making
oe /anFgi/a Wotrkisg C/ess, 459.
  14. Perte discuasiona of Cain ithe/a light of its psessiag and imessdiate politi-
eel conaceras, see Edwared E. Beasesse, The Rossestic Ventiloqiss: Wotdsworeh,
Ceidge, Keas, She/bey, Byesn, 28e-9t. See alsoeTesence A. Hosagwooad, Byesn's
Dialectic: Skeyticismaned the Ctitique cf Culatr.
  as. Is shouald be tasted that es/ils Byso as su ally csisisal of she sad/eels,
henonetheltessseecielyaused thirwtigs adideas ihisseanewot. Noe,
fat instanc, his teading of Ce/abets's Po/isical Begistet dasing she coespositiona
of TheAgeof Bre(182). Isholdabesotd as wllthatines  1818tWsti-
atrs elecsionas Cobbst tepported Carssesights oers Bytes's friend Hobahouse;
itsis possaible tat shis evsest helped as shape Bysoa's prejudiss.
  t6. Oa this aspic, see Edseatd Dudley Hue Johnsona, "A Poslitisal Intes-
psetasiona of Byrona's Meassn Faeet" 07-25; ad Leslie A. Meschand, Byesn's
Poetry: A Critical Iaeroduction, sea.
  17. The quotationa is fremes/a introdustion as A/ean Bales/a and Maurie
S/ass/, ads., The Libsral Teadit/es free Fee to Keyns, exi. The endating ita-
flece of sesrta libeas ass Bytroa is sae'n fast itastance, it he fact that she
epigraph tos Byroa's The Taws Foscari is taen frees Shesidan's The Ct/tie.
  t8. Tbeasatists ad intellsctualsaoftenendorsessnsaeepleveslstheertyidas
that they sejecta enasotass Ieve has baen eased frequsnsly. See, fast instance,
C. V. Ple/ahaoe, Ar and See/el Life, pasties; ass Anstoaio Gracsi, Selseasie
free the P/asoa Nateace/s, 33
  ,9. Itadeed, is is psecisely this preobles that historiisally has troubled li/a-
etal thouaght. Pass eesple, li/sabes eattespsed sepeasedly tosle te/aia
assumsption oafeaatithesit/s tweenidiidalad soety, at elllas s/asir
conflicting tappet fast bash fall deesossasy ad a powsersful auling caea. Even
Joshn Starts Mill's faesous clariicatioa of libaeralise s ea defeatse of intellectual
eadesoalafreedomesrathertanof pliicl fredoesaahassnoteesatisfactorty,
as she saubseqasentswritings af T. H. Green and Leoarad Hob/houase (aesong
as/aers) bass abases. Oa this issue sse Ba/lee/a and Shack, ads., The Libeal
Tradition frees Fee a' Keyns, xxexie-le. Pass ean excellent geersal sudy aftas
crs/a/ of liberalismsinourownsentursysseeGeortgeDagefild, TheStange
Death ef Libal Eag/land, 1910-14.
  as. Porsaadiscstionof theaestern Tales froesaissticalmeiaisitper-
spectie, see Dataiel P. Watkias, Secial Re/es/eec is Bytes's Eastern Tales.
  2c. Jaesm J. McGeann has soed this peaicuar charatistic of Byrona's
iesagiaiona. SeesJeromesJ. McGaesn, "Donajan" is Ccaa'ext, is.


                ace / Ncts

radisalized, shouagh he rsiated all c/a/eat pol/itical actieises. Pea Ce/abets's
  veta anetnios, see Rayesond Wi/liaess, Ca/tate and Sc/say, 1780-1950e, t6-tI.
  t13. Willicess, Ca/tate and Society, 19. Ce/abets's sastessent (quoted ita i/aid.,
as) dates frees a807. Pass Ce/abets's chagiag aitude, see Thoseyns, Mea/ang
aftat Eagb/a Wet/aiag C/es, 459.
  t4. Pasta discasiona of Cain ita s/t light of its pressiag and ieseediate paslisi-
cal concernas, sea Edseatd P. Bestette, The Romatc Vent/aloquists: Wotdsa'rah,
Coeidge, Keet, Shellsy, Byesn, 28e-9t. See alsosTassess A. Haegseead, Byesn's
Dia/tetic: Skesyticism and a/as Ctiqus of Ca/tae.
  a5. Is shouald be eased that se/ils Byso asa s ually critical of a/as tadicals,
heanonethelessslecielysedsthirseritigs adidasihisssensewor/. Noe,
fast intae, his teed/ag of Ce/abets's Pa//a/eel Rsg/sat des/ag she coespositiona
of TheAge fBonze(823).Ittshouldbeanotedeaswell/thatinathet1818Wstmein-
tct sleet/eat Cobbetst tepported Castights ses Byrone's fr/sad Hobahoase;
ia/is pass//ale shatth/s eents hes/ped as shae Bysron's psejudies.
  s/a. Os sb/s sepic, sse Edseard Dudlsy Hue Joshnson, "A Ps/is/cal Iaset-
pastes/eta of Byrona's Meassn Fe/acrs," 417-e5; and Lsslis A. Mete/aced, Byesn's
Petry: A C/atical Introdact/es, tea.
  17. The qeationas is fremesas iantrodusion so A/can Ba//ass/ and Mae/ace
Shea/a, ads., Ths L/bea Teads/ca free Fee a' Keyns, xxi. Ths saduting ita-
flec of erase/a/abae/asso Bytron is seea, farstace, it he facts/ats/as
ep/graph as Bytroa's The Ta's Fosca/a is sakena frees S/act/daa's The Ctc.
  a8. That assists andinellectualtsoftenaendoresona deepleel theeryvides
thea heyarejectoanoaher/levesl/hasaenoed frqenly. See, foristance,
G. V. Plekahataoe, Art and Sec/el Life, pass/es; ass Antonioa Gsressci, Se/ecn/ce
free abs Prsse Noebace/s, 333.
  as. Indeed, is is precisely this psroblses that hitotically has tease/a/d li/a-
stal thoueght. Pass exameple, 1/beta/s bae atteespted aepeatedly so tess/e the/s
assption of an ast/thesis besseen indiv/dal and see/say, as well as theit
confalitingsupportfors/bothafuldesoacyand apowserflruligcass. Pet
Joshn Start MiS's feaous cla/aficatiasa ofliaeralise s ea defease osf iastesetal
andesoralfredomesatherthanf poltiafredomeshassnotseensatsfctoy,
as s/as subasequent set/tgs of T. H. Geee and Leoard Hos/bhouse (aesong
ass/acs) bae shosen. Oa s/a/s issac see Be/lee/a and Shea/a, eds., The L/bal
Treda/ca free Fee to Keyns, xxx/e-e. Pass ean exe//ent geersal seudy of she
erss of libasme ita east sea sentsry sse Georage Dangetfield, The Serange
Dceath ofLibsel Engleand, a910-a4.
  2e. Passa ed/tsuseo of s/easRstae Ta/as frees a h/stat/sal mesaclist pet-
spectie, sse Data/a/F. Was/a/as, See/al Re/at/osc/a Byesn's Eastern Tales.
  21eroteJ. McGeann has eased s/a/a pat/cuaa charetistic osfByron's
iesagiation. SseeJeromeeJ. McGeann, "DonaJuean" is Conset, is.






  22. Arnold Haoter, The Social Hisorey of At: Rococo, Cltsicism, Romatoicism,
3:170.
  23. Friedrich Schlegel, Lectueson the Hisory of Litertuore Aocient cod Mod-
e00, 33.
  24. Ibid., 422.
  25. Thocmto Cam0pbell, Cyclopoedia of Eglisho Poetry, 59-60.
  26. Hit attitudetowr dthe loethemeis maodoooxplicit in The Dieformced
Traoformced which beaks off precisely at tha omn w000ohenolove intrudes
andtheatensto becomoe adominat isse.
  27. On Byron's adheence to the draai unoitiesosee Samooel C. Cheow,
The Dramasoof Lordyron.
  28. It it curious, aod indicativ'eofhis cmethod ofoselectioo, thatfByronhee
it qooting feocm Dryden (os repreented in Sooooeljohnoo'o Lies of the Poets),
w'ho relies very heavily onthe love themeo in histw tragedies.
  29. Io BLJ, 8:218, foe intanotce, Byronstates that hit dramas0 are more0in
line with Alfieri's systemo than with ehe Eglish.
   30. Qootations frotm Ctin are takeo froot Trumooo Coy Steifton, ed., Lord
Byro'"Cain":U Tweelve Essayand2aText with VrintndAnottions.
   30. Foea ointeretig dicusoof ciethtmy haviflueced Byro,
see Aristtle's Politico, Book 2.
   32. l2am here, of course,echoing KarIMarxoinhispeface to ACotrbton
to the Ceitique of Political Economy, 21.
   33.lIom0it Cain fromthis discussionhcause hetweenothem0Bosterter and
Hoagw'ood havealeady coveedomuch ofthe groundthattIconsideroe
mo000 imoportant to uoderstanding that play's social ditoettoiotto. Soe Bootetter,
Roantic Ventriloquists; ond Hoogo'ood, Byeon's Ditlectic.
   34. Moechoand, Byron:; A Poeeait, 252-53.
   35 Bootetoe, Romtantic Vetriloquists, 278.
   36. Poe stoaiced ood persutsive atnolysis of the relations heto'eoo the
world of spirits ood psychological anod hiographical cottsideeatiotts, s00 Stooet
Sperry, "Byroo tood the Meaoiog of 'Moatfeed,"' 89-20o2.
   37 All qoototioco froos Manfred 200 tokoo frooo Byeoo, Comeplete Pootiool
Works, vol. 4. Act, sceoe, and li00 nuoobers 200 cited pareecthetically ic oheotoot.
   38. M. I. Pieley, "Utopiacismo Acent ted Moderc," 3-20.
   39. See, foreooople, Byron'solettereto John Moreay, Aogoot 02, 0820, which
refersoto the "ma~le Tadpole of Poet Tordsorth" (BLJ, 7158).
   40. Edmaoo, "Byront aod 'The Newc Force of the People,' 4.
   41. See, foe intanotce, BoleslawoTaohoski, Byron and0 the Theatr0, eo8ff.; Moe-
chocd,Byron'soPoetry:A Ciicatlltrtodctio,38-tot; PetereJ. Mannciog, Byrooond
i Picto, 107-22; Jeromte J. Mc~ooo, Piery Dot: Byron's Poetic Decelopmeco,
205-16;Edward Dudley HumteJohon, "A Politicol Interpretation of Byo's


   22. Aernold Htooee, The Social History of At: Rococo, Classoiciosm, Romantticisme,
3:170.
   23. Feiedeich Schlegel, Lectores on the Hisory of Litertee Antcient antd Mod-
e00, 33.
   24. [hid., 802.
   23. Thomast Camtphell, Cyclopoedia of Englesh Poetty, 59-60.
   o6. Hit toioode tooted the loee themoe it matde explicit ic The Defoecmed
Teransfoedwhicheksoff pecielytthttmomet when loeitrudes
tandtheatenstoohecomoetadoonttttstoe.
   27. On Byrono's adheece to the deraoatic ooities tee S000001 C. Cheow,
The Detacto of Lord Byron.
   28. It i coetoo, and icdicative of hit tmethod ofoselectioc, that Byroc here
it quoticg froos Deydec (to repreented ic Samuoel Johnsoc'o Lieo of the Poets),
woho elies 0007 heavily oc the love theome in hit owc otgedies.
   23. Ic BL, 8:218, foe icstacce, Byron 002000 thtt hit detamto are000000in
lice wtith Alfieri'o systeme thoc weith the Englith.
   30. Qotatiooo feomo Caid tee taken fromo Teocmoc Coy Soeffoc, ed., Lord
Byeoc's "Coic": Twelve Essayo and2a Teot widh Vaeiants aned Annottions.
   30. Foe tncicteestingdiscossiooof criomethtmayhaeifluoecedByro,
tee Aeiototle's Politico, Book z
   32. 1lamohere, of coorse,echoingKal Marxoihipeftce to ACotibotion
to the Critique of Political Ecoomy, 21.
   33. [00080 Caoic from0thitdiscussiohecusehbetweenthem Bostettereand
Hoagwoood have aleady covered cmoch of the ground that I conoider to he
  motimportattto ooderstacdiog that playts tocial dicmeooioos. See Booteotee,
Romanttic Ventriloqoiots; ted Hoogwtood, Byron's Dilectic.
   34. Mtrchand, Byron: A Portrai, 252-53.
   35. Botettee, Romanotic V/entriloquioo, 278.
   30. Fore  suostiedad persoasivetanlyisofheelaionshbetweec the
orld of spirits ted poychologicad tod biographical cocoideettioco, tee Stuatt
Sperry, "Byron tcd the Meaning of Maefred,"' 189-202.
   37 ABl qootatioco Broo Manfred tee tthen Broo Byroc, Comcplete Poetical
Wotks, 001. 4. Act, scene, and lineonumberstateecited parenothetictlly in the toot.
   38. M. I. Ficley, "Utopiacismo Accieno and Modeen," 3-20.
   39. See, forexamcple, Byeoc'stlettereto Joho Murray, Aogost 12, 0820, which
refees to the "meTadpole of Poet Tordsoworth" (BLJ, 7:038).
   40. Edmatn, "Byeoc ted 'The Noew Foece of the People,' 54.
   40. See, foe ionstcnce, BoleslacoTaborski,RByronand the Theatre, 08ff.; Mar-
chaod, Bytoc'sPoetry: A Citicaol Introduction, 98-tot; Peterej. Macnieg, Byron 20d
His Fictions, 007-22; Jeromeej. Mcoonn, Piery Dost: Byron's Poetic Developmcent,
205-16; Edwared Ddley Hum0eJoho, "A Politicallcnterpretationcof Byo'


   22. Aecold Hause, The Social History ofArt: Rococo, Classicisc, Romatcticisc,
3:170.
  23. Feiedrich Schlegel, Lectuoeo ont the Hisory of Literturoe Ancient anod Mod-
e00, 33.
  24. [hid., 422.
  25. Thocmto Ctamphell, Cyclopoedia of English Poetry, 59-60.
  26. Hit ttitode towartd the loee theome it moade explicit ic The Defcoed
Transfomed,hicheks   off pecielytthttmomenct whecloeitrdes
acd thetecotohecomsetadom0inatotisse.
  27. On Byrocts adheence to the dramattic unities tee Stcmoel C. Choew,
The Drtamao of Lord Byron.
   28. It it corioos, acd iodicative of hit moethod ofoselectioc, thatByeonhee
it qooting Brom Deydee (20 repeentoed in SamuoelJohco's Liveo of the Poes),
who res 0007 heteily on the looe themee io hit owec tgedies.
   29. Ic BL, 8: zt8, foe icotance, Byron 000000 that hit detamts ar0 00000i
lice weith Alfieri's systeme thac woith the Ecglioh.
   30. Qotatioco Brom Ctin tee thkec Brom Teocmtn Coy Soeffac, ed., Lord
Byron'o "Cin": Twele EssayoandtaTextowith Vritsotnd Annottion.
   31. Poe tc iteesticgdicossioc of ciomethtmy haeifleced Byo,
tee Arisotole's Poliics, Book 2.
   32. Iam0here, of course,echoicg KarlMarxoihipefce toACotribtion
to the Citiqoe of Political Economcy, 20.
   33. l omit Cainfromethisdicusionecaose betweenthemoBotetter ted
Hoagood haoetaleady coveredmoch ofthe geoucdthatlIconidee tohe
00000 imopoetant to understanding tht play's social dimtensiocs. See Booteotee,
Rocmtntic Ventriloqoist; ted Hotgweood, Byron'o Dilectic.
   34. Marchand, Byon:APootrat, 252-53"
   35. Booteotee, Romanotic Vetrildoqodot, 278.
   36.Fore utaoinedcnd peesuaoiovelyiof theerelationstheteenothe
orld of opiriots acd poychologictl ted biogeophicol conoideettioco, tee Stat
Speery, "Byroc acd the Metcing of 'Maofred,' 189-202.
   37 All qoootations Brom Mtfred tee takeo from Byroo, Comoplete Poetictl
Wotho, ol4. Act, ocece, acdlieooumhers tee citedpteenthetictlly in the toot.
   38. M. 1. Picley, "Utopianisom Ancieco an0d Modeen," 3-20.
   39. See, forexamtple, Byron's leoteeto joho Moeroy, Aogust 12, 18to, which
eefees to the "matle Todpole of Poet Toedsoroth" (BLJ, 7:038).
   40. Erdmanc, "Byroc acd 'The Noew Poece of the People,' 54.
   40. See, foe inotance, BoleslaweTaorsi, Byron and the Thete, oo8ff.; Mte-
chand, Byon's Poetry: ACticl troductio, 98-tot; PeterJ. Manning,Ryontad
His Pictioco, m07-22; Je0ome0J. McGtnn, Piety Doot: Byroo'o Poetic Developmcect,
205-16; Edowted Dodley Hum0eJohnon, "A Political Ionterpetation of Byeoc'o



                230 / Notes

Marinto Palieto," 417-25; Thottas L. Athteon, "Marino Paliero: Byrotn's 'Petsy
of Politict,"' 1-13; atnd Cadl Woodritng, Politica int Englisht Romtatttic Peetty, a8t-
86. Morcnt stodiet hate heguan to ptaeeide helpfutl discussion of the playts
social dimnttsiotnt. See especially A. B. Etnglatnd, "Bytotat Maritne Pain's anad
the Potce ef Itndieidual Agency," 95-122.
42. All qttotatiest ftotm Marito Faliero are taken frott Byeeoa, Comsplete
Poetical Wotho, eel. 4. Act, scenle, and line nuombtees ate cited int the tent.
43. Qoted in Byroots peefaee te the play. See Byron, Complete Poetical
Werho, 4:010.
44. Chew', Graas of Lord Bytes, 92.
45. B. G. Tandon, ThelnmagerysofLord yron'sPlays,068.
46. M. K. Joseph, Bysen the Poet, 113; Paul Wet, Byres and the Speiler'a At,
102; and Woodring, Polities in English Romntic Petry, s8t.
47. Andreew Roshetfotd, Byron: A Criticsl Stody, 186. The dramnasic action,
indeed, is latgely nnental. Nose Byron's lettet to Murray in Aogust 182:aa
wans so nnake a tegular English deata-no mttset whesher fat the Stage or
not-wchich is not mny ohject-hnt a onensal sheasre" (EL]. 8:186-87)..
48. Mc~ann, Piety Gaol, 207.
49. Peancis M. Doheety, Byson, 97; and Manning, Byron and His icions, 135.
  50. Qootations frona Sardanapalas ate sahen Penm Byron, Works of Lord
Byron: Poery,evol. 5. Act, scene, and line nonmheOs atecisedinsthestent.
  51. Fot a hdlpfol dincossion of these and osher mnattees an they redate so she
issue of gtndee, see Wolfson, "'A Prohlemt Few Date Intitase': Sar'damapalus
and 'Effeneinate Chaeactee,"' 867-902.
  52. Mc~ann, Piety Dust, 218.
  53. See, foe instance, Chew, Dranas of Lord Bytes, too; Matchand, Bytos's
Poetry, coa; oe John W. Ehstine, The Metephysico of Byron: A Reading of the
Plays, 69.
  54. Qootationn frone The Toosoari ate tahen frone Byron, Worhs of Lead
Eyron: Poetry, vol. 5. Act, scene, and line numees ate cited patenthetically in
she tent.
  55 See Mc~ann's commnents in Piety Dust, 220.
  56.Stethe echangehetween Loedano and Barbarigo (U.9-8), o
Marina's commnents to she doge (Ili. 156-67, 181-83).
  57. Bottsteer, Ronantic Ventriloqaists, 287.
  58. Enostetter nonstop Cain's social inoterests in this way: "The tyrant God
wnith hit meask of henevolence teas incorporated into the social structure. The
deterneiniste imeplied in the story of the Pall-that she honean tace teats for-
teversuffee foe the wailful dinohedience of its peogecitoes, encept foe whatever
alleviation God in his teecy is wcilling to peovide-wnas used so achieve ac-
quiescence of the individoal inhin paeticularlot aodto ensote she prseetatton
and stahility of teaditional social oeganization. Any peohing oe qoestioning of


                230 / Notes

Matins PFaliero," 417-25; Thoteat L. Ashton, "Moarino Faliero: Byton's 'Poesey
of Pohtics,' 1-13; and Cael Woodring, Politics in English Ronantic Poetty, t81-
86. Mote recent stodies hone hegon so peovide helpfol discussion of the play's
soctal dineensionn. See enpecially A. B. England, "Byton's Marins Faliero and
the Poece of Individoal Agency," 95-122.
42. All qotsations frone Matins Falieno aee sahen frone Byron, Conylese
Peical Worhs, vol. 4. Act, scene, and line numers are cited din she tent.
43. Qosed in Byronts peeface to the play. See Eyeoo, Conlee Poetical
Worhs, 4:301.
44. Chew, Grames of Lord Byten, 92.
45 B. G. Taodoo, The Inagery sf Lord Byron's Plays, 68.
46. M. K. Joseph, Bytes she Pet, 113; Paol Wet, Eyten end she Spoiler's Ant,
coa; and Woodeing, Politics in English Ronantik Poetry, s8t.
47. Andew Rotherford, Eyten: A Crtical Study, a86. The drameatic action,
indeed, is largely neental. Note Byton's lessee so Morray in Auguss 182t: "I
swant so meahe a reguar English drama-no mteaset wheshee foe she Stage ot
not-which is not meyohject-hot a maental sheatre" (ELJ, 8:186-8)..
48. McGann, Piety Dust, 207.
49. Francis M. Doheety,yron, 97; and Manning,yrnndiicion,15.
so. Qotatioos Brone Seedampalus ate taken Brone Byron, Werhs of Loed
Eyron: Poety,evol. 5. Act, scene, and linenumees are cited in she tent.
51. Foe a helpfnl discossion of these and oshee neassets as they telate to the
isote of gendee, tee Wolfton, "'A Prohlem Pete Date Iteitatt': Sardamepalas
and 'Effemeinase Character,"' 867-902.
  52. Mc~ann, Piery Dust, at8.
  53. See, foe instance, Chew', Geanas ofLord Byten, too; Marchand, Bytes's
Poetry, sea; oreJohn W. Ehessiot, The Mesaphysies of Eyten: A Reading of she
Plays, 69.
  54. Qosasions Brone The Tas Foscari ate taken Pete Byton, Workts of Lord
EyreoPoetsry,vol. 5. Act, scene, and line numersaecited parenthetically in
she tent.
  55. See Mc~ann's comens in Piety Doss, 22o.
  56. See she exchange hetw'een Loredano and Batharigo (Li.9-18), oc
Matina's conenents to she doge (Ili. 156-67,181-83).
  57. Bostessee, Rossansic Venteiloquistn, 287.
  58. Bostetsee tones op Cain's social in terests in this way: "The tyrant God
wcithhisnmash ofheneolence waanincorporated intosthesocial stroctote.The
deteerminisne imeplied in she story of she Pall-that she honean tact teats foe-
teversuffee foe the weilfol disohedience of its peogenisoes, enceps foe wchasecee
alleciasion God in his meecy is wcilling so ptovide-w'as uased to achietetac-
qoiecence of the individual inhis particolarelotandto ensore the ptetetvation
and stahility of seadisional social organization. Any prohing oe quettioning of


                23o / Notst

Macins Faliete," 417-25; Thomeas L. Ashton, "Matins Falieteo: Bytonts 'Poetey
of Politics,' t-13; and Cadl Woodeing, Politic in English RonanticPetry, 181-
86. Mote recent studies hoot hegon so provide helpfol discossion of the play's
social dimeensions. See especially A. B. England, "Byton's Maino Paliero and
she Poece of Indit'idual Agency," 95-122.
42. All qosasions Brone Maciso Paliero ate sakec Pete Byton, Conylete
Poetical Works,evol. 4. Acs, scene, aodhlne numers aretedinsthesexe.
43. Quoted in Byron's preface so she play. See Byron, Comylete Pesical
Wochs, 4:301.
44. Chew, Dtenas of Lord Eyten, 92.
45 B. G. Tandon, The Imsagery of Lard Eyten's Plays, 68.
46. M. K. Joseph, Bytes the Poet, 113; Paol West, Bytes and she Spoiles Ant,
102; and Woodeing, Peoiics in English Romantic Poetry, t8t.
47. Andentoheefoed, Eyten: A Creical Stady, t86. The drameatic action,
indeed, is laredy mental. Note Byron'sletterto Murrayin Agst 18a1: "I
scans so meahe a reguar English drama-no neasset wheshee foe she Stage or
not-which is not ney ohject-hus a neental sheasee" (ELJ, 8:186-87)..
48. McGann, Piety Doss, 207.
49. Peancis M. Doheesy, Eyten, 97; and Manning, ByronsandHis iction, 135.
  5o. Qotaiont feome Saedanapahus ate tahen Brone Byron, Wors ef Lord
Bycro Poetry, vol. 5. Act, scene, and line numees ate cited in she sect.
  5t. Poe a helpful discossioc of these and oshee neatters as they elate to the
issue of gendee, see Wolfson, "'A Prohlene Pete Date Ineitate': Sacdanapalus
and 'Effemeinate Character,"' 867-9o2.
  52. Mc~ann, Piety Donst, as8.
  53. See, foe instaoce, Chew, Dranas ef Lord Eyten, too; Matehand, Eyten's
Poetry, 102; ot Joho W. Ehessine, The Metaphysics of Eyteo A Readisg of she
Plays, 69.
  54. Qootatione Brone The Toocaai are takec feone Byton, Wochs of Lerd
Eyteo Poetry, col. 5. Act, scene, and Stat numees ate cited patenshesically in
the tent.
  55. See Mc~anc's commnents in Piety Gaot, 220.
  56. See the exchange hetween Loredano and Barharigo (Ii.9-18), o
Marina's comens so she doge (lli. t56-67, t8t-83).
  57. Bossettee, Romntic Ventsisoqaioo, 287.
  58. Bosttette usup Cain'ssocial intereststin thisay: "The tyat God
wnith hisnmash ofhbenevolnceawas incorporated into thesocial steuctureeThe
desernminitne imeplied in she tory of she Pall-has she honean tact teats foe-
ever toffee foe she wcilfol ditohediecce of its progenitors, enceps foe wchaseee
alleviasion God in his tercy it willing so provide-wcas osed so achieve ac-
quiescence of she individual in his paesiculat lot and to ensuetshe preservation
andtstabilityof taditioalocial oganiation. Any prohing orqoestioning of





the myth bechea hreat othdsocioderiadoiniid      altraqility, and
oaly proscmbined      n on the quetioner andsilence himodive
him out." Ibid., 286-87. See olso Steffan's essay ino hit Lord Byron's "Gain,"
26-65; antd W. Z. Hirst, "Byron't Lopse into Orthodoxy: An Un orthodox
Readinog of Cain," 151-72.
   59 All quotations from Heaveo and Earmh are tokentfrom Byron, Works of
LordfByron: P~oety, vol.s 5 . tscen, and linenumbers arectd parhticlly
in the text.
   6 . It should 62 noted thot this senimtorclls the Romantic preoccupo-
tio with the dyintg w'orld and tb  last, isolated individool ino thot world. See,
for instonce, the writings of Thomot Compbell, Mary Shelley, and Byroto
himself (int Darkss).
   61. Sme Chew, Drms of LordByron, v.Note also Robert F. GSeckner's
          mrreetcmetthat Werner it mainly "melodromotic claptrop," ino Byron
andthe RinsoflPardise, 318n. A morepositiveoand to my mhtd morecrdile
assesment of the ploy hms beeno offered by Manning in Byron and His Fictons,
159-70.
   62.PmFo cntmporarytnegative assessmentsethetbrevisinThe Edm-
burgh.Monmhly Review, The British Critic, Lady'o Magazine, Literary Choile and
Weekly, Monthly Cmnor , Monthly Magazine, Monthly Review', New' Mothly Maga-
zine, oand Sco'sMagazine, comnpiledinoDonald H. Reimmo, ed., The Romanmics
Reviewe d: Cmntemporary Reviews of Briish Romantic WVriters Part B yron and
R~egencySociety Poet.
   63. Quoted inoRiman, Romantics Reviewed, 4:1656.
   64. Wit rspect to psychological readinoth e play, F. H. Coleridge's
introdcoroy commnts are typial "thmoif-a onmpredestineto evil by
th  weokness ond sensuality ofhis fother, a fo 6 r potoished fo  hit waom of
rectitude by the passionte criminality of bis too, isth ver  y key-ote of
trogedy" (Byrmt, Worbs of Lord Byron: Poetry, 5:328). At appealintg as thists
sesmemamy be,it isenirly mileading. Not, for intance,bttUlric is
a banodit before he it faced with bit father; anod Werner  it tromng rather tbhan
weaok instofar ashe defies conventiont in marrying hbtteoth himtelf. Fortber, it
istimportanttoremember tbotWerner'smwekene~d character istt ofoaman
who hasbeen peniless for twe lveyears. Suchpersonaolandsocial factsas
these, I believe, determine  th  meaninog ofth  ploy, yet they are igored by
mot psychologicol interpr totions.
   65. Altboogb h does not explore it ino detail, Knoigbt hot recogn ioed thit
connectintinthe plybetweenoidiidol cime odscil raliy:"Werter
comestneortosggsting that we are all potentially, o  perhops inetab~oly,
retponstible, directly tot indirectly, for crime." S 2 Kntight, Byron and Shake-
spmare, 8 .
   66. Tbhere he bennmerous, mottly negativ, studies of Byro' use of


                            N~oes/ it

the myth became a thr at to the sociol order and to intdividual tranquility, an d
to all personst combine~d to turn  on the quetioner oand silence him or drive
him ot." Ibid., 086-87. Se  01 0 Steffan's ettoy int hit Lord Byron's "Coino,"
26-65; oand W. 7. Hirst, "Byront't Lopse itoto Grthodoxy: Ano Unothodox
Reading of Caint," 151-72.
   59. All qotationst from Heaven and Eartar o takentfromfyont, Worksof
Lord Byron:P'otry, vol. S. Act,  c n , antdlineoomberstare ited parentheiclly
itetext 20.
   6 . It thould 6  oted thot thit sentimentt recallsth 6 Romanotic preoccupa-
tionomwith the dyintgmworldoandthe latt, itolated individual intht old. 62 ,
for intance ,  6  wr~itings of Thomat Campbell, Mary Shelley, oaod Blyron
himself (in Darbness).
   61. S2 Chewo, Drmas of Lord Byron, v. Note 01s0 R~obert F. leckner 's
more recent commentbo tha Weneritmoinly "melodramaticlptrap," in Byron
andtheRuinsoof Paradise, 318o. A more positiveand to my mind more credible
otsetsmentt of th  ploy hot be o offered by Mannting ino Byron and His Fictions,
159-70.
   62. Foron temporaryonegtive atsessmnttteethe reviews inThe Edio-
6ot96.Moothly Review , The British Crioic, Lady's Magazine, Literary Chroile and
Weekly, Mothly Ceno, Mothly Magaoin, Moothly Revieo, New' Monthly Mago-
zine, an d Scott's Magazine, compided int Donaold H. Reoiman,  d., The Romanohc
Revieowed: Contemporary Reviewso ofBitish RomantSic Writers. Part B.- Byron and
Regency Soiety Poets.
   63. Qoted inoReiman, Romaooic  Reviewe d, 4:1656.
   64. With respect to psycbologicol reodings of th  ploy, 6. H. Coleridge's
itroductorycomments are typial "h motf aon predestinedto evil by
6   weaoknesst oand sensuality of bit father, o father punished fo  hit want of
r ctitode by 6 pasionte crimittolity of bit too, isth  6 ery key-note of
tragedy" (Byrono, Worbs of LordByon: Pootry, 538). At appealin~g 0s thists
sesment moy be, it it entirely misleading. Note, f0  instance , ohat Ulric it
aoboandit before heisofacedwithbhisfother;oand Werner is togratherthan
weakinstofar asthedefiestconventionointmarryingpbeneth himslf. Further, 6t
is important toremember that Werner 'sweakenedcharacteristt   ofoaman
who hb    een  tpennilessfor twe lveyears. Suchpersonaloandsoial factsas
   thsI believe, determinthe 6 meoinof 0t e ploy, yet they are igntored by
   motpsychological iter~pretationst.
   65. Althou~gh he does no  explore it int detoil, Knight hot recogniz d thit
connec tiontintthe ply btweenoindividual crimeandtoilrealty: "Werner
comes nearttoosggetting thot we a e a11 potentially, 0  perhapstinevitably,
responstibl, directly 0  intdirectly, fo  crime." See Knight, Byron and4 Shoke-
opeare, 8 .
   66. Ther hebeenb onumerous, motlynegtive, tuodies of Byroo ' ouse f


                            Noteo/ z,t

the myth became aothreot othesocial orderandto individualtranqoiiy,oand
to all persons combine~d to turn  on6th questionerand silence him or drive
him out." Ibid., 286-87. 622 01 0 Steffan't essay in 66s Lord Byron's "Coino,'
o6-65; and W. Z. Hirst, "Byron's Lopse  into Orthodoxy: An Unorthodox
Readintg of Coain," 151-72.
   59. All quottionsfomoHeavenoad rth are takenofrom Byo, Worksoof
Lord Byron:Potry, vol.5S. Act, scene, oatdlioeoomb  t are citedparentheticolly

  6 . It thoold 6  n oted thot this setiment recolls  6  Romonic preoccupa-
tiontwith the dyig woldand the lst, isolated individoal inothatoworld. 5ee,
for instance, 6 winitgs of Thomot Campbell, Mary Shelley, oand Byron
himself (ino Darkness).
   6r. See Chew, Droamao of LordByron, v. Note als  Robert F. Gleckner 's
         mrrcetcmetthot Werneris moinly "melodramaoic claptrap," in Byron
an dthe Ruins of Paradise, 318n. A more poitive and4 to my minod mo   credible
assessmenot of th  ploy boo beeno offered by Manminog ino Byron and Hi6 Ficoions,
159-70-
   65. Forotemporary negative ossessmentsoethe 6revoiewsinoThe Edino-
borgh.Monthly Rev iew, The Briish Critic, Lady's Mogazone, Litermry Chronicle ond
Weebly, Monthly Ceno, Monthly Magaoine, Monthly Review', Newo Mothly Maga-
ohne, aod Scott's Magaoine, compiled ho Dottold H. Reimato, ed., The Romanoic
Rev iewed: Comtemp oay Reviewso ofBroitish Romanic Writers. Part B: Byroo and
Regency Society Poets.
   63. Qu oted inRimano, RomanticsoReviewe d, 4:1656.
   64. With respect to ptychological readingt of  6e ploy, E. H. Coleridge's
introduc~torycommets ar  typical "themooif-asopredestinedtooevil by
6   weokttsm aod sensuaoity of hit fooher, a father punished for hiswattof
rectituode by the possionaote criminaolity of hit ton, isth  6 er y key-noote of
trogedy" (Byroo, Works of Lord Bymon: Poetry, 5:328). As appeling asthi asit
setsmentt may be, it it entirely misleodingp. Note, for intance , thot Ulric it
obottdit bfore he isfacdithifthr; ad Werner isostrttg rtherothan
weaokinstofarashe dfies onventionoinomarryinog beneathhimself. Further,it
is impotttormmber tht Weroe'sweakened haracterithatofoaman
who hastbeen penilessfor twlveyear. Suhperonaolado~il factsas
these, I believe, determinthe 6 meanoing of  6  ploy, yet they ore igor d by
moot psychological interpretotions.
   65. ASthoogh 6 doet tnot explore it ino detoil, Koight hot recognoized  6is
connton in the play btweenoinodividualcrimeandoilreliy:Werner
comesonearttosggesing thot ow are oll potent~ially, 0  perhaps ineviitably,
respotosible, dir ctly 0  inodirectly, f0  crime." 6 2 Knoight, Byron 0and Shake-
opeare, 6 .
   66. There have beenotnumerous, mostly negative, stodies of Byroo't ote of



232 /                                    wote .32 /I Noe                            / oe


   hi ore.I amrlyinsg onE. H. Coleridge'stintroductor-ycomments tothe
play in Byrons, Worsl of Lord Bytes; Poerp, 5:325-33; but also seT. H. Vail
Motter, "Byrots's Werster Re-estimtated: A Neglected Chapter its Nineteetsh
Century Stage Hittory," 243-75.
67. It sholdeoted, he,tht Byron isntmpletelyconistentin
orderinghimteials. RefernctoPrguedo appearinothese scenes (see, for
instance, V.ii.49), vciolatitng it some degeee the play's coherence. Note E. H.
Coleridge's eemaek: "The Tbiety Yeaes' Was dates from the capture of Pilsetn
by Manssfeld, Novcember 21, 1h18, aed did not tend till the Peace of Westphalia,
October 04, 1648. The inscident recortded it act v, a slm  o  mmrto
ofthe Treaty of Prague, mass hate taketn place ins 165 Bet ie Wermer thete is
little or no attempt 'to follow history"' (Byron, Worba of Lord Bytes; Poetry,
5:340)-
68. See Theodore K. Rabh, The Stmugglefor Stability in Earlp Modemn Eatope,
u59.
69. Gieoeges Pages, The Thirty Yeoes' Woe 1618-1648, a50.
70. Ibid., 17.
71. Hacmer, Social History of An, toy0, too.
72. Quotations from Wemner ace taboo from Byron, Works of Lord Bytes;
Poetry, vol. S. Act, scoot, and linteanmbers areecited pareotheticallyinothe teet.
73. Mote's insight on this tobject it helpfol: ho understands that crime "is
cot the result of poe arbitrariness," bat rather it a sign of "the stroggle of the
isolated individual against she predominant relations." See Karl Mate, list
Germsat Ideology, 349.
74. hoe Mace, Costeihution so the Crtiiqae ofPolticol Ecoooy, at; cott also
Louit Wirth's comment that "The most important thing ... that me coo bom
oboes a mat is wehat he takes forsgranted, andst most elemental and im-
portant facts abotasociety ace those that areoseldom debated aod getnerally
regarded as setsled." Qosed intshe peeface so Karl Mannheim, Ideology and
Utopia: An Introductios so she Sociology of Knowoledge, eeii-xxiii.
  75. Peom Karl Mate, A Contrihationtso she Ceisique of Hegel'o Philosophy of
Right, it Karl Mace; Farly Writins, 044.
  76. My discussion of she social dynamics of family Oift is indebted so Eli
Zasetsky, Capisaliot, she Foeily, and Petrsal Life.
  77. Is shoold be noted shot intshe conexte of Werer'cs wtorld she unspoben
hosor of Ulric's condocs is cot simply that ho commits acts oftiolence, has
shot ho plunders she nobility cachet thantshe lowee orders; this is the majoc
dissinction bosween his assisode and Wernec's: Werer showt regard foc a
hexed, hierarchical social strctsuce (cote, foc instance, his penance foe stealing
Stralenheim's gold), while Ulcic pays allegiance oly so individual strength.
This constitutes a difference of de gcee cashes chat of kind.
  78. Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia, 3.


his sousces. l am relying 00 P. H. Colecidge's introdactory commenss so she
play it Byton, Wotko of Lord Byros; Poetry, 5325a-33; hot also see T. H. Vail
Mosses, "Bycon's Wernet Re-estimated A Neglcsed Chaptes in Nineteenth
Censury Stage Hissoty," a43-75.
hy. Itsshcouldbeooted, howeverc, that Byron is not completely consistenttin
osdering his matesials. Referencessto Prague do appeac it these scoots (see, for
instance, V. ii. 49), violasing it some degre she play's coberence. Note P. H.
Colesidge's semark; "The Thirty Yeas' Woe dates from she capture of Pilsen
by Mansfeld, Noembes21,s1618, and didotsend till she Peace of Westphalia,
Octobee 24, 1648. The inciden c or cded it actvaslm    co    eortn
oftheTreasy of Pragu, moot bate taken plattins635. Bas ic Werstertshere is
little cc no attempt 'so follom hissory' (Bysron, Wotbo of Lord Bytes; Poetry,
3:340).
68. SeTheodore K. Rabb, The Stmuggle for Stability is Fatly Modem Ermps,

69. Gorges Pages, The Thity Yetr' Wat 168I-168, 030.
  70. Ibid., 17.
  71. Hauser, Social History of Ant,0,12
  72. Qotsasions from Wemner ace saken from Byron, Works ofLordfByton:
Potry, vol. S. Act, scoot, and hone combers ae cited parenshetically it the tees.
73. Mace's insight cc this subjecs is helpful: he coderstands that cri~me "is
cot she result of pate arbitrariness," bat cashes is a sign of "she struggle of the
isolated indiv'idualagainstthe pedominantsrelations."SoeeKal Ma, The
Germas Ideology, 349.
74. See Mace, Cotribution to the Crisiqat of Political Rconsomy, as; cote also
LouistWirth's commens that "The most imporsans thing ... shot me coo bom
oboes a man is what ho takes foe granted, and she most elemental and im-
portantfctssaboutsa scietyae thosesthasoaeseldom debated and generally
segared as sessled." Qotsed intshe preface so Karl Mannheim, Ideology and
Utopia; As Isseoduosios so the Sociology of Knoledge, cost-costs.
  75. Prom Karl Mace, A Conttihutiot to the Critiqat of Hegel's Philosophy of
Right, it Keel Mote; Eatly Writins, 044.
  76. My discussion of the social dynamics of famdly life is indebted so Eli
Zaresky, Capitalhet, the Pamtily, and Peronal Life.
  77. Is should be noted that intshe context of Wernee s world she unspoben
hoeroe of Uleic's conducs is cot simply that be commits acts ofeilence, hot
chat he plundess she nobility cashecc thantshe lowoters; this is she majos
dissinction between his atttude and Werners; Wteereshowseegard for a
flood, hierarchical social structure (cots, forcinssace, his penance fee stealing
Stealenheim's gold), while Uleic pays allegiace only so indiidual strength.
This conssituses a difference of dogee caches that of kind.
  78. Moncheim, Ideology and Utopia, 3.


his sources. Ilamerelying on E. H. Coleridge's introductory comments so she
play it Byron, Works of Lord Bytes; Poesry, 53250-33; has also see T. H. Vail
Mottee, "Byron's Wemner Re-estimated A Neglected Chapser it Nineceensh
Century Stage History," 043-73.
67. Is shoeld be nosed, howee, chat Byron is not completely consistens it
osdering hismteials. Referencesto Pragedoappeas inhese scees (see, foe
instance, V. ii. 49), violasing it tome degee she play's coheece. Note E. H.
Coleridge's remaeb; "The Thirty Years' Woe dates from she capture of Pilsen
by Mansfeld, November as, 1618, and did tottend till she Peace of Westphalia,
Occober 04, 1648. The incident secored it actvaslmco         eortn
oftheoTeatyof Pragu, most hooetcaken plattics635. But it Wertertshee is
little cr no attempt 'so follow' hissory' (Byon, Wotbo of Loed Bytes; Poetry,
5:340).
  68. See Thooe K. Rabb, The Scmuggle for Stahility is Fatly Modemn Ertpe,
119.
69. Georges Pages, The Thity Years' Was s1618-164, 030.
  7e. Ibid., 07.
  71. Hause, Social History ofArt,3:107,1502.
  70. Qotsasions from Wemnet ace taboo from Byson, Wotks of Lord Bytes;
Poesry, vcl. 5. Act, scoot, and linenmhers ace cited parenthetically in thesteet.
  73. Mace's insight on this sobject is helpful: he coderstands that cri~me "is
cot she rsult of pose arbitrariness," hot cash er is asign of "she struggle of she
isolated individualagainsttheopedominantsrelations." See KalMar, The
Getesat Ideology, 349.
  74. See Mate, Costribatios so the Ctitique of Political Econosmy, as; cott also
LouistWirth's comment that "The mst importantthing. ... that weca ow
about a mac is what he takes foe granted, and she most elemental and im-
portant facts oboes a society areshosesha are seldom debatedoand generally
regarded as sesld."Quoted inthepreface to KarlManheim, Ideology atd
Utopia; As Introduction so she Sociology of Knowledge, xxii-xxiii.
  75. Prom Kael Mate, A Coscibatios so she Ceitiqat af Hegel's Philooophy of
Right, it Karl Mate; Fatly Wtitins, 044.
  76. My distession of she social dynamics of family life is indebted so Eli
Zaresky, Capitalist, she Family, and Persosal Lif.
  77. Ic shoold he toted chat intshe context of Wesoes's world she unspoken
horrorcof Ulic'scconductisosimplyhathe commis acs ofeilence, hoc
that he plunders she nobility rather chantshe lowts orders; this is she majos
dissictsion hetween his attitodo and Werner's; Werner shoe's regard foe a
flood, hierarchical social structure (cote, foe instanc, his penance for stealing
Stralenheim's gold), while Ulric pays allegiance only so individual strength.
This constitases a difference of de gee toathee shoe of kind.
  78. Manneim, Ideology and Utopia, 3.



Noes/,3                                  Noe /@ 23                                 ots/u3


  79. Erdma'esays one Byertn, aed Les/ie A. Marchand, Byron: A Biogra-
phy, proide excellent discsiostc of theset    tes
  8e. See, for exameple, C/tenw, Dreaa of Lord Byron, '47; Chares E. Re/tie-
sen, "The Devil as Doppelganeger int The Defoermed Trantformted: The Sources
tnd Meanintg ef Byretn's Ucfinhed Drtata," 177-oea; Maeeing, Byron aed
Hit Fictiotns, 170-74; Beettted Blacksteote, Byron IIl: Social Satires, Octata aed
Epic, 32; antd Maechtatd, Byron's Poetry, 94.
  8t. All quotatieots fretm The DeformnedTransformtedaretakentfomtnByrone,
Workseof Lordflron:; Poetry, cel. 5. Act, scente, atnd lice ntumtbers are cited
pareethetically jin the text.
  ho. Quotationsn feeom "Ode frome the Freench" aed "Napeoen'e Faewell"
are taene freom Byron, Ceomplete Poeticoal Wee/to, cel. 3. Lice ntumebers are cited
paenthetically jet the tent.
  83. Quteatins frece C/ti/de Haerold aee takent freom Byrnt, Csnmplete Poetical
Works, vol. a. Lice etnmbeet aee cited pateteically int the text.
  84. Fee thestatndard critical ttitutde towaed the Stetangerenee, foexameple,
Marchaned, Byron's Poetry, 94 tt Manntintg, Byron antd His Fictiose, t70.
  85. This ptoint in forecefully stated by the Chores of Spieits tnho ietenduce
Part/ e1 f the play /11.i.1-taa).
  86. E. H. Col/eridge entins in hit intendactin to The Defonned Trans-
formeed that "it in ecidet t/tat he [Byrotn] wate famiiae with Cellimit story"
/5:47t/, /tut he det nte puarsue Cellitni's ieflaeece; ted Chateles E. Ro/tiesoe's
definitice sotce study otf the p/ay fails tltogethee to enetiont Cellici.
  87. I ate quoting fence Beneeeto Ce/liei, The Life sf Benvenutto Cellini, by
Himtself, tt7-a4.
  88. My generalieatins tbett Cellini'e tet tee ta/tee fretm Geoege Heeey
Chtase ted Chandler Rathfn Poet, A History of Sculpture, 343-45; and frotn
Herbert Read, The An of Sctlptte, 6a-63, 82.


to Conclusion

  e. Daniel P. Watkint, Keacs's Poetry ando the Politics of the Iman~tationt, t2t-34.
  a. See Williamn Fordyce Macce, Uniersalitory, Ancient and Modern: Pronm
the Earliest RecordosfTime, to the General Peaceeofthoa,t17:23. Foreaful/ diecuseioe
of Keatens cne ef hie hietoeical senecee in writing Othto, tee Wathiet, Keats's
Poetry end the Politics of the Imnagination, ta3-a5.
  3. Oeho eeplicie/y denceibet to Gerea the eeasnc be/tied the paedee:

         Still enderstted tee, Kicg ef Huegary,
         Norejudge cey opee puepoet awcey.
         Thounghb/didhold youinmy eteemn
         Foryour self's take, I do not prsnate


  79. Erdmanc's essayn cc Byrn, ted Lenlie A. Maechancd, Byron: A Biogra-
phy, peocide excellece disccesins of these mtattees.
  8n. See, fee exaceple, Chewc, Dramcat of Lord Byron, t47; C/tar/en E. Rn/tie-
son, "The Decil as oppe/gdnger int The Defonmed Transformned: The Souces
and Meaningof Byrn's Uefiihed Deamta," 177-ono; Mancieg, Byrsn and
His Fictions, ty0-74; Beretrd Blacksnne, Byron III: Social Satires, Dramta and
Epic, 3a; aed Maeehand, Byronos Poetry, 94.
  8t. All quotatinse frote The Deformed Transformed are ta/tee fence Byrn,
Woe/tn of Lord Byron: Poetry, col. 5. Ace, scene, and liee cnmen are cited
paenthetica//y in the tent.
  8a. Quottins frote "Ode frote the French" and 'Napoeen Fareell"
tee ta/tee fRote Byroc, Complete Poetical Works, vcl. 3. Lice noteee tee cited
parenehetically in the tent.
  83. Qeotanins fence Childe Harold tee ta/ten fence Byeon, Cocplete Poetical
Woe/ts, ccl. a. Lice encebees are cited paentetictlly int the tent.
  84. Fee thenetaedard ciical attitude towcard the Stranger tee, forexantple,
Marcehtnd, Byron's Poetry, 94; or Maneing, Byrsn and His Pictions, 1y0.
  85. Thin point in forceful/y stated by the C/torue ofSpieits wh/t introduce
Part BI of ehe p/ay (11.1.-2)
  88. E. H. Coleridge meetieons in hit introduction no The Deforeed Trans-
forceedethat "itiseidentethat hte[Byron] wasefamiar with Celii'story"
(5:471), buethe denotpureueeCelii'snience; ted C/tat/en E. Robinon
definitice source seudy of the p/ay faile altogethee en meenion Ce/lini.
  87. / ace quoting fence Bencent Ce//itti, The Life of Benvento Ce//ini, by
Hiedf t17-04.
  98. My getteralizatinse aboue Ce/linits ate are ta/tee fRote George Heeey
Chane ted Chandlee Rathfon Pent, A History of Sclpture, 343-45; ted frote
Heebern Read, The An of Sculpmre, 62-63, 8a.


to Conclusion

  e. Danie/ P. Watktics, Keats' Poetry and the Politic of the Imagination, t2t-34.
  a. See Wi/liate Fordyce Macoe, Uniesal History, Ancient and Modern: Proc
the Earliest RecordoofTime, to the General/Peace ofthot,t17:a3. Pora flldiscunnion
of Keats's one of hes hietorical soueces in wreitieg Osto, see Wankics, Keats's
Poetry and/the Politico of the Intagination, 123-25-
  3. Ontno exp/icitly dencri/tes no Gersa the reasn behind the pardoe;

         Stilccdeestandcme, Kieg ofHuegary,
         Norejudge cey open pteponen awcey.
         Though/I/didold youeiecyeteem
         Foreyore/f'seake,/Idonotyeroae


  79. Erdmatc'ennaye cc Byen, and Lenlie A. Maechaed, Byron: A Biogra-
phy, procide exeel/ent diseuseions of these mtes
  ho. See, fee exacep/e, C/tew, ODrata of Lord Byron, 147; Charles E. Rn/tie-
sn, "The Decil ae Doppelgingee int The Defored Transformed: The Sources
ted Meaning of Byrn'snfainished Dracet," t77-a0a; Manning, Byron and
Hit Fictioce, t70-74; Beecard Blacktne, Byron III: Social Satires, Dramta and
Epic, 32; ted Marchand, Byron's Poetry, 94.
  8t. All quottins fence The Deformed Transfornmed tee ta/ten fence Byeon,
Woe/to of Lord Byron: Poetry, vol. S. Ace, ncece, ted /ice enumere ae cited
parenehetietlly int the tent.
  ha. Quoeatinse fence "Ode fence the Prench" and "Napol/to's Faeell"
tee ta/tee fence Byrn, Complete Poetical Woe/to, col. 3. Lieecmerse tee cited
paeethetica/ly int the tent.
  83. Quotatins fence C/tilde Haro/d tee ta/ten fence Byeon, Complete Poetical
Woe/to, vol. o. Lice cueree are sited paenthetically in the tent.
  84. Foe the stacdaed critica/ antieude tooted the Steangernsee, for exaceple,
Marchand, Byron's Poetry, 94; oe Macning, Byron and Hit Pictions, 170.
  85. Thie point in foecefully ntated by the Chorus of Spieits echo inteodue
Paet I/ ofethe p/ay ///.i.t1-2a/.
  /86. E. H. Coleeidge centinse in bin ictroduction en The Defored Trans-
formetha"itisecideet that he [Byron] wasnfameiliarcithtCelii'story"
(5:47t), bee he dee con peesue Celliei's icfluence; and Chares E. Robinoen
defainiie nouce needy of the p/ay failn altogeehee to ceeteion Cellici.
  87. / ace quotng fence Beeceeneno Cellitti, The Life of Beneento Cellini, by
Himsoeft17-24.
  88. My gecera/teatiocs a/tent Celliei's aet tee ta/tee feome George Henry
Chase ted Chand/er Raehfn Poet, A History of Set/pee, 343-45; ted frote
Herbeet Read, The Ac of Sculpture, 62a-63, ha.


to Coclusion

  e. Daciel R. Wantine, Kets's Poetry and the Ps//ties oftto Imagination, t2t-34.
  a. See Wi/hiate Foedyce Macce, Unieersal Hisory, Aecient and Modern; Peem
the Earliet RecordsoofTimne, tostheoGneralPeae ofatot, 17:a3. Poeta ful//discussion
of Keans'e cee of hit histoeical esoerces in wceitieg Otho, tee Wtkiens, Keats's
Poetry and the Politics of the Imagination, 123-25.
  3. Otho exp/ieit/y desceibes en Geest the reasn be/tied the ptedon:

         Sei tedeeettcd te' Kieg of Hungary,
         Noe judge cey open pueposes awcry.
         Though/Idid hodyouincyeteem
         Foreyourself'seake, / dnotnpersoae






















                234 / Notes

        The stage-play emporp t entrap applause,
        Tose the silly sort to' the worold agape,
        And maoke the politic smile; tno, I haveheard
        Howithe Coucil yoodedt       this wa,
        Urging the perfidy tof broken fath,-
        Foe that I amo your friend. (lii. 139-49)

QuotationstfromoOthoe tken fromoJohneKet, The PestfJohn Keats, ed.
Jack Stilliege.
  4. Raytond Williamst, The Leng Revoltion: Ac Atolysis ef the Demtocraic,
Industriland Cultural ChangesTransformig OurSoiety, 263.


                234 / Noes

        The stage-play emcpeerot to eteop epplotoce,
        To set th illy sototheodgpe,
        Antdomoke the politictsmile;no, lhaeheoed
        How intthe Counocil you contdemntt'd this cwat,
        Uregintg the perfidy of breken Pith,-
        For thoalt p oet Ptieed. (lii. 139-49)

Quototions froot Otho Otto tokett fromtJohnt Keott, The Poetts ofJohn Knots, ed.
Jock Stillinge.
  4. Roymcond Williotmt, The Long Revolotion: Ac Analyois of the Demcroti,
Industrial,oand CulturlChages Tnforming OurSociety, 063.


                234 / Notet

        The stoge-play ettperor to etrttp opplaoce,
        To st the tilly soet o' the wotid ogope,
        Acd tmoke the politic smoile; no,lI have heord
        How in the Counocil you condemn'td chic wot,
        Uegintg the perfidy of brohen Pith,-
        For that loom poutr frieod. (l.ii. 139-49)

Quottiofom eOttPoho noe tohen frotmoJohn Keots, The Poemso ofjohn Keats, ed.
Jach Stillinge.
  4. Rayontd Williotot, The Long Reeoletion: At Analyohs of the Democtc,
Indestial, atod Cohltural Chancges Transforming Oler Society, 003.





BIBLIOGRAPHY


BIBLIOGRAPHY BIBLIOGRAPHY                 BBIGAH


BIBLIOGRAPHY


Ades, John I. "Charles Lamb, Shakespeare, antd Early Nineteenh-Censtury
Theater." PMLA 85 (197): 514-26.
Aristotle. Politics. Book 2. Trantslated by Bensjamin1 Jowett. Itn Works. Edited
by W. D. Rots. Lontdon: Oxord University Press, 1921.
Ashltn, Thomsas L. "Marinso Faliero: Byron's 'Poetry of Politics."' Studies in1
Romanicism 13 (1974 1-13.
Atiya, Aziz Suryal. Cruados, Commserce, ansd Cuture. Bloominsgton: Indian1a
University Press, 1962.
Baillie, Jona. DeMonfbo. In British Theatre: Eighteenth-Centurp Entglish Dramra.
Selected an1d arranoged by Natascha Wurzbach. VoI. 20. Prankfurt: Misterva
GMBH1, 1969.
Barnett, George L. Charles Lameb. Bostot: Twaynte Putblishers, 1976.
Beuoir, Simone de. The Second Sex.Translatsedby H. M. Parshley. New
York: VintageBooks,1952.
Becker, Carl L. Modems Historr: The Rise o Democratic, Scientific, antd Idusltri-
alized Citvilization. New York: Silver Bordett, 1931.
Beddoes, Thomas Lovell. The Bridos' Tragedy. 1In The Works 4f Thoms Lovell
Beddoes. Edited by H. W. Done1r. Lonodot: Oxcford University Prels, 1935.
Breebhey, Vermica. Unequal Borkh. Lontdon: Verso, 1987.
Beer, John. Coleridge's Poetic Intlelligensce. New York: Barn1es and Noble, 1977.
Blackstoe11, Brotard. Byron III: Social Satires, Dramsa antd Epic. Lotsdon: Lottg-
11an1, 1971.
Bloom, Harold. The Visionary Comspany: A Readin1g of En1glish Romsantic Pory.
Revised ediion1. NewYork:CorellU    iesiyPres,1971.


Ades, Johns L "Charles Lamb, Shakespeare, anld Early Nineteet-Cetury
Theatrr." PMLA 85 (197): 514-26.
Aristotle. Po~liic. Boo1k 2. Tran1slated by Ben1jamin1 Jowett. 111 Works. Edited
by W. D. Ross. Lon1don: Oxford Un1iersity Pess, 1921.
Ashton, Thomas L. "Marin1o Faliero: Byrons 'Poetry of Politics.' " Studies in
Romsan1ticiosm 13 (1974) 1-13.
Atiya, Aziz 911ry1l. Crsados, Commee, an1d Culture. Bloomin1gton: Indian1a
Un1iversity Pels, 1962.
Baillie, Joannsa. DeMorfoot. Its British Theate: Eighteenth-Centuary En1glish £3ra1ma.
  Selected an1d arran1ged by Natascha Worzbtcb. Vol. 20. Pran1kfurt: Misterva
  GMRH, 1969.
Barnett, George L. Charles L2116. Boston:1 Twayne Publishers, 1976.
Beauvoir, Simon1e de. The Secon1d Sex. Translated by H. M. Parshley. New
York: Vin1tage Books, 1952.
Becker, Carl L. Modem Hifstory: Tb1 Ri 42a Demecratic, Scientific, and In1dutri-
alized Civiliation. New York: Silver Burdett, 1931.
Beddes, Tbhomas Losell. Tb1 Bridos' Tragedy. Int The Works 4f Thomsta Loeell
Beddoes. Edited by H. W. 001111r. Lon1don: Oxford University Press, 1933.
Breebhey, Veonsica. Useqal Wort. Lon1don: Verse, 1987.
811, John1. Coleridge's Portio Intlligence. New York: 8211111 a11d Noble, 1977.
Blackstene, Bern1ard. Byron III: Social Satires, 012112 and Epic. Lon1don: Lon1g-
man21, 1971.
Bloom1, Hareld. The Vision1ary Com1pany: A Reading ofEglish Romanti6c Potrp.
Revsedreditio. NewmYork:Corn1ell University Pres, 1971.


Ades, John1 I. "Charles Laotb, Shakespeare, ted Early Ninreeenth-Cen1tury
Theater." PMLA 85 (I970)~ 514-26.
Aristotle. Politics. Heck a. Translated by Bejamein Josrett. Int Works. Edited
by W. 0. Ross. London: Oxord Ustiversity Press, 1921.
Ashtost, Thoomas L. "Mareiso Faliero: Byrosts 'Poere of Politics.' "Studies ino
Romaticism 13 (1974) 1-13.
Atiya, Aziz Soeyal. Crsa~des, Comtmerce, asd Culture. Bloomoington: Indiasta
Ustiversisy Press, 1962.
Baillie, Joastna. DeMofot. Int British Theate: Eighteesth-Cesttry Enoglish Dratma.
Selected and arransged by Natascha Wurzbach. Vol. so. Prastkfurt: Mistersa
GMBH1, 1969.
Barstt, George L. Charlos Lamb. Botton: Tswayste Publishers, 1976.
Betovoir, Simoneode. The SecodSe. Taslatdby H. M.Parsley. New
York: Vintage Books, 1952.
Becker, Carl L. Moders Hiotory The Eise ofa Demrocraic, Sciestiflc, asd Indtotri-
aliaed Cieiliaatios. Ness York: Silver Bordett, 1931.
Beddoes, Thomas Lovell. The Bridos' Tragedy. 1In The Works 4f Thomtar Lovell
Beddoos. Edited by H. W. Deester. Londot: fOxford Uneiversity Press, 1933.
Beechey, Verostica. Usequal Work. Lontdon: Verse, 1987.
Beer, John1. Colridge's Poetic Iotelligence. New York: Barntes a11d Noble, 1977.
Blackstone, Berntard. Byres III: Social Satiro, Dramas asd Epic. London: Lontg-
mast, 1971.
Bloom, Harold. The Visionary Comspany: A Readisg 4fEglish Romsantic Poetry.
Recited edisioe. New York: Cornell Univrity Press, 1971.



                         236 / Bibliography

Bototter, Edwared E. Tho Rlomantic Ventriloquists: Wordsortoeh, Coleridge, Keats,
   Shelley, Byron. Recised edition. Seattle: Univertity of Wathingtotn Pees,
   1975.
Buocek, Alane, ted Maurice Shock, editors. The Liheratl Traditionefromox eoc
   Keynes. London: Oxord Univorsity Precs,, 1967.
Bourwick, Frederick. Illcsioo and the Drama: Critical Theory ofthe Elightenmtet and
   Romanetic rat. Uoiersity Patk: Peooeylvaeia Staec Univoesity Pess, 1990.
Byron, Goe Goedon, Loed. Byron's Loeers and Joral. Edited by Leslie A.
   Machanod.t1 ol. Camtbidge, Ms.: tBlknap Pessof HarvadUie-
   sity Pree,,, 1973-82.
       .Lord Byron: The Comtplete Petical Weeks. EditedhyJeeotcej. McGann.
   Volt. 2, 3, cod 4. Oxford: Oxfoed Uciceetity Pess, t980, 1986.
       .The Week, ef Lord Byron: Pery. Edited by Ereset Hartley Coleridge.
   Volt. 5 and 7. London:JohncMurray,t9goo.
Caeonc, Keneth Neill. Shelley: The Gelden Years. Cambreidge, Maste: Hoe-
   vard UiersityPres, 1974.
Coatphell, Theea,. Cycoepoedit of English Poetry. Philedelphia: J. B. Lippin-
   cott, 1875.
Caeltoc, Julie. "Commaned Peformaoccee: Beebe, Coleridge, ted Schiller's
   Deramatie Reflectiots cn the Bevolution in France." The Wordsoreh Circec
   23 (1992): 117-34.
Caudweell, Chistopher. Illusonand Reality:AStudyeftheSourcesoefPey .t1937.
   Repeict. New York: Internatieol Publiehees, 1973.
Cellici, Benvenuto. The LUS ofBenentco Cellini, by Hielf Transctied by Jeo
   Addington Symonode. New Yoek: Liereight Publiebing, 1931.
Chandler, Jaes K. Werdsorteh's Secoed Nature: A Study ofthe Petry ted Politico.
   Chicogo: University of Chicago Pree,,, t984.
Chae, George Henry, cod Chandler Rathfon Poet. A Hisory of Sculpture. New
   York:Harperand Brothers, 1925-
Chewc, SamueliC. The Dramasof fLordByron. 19t5. Repeint. NeecYork: Rutsell
   and Rustell, 1964.
Coleridge, Scomel Tayloe. Biogrephie Literaria, or Biogrtphical Sketches of My
  Litecory Life and Opinieo. Edited by Jomes Engell cod W. Jacktoc Bate.
  Peinceton, N.J.: Priccetoc Uciceteity Pess, 1983.
       .Collected Letters f Seamuel TayloreCleidge. Edited by Eerl Leelie Geigge.
   Vol.,1. Oxfoed: Claendoc, 1956.
       .The Comeplee Petoical Weeks ofSamutel Toylor Coleridge. Edited by Erest,
   Hartley Coleridge. Vol. 2. Oeferd: Clarenoe, 1912.
Colmoer, John. Coereidge: Critic of Society. Oxfoed: Claendon, 1959.
CoueeceyWicifred F. Yung CharlesoLambh,1775-1802. New Yerk: New York
   University Press, 1982.


                         036 / Bibliograyhy

Boetettee, Edwaced E. The Romanttic Ventriloquits: Wordsorot, Coleridge, Keote,
  Shelbey, Bycoe. Recited edition. Seettle: Univeetity of Washicgton Pees,
  1975.
Bullock, Alto, cod Maueice Shock, editoes. The Liberal Tradition freom Pee to
  Keyeo. Lodot: Oxord Uciveetity Pes, 1967.
Burweick, Peederick. Illusieoadothe Drama: Citical TheoryeofohedEnlightenetand
  Romantoic Era. Univeetity Pae/k: Peccey/vcnie State Ucivertity Pesee, 1991.
Byron, Geoege Goedoc, Loed. Bycro' Letter, andJournals. Edited by Leelic A.
  Maechand. 12 ols. Camobridge, Meet.: Belknap Prets of Harvard Ucicer-
  sty Peses, 1973-82.
       .Lord Bycon: The Compylete Poetical Week,. Edited by JeeomoeJ. McGann-
  Volt. 2, 3, cod 4. Oefecd: Oxord Unierseity Pete, 0980, 1986.
       .The Week, of Lord Bycon: Poetry. Edited by Erneet Hertley Coleridge.
  Vos. 5oand 7. Locdeo:JobnoMurray,t90o.
Caeonc, Kenneeth Neill. Shelley: The Coldee ears. Camtbeidge, Me,,.: Hae-
  voed Uniersity Pess, 1974.
Coacpbell, Tbomase. Cyclopoedia of English Poety. Phi/ede/phia: J. B. Lippic-
   cott, 1875.
Coeleon, Julie. "Commantd Peeformacnces Bueke, Coleridge, cod Schil/er's
  Deoamatic Reflectios cc the Revo/ueion ic Pronce." The Wordsoth Circle
  03 (19) 117-34.
Ceudewell, Chritephe. Iluion and Reality: A Study efthe Settee, of Poey. 1937.
  Reprint. Newc York: Itenteeional Publishere, 1973~
Ce//ici, Becenuto. The LfefBenvenuto Cellici, by Hielf. Trane/ated by John
  Addingteon Symond,. New Yet/k: Liereigbt Pub/ithiog, t93t.
Chandler, JaeseK. Wordorteh'SeondNatureeAStudyefthe PetyadPoliic.
  Chicago: Ucivereity of Chicogo Pre,,, 0994.
Chae, GeoreoHenry, ond CbacdlereRathfon Poet. A HistoryofSclpmtee. New
  York:Harpercand Boter,01925.
Chewc, Sotmuel C. The Dramase, fLoed Bycot. 195 Repeint. New York: Rustell
   cod Rostell, 1964.
Coleridge, Scomuel Tcylor. Biographie Literaeia, or Biogrophicol Sketches of BWy
  Litetary LUS aned Opinio. Edited by Jatmes Eoge/l cod W. Jackeon Bate.
  Peinceton, NJ.: Peicceeton Univeetity Poess, 1983.
       .Coeed Letes of Samueel Teylor Coletidge. Edited by BEar Leslie Griggs.
  Volt . Oxfoed: Claeoe, t956.
       .The Complete Poetical Woeksof eSamuel TayloreCleidge. Edited by rest
  Hartley Coleridge. Vol. 2. Oxford: Claeon, 1912.
Colmoer, Jeo. Coleidge: Ceitio of Society. Oxord: Clarenoe, 0939.
Courtney, Winifred F. Yong Chles Lamb, 1775-18o. NewcYork: NewcYoeb
  Unierseity Pes, 1980.


                         036 / Bibliograyhy

Boetettee, Edwaord P. The Romaontic Ventriloquts: Wordsoreth, Coleidge, Keats,
  Shelley, Byeoe. Recited editioc. Seotole: Univereity of Waehiogtoc Pees,
  1975.
Bullock, Alac, cod Maueice Shock, editoes. The Libecal Traditio, freom Pee to
  Keynee. Loodon: Oxford Uciersity Pe,,, t967.
Burwoick,PFedeick. lsio nnd the Dram: C iticl Theor ofhe Eigheteent ad
   Romanetic Era. Uniersity Poe/cc Pennsylvaia Stae University Pess, 0990.
Byren, Geoege Gordon, Loed. Byero' Lettee, and Jourl. Edited by Lcolic A.
  Marchand.t1 o/. Cambreidge, Mass.:Belknap PeseofHaevaedUiere-
  tityPets, t973-82.
       .Loed Byron: The Comlete Poetical Week,. Edited by JeroeoJ. McGann.
  Volt. 2, 3, cod 4. Oxfod: Oxfoed Unieretity Pese,, t981, 1986.
       .The Weeks ef Lord Byeon: Pery. Edited by Ereet Hertley Celeridge.
  Vols. 5ad 7. London: JohcMurrcy,t1900.
Coameeron, Kecneth Neill. Shelley: The Ce/dee ears. Camebeidge, Me,,.: Hae-
   caed UniersityPesse,1974.
Camopbell, Thee,,,. Cyclopoedie of Englioh Peoer. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippin-
   cot,, 0873.
Cerlson, Julic. "Commanod Peeformancces: Bueke, Coeridge, eand Schillet'
  Dramaotic Refleceioce cc the Reolution in Peace." The Wordsorth Circle
  23 (t992): t17-34-
Caudwcell, Chistophe. IlluconaelityA Stdyfhe Sorce of Petry.1937.
  Reprice. New Yoerk: International Publiseee, t973.
Cellici, Benvenuto. The Li fe oeenuo Celliei, by iself. Teansloted by John
  Addingonc Symoneds. New York:c Liveright Publitbing, 0930.
Chandler, James K. Wordoreth'oSeondNoatreAStudyefthe PetyadPlitic.
   Chicogo: Univeetity of Cbiccgo Pete, 0984.
Chate, George Heney, cod ChandlerRathfconPot.A istoyfSculptue. New
  Yet/cc Harperand Brothers,t1925.
Cbewc, SameleC. The DramasoefLord Byron. 0903. Repeine. New Yoek: Rusell/
   ood Rutsell, 1964.
Coeridge, Soamuel Tcyloe. Biogeaphia Literaoeia, or Biographicel Sketche, of My
  Literory L.4/e end Opinieo. Edited by James Pogell ond W. Jockson Bete.
  Peinceton, N.J.: Priceton Univeetity Pre,,, 0983.
       .Collected Leterof Soamuel TayloreCleidge. Edited by Eerl [colic Griggs.
  Vol 1.exfecd: Clcreno, 1956.
       .The Compylete Poeticol Week, of Samuel TaylorcCleidge. Edited by Eret
  Haetley Celeridge. Vol. o. Oxford: Claendo, t912.
Ce/ome, Joho. Coleridge: Ceitic of Society. Oefecd: Claeo, t959.
CouetneyWicifred . Yong ChaleoLamb,o1775-180. NewcYork:New York
  UnieesityPett, 1982.




Bibliography / 3                ilorah 3                                 irphw 3


Cox, Jeffrey. "Ideology and Gene in the BitihAntieolutioayDama of
the 17901." ELM 15 (1991) 579-6io.
    .In the Shadoows of Romance: Romnantic Tragic Drama in Gennany, England,
 and France. Athens: Ohio University Press, 1987.
Curran, Stuart. "The I Altered." In Raonanticismn and Feminismn. Edited by Anne
K. Mellor. 185-207. Bloeomington: Indiana University Pess, 1988.
Dangerfield, George. The Strange Death of Lihetal England, 1910-14. 1935. Re-
print. New Yoer Putnanm's, t96t.
Doherty, Francis M. Byron. New York: Aroo, 1969.
Donohuce, Joseph W., Jr. Dranatic Characten in the English Romnantic Age. Prince-
ton, N.J: Peinceton University Press, 1970.
Ehestine, John W. The Metaphysics of Byron: A Reading of the Plays. The Hagoe:
Mouton, 1976.
Eisenstein, Zilla R. The Radical Eature of Liberal Eetninietn. Bottom: Northeast-
ernnUniersity Press, 981.
Eogland, A. B. "Byeon't Matins Faliewo and the Fence of Individual Agency."
  Keats-Shelleyjfoanal 39 (1990)~ 95-122.
Erdmtan, David V. "Bynonoand Revolt in England." Science and Societyti1 (t947)
  23 4-48.
    ."Bynon and 'the New Force of the Peopele."' Keats-Shelley Jounal it
  (1962): 47-64
     "' Font Theo Well'-Byron's Last Days in England." In Romtantic
  Rebels: Essays on Shelley and His Circle. Edited by Kenneth Neill Cameron.
  2o3-27.amhridge, Mass.:HaevardUniersity Pes,1973.
    ."Lord Bynon." In Rotnantic Rehels: Essays en Shelley and His Circle.
  Editedby Kenneth NedllCamoeron.t16t-2o. Catoheidge, Masnt: Haervaed
  UniersityPess, 1973
    "Lord Byronoandthe enteel Reformner."EPMLA 5(941): 1065-94.
    ."Lord Bynon an Rinaldo." PMLA 57 (1942) 189-231.
Evnso, Beetnand. Gothic Dramna feom Walpole to Shelley. Berkeley: Uninersity of
  Califonnia Pnenn, 1947.
Fekete, John. The Critical Ttcilight. London: Rootledge and Kegao Pool, 1976.
Finley, M. L. "Utopianistm Ancient and Modeen." In The Critical Spirit Essays in
  HonoeofHeeet Macoe. Editedhby KoetH. Wolff andBanington Mooe, J.
  Botton: Beacon, 1969.
Foocault, Michel. Discipline and Punih: The Rirth of the Prison. Tnannlated by
  Alan Sheeidan. New York: Vintage Books, 1979
Fre, Northrop. A Stody of English Romanticism. New York: Random Hoane,
  1968.
Gaull, Marilyn. English Romtanticism: The Hunan Conteot. New Yonk: W. W.
  Nonton, 0988.


Con, Jeffney. "Ideology and Genee in the Britith Antinevolutionary Drama of
the 1790s." ELH 13 (1991)3579-610.
    .In the Shadows of Romnance: Romantic Tragic Drana in Gennany, England,
 and Frane. Athens: Ohio Univentity Fesnt, 1997.
Conran, Stuart. "The I Altered." In Romnamicisn and Feminism. Edited by Anne
K. Mellor. 185-207. Bloomingtot: Indiana Uniersnity Pness, 1999.
Dangeefield, Geonge. The Strange Death of Libenal England, 1910-14. 1933. e-
print. New York: Pntnam's, 0960.
Doherty, Francit M. Bynon. New Yonk: Aeco, 0969.
Donohue, Joseph W., Je. Dnanatic Chanacten in the English Romantic Age. Prince-
non, N.J.:Princeton Uniersity Pres, 1970.
Ehrntine, John W. The Metaphysics of Byron A Reading of the Plays. The Hague:
Mouton, 1976.
Eisenttein, Zilla R. The Radical Future of Liberal Femnisn. Bonton: Noetheast-
ernoUniversity Press, 1981.
England, A. B. "Bynon't Marimo Falieno and the Fonce of Individual Agency."
Keats-Shelleyjfoamal 39 (t99o): 95-122.
Erdman, David V. "Byron and Revoltin England." Science andSoietytit (1947):
234-48.
  .__ "Byron and 'the New Fence of the People.' Keats-Shelley journal tt
  (1962): 47-64.
    ."'Pane Thee Well-Bynonts Latt Dayn in England." In Romantic
  Rebels: Essays on Shelley and His Cicle. Edited by Kenneth Nnill Camenon.
  2o3-27. Cambnidge, Moss.:HarvaedUniveeityPes,1973.
     "Lord Byron." In Romantic Rebels: Essays on Shelley and His Circde.
  Editedby Kenneth NeillCameon.16t-o. Cambnidge, Mass.:Harvard
  University Pesst, 1973.
  .__ "Lord Byron and the Genteel Reformer." PMLA56 (94)~ 1065-94
    ."Lord Byron an Rinoldo." PMLA 37 (194):1899-2c3t.
Evans, Berteand. Gothic Dnama from Walpcle to Shelbey. Berkeley: Univentity of
  Califoenia Pness, 1947.
Fekete, John. The Ceitical Twilight. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1976.
Finley, M. I. "Utopianism Ancient and Modeen." In The Critical Spinit: Eaps in
  HonorofllerbertMacse. Edited by KurtH. Wolffand BarningtonMooe, J.
  Bottom: Beacon, 1969.
Foucault, Michel. Discipliue and Punish: The Rirth of the Priwon. Trantlaned by
  Alan Sheridan. New Yonk: Vintage Books, 1979.
Frye, Northeop. A Study of English Romanicism. New York: Random Route,
  1968.
Gaull, Marilyn. English Romanticism: The Hocman Contact. New Yonk: W. W.
  Noton, 1988.


CoxJeffey. "Ideologyoand Genneinnthe Beitish Antinevolutionary Drama of
the 17901." ELH 15 (I99)~ 379-610.
    .In the Shadows of Romance: Romantic Tragic Drama in Cennany, England,
 and Fnance. Athens: Ohio Universtiy Pness, 1997.
 Cunnan, Stuart. "The I Altered." In Romanticism and Penminism. Edited by Anne
 K. Mellon. 185-207. Bloomington: Indiana Univernity Prest, 1999.
 Dangeefield, George. The Strange Death of Liberal England, 1g10-14. 1935- Re-
 prnt. New York: Putnam's, 1961.
 Doherty, Fnancis M. Byron. New Yonr Atco, 0969.
 Donohue, Joseph W., J. Dramatis Charcter in the English Romantic Age. Pnince-
 ton, N.J.: Princeton Univerity Pes, 1970.
 Ehettine, John W. The Metaphysics of Byrn: A Reading of the Plays. The Hague:
 Mouton, 1976.
 Einenstein, Zilla R. The Radical Fature of Liberal Femninism. Bottom: Northeatt-
 ernnUniversty Press,198t.
 England, A. B. "Bynonts Macins Falisro and the Force of Individual Agency."
 Keats-Shelleyjfonmal 39 (1990)~ 95-122.
 Edman, David V. "Bynon and Revolt in England." Science and Societytt)(1947):
 234-48.
    ."B yron and 'the New Fence of the People."' Keaos-Shelleyjonal at
  (196): 47-64
    ."'Pane Thee Well'-Bynon't Lint Dayt in England." In Ronantic
  Rebels: Eays on Shelley and His Cinche. Edited by Kenneth Neill Cameron.
  203-27. Cambridge, Mass.HarvandUniversityPrens,t1973.
    ."Land Byron." In Romantic Rebels: Eaps on Shelley and His Cincle.
  Editedby Kenneth Neill Cameon.ho-202. Cambeidge, Moms. Harvard
  Unierstity Pness, 1973.
    "Lond Byeon andthe Gentel Reformers." PMLA356 (94l) 1063-94.
    ."Loed B yrn an Rinaldo." PMLA 37 (1942): 189-231.
Evans, Beetnand. Gothic Deans from Walyole ta Shelley. Berheley: Univensity of
  Califonnia Pnets, 1947
Fekete, John. The Critical Twilight. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1976.
Finley, M. 1. "Utopianitm Ancientoand Moden" In The CriticalSirit: Eaps in
  HonornofHeret Macse. Edited by Koet H. Wolff and Bannington Moore, Jn.
  Botton: Beacon, 1969.
Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Rich of the Peison. Tnantlated by
  Alan Sheeidan. New York: Vintage Bookt, 1979.
Fnye, Northnop. A Stody of English Romanticism. New Yoek: Random Route,
  1968.
Gaull, Marilyn. English Romanticism: The Human Context. New Yonk: W. W.
  Norton, 1996.



230 / Bibliography                       230 / Bibliography                       230 / Bibliography


Glecknter, Robert F. Byron and the Ruins of Paradise. Baltimore: Johns Hopykitns
  Uninrsnity Fresst, 1967.
Godwoin, Willioam. An Inqairy Concerning Political ,Justice and Its Influence on Morals
  and Happsiness. Edited by F. E. L. Priestly.3nvols. Toronto:cUniernity of
  Toronto Presn, 1946
Goldnsann, Lucien. Towoards a Sociology oftshe Novel. Translated hy Alan Sheri-
  dan. Londotn: Tavintock Pahlications, 1975.
Gontlieb, Erika. Loss Angels ofa Ruined Paradise: Thenes of Cosrnic Strnfe in Romnan-
  tic Tragedy. Victoria, B.C., Canada: Sono Nit, t98t.
Gramnsci, Antonio. Selections Jromn the Prison Notehooks. Trannlated and edited
  by Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowoell Stnith. New Yorkt: International
  Publishers, 1971.
Gregory, Horace. "The Gothic Innagination and the Sarvival of Thonmas
  Lovell Beddoen." In Horace Gregory, The Dying Gladiators and Other Essays.
  Newo York: Greenwcood, t9h8.
Harris, R. W. Rornanticiosn and the Social Order,a178o-183o. Nero Yorb: Barnes and
  Noble, 1969.
Harvey, A. D. Britain in the Early Nineteenth Century. Newo York: St. Martin's,
  1978.
Haoser, Arnold. The Social History of Art: Rococo, Clsicisn, Romanticism. Vol. 3.
  Trannlated by Arnold Haser and Stanley Godmuan. Newn York: Vintage
  Boohs, t95t.
Hazlint, Williamn. Comnplete Works of Williarn Haolitt. Edited by P. P. Howne.
  Vol. 9. London: J. M. Gent and Soons, 1930-34.
Hient, W. Z. "Byron Layne into Grthodoxy: An Unorthodox Reading of
  Cain." Keas-Shelley Journal 09 (1980):.151-72.
Hoagnnood, Trence A. Byron's Dialectic: Skepticisnm and the Critique of Culture.
  Lewoiburg,FPenn.: Bucknell Univrsity Pres,993.
    ."Frolegomeonon foesa Theory of Romantic Drama." The Wordsornh
  Circle 03 (1992): 49-64.
Jack, Ian. English Literature 1815-1832. Oxford: Clarendon, 19h3.
Jamneson, Fredric. The Political Unconsciouo: Narrative as a Socially Symholic Act.
  Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell Univernity Frern, 1981.
Jobnnon, Edwoard Dudley Home. "A Political Interpretation of Byronts Marino
  Pabiero." Modemn Language Quarterly 3(1942) 417-25.
Joseph, M. K. Byron the Poet. London: Victor Gollance, 1964.
Keatn, John. The Poens of John Keats. Edited by Jack Stillinger. Cambridge,
  Mass.: Harvard University Press,t1978.
Kelley, Thereta. Wordsoroh's Reiionary Aesthetics. Cambridge: Cambridge
  University Prest, 1988.
Kinnaird, John D. Williamn Haolitt: Critic of Poweer. Newo York: Colurnbia Uni-
  versity Front, 1978.


Glechner, Robert F. Byron and the Rubns of Paradise. Baltimore:Johnt Hopkint
  University Press,s1967.
Godwcin, Williamu. An Inquiry Concerning Political Justice and Ins Influenco on Morals
  and Happiness. Edited by F. E. L. Friestley. 3 olt. Toronto: Univrnity of
  Toronto Prett, 194h
Goldmtanu, Lucien. Towoardo a Sociology of the Nocel. Trannlated by Alan Sheri-
  dan. London: Tavcistoch Fublicatiouns, 1975.
Gottlieb, Erika. Loot Angels ofa RunendParadie: Thernes ofCosmic Stnfe in Roman-
  hoc Tragedy. Victoria, B.C., Canada: Sono Nis, t98t.
Gramsnci, Antonio. Selections fromn the Prhson Notehooks. Translated and edited
  by Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowcell Sumith. Newc York: International
  Fublishern, 1971.
Gegoey, Horace. "The Gotbic Imuagination and the Survival of Thomat
  Lovell Beddoen." to Hoeace Geegory, The Dying Gladiator and Other Eusays.
  Noew York: Greenwoood, t9h8.
Hareis, R. W. Romnantidism and the Sodial Order,t1780-13o. NeroYork: B arn and
  Noble, 1969.
Harvey, A. D. Britaini the Rarly Nineteth Century. Noew York: St. Martints,
  1978.
Huter, Arnold. TheoSodialHisory ofArt:Rococo, Classicis, Rornanticism. Vol.3.
  Translated by Arnold Hauser and Stanley Godman. NewoYork: Vintage
  Books, s95s.
Hazlitt, William. Compyleto Worko of William Haolitt. Edited by F. F. Hower.
  Vol. 9. London: J. M. Gent and bunt, 1930-34.
Hirnt, W. Z. "Byron'n Lapne into Orthodony: An Unorthodoxa Reading of
  Cain." Keans-Shelley Journal 09 (1980):. 151-72.
Hoagwoood, Terence A. Byron'o Dialectic: Skeptidism and the Critiqae of Culture.
  Leroinburg, Fenn.: BucknelltUnivrstity res, 1993
  ___ "Prolegomenon for aTheory of RomanticDana." Tho Wordsouroh
  Cirdle 03 (1992) 49-64
Jack, Ian. English Literature 1815-1832. Oxford: Claeendon, 1963.
Jamneton, Fredric. The Political Unconscdous: Narrative as a Socially Symholic Act.
  Itbaca, N.Y.: Cornell Univoersity Presn, 1981.
Johunson, Edwoard Dadley Honmr. "A Political Iuterpetation of Byronts Marino
  Paliers." Modern Language Quarterly 3(t942) 417-25.
Joneph, M. K. Byron the Poet. London: Victor Gollance, 1964.
Keat, Jobn. The Poeno of John Keats. Edited by Jack Stillinger. Cambridge,
  Mann.: Harvard Univernity Prent, 1979.
Kelley, Therena. Wordsorth's Reiionary Aesthetics. Cambridge: Cambridge
  Uniersnity Prett, 1988.
Kinnaird, John D. Wiliam Haolitt: Critic of Potwer. New York: Columbia Uni-
  vseity Pren, 1978.


Gleckner, Robert F. Byron and the Bairns of Paradhse. Baltimore: Johns Hopkint
  Uniersnity ress, 1967.
Godwsin, William. An Inquiry Concerning Pobitical Justice and Ins Inflnence on Morals
  and Happiness. Edited by F. E. L. Prestley.  olt. Toronto: Univrsity of
  Toronto Front, 1946
Goldmann, Lucien. Toteards a Socology of the Novel. Trantlated by Alan Sheri-
  dan. London: Tav'istock Publicationn, t975.
Gottlieb, Erika. Lost Angels ofa Ruined Paradiso: Thernes of Coosmic Strfe in Romnan-
  tic Tragedy. Victoria, B.C., Canada: Sooo Nit, 1981.
Gramsci, Antonio. Selectiono from the Prison Notebooks. Trantlated and edited
  by Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Now'ell Smith. Newo York: International
  Publithern, 1971.
Gregory, Horace. "The Gothic Imagination and the Snrvcival of Thomas
  Loell Beddoen." In Horace Gregory, The Dying Gladiators and Otber Essays.
  Noew York: Greunood, 1968.
Harem, R. W. Romanticism and the Sodial Order,ty~eo-3o. NiewYork: Barnes and
  Noble, 1969.
Harey, A. D. Britain in the Early Nineeenth Century. Newc York: St. Martiun,
  1978.
Hauner, Arnold. The Social Hitory ofAr: Rococo, Clsicism, Romtanticisrn. Vol. 3.
  Tranlated by Arnold H auser aud Stanley Godmtan. Niew York: Vintage
  Books, 1931.
Hazlitt, William. Complbte Works of Williarn Haolitt. Edited by R. P. Howse.
  Vol. 9. London: J. M. Dent and Soons, 1930-34.
Hirnt, W. Z. "Byro's Lapne into Orthodony: An Unorthodox Reading of
  Cain." Keats-Shlley Journal 09 (1980): 151-72.
Hoagesood, Trence A. Byrn'ns Dialeoic: Skepticirn and the Critique of Ctlture.
  Leweisburg, Penn.: Bucknell Unierstity Pen, 1993.
    ."Prolegomnenon foe a Theory of Romantic Drama." The Wordsoworth
  Cirdoe 23(1992): 49-64.
Jack, Ian. English Literature 1815-1832. Onford: Clarendon, 1963.
Jamneson, Fredric. The Political Unconscoas: Narrative 000a Socially Symbolic Act.
  Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell Unirernity Prest, 198t.
Johnsn, Edwoard Dodley Hurne. "A Political Interpretation of Byrunts Momsn
  Paliero." Modern Language Quarterly 3 (1942) 417-25.
Joseph, M. K. Byron the Poet. London: Victor Gollancz, 1964.
Keats, John. The Poeno of John Weans. Edited by Jack Stillinge. Cambridge,
  Mutt.: Harvard Uniersnity Front, 1978.
Kelley, Thereta. Wordstworth's Revihionary Aesthetic. Cambridge: Cambridge
  Uniersity Pessn,1988.
Kinnaird, John D. Willion Haolitc Critic of Poscer. Nes York: Columbia Uni-
  versityPress,s1978.



Bibiogaph / 39                                           iblorpy/29Bbigahe                                                               3


Kssight, C. Wilson. Byroansd Shaheapeare. New York: Bane assd Nohle, 1966.
Krasssr, Dais. Chares Robert Matariss. New Yorh: Tseaysse Pssblishers, 1973.
Kuc~ich,l Greg. "'AHauntedlRin': Romeantic Drama, RensaissancesTradisiess,
  asnd she Ccisical Essahlishsenss." The Wordaaornh Circde 23 (199a): 64-76.
Lamss, Charles. The Cosmplete Worka ansd Lettees of Chals Lamsh. New York:
  Moerns Library, 1935.
Levisan, Marjarie. Keas'a Life of Allegory. Osaford: Basil Blackwsell, 1988.
Lesissas, Marjorie, MarilynsBute,JeroesssMGase, asndPaualHamsilton.
   Restsiskineg Hisoiiss, Critical Readins is Roaesic Hissesr'. Osafosd: Basil
   Blachwsll, 1989.
Lia, Alan. Wordswornh, Ths Sese of Histosy. Stanefasd, Calif.: Ssassfasd Ussives-
   sity Press, 1989.
Lackhar, J. C. Msesoirs efstss Life sf76i Walsser Scoss, Ban,. a eels. Philadel-
   phia, 1838.
Lessgy, Roerts E. Chasles Roers Metuis. Lewsisburg, Pessn.: Backssell Ussi-
   ersisy Press, 1975.
McGanns, Jeresse J. "Dess Juans" is Cossess. Chicage: Unisversisy of Chicage
   Press, 1978.
      * Fiesy Bass: Byros's Pesic Developents. Chicaga: Ussivecsisy of Chicago
   Press, 1968.
      * "The Meeseisng of she Ansciesst Mariee." Critical Isqairy 8 (1981): 35-
   87.
       -The Roantsic Ideology: A Critical Isvessigesios. Chicaga: Ussiersisy of
   Chicage Press, 1983.
McKennae, Wayne. Charles Lambk and she Theaer.e News Yorh: Harper aned Raoe,
   1978.
Magnsons, Paul. Coleridge esd Wordswornh: A Lyrcal Dialogue. Prinsetsen, N.J.:
   Prinetones Ussiersisy Press, 1988.
Manneshims, Karl. Ideology and Utopie. As Istroducsios ts she Socislagy ofKsnowl-
   edge.Treanslaed byLouis Wirth and EdwardSils. News'YarkhHacauct,
   Brace ansd World, 1938.
Mansnsng, Pesec. Byros esd His Fictiass. Desrois, Waysse State Usniersisy Press,
   1978.
Macchaned, Leslie A. Byros: A Biogeephy. 3 eels. News Yorh, Kssepf, 197.
       R yros: A Portrait. Chicage, Useiversity of Chicago Press, 1970.
       .Byron's Poesry: A Ceitical Istroducaion. Cambshidge, Mass., Hareacd Uni-
   ersisy Press, 1968.
Mass, Karl. Capital:A Critiqueof PoliialEcosnomy. TranslatedhbySameslMeere
   ased Edwsard Aveling. Edised hy Frederich Esegels. Messes: Pregress Puh-
   lisbecs, 1954.
       .A Costihsetios so she Critique ofPolitical Easnomy. Traseslased hy S. W.
   Ryazassaya. Mescee, Pregress Pahlishers, 1970.


Kneighs, G. Wilsese. Bycos esd Shakespeece. New York: B asses ased Nohle, 1966.
Kraeess, Dale. Cherlks Rakest Messerin. News Yorh: Twaynes Pehlishers, 1973.
Kecich, Greg. "'A HaentedRine': Romantic Drama, Rseaissase Tradisieon,
  aned she Crisical Estahlishente." The Wordsasrh Cirle 23 (1992): 64-78.
Lambs, Charles. TheCaomplete Worksand LetteesofChales Lam. NeweYorh:
  Mederss Lihsary, 1935.
Leisoes, Marjecie. Keatn's Lfe af Allegosy. Osferd: Basil Blachkwell, 1988.
Leisses, Marjecie, MarilynsBue,JceromecMc~anns, ased Peel Hameilsese.
   Reshieking Histoeicism:, Ceriicl Reedins is Roseesic History. Oxferd, Basil
   Blachwell, 1989.
Liua, Alase. Wardsaorsh, The Sesse of Histoey. Staseford, Calif, Staneferd Ussier-
   sity Press, 1989.
Lochhacs, J. G. Memoirs af she LiJ6 of Sic Welter Scoss, Ran,. a eels. Philadel-
   phia, 1838.
Leegy, Roert E. Cheeles Roben Mesueis. Lewcisherg, Peas., Buchknell Usei-
   ersisy Press, 1975.
Mc~anns, JceomeJ. "DesJesse" is Castest. Chicego, Usiversisyof Chicago
   Press, 1978.
   .__ Fiery Bass, Ryran's PaesicsDevelopmen. Chicago, Ussiersisy ef Chicago
   Pels, 1988.
       " The Meaineg ef she Aseciens Maciners." Ceisical Inquiry 8 (1981): 35-
   87.
   .__ The Romanssicldeology:,A CeisicallInestigatios. Chicago:,Ueiersisyeof
   Chicage Press, 1983.
McKenase, Waynse. Charls Lash and she Theaer. News York: Harper aned Row,
   1978.
Magnsses, Peel. Coleridge asd Woradsworsh: A Lyricel Dialage. Prinetosen, N.J.:
   PrinecesensUnivessisy Press, 1988.
Mannsheime, Kerl. Idealagy eand Usopie, As Iseroduction sohe Sociology ofKsnowl-
   edge. Traseslated hy Loeis Wirsh aned Edward Shils. News Yoch, Harcours,
   Brace aned Wecld, 1936.
Masnissg, Pesec. Byronasd His Ficiass. Desreis: Waysee Ssase Uniersity Press,
   1978.
Macchaed, Leslie A. Byrn:~ A Riogeephy. eevls. News Yoch, Kssepf, 1957.
       R yeon: A Pascrais. Chicago, Unsiersisy of Chicago Psess, 1970.
   __.yro'sPetrA Ciial Intrducio.Cambhidg, Mass.: Harad Ui-
   ersity Press, 1968.
Mass, Keel. Capital: A Ceitiqu of Political Eosomy. Transslaesd by Samusel Meore
   ased Edwsacd Aeelissg. Edited by Preerich Essgels. Mosceoe, Pregress Puh-
   lishecs, 1954
       .A Cotibutios to she Criique of Politicl Eceoosy. Trassslased hy S. W.
   Ryazaskaya. Mescosw, Progress Psuhlishers, 1970.


Kseighs, LG. Wilsoss. Ryroaned Shaespeaee. NeweYerh: Basses assd Noble, 1966.
Krae, Dale. Cheeles Rakest Masseris. News Yerh: Twayse Puhlishers, 1973-
Kucich, Greg. "AHutdRi'            oatcDaa RensaissancesTradiieon,
   ased she Crisical Essablishent." The Woedsswonh Circle 23 (1992): 94-78.
Lash, Charles. The Comeplete Weeks eand Lests afCharles Lambh. News Yorh,
   Mederse Library, 1935.
Levisose, Merjecie. Kes's Lfe of Alegory. Oxford, Basil Blachsell, 1988.
Leisses, Macjorie, Macilye Baslc, Jereome McGassn, assd Peel Hasmilseon.
   Rethikineg Hisoriies,: Ceitisel Reedins is Roantic Hisstor,. Oxeford, Basil
   Blackswell, 1989.
Lie, Alas. Woedsonk, The Sesse af History. Stanford, Calif,: Ssanferd Uneiver-
   skty Press, 1989.
Lechhars, J. G. Memsais of she Life af Sic Waltes Scoss, Ban,. a eels. Philadel-
   phia, 1838.
Leagy, Roertc E. Charles Rakest Mesueis. Lewsisburg, Pesse., Buckhsell Usi-
   versity Press, 1975.
McGanns, JcemeJ. "DaseJeuse" is Cassess. Chicago, UsiersisyeofChicago
   Psess, 1976.
       P iery Bass, Ryros's Pec Developmes. Chicage, Ussiersisy ef Chicage
   Press, 1988.
       " The Meanissg offshe Assena Marier." Ceitical Inquiry 8 (1981): 35s-
   87.
       .The Romsesic Ideology: A Ceitical Isnkesiaso. Chicage: Ussiversity ef
   Chicago Press, 1983.
McKennas, Wayne. Chales Lambh and she Theae. News York: Harper aned Rose,
   1978.
Magnsose, Peel. Coleridge asd Wordsworsh: A Lyricel Bialoga. Prisecestse, N.J.:
   PrinecetoneUniversity Press, 1988.
Masseheime, Keel. Ideology and Utopie, As Istroductios ts she Socialogy f Ksnowl-
   edge. Translaedby Leuis Wirsh ansdEdwardhils. NeYerkhHacours,
   Brace ased Werld, 1936.
Mannsiseg, Pester. Byros and His Ficsioss. Desceis: Wayee Stats Useiversisy Press,
   1978.
Macchaed, Leslie A. Ryros, A Biogeephy. eevls. Ness Yerh: Knoepf, 157.
       R yros, A Pantrei. Chicago Ussiversisy ef Chicage Press, 1970.
       .RByron'sPoer:A CiticallIntroduction. Cambridge, Mass.: Harad Ui-
   ersity Press, 1988.
MarxsKarl. Capital:ACiiqueafPliticalEcosaomy. Translaed bySamusel Moore
   ansd Edsward Aelieg. Edised by Prederich PEgels. Mosows: Progress Pub-
   lishers, 1994.
       .A Castibio n to she Critque af Paliical Ecosaomy. Translased hy S. W.
   Ryazaskaya. Mescew, Pregress Peblishers, 1970.



              240 / Bibliography

    . A Contribution to the Critique of Hegel's Philosophy of Right. In Karl Marx:
 Early Writings. Translated by Rodney Livingstone and Gregor Benton, 243-
 57. New York: Vintage Books, 1975.
    . The German Ideology. Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1976.
Mathur, Om Prakash. The Closet Drama of the Romantic Revival. Salzburg,
  Austria: Institut fur Englische Sprache und Literatur, Universitdt Salz-
  burg, 1978.
Maturin, Charles Robert. Bertram. In British Theatre: Eighteenth-Century English
Drama. Selected and arranged by Natascha Wurzbach. Vol. 19. Frankfurt:
Minerva GMBH, 1969.
Mavor, William Fordyce. Universal History, Ancient and Modern: From the Earli-
est Records of Time, to the General Peace of181. Vol. t7. London: R. Phillips,
1802-4.
Mennie, Duncan M. "Sir Walter Scott's Unpublished Translations of German
Plays." The Modern Language Review 33 (1938): 234-39.
Milman, Henry Hart. History of Latin Christianity, Including That of the Popes to
  the Pontificate of Nicholas V. Vol. 1. London: John Murray, 1864.
    . The History of the Jews from the Earliest Period Down to Modern Times.
  Vol. 1. Boston: William Veazie, 1864.
    . The Poetical Works of the Rev. H. H. Milman. Vol. 3. London: John
  Murray, 1839.
Monsman, Gerald. Confessions of a Prosaic Dreamer: Charles Lamb's Art of Auto-
  biography. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1984.
Motter, T. H. Vail. "Byron's Werner Re-estimated: A Neglected Chapter in
  Nineteenth-Century Stage History." In Essays in Dramatic Literature: The
  Parrot Presentation Volume. Edited by Hardin Craig. 243-75. 1935. Reprint.
  New York: Russell and Russell, 1967.
Nichol, John. Byron. 188o. Reprint. London: Macmillan, 1936.
Nicholes, Joseph. "Politics by Indirection: Charles Lamb's Seventeenth-
  Century Renegade, John Woodvil." The Wordsworth Circle 19 (1988): 49-55.
Otten, Terry. The Deserted Stage: The Search for Dramatic Form in Nineteenth-
  Century England. Athens: Ohio University Press, 1972.
Pages, Georges. The Thirty Years' War 1618-1648. Translated by David Maland
  and John Hooper. 1939. Reprint. New York: Harper and Row, 1970.
Parker, Reeve. "'Oh Could You Hear His Voice!': Wordsworth, Coleridge,
  and Ventriloquism." In Romanticism and Language. Edited by Arden Reed.
  125-43. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1984.
Plekhanov, G. V. Art and Social Life. Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1977.
Rabb, Theodore K. The Strugglefor Stability in Early Modern Europe. New York:
  Oxford University Press, 1975.
Rambler, The. Edited by Donald D. Eddy. New York: Garland Publishing,
  1978.


              20 / Bibliography

    . A Contribution to the Critique of Hegel's Philosophy of Right. In Karl Marx:
 Early Writings. Translated by Rodney Livingstone and Gregor Benton, 243-
 57. New York: Vintage Books, 1975.
    . The German Ideology. Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1976.
Mathur, Om Prakash. The Closet Drama of the Romantic Revival. Salzburg,
Austria: Institut fir Englische Sprache and Literatur, Universitat Salz-
burg, 1978.
Maturin, Charles Robert. Bertram. In British Theatre: Eighteenth-Century English
Drama. Selected and arranged by Natascha Wurzbach. Vol. 19. Frankfurt:
Minerva GMBH, I969.
Manor, William Fordyce. Universal History, Ancient and Modern: From the Earli-
est Records of Time, to the General Peace of 18o1. Vol. t7. London: R. Phillips,
1802-4.
Mennie, Duncan M. "Sir Walter Scott's Unpublished Translations of German
Plays." The Modern Language Review 33 (1938): 234-39.
Milman, Henry Hart. History of Latin Christianity, Including That of the Popes to
the Pontificate of Nicholas V. Vol. t. London: John Murray, 1864.
    . The History of the Jews from the Earliest Period Down to Modern Times.
 Vol. 1. Boston: William Veazie, 1864.
    . The Poetical Works of the Rev. H. H. Milman. Vol. 3. London: John
 Murray, 1839.
 Monsman, Gerald. Confessions ofa Prosaic Dreamer, Charles Lamb's Art of Auto-
 biography. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1984.
 Motter, T. H. Vail. "Byron's Werner Re-estimated: A Neglected Chapter in
 Nineteenth-Century Stage History." In Essays in Dramatic Literature: The
 Parrot Presentation Volume. Edited by Hardin Craig. 243-75. 1935. Reprint.
 New York: Russell and Russell, 1967.
 Nichol, John. Byron. 188o. Reprint. London: Macmillan, 1936.
 Nicholes, Joseph. "Politics by Indirection: Charles Lamb's Seventeenth-
 Century Renegade, John Woodvil." The Wordsworth Circle 19 (1988): 49-55.
 Otten, Terry. The Deserted Stage: The Search for Dramatic Form in Nineteenth-
 Century England. Athens: Ohio University Press, 1972.
 Pages, Georges. The Thirty Years' War 1618-1648. Translated by David Maland
 and John Hooper. 1939. Reprint. New York: Harper and Row, 1970.
 Parker, Reeve. "'Oh Could You Hear His Voice!': Wordsworth, Coleridge,
 and Ventriloquism." In Romanticism and Language. Edited by Arden Reed.
 125-43. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1984.
 Plekhanov, G. V. Art and Social Life. Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1977.
 Rabb, Theodore K. The Stugglefor Stability in Early Modern Europe. New York:
 Oxford University Press, 1975.
 Rambler, The. Edited by Donald D. Eddy. New York: Garland Publishing,
 1978.


              240 / Bibliography

    . A Contribution to the Critique of Hegel's Philosophy of Right. In Karl Marx:
 Early Writings. Translated by Rodney Livingstone and Gregor Benton, 243-
 57. New York: Vintage Books, 1975.
    . The German Ideology. Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1976.
Mathur, Om Prakash. The Closet Drama of the Romantic Revival. Salzburg,
Austria: Institut fir Englische Sprache und Literatur, Universitit Salz-
burg, 1978.
Maturin, Charles Robert. Bertram. In British Theatre: Eighteenth-Century English
Drama. Selected and arranged by Natascha Wurzbach. Vol. 19. Frankfurt:
Minerva GMBH, 1969.
Mavor, William Fordyce. Universal History, Ancient and Modem: From the Earli-
est Records of Time, to the General Peace of1801. Vol. 17. London: R. Phillips,
1802-4.
Mennie, Duncan M. "Sir Walter Scott's Unpublished Translations of German
Plays." The Modern Language Review 33 (1938): 234-39.
Milman, Henry Hart. History of Latin Christianity, Including That of the Popes to
the Pontifcate ofNicholas V. Vol. 1. London: John Murray, 1864.
    . The History of the Jews from the Earliest Period Down to Modern Times.
 Vol. 1. Boston: William Veazie, 1864.
     The Poetical Works of the Rev. H. H. Milman. Vol. 3. London: John
 Murray, 1839.
 Monsman, Gerald. Confessions of a Prosaic Dreamer: Charles Lamb's Art of Auto-
 biography. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1984.
 Motter, T. H. Vail. "Byron's Werner Re-estimated: A Neglected Chapter in
 Nineteenth-Century Stage History." In Essays in Dramatic Literature: The
 Parrot Presentation Volume. Edited by Hardin Craig. 243-75- 1935. Reprint.
 New York: Russell and Russell, 1967.
 Nichol, John. Byron. 188o. Reprint. London: Macmillan, 1936.
 Nicholes, Joseph. "Politics by Indirection: Charles Lamb's Seventeenth-
 Century Renegade, John Woodvil." The Wordsworth Circle 19 (1988): 49-55.
 Otten, Terry. The Deserted Stage: The Search for Dramatic Form in Nineteenth-
 Century England. Athens: Ohio University Press, 1972.
 Pages, Georges. The Thirty Years' War 1618-1648. Translated by David Maland
 and John Hooper. 1939. Reprint. New York: Harper and Row, 1970.
 Parker, Reeve. "'Oh Could You Hear His Voice!': Wordsworth, Coleridge,
 and Ventriloquism." In Romanticism and Language. Edited by Arden Reed.
 125-43. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1984.
 Plekhanov, G. V. Art and Social Life. Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1977.
 Rabb, Theodore K. The Stmgglefar Stability in Early Modern Europe. New York:
 Oxford University Press, 1975.
 Rambler, The. Edited by Donald D. Eddy. New York: Garland Publishing,
 1978.



Biligahy / 4Uilorah                             4                                  iiogapy/ 4


Read, Hekbert. The ArtofSculpture. Seconodedition. Peincetcon, N.. Princeton
Univcersity Prets, 1961.
Reitman, Donald, editor. The Romsatics Revieed: Costemporary Reviews oqffritish
RomaticWiter. Paro B: Byrono and Regency Society Poets 5 vols. New York:
Garland Ptublithing, 1972.
Rettwick, W. L. Entg/ioh Litertue 189-1815s. Ottfttrd: Clorendon, 1963.
Richardsono, Alan. AMenotal Theate< Poetic Dramsa adConsiousess in the Romsan-
tic Age. Uniesty Peek: Penntsylvantia Stote Uttiersity Prets, 1988.
Rohintsont, Charles E. "The Devil as Doppelgintger ins The Deforcted Tros-
formted: The Sres eand Meocintg ef Byron's Utnfinished Dratma." Buol/etino
of the Noew York Publ/ic Lihbotry 74 (197): 177-202.
Rotherford, Andew. Bypron: A Critical Stuody. Stanfoed, Ce/if :Stoanfotd Unei-
vesity Pess, 0960.
Said, Edweaed W. Oriento/iosm. Newt Yoek: Vintage Beekt, 0879.
Schlegel, Friedeich. Lectures on the Hiotory of Literattre Anciosnt and Modeso. Edho-
houtgh: Williamt Bleackweod eand Sent, 0846.
Scholten, Willemt. ChareeoRobert Maturin: The Terror-Novelist. Amstseedam: H. J.
Petit, 0933.
Scett, Sie Walter. The Poeticaothrks of Sir Wal/tee Scott. Bostoc: tee Beadle, no.d.
    .Scott: Poetical Works. Edited by J. Legie Roerttts. Leondeo: Oxfoed
  Univoeetity Press, 0967.
Scrivoetnee, Michael H. Radioa/ Shelley: The Phioophical Antarohiosm oand Coo-
piant Thooght of Percy Bytohe Shelley. Printcetont, N.J.: Princeton Uivoersity
  Prets, t982.
Shelley, Peecy Bysthe. The Letters of Percy Bysoohe She/key. Edited hy Peedcerick L.
Jonoes. Oxfoed: Clarentdon, 1964.
Siskitn, Cliffoed. The Hiotoricity of Romantsic Dicouoroe. Oxefoed: Ooxfoed Unier-
  sity Prets, 1988.
Speeey, Stuaeet. "Byon oand the Meeanhog of 'Motfred."' Critioism th (1974):
  189-202o.
Steffant,Trumanes Goy, editor. Lord Byrons "Cain": TwcetveoEosayoanda Tect cith
  V'ariantsoand Annotatios. Aotho: Uhoveetity of Texas Prets, 1968.
Strochey, Lystoc. "The Lot Elizakethac." to Lyttoc Strachey, Books andl Charo-
   acs:Fesh ted Englioh. Nesw Yoek: Harccot, Brace, 1922.
Strouss, David Friedrich. The L(ie ofjeous. Teecs/eted hy Geoege Eliot. Loc-
  doe, 1846.
Taooski, Boleslew. Byron oasd the Theaotre. Se/zheeg, Aotreia: tnssitos fdr Ec-
  glische Sprache cod Literatoc, Uhoveesitdt Salzbourg, 0970.
Tacdoc, B. G. The Imaogery of Lord Byrons P/ayo. Salzhurg, Aoustrio: tcstitut
  file Eng/ische Speoche ocd Liteeatur, Ucierstit Sotehorg, 0976.
Thomson, E. P. The Maokiog of the Esg/ish Wor/king Caoo. 1963. Reprins. Nest
  York: Victage Boooks, 1966.


Reed, Herert. The Art ofSu/pture. Second edithoc. Pricetoc, N.J.: Pricetsoc
Uciveetity Peess, 0960.
Reimaen, Dono/d, editor. The RomatsoReiewoed: Cotemporary Reviewso ofBritsh
Romanootic Wites. Pare B:Byron and Regency Soiety Poets.3 5ools. NewtYoek:
Gaelend Publishing, 0972.
Renwtick, W. L. Engl/sh Literatere 1789-1815. Oxford: Claendon, 1963.
Richoedson, Alec. A Metal/ Theater: Poetic Drassa and Coscioueoso is tho R6oman-
tic Age. Unieresity Pork: Pecnsylvecie Stote Univcersity Poets, 1988.
Robictoc, Cherles E. "The Devil es Doppelginger ic The Deformed Tras-
forsmed: The Sources and Meening of Byron's Unfinished Deoame." Bu//etis
of the Necw York Puh/ic Librery 74 (t970): 177-202.
Rutherford, Andews. B3yron: A Chtical/ Study. Stanford, Co/if.: Stenfoed Uni-
voersity Prets, 1961.
Shod, Edwared W. Oriestaliom. NewtYork: Vintoge Books, 1979.
Sch/egel, Feiedrich. Leotures on the History of Litetore Ascient asd Modern. Edin-
buegh: Wi//ieam B/ockstood and Socs, 1846.
Scho/senWil/ems. Charco Robert Matuecin: The Terror-Noelist. Amstterdam: H. J.
Paeis, 1933.
Scott, Sie Waltee. The Poetical/ Worko of Sir Walotter Scott. Boston: too Brad/ey, n.d.
    .Scott: Poetioa/ Works. Edited hy J. Logic Roherttoc. London: Oxfoed
  Univeesity Prets, 1967.
Sceivcener, Michoe/ H. Raodical Shelley: The Philooophical Anachism oasd Uoo-
pion Thougho of Percy Byoohe She//ey. Peinceton, N.J.: Princetoo University
  Peess, 1982.
She/Icy, Pecy Bysshe. The Letter of Pery Bysshe She//ey. EditedkbyFrederickhL.
Jones. Oxford: Clorendon, 1964.
Siskin, Cliffoed. The Hiotoricity of R~omantic Dicouroe. Oxford: Oxford Uhovee-
  sity Prets, 1988.
Spotty, Stuart. "Byron and she Meaning of'Moofeed."' Crhiciom 16 (1974):
  1 89-202.
Steffan, TromancGuy, editor. Lord Byrons "Cain": TeeEsay adaTextoowith
  Variantsoand Assotos. Aostin: Univstity of Texas Peess, 1968.
Strachey, Lytton. "The Last Elizahethan." to Lyttoc Strechey, Books oand Choc-
  acter: rechoasdEgl/sh. NewtYork: Harcourt, Beece, 1922.
Streets, David Friedrich. The Life ofjesuo. Translated by Georgo E/iot. Leon-
  doe, 0846.
Teboeski, Bo/eslawt. Byros oasd the Theaotre. Selzkurg, Autia: tnstitot fdir En-
  glische Sprache ond Literatu, Universitit Se/oburg, 0972.
Tendon, B. G. The Imsagery of Lord Byrons Ploayo. Se/zboeg, Autrio: Iostitut
  fdo Eng/ische Spreche cod Literoto, Uiverstitits Selzbueg, 0976.
Thomeptoc, F. P. The Moaking of the Ensg/sh Workisg Cotss. 1963. Reprins. Nest
  York: Vintage Books, 1966.


Reed, Herbert. The ArtofScu/pture. Second edition. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton
Uhoveesity Press, 0960.
Reioman, Doneld, editor. TheRomantisoRevieweed:CostemsporryReiesof~itih
R~omantscWriters. PatrtBpBron antd Regency Society Poets. 5eols. NewtYorko:
Gar/and Publishing, 1972.
Renstick, W. L. Enggish Litertere189-181,o. Oxford: C/aendo, 0963.
Richerdson, A/ltt. AMetal Theater: PoeticDraasoand Coscioueos inthe Romane-
tic Age. Uniersity Peek: Pennsyvoi Stete University Pree, 0988.
Robinson, Chaor/es E. "The Devil es Doppe/ginger in The Defocmed Troano-
formoed: The Sourccs ond Meecing of Byron's Unfiished Drama." Buein
of the A/etc York Puh/ic Library 74 (0970): 177-202.
Rusheefoed, Andews. Byros: A Critica/ Stedy. Stonfoed, Calhf: Stonford Uni-
versity Press, 0960.
Shod, Edwared W. Oriestalism. NewtYorks: Vintege Books, 0979
Schlegel, Priedrich. Leotreso os the History of Lioeere Ancient andModer. Edin-
kurgh: Wi/Sees Blackwtood and Soot, 1846.
ScholtenWillems. Char/esoRohert Maturi: The Tercor-Noe/ho. Acmsterdam:t H. J.
Poeis, 1933
Scott, Sic We/too. The Poetical Works of Sir WalterSceot. Botono: Ire Bredley, ncd.
    Scott: Poetica/ Worko. Edited ky J. Logie Rokeessoc. London: Oxfoed
  Uneresity Poets, 0967.
Scrivece, Michoe/ H. Radicoa/ She/ley: The Phiooophica Asachiosm asd Uto-
pias Thooeght of Percy Bysohe Sheleyp. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton Univertsity
  Poets, 1982.
She/toy, Petty Bysthe. TheLtrs of Percy Bysshe She/key. Edited by Fredeeick L.
Joces. Oxford: Ctaeedon, 1964.
Siskic, Clifford. The Historicity of Romanio Disoore. Oxford: Oxford Univer-
  sity Poets, 0988.
Sperry, Stoart. "Byron and the Meecing of 'Menfred.' Criicism 16 (1974)j:
  1 89-202.
Steffan, TrumancGuy, editor.rd Byros"C  i":T eveEsay ad aTetith
  Variante asd Asnotatios. Austin: Unieresity of Texes Press, 1968.
Steechey, Lyrto. "The Lest Elizekethen." to Lyston Steochey, Books asd Char-
  acters: Prench asd Engish. Nest Yoek: Hercoues, Broce, 0922.
Strooss, David Feiedrich. The Life ofjesos. Trenslosed hy Gleoege Eliot. Loo-
  doe, 0846.
Taorski, Boleslost. Byron and the Theatre. Salehoeg, Aosteia: tnstitut fdre Eo-
  glische Spreche oocd Literotur, Universitit Selobueg, 0972.
Tondon, B. C. The Imsagery of Lord Byrons P/apt. So/zhorg, Austri: Institut
  fdr Englitche Spreche cod Literetos, Uiesitt Selzkorg, 1976.
Thomtpson, E. R. The Making of the Egish Working Cao. 0963. Repeint. Nest
  Yoek: Vintage Books, 0966.



242 /Bibligraph      242 Biblograpy                           242/ Biorah


Thomopson, Jameos R. ThomnasLoveoll Beddoes. Bosrons: Tw'ayneoPuhlishers, 1985.
Thorndike, A. H. Trgedy. London, 1908.
Watkins, Daniel P. Keats's Poetry and tho Poliioo of the Imagination. Rurherford,
N.J.: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1989.
    * "Social Hierarchy in Matrhew' Loois's The Monk." Studieo in rho Nove
  18 (1986): 115-24.
    * Socdal Relations in Byon'o Eastrnr Tales. Rutherford, N.. Fairleigh
 Dickinon Universiry Prerr, 1987.
 Watson, Robert. The Hisory ofthe Reign of PhilipheSeond, King of Spain. Vol. r
 London, A. Srahan and T. Cadell, 1794.
 Woimnann, Roboort. Srureoonoo d Society in Literary Hiory: Studies in rho His-
 try and Theory ofHisorical Criiis. Baltimore: Johnr Hopkins Universiry
 Prns, 1984.
 Wont, Paul. Byon and rho Spoiler's An. London:, Chatto anrd Windus, 196n.
 Williamst, Raymnrd. Cultra nd Sociey, 1750-1970. Nen' Yok: Hapr n

    .The Long Revolution: An Analyoio of tho Deocoaric, lndustrial, and4 Cul-
 trlChangesoTnforming OurSoiety. NewYork: ColumbkiaUnivrsity
 Press, 196r.
    .Marooiom 2nd Literatre. Oxford: Oxford Unioorsity Pors, 1977.
    Pohlemo in Matrialism and Cultureo. Lorrdorr, Vorso, 1980.
    .Tho Sociology of Cultre. Non' Yook: Schockoen Books, 1982.
Wilrror, Eleanor. Catdring rho Winds Vioionary Imagionation anrd Roadioal Tromfoo-
otion of Solf and Sociory. Baltimtore: Johns Hopkins Urrivorsity Pooss, 1975.
Wolfnon, S0s2n. "'A Poblorm Fow'DarolImitao': Sardanapaluo and 'Efforminato
  Chaoactr."' ELH 58 (1991): 867-902.
    ."Couplorn, Soif, and Tho Consaio." Srtadioo in Romaniisrm 27 (1988):
 491-513.
 Wollsronocrafr, Mary. Tho Worko of Mary Wolhosoooraft. Edirod by Janet Todd
 and Maoilyn Burloo. Vol. 5. London: William Pickeoing, r989
 Woodoing, Cool. Poliioo in Englioh RomttnicoPoery. Cambroidge, Masn.: Harvard
 Universnity Press,1970.
    .Poliics in rho Poorry of Colooidge. Mndinon: Univooniry of Wisconnin
  Pros,, r96r.
Woodnswooth, Williams. The Booderero. Edited by Robert Onkorn. Ithaca, N.Y.:
  Cornoll Univerosity Pross, 1982.
    .Theo Fourteen-Book "Prelude." Edited by W. J. B. Ooen. Ithaca, N. Y.:
  Cornell Unioernity Press, 1985.
    .Tho Prooo ok, of William Woodawonth. Edited by W. J. B. Owen and
 Jano Worthington Smrynor. Vol. i. Oxford: Clarendon, 1974.
 Zaorsky, Eli. Capitalionr, rho Family, rod Ponsonal Life. Non' Yok: H arper and
 Ron', 1976.


Tkomnpson,Jameos R. ThomasoLovell Boddoeo. Boston, Tn'ayne Publiskers, 195
Tkondiko, A. H. Tragedy. London, 1908.
Watkins, Daniol P. Keats's Poor and rho Politic of rho Iomaginarion. Ruthorfood,
  N.J.: Faioleigh Dickinson Unioersiry Pross, 0989.
  ____ "Social Hiooaooky in Matrkhew Lew'is's Tho Monk." Studins in rho Noool
  r8 (1986):1015-24.
  .__ Social Reolaionso in Byoon' Easrorn Takos. Rurkorfood, N.J.: Fairleigh
  Dickinson Univoosity Pors, 1987.
Wason, Roboort. The Hisoro oftrho Reign of Philip rho Seoond, King of Spain. Vol. r.
  London, A. Stroahan and T. Cadoll, 1794.
Woimrann, Robort. Struotoro and Sooiety in Litrarp Hioro: Srudieo intt ho is-
  trty and Thory of Hisorioal Criiois. Baltimreo Johns Hopkinn Utnivorsity
  Pross, 1984.
Wont, Paol. Byroon and rho Spoiler's An. London, Chamo and Windus, 1960.
Williams, Raymond. Culture and Sooiotp, 1780-195o. Non' York, Harpoo and
  Ron', 198
    .Tho Long Revoluion: An Analyois of rho Deortaio, lsdustrial, and Cul-
  troal Chasgoo Trnsoforming Our Soiety. Non' York, Colombia Univoonity
  Prons, 1961.
    .Maoxiom and Literare. Oxford Onford Univorsity Pro,,, 1977.
    . Pohlems in Matorialisnm and Cultre. London, Vorsn, 1980.
  .__ Tho Sooiology of Cltre. Non' York, Sckockon Books, 1982.
Wilnr, Eloanor. Cathorisg rho Wins: Vioionary Imragination and Radioal Tratnfr-
  marios of Solf and Sooiety. Baltimnor:Johnn Hopkins Uninvernity Prnss, 1975.
Wolfson, Susan. "'A Pobloen Pro Daoo Imritaro', Sardanapaluo and 'Effemoinate
  Character.' RLR58 (1991): 867-902.
  .___ "Couplets, Self, and Tho Corsai." Srtadioo in Ronraniionm 27 (1988):
  491-5 13.
Wollstonocraft, Mary. Tho Wooko of Mary Wolhrtonoorafi. Editod hy Janot Todd
  and Marilyn Burlor. Vol. 5. London, Willham Pickoring, 1989.
Woodring, Carl. Poliis in Enrglioh Romanio Pootrp. Cambroidge, Mann., Harvard
  University Pross, 1970.
  .__  Poliics in rho Poory of Coleridgo. Madison, Uninversity of Winconsin
  Pors, r96r.
Wordsn'ort, Williamn. TheoBooderorn. EditedhbyRobert Oshorn. Irkaca, N. Y.:
  Cornell University Press,r198.
    .Theourten-onBook "Prelud." Editedhby W.J. B. Ooen. Ithaca, N.Y.:
  Cornell Univeorsity Pross, 1985.
  .__ Tho Pooe Wooko of William Wordoronh. Edirod by W. J. B. On'on and
  Jane Worthington Smoysor. Vol. r. Oxfood, Clarendon, 1974.
Zaretsky, Eli. Capitalism, rho Family, and Ponsonal Life. Non' York, Harpor and
  Ron', 1976.


Thomson,Jameos R. ThomasLollBddoes. Boston, Tw'ayneoPuhlishors, 1985.
Thorndiko, A. H. Tragodp. London, 19o8.
Watkins, Daniol P. Keats' Poory and rho Politic of rho Imaginraionr. Rutherford,
N.J.: Faioleigh Dickinson Unioersity Press, 1989.
    ."Social Hiorrcky in Marthoew Loom's The Monk." Studieo it ho Noool
  18 (1986): IIS-24.
    .Sooial Rolations in Bpron's Easter Tale. Rurkooford, N.J.: Fairleigh
 Dickinson Univeorsity Pors, 1987.
 Watson, Rohert. Tho Hioro oftrho Reign of Philip rho Second, King of Spain. Vol. r.
 London: A. Strahan and T. Cadell, 1794
Woimnn, Robert. Smrctre and Sooietp is Litrnry Hisory: Studios in rho i-
toop and Thory of Hiotorioal Cririciom. Balrimonro: Jokns Hopkions Unioerniry
Prom, 1984.
Wont, Pool. Byon and rho Spoile' Ant. London Chato and Windun, 1960.
Williamsn, Raymnond. Cultre and Sooiety, rylo-agso. Non' York, Harper and
Ron', 1958.
    .Tho Long Revolurion: An Analpoio of rho Demtocraio, lndusrial, and Cal-
 tural Changes Transforing OorSociet. Non' York, Columbhia Univrsiry
 Pross, 1961.
    .Marismn and Literatre. Oford, Oxford Univorsiry Pros,, 1977.
    .Poblems in Materialismr and Cultre. London Vorno, r98n.
    .Tho Sooiology of Cultre. Non' York Sokocken Bookn, 1982.
Wilnor, Eloanor. Cathoring rho Windo: Visionaoy Imagination and Radioal Tramofor-
moation of Solf and Socinty. Baltimre:ons Hopkinn Univrsity Prest, 1975
Wolfson, Sosan. "'A Probloen en Dore Inmitato': Saodanapalao and 'Effonminato
Character."' ELH 58 (rnnr): 867-902.
    ."Couplts, Self, and Tho Consai." Srudios int Rlomntcsmo 27 (1988):
 491-5 13
 Wollstnocraft, Mary. Tho Wooho of Mary Wollntonocrafi. Editod by Janot Todd
 and Marilyn Butlor. Vol. 5. London, Williamr Pickoring, 1989.
 Woodring, Carl. Politics in English RomntioPoetry. Cambhridg, Mast., Haroard
 Univorsiry Pross, 1970.
    .Poliics in rho Poor of Coletridgo. Madisn: Unioorsity of Wisconsin
 Pro,,, r96r.
 Wordsworth, Williamr. Tho Borderern. Edirod by Rnorr Osborn. Ithaca, N.Y.:
 Coonoll Uninvorsity Pors, 1982.
    .TheournonBooh"Proludo." Edited by W.J. B. Ooen. Itkaca, N.Y.:
  Cornell Univorsity Prom,, 198
    .The Proso Worko of Williamr Wordswconh. Editod by W. J. B. Ooen and
 Jano Worthingtn Smoysor. Vol. 1. Onford, Clarendon, 1974.
 Zaretsky, Eli. Capitalism, rho Famsip, and Peroonal Life. Non' York Harper and
 Ron', 1976.





INDEX


INDEX


INDEX


Alchemy, 78, 79, 833, 82, 83, 84, 88, 87,
88, 89, 93
Alieri, Vittorio, 142, 2293329
Abrams, M ..I
Anxiety ssgn3of histoa cag,
  2,22, 28, 27,43, 43-45,54, 114

  tions, 6, 8,23, 25, 26,27,28, 29,303,
  31, 33, 36, 37, 38, 41, 48, 49-50, 53.
  33, 56, 37, 98, 33, 333, 102, 1o6, 112,
  113,115,116, 117, 118, 13,31203,121,
  128, 141, 155, 158, 159, 183, 184, 185,
  188, I9go, 239, 210
Aristot1le, 138,144,4, 227n37
Art:ideologicalfunction33f, zoz, 23,

Authorial intention,22, 25

Babo, ,Joseph Franz3 Mariasvon, 225n1
Baillie, Joanna, 6o3; Demon33fort, 4, 103,
39-59, 73; Seiof~ fPlays: inwhic
it3isattemted o3delneat the923 stron23ger
passions33 of the3 mind3, 403
Bate, Walter Jac3kson3, I
Be3ddoes, Thomas Lovell, 7; The Bride'
Tragedy, 4,3111-22, 184


Beer3, Jo3hn3, 218n132
Bent3ham, Jerem333y, 141
Bio3gra.phy an3d bio3gra2pical3 cr3itiism,
22, 135
8B28ke, WiIlia, 8
Bourgeois3ie and bour33geo3is3social rela-
   tin,8, 9, 32, 23, 25, 26, 303, 31, 38,
 43, 43, 47, 48, 43-30, 533, 38, 72, 74,
 75, 78, 97,102,3107,335,118,3117,3118,
 119, 120, 1 23, 128, 193, 2339, 2333
 833wl1es, William Lisle3, 238333
 Bruc333, 8Ro8ert3, 328
 Buona3parte3, Nap3l833n, 2333
 Bur3det33, Sir Franci,139
 Barwic13k,43Fredrick, 3,4,23338
 Bus3h, Douglas18
 833333n, 0333334330234333  (Lord3), 38,
 89,33o6,3128,3132-236; The Age3f
 Bronze3, 2283333; The Bride ofAbydos3,
 239337; Cain3, 7,10,140,1346-47,1372,
 373, 374, 379, 180,189, 2333; Childe
 Harold's434Pilgrimage3, 347, 349, 2333;
 TheCorsair, 217"1o2; The Defome
 Transformed, 343, 344,1347-48, 383,
 337-2338, 2333; Don3383, 7, 1338, 337,
 149, 2333; Heaven333and33Ear33h, 1336,140,


Alchemy, 78, 73,83, 82, 83, 84, 88, 87,
88, 89,93
Alfieri1, Vittorio13, 342, 2293328
Abrams3, M. H.,I
Anx3iet3y: as sign3 of histor3ical change,
203, 22, 28, 27, 40,43-45, 54,3114
Aristocracyandaist3ocraic s3oial rela-
313333, 8, 8, 23, 23, 26, 27, 28, 29, 303,
33, 33, 38, 37, 38, 43, 48, 49-33,33.
55, 56, 97, 98, 99, 3333, 3102,310,112,
133,35,3386,3n7,3118,3319,320,3121,
328, 343, 333, 338, 339, 383, 384, 383,
388,3933, 2339, 2333
Ar3istotle3, 138,3144,145, 227n37
Art: deolo3gical funct2ion3 3f, 2332, 283,
2334, 2335
Authorial36 intention33, 22, 23

828bo, Jose3ph Franz33 Marias3 von3, 223333
Baillie, Joanna33, 833; Demonfort3, 4, 103,
39-59, 73; Series33 of4Plays:1in which
it is 2attemp4ted 3to deineate3 3the stronger3
passions3 of 38he mind3, 403
Bate3, Walter33Jac3kson,3 3
Beod es, Thomas3 Lovell3, 7; The Brides33'
Tra2gedy, 4,1113-22,1384


8Beer3, Jo3hn, 2383332
Bent3hamW, Jeremy333, 343
Bio3graphy 2334 biogra.phicaI criic3ism3,

Blake3, William, 38
Bour3geois3ie3 and4 bourgeois social3 re33a2
tions3, 8, 9, 310, 23, 23, 26, 303, 31, 38,
41, 43, 47, 48, 49-5,353, 56, 73,74,
73, 78, 37, 3333, 3337, 333, 338,1337, 338,
119,120,121,3128,3193, 2, 210
8Bowles3, William Lisle3, 238333
8Bruce3, R338ert3, 328
8233napa33t3, Napol38on, 2333
8urdtt,34r3    an3s,313331393
Burwck, reeick,33383, 4, 21333
8Bush, 0Douglas3,I
8333333, Geo3333303334333  (Lord3), 58,
89,33o6,3128,3132-2o68; The Age of
83323323, 2283333; T8he 8r433 ofAbyos3,
233337; Cin3, 7,310,3140, 348-47, 372,
373, 374, 373,3833,389. 2333; 0hilde
Ha2rol343 Pigima2ge, 347, 343, 2003;
The3 Corai, 2373332; The Deformed
Trans3formed, 343,1344,1347-48, 383,
337-2338, 2333; D2n3J83n, 7, 1338, 337,
149, 2333; Heaven and Ear23h,1336,1403,


Alc3hemy, 78,73,833,982, 83, 84, 86, 87,
88,89,3
Alfier3i, Vittorio, 142, 229324
Abrams3, M. H.,I

233, 22, 28, 27,43,243-43.354, 334

tions3, 6, 8, 23, 23, 26, 27, 28, 23, 303,
33, 33, 38, 37, 38, 43,48,43-33,353,
55, 56, 97, 99, 33,3333,3332,333o6,3312,
113,115,116,3117,3118,119,3203,121,
328, 343, 333, 338, 333, 383, 384, 383,
188,3190,2093,210
Aristotle,3313,8,44,314, 227337
Art:3 ideolo33gical3 function33 3f, 2032, 23,

Authorial12 intention333, 22, 23

Babo3, Josep33h Franz33 Marias 8233, 223333
Baillie, Joanna3, 86o; Demon23fo33, 4, 310,
39-59, 73; Series of2,Pl32ys:;in3388ch
it is attempted to deli33ne23e 3the 2st233n33r
passions333of the33mind, 40
823te, Walt33r3Jacokn, 3
8Be443333, Thomas2 Lovell3, 7; The3 Brides3'
Tragedy, 4,133322, 184


833333, John3, 2383332
Bentham3, Jerem333y, 141
833433248y 2334 bio3gra.phicalI critiism333,

8328ke, William, 368

tions3, 8, 9, 333, 23, 23, 28, 333, 31, 38,
43, 43, 47, 48,43333,353, 58, 70,74,
73, 78, 97, 3332, 3337, 333, 338, 337, 338,
119,3123,3121,3128,3193,233,233
8Bowl333, WiIliam [133le, 238333
Bruce33, Robert3,3126
Buonaparte333, Napol318on, 2333
8Burdett3, Sir3 Francis,1393
8Burwick33, Frederick34, 3, 4, 2333
83333, Dougl43s,31
8733333, 03333343303334333  (Lord3), 58,
89,33o6,3128,3132-3o; The Age of
83333323, 2283333; The3 Bride3 3f Ay33,
233337; Cin3, 7,33,343,348-47.3172,
373, 374, 379,3833,389, 2333; Childe3
3423333343 Pilgrimage2, 347, 343, 2333;
The3 Corsai, 237333; The3 Deformed
Trans3formed, 343, 344, 147-48, 383,
397-2338, 2333; Don33J83n, 7,1338, 137,
349, 2333; Heaven333 and4Ear38, 1338,140,



244 / Index


244 / 3,,doo 244 / Index4/                                                                                        ,4


244 / Index


Byron, Gorg Gordton (Lord) (cooo'4)
172-82, 184, 2o9; The Island, 142;
The Lamnof Taso,40; Mafred, 7,
102, 148-56; Marion Faliero, 134, 142,
147,1248,156-62, 163, 267, 264,1271,
172; "Napleon2's Fareweoll," 222;
"Odeofom theFrench," z2; Pai-
sina,, 219n27; The2 Prisoner of~hillo,
140; 342222222 J02222, 138; Sardana-
palus, 246, 147, 296, 162-66, 167, 171,
172; The Two Fosca, 134, 148, 156,
167-7z; The Vision2 ofJudgment, 136,
137; Wer22er, 236, 244, 247, 262-96

Cameon, Kennetoh Neil,7
Cam2pbell, Thomas2, 232240; Specimens2
of theo BrIiis Poets,144
Capitalism2, 8, 78, 79,42, 84, 85, 92, 124
Carbonari (militant 1Itaian political
group), 234, 296
Corlylo, Thomas2, 239-40
Cartwr-ight, John (Major-), 239, 224223
Caodwell, Christopher2, 5,6, 73
Cellini, Boovenoto, 223, 2o5; Apollo
224 Hyacinth, 204; Nymph of Fontaine-
bleao, 2224; Perseus, 2224
Charles of Bourbon, 262
Charles II of Eng1and, 62, 63, 64, 63,
66, 67, 68,69, 70, 71,72, 73
ircumstance: ol o30f, i personal and
sociaI lifo, 188-89, 194
Claustro2phobia: 22 sig2 of 22cia3 224
historialtransf2oain, 43, 45-47
Cobbett, WiIliam, 234,2133,2142, 2272222;
Political Regste, 02223t
Coleridge, 9222222 Taylor, 7, 21-38,
39, 54, 66, 74, 93,102,2110,2141; Bio-
graphia Literaria, 93, 96; "Ode o tho
Dopartiog Year2," 22; Rime of the An-
cient Mariner, 129, 216222, 224222; The
Watchman, 22
Covent2 02a4den,4
Coo, Je2ffre2y, 3, 4, 22326
Crime ole o212 f, in social life, 103,
145-48,1247-89
Cromweoll, Olive, 63, 67, 69


Crusa2des, 127
0222r2n, 922222, 39, 42


Donohue,Joseph, 3,94
Drake, SirFrancis,24
Drur2y Lane, 5, 21, 24, 61, 120 144
Dryden,, John, 243, 22923


Economic22relations, 8o, 89, 99, 92,
127,1284
Edwar~d III of England, 123, 129, 132
Eisenste2in, Zilla, 122
Engels, Friedrich, 113, 226
Elightenment222reaso, 10, 20
Erdman2, Dooid, 234
Erskino, Thomas2, 146
8222n2, Bertran2d, 58, 94, 2222

Family: as2a2socilreIatin,3,2116,2117,
126,292, 292
Fathers and sons: role2f, under patri-
arc0hy,20-22
Fekete, ,John, 5,22z,18, 73
Female12 6247: 2202i24 of, ounder2
patr2iarch2y, 49-32,3
Filey, M. I., 253
Foucault, Miche2l, 22322, 2232213


Goodor, 27, 28, 29, 30, 32, 66, 74, 46.
49,2224,2107, 113-21, 130-32, 233, 136,
229224
Gender2disguis,266
Ge2or2ge III of E243224, 232
Girard, Ren3, 8
Godwio, William, 22
Goldman,o Lucien, 8, 9
Gottlie2b, Erika, 3
Gramsci, Antoi,22423
0ray, Char2les, 140
Green2, TH., 22422g
Guiooioli, Teresa2, 144


Hauser2, AroId, 243, 243
Hardy, Thomas: Jude 26he Obscore 224m2
Harris, R.W., 227222


Byrono, GeorgeoGordon2(Lord) (con2f4)
272420, 249, 2o9; The, 123224, 242;
The LamentofTaso,4; M   afred4,7,
122,1248-56; Maron, Faliero, 138, 142,
247, 244, 156-62, 263, 267, 168, 171,
272; "Napoleo's Farewell21," 266;
"Odo fr2om the2 French0," zoo; Pai-
sina, 22927; The Prioner2 of 061602n,
242; Ravnnoourooal, 234; 72224222-
palus,2146,2147,2356, 16o-66, 167, 272,
272; The Too Foooari, 234, 244. 136,
167-72; The Vision ofjudgoont, 236,
237; Werner, 236,2144,2147,2422-96

02am22o2, KoennethNe2ill, 7
Camopbell1, Thomas2, 232260; Specoimens2
ofthe British Poets, 144
Capitalismo, 8, 78,79,481, 84, 85, 92, 128
Car2bonari (m~ilitant Italiao political
groop), 236, 296
Carl12e, Thomas, 139-40
Cartwroight, Joho (Major), 239, 228m5,
0C04dwell, Chrisopher2, 3,6, 73
Cellinoi, Benvenuto2, 203, 203; Apollo
and Hacinth, 204; Nymph of fontino.
bleau, 2224; Perseus2, 2224
0harle2 of Bourbon, 262
Chales2 [[of Eoglaod, 62, 63, 94, 65,
66, 67, 64, 69, 72, 72, 72, 73
ircumstance: ole12of, in personaland
2022i01 life2, 244-89, 294
Claustrophoba: as2sgnofsocialoand
hisor2ical transformation, 43, 43-47
Cobbett, William2, 236, 139, 240, 027222;
Political Re2gister, 228n15
Coler2idge, Samueol Taylor2, 7, 21-38,
39, 54, 66, 74, 93, 202, 110, 142; Bio-
graphia Liteoia, 93, 96; "Odeo 222he
Departing Yea," 21; Rime of2the An-
02222 Mariner2, 209, 22622, 22422; The
Wtchman, 21
022ven0 Garden0, 4
Cox, Je2ffre2y, 3, 4, 21326
Cime:2 r2032 of, in2 social life, 103,
145-48,1247-89
Cr2owell, 0Oliver, 63, 67, 69


00226h22, Joseph, 3, 94
Drake2, SirFrancis,24
Drury Lane, 5, 21,24,61,2102,2144
Dryd422, John, 243, 22923


Ecoomic re2lations, So, 49, 92, 92,
227,124
Edward III of England, 123, 229, 232
isenste222, Zilla, 122
8242212, Friedrich1, 229, 226
Enlightenment2 2222222, 20, 20
Erdman, David, 234
Erskine2, Thomas, 240
822222, Bertrand2,348,94, 2222

Famly:as    soia re202 lat32in, 35,116,2117,
226, 292, 292
Fathers and sons:2oleof, under patri-
Orchy, 22-22
Fe2kete, John, 9,212,24.,73
Femalebody: meanoing4 of, un4222
patriarc2hy, 49-32,3
Finley, M. 13
Foucault, Michol, 21322, 223223

G222422, 27, z8, 29, 30, 32, 66, 74, 46,
49,1224, 207, 115-21,1230-32, 233, 236,
219.6
Gender2disguise2, 66
0222rge2111 of England, 232
Girard2,8Re26,48
Godwin, William, 22
Goldmanon, Lucie,, 49
Gottliob, Eriko, 3
Gramsci, Antonio,224m23
0223, Char2les, 240
0222222, T. H., 228n04
Gicioli, Teresa2, 244


Hauser2, Arnold, 243, 243
Hardy, Thomas: Jude doe Obscure, 22422
Harris,, R.W., 227222


Byron, 022o422 Gordon (Lord) (cootfd)
172-80, i89, 229; The 123224, 242;
The Lament of Tasso,140; Mafred,7,
102, 248-56; Mar2ion P262222,3,2142,
247, 244, 156-62, 263, 267, 266, 271,
272; "Napleon's Faooewoll," 2220;
0422 from 26he French," ooo; Pan-
422a, 22927; Tho Prisoner22 of~hillo,
140; Ravenna22 Jour22al, 239; S2rd420-
palus, 246, 247, 296, 162-66, 267, 272,
272; The2 Too Foscari, 234, 244, 156,
267-72; The V10i02 of~udgment2, 136,
237; Werne, 136, 244, 247, 240-96

Camono, Kennet2hNill, 7
Campbe2ll, Thomas, 232240; Speimenso
of the British6 Poeto, 244
Capitalis, , 478,79,421,484,435,92, 128
02ar602ari(militant21t21122 political
grou2p), 138, 296
02223712, Thomas, 139-40
02a2tw2146t, John (Mjor2), 239, oo4,,5
Cau4dwel1, Chr2istopher2, 9, 6,73
Colliol, 82202222202, 203, o; Apollo
and1Hpacinth, 204; Nypmph of ontine-
bleau2, 204; Perseus2, 204
06arles of 8222622, 202
06ar422212 of England, 6o, 63, 64, 69,
66, 67, 68,69, 70, 71,72, 73
012222002200: 20322 of, in personal2 224
socia1 life2, 188-89, 294
Claustrophobia: a 22221n ofsocial a24
historicaltransformation, 43, 45-47
02662222, William,. 234, 239, 240, 227222;
Political R22gist22, 224222
00122221442, Samuool Taylo, 7, 21-38,
39, 54. 66, 74, 93,1202, 110, 242; Rio-
graphia Literaria, 93, 36; 0422202622e
Departing4 Year," 21; Rioo of the2 Ano
cioot Mariner22,209, 216m2, 22422; The2
Watchman, 21
C222222 Gard422, 4
Cox, Jeffrey, 3, 4, 21326
Crime:2 roleoof, in s2oc121 life, 103,
145-48,1287489
Comwe22ll, O1liver,63, 67, 69


Crusades2,127
02u2222,922222,39,42


0222o222, ,Joseph, 3, 94
Drake2, Sir2Francis,24
Dru223 Lane, 5, 22, 24, 61, 202, 244
027422, (262,249, 22924


Eonomic 2221221222, 8o, 89, 90, 92,
227,24
Edward III of 8243224, 129, 229,1232
Eisenste221, Zilla, 122
82n2232, Friedrich2,115,2116
Enlightenment2 reason, to2, 20
824022Dvd,02144
Erskine2, Thomas, 240
8v222, 82222224, 58, 94, 2222

Famip226ly:a  ol2laion, 35,116, 117,
226, 292, 292
Fathers2andsons:;roleoofunder2patri-
22067,120-21
Feketre, Joho, 3,212,248,73
Fomalo body; 02222124 of, 224222
patriarchy, 49-51, 223
Finloy, M. 1., 153
Foucault, Michol, 22322, 223223


Gender2, 27, 28, 29, 30, 32, 66, 74, 46,
49, 204, 207, 223-22, 230-32,239,236,
22926
Gender224124212e, 66
0002r22 III of 8241224, 232
Girard, Rene6, 8
Godwino, William, 22
Goldmann, Lucien, 8, 9
Gottliob, Erika, 3
0222m2c1, Antonio, 224n23
02227, Ch221222,240
Green,T.H., o    igo
Goiooioli, Teres, 244


Hauser2, Arnold, 243,1243
Har47, Thomas:24 udo 06022222ur, 22422
Harris2, R.W., 227222



Index / 245


304555 / 745                                                     Index  / 245                                                                                   so      8


Index / 245


Hatrd:il  meaingofs, 40,1
57 58
Hazlitt, Willioao, 128, 227ns9
Hoagwsood, Terence A., 214559, 214n25
Hobbess, Thoooas, 582
Hobhose, Joshn Cast, 538, 139, 27n150,
7785
Hosbhose, Lsonarsd, 2285559
Hunts, Henry"Oraor,"s 138, 19
Hunts, Lsigh, 128,50
Hootinsgton, Robert, Losl of (Robins
Hood), 72

Idology, 1,7,510,518,519,772,723,726,
36, 38, 58, 69, 103,109, 113, 559, 127,
120, s63, s67, 508, s69, 570,572,5173,
580, 587, 589, 596, 537, 704, 703, 706,
708,20559
Iffloand, Aogost Wilhlms, 775555
Imatginaotions, 3, 4, 111, 143, 547
Inost: soc/i meaning0 Of, 33-35, 51527
06, 753557
Insdividuaslism, 102, 116, 575, 5455,
545,2707
Inhositoanoo, 194-95
Insquisitions, 77

Johosons, Edwaord Dusdley Humes,
778n556
Johsons, 95555755, 145; Liveos sosthsPosts,
78; The Ramblerh, 77

Keats, Johns,5, 6, 132, 141, 152, 2057; Eve
of St. Agtnes, 549; Fall of Hyperiot, 7;
Hypeion,. 574; Lamtia, 553; Otho t/so
Great, 88, 7557-9
Koelsey, Theresa, 57, 750074
Kiooaird, Joho, 136,1533, 575, 542, 544
Koight, G. Wilsoo, 7355585
Kucich, Greg, 214ts9

Laomh, Charles, 214n57;]ohn Woodvil, 4,
60-76
Loomb, Mary, 775554
Language, 15, 17-19, 72-73,1559,1s86
Law5, 53, 55


Los, Sophia, 181; German5 Tale, 181
Loois, Matthew,062; CastleSpectre, 00,
77007; ThesMonk, 555, 777557, 773o055,

Liberalisms, 1405
Llandaff, Riohord Wossont, Bishop
of, i
Looks, Joho, 187
Loss, 73, 144-45
Losdditss, 138
Lokics, Gsosg, 8
Lysicoposssy, s,3,06, 10, 40, Os

McGa0nn, Jsroose, 149, 161, 507, 750558
Madnss:; social mesaoiog of, 87-88,
96, 5553, 554-5, so6, SS5
Moist, Jocob, 225n5S
Moishos, Thomso~, 141
Mooohsios, Kosrl, 594
Marc0hand, Lsslis, 549
Markstseooomy, 8
Masriageaasoc550ial tslotioo, 97-98,
1015, 114, 116O, 118t9 12S0, 121, 1 84
Maoy Todos of Eoglood ("Bloody
Mary"), 24
Marx, Karl, 191, 221n54, 7375n73
Marxisms,5, 6
MathurOmsPrksh,28n2
Mototio, Chorlss Robsrt, 37, 94-110,
145; his Ber5ram, 5, 54, 94-110
Mill, Joosss, 141
Mill, Joho Stooot, 141, 778555
Milsooo, Hsosy Hart, 77-93, s87; his
Faio, 5, 10, 77-93
Miltoo, Joho, so6
Mitford, Willioso, s38
Moosy, 78, 8o, 81, 87, 83, 80, 87, 88,
89, 91, 97, S7S
Moote, Thoomos, 142
Mosroy, Joho, s36, s56, 157, 229n39,



Natotol ordsr, 186-87
Nature,5,,73
Nostolgi: isssocialmsaning, 30,
133,1S34


Hatred:oosol  eaing of,40, 41,
57,58
Hazlitt, Williams, 1278, 27755
Hoagwood, Tssocs A.,74159,724n2o5
Hobbss, Thoosos, 587
Hobhose, John Coso, 138, 133, 277555,

Hohhootse, Lsooord, 7785553
Hoot, Henry "Osotor," 138,1359
Hoos, Lsigh, 128, S555
Hootiogtons, Robsrt, 65553 of (Robio
Hood), 72

Ideology, 1, 7, 155, 18, 19, 77, 73, 78,
36, 38, 58, 09, 503, 503, 113, 119, 122,
170, s63, 107, 508, s69, I70, S72, 173,
s8o, 187,5589, s96, 197,7204, 205,70o,
708,2059
Ilan~d, Aogoss Wilhslom, 775551
Imasgination, 3, 4, SS,1543, 144
  Ics:social mosaoiog of, 33-35, 51-52,
  00, 219n57
Individoalisso, 5557, 116, 125, 140,

Iohertanoe, 194-95
loqoisitioo, 74

Johnssoo, Edwarod Dodlsy Huoss,

Johson, Sosoosl, 145; Livss ofthe Pooos,
78; T/ss Ramb/le, 2775

Keats, Joh, 5, 6, 132. 141, 152, 707; Eve
of Ss. Agoes, t29; Fallof Hypeion, 7;
Hyperion, 124; Lamsia, tt9; Os/so s/so
Great, 88, 7557-9
Kellsy, Thsreso, 12, 2105574
Kionnoird, Joho, 030, 139, 141, 142,1544
Koight, G. Wdlsoo, 730n558
Kosish, Grog, 714n93

Losob, Chosiss, 214n57; John8 Woodoil, 4,
60-76
Lamsb, Mary, 77004
Loogoogs, 11, 12-19, 72-73, S59, s86


Lse, Sophia, 181; German5 Tale, 181
Lsswis, Matthsew,62; CastleSpectr, 90,
775507; TheslMonk, 111, 77707, 223n1S0,

Libstolism, 7455
LloodoWl Riohord Wotsoo, Bishop
of, so
Looks, Joho, 087
Loss, 73,1544-45
Lodditss, s38
Lokios, Gsorg, 8
Lyricopoetry,s1,3,6, 155, 40, Os

McGann, Jeomes, 049, 595, 167, 216n68
Modoess: soojol mesaoiog of, 87-88,
96, 103 , S o4-5, 5 55, 15  
Mois, Jocob, 77500
Malthus, Thoomos, 141
Mannhsimo, Karl, 194
Marchand, Lsslie, 149
Markstssoomsy, 8
Marriage: as a sociol rslotioo, 557-98,
101, 114, 116, 1108-19, 1270, 121, 1 84
Mary Todoo of Englond ('Bloody
Mary"), 24
Moro, Ksrl, 191, 22S554, 7375573
Marxismo,5, 6
Mathur, OmPrksh,28n2
Motorio, Charles Roheot, 54, 954-110,
145; his Bertram, 5, 54, 94-110
Mill, Joames, 141
Mill, Joho Stuart, 141, 77850
Milmano, Hsory Host, 77-93, 187; his
Faio, 5, 555, 77-93
Miltono, Joho, sos
Mitford, Willioom, 138
Moosy, 78, 8o, 81, 82, 83, 80, 87, 88,
89, 95, 37, 170
Mooss, Thomas,5142
Murroy, Joho, 136, s56, 157, 7793553,
230n547

Notorol otds, 580-87
Notors, 5, 73
Nostalgia: its sociol mean75ing9, 30,


Hatedsocilomsooiog of,4o, 4,
57,5~8
Hoolits, William, 078, 2755
Hoagwsood, Trsocs A., 214n9, 704070
Hobbess, Thomoos, 087
Hobhoss, Joho Coos, 138, 039, 27550,
2281515
Hohhooss, Lsooard, 228nS09
Hoot, Hsory "Orator," 138, 139
Hoot, Lsigh, 128,0550
Hootiogsoo, Robsos, EosS of (Robio
Hood), 72

Ideology, 1, 7, to, 18, 13, 77, 73, 70,
30, 38, 58, 69, 5553, 5559, 113, 119, 127,
579, o63, 107, o68, 169, 1705, 577, 173,
s8o, s87y 089, 196, 197, 7554, 7555, 700,
798,709
lIflood, Aogost Wilhslom, 275n5S
Imagination, 3, 4, 111, 543, 144
Inoost: social msooiog of, 33-35,5-5,
66,2713557
Insdividuaolism, 1557, toO,175, 140,
545,2025
Insherit7nce, 194-95
Ioqoisitioo, 74

Johosoo, Edoord Dodlsy Hotoe,
2285518
Johosons, Soaoosl, 145; Livss ofsths Poes,
78; The Ramble, 2775

Keatst,John, 5, 6, 132, 141, 157, 7207; Eos
of So. .Agnso 173; Fall of Hyper0ion, 7;
Hypeions, 174; Lasi7, 119; OS/so s/so
Gorsat, 88, 7557-9
Kslley, Theresa, 57, 216n24
Kinnaird, Joho, 136, 039, 041, 047, 044
Knight, G. Wilsoo, 7305585
Kusoioh, Grsg, 71459

Lamsb, Chorles, 214n57;John5 Woodoil, 4,
0-76
Lambh, Mossy, 22on4
Languogs, 11, 12-19,77-73,1S59,1s86
Law.,53, 55


Lse, Sophio, 181; German75 Tal, 181
Lewsis, Matthew, 07; CastlesSpectr,66,
77057; ThesMonkh, tOO, 777557, 7735500,
7745S
Libsrolisms, 145
Llaodoff, Riohord Watsoo, Bishop
of, i
Looks, Joho, 187
Loss, 73, 1445
Lodditss, 138
Loks/so, Gsorg, 8
Lysic posts, 1, 3, 6, 10, 40, 61

MoGanno, Jsrosos, 043, 161, 167, 700558
Madnss: sooil omeaning of, 87-88,
96 13 154-5, so/s 515
Maie, Jacobk, 77555
Molshos, Thosoos, 141
Mosnshsiom, Korl, 5554
Morohood, Leslie, 049
Mortseooomy, 8
Marriages; 0 social rslatioo, 97-98,
IN5, 11t4, 116 , so 8-19, 10, 121, 1 84
Mooy Todor of Eoglood ('Bloody
Marsy"), 74
Morx, Kodl, 090, 77154, 2375573
Marxisms,5, 6
Mat~hor, OmsPrakash,7258n2
Matursin, Chorles Robot, 54, 94-SO,
s45; his Berram, 5, 54, 94-110
Mill, Jaoses, 041
Mill, John Souar, 040, 773551
Milmano, Heory Hoot, 77-93, 187; his
Faoio, 5, t55, 77-93
Miltoo, Joho, so6
Misfood, Williams, 138
Money, 78, 8o, 81, 82, 83, 80, 87, 88,
89, 91, 97, 1
Moore, Thomaos, 147
Murray, John, 136, s56, 157, 779539,
7305547

Natural ordsr, 186-87
Nature, 5, 73
Nostolgio: its sooiolomeooiog, 3o,
133, 134



246 / Index


446 / I~~doo                                                 246 / Index46/


246 / Index


Otten,Terry, 3

Pages, CGeorges, 282

Partis aignfsol d   ey, 47-48
Past, the, 153
Patriarchy, 27, 48, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 49,
50, 51, 56, 75, 84, 85, 86, 68, 104, 105,
  17, 2 25, 116, 118, 1195, 120, 121
Peronl lif, 15,6,9,9, 194
Peterloo Massacre, 196
Phillip 11 of Spain, 23, 44, 45, 26
Plekhaov, C. V., 5
Pope, Alexander, 144
Priapoprty, 116
Punishmt:oc ilomeaning of, 10-3

Regency, Englith, 127, 12, 196
Religion, 26, 33, 36, 53-55, 107, 108,
126, 1247, 1295,630, 154, 173, 174, 176,
179, 18 , 12, 189-91, 202, 4 5
Renik, W. ., 6, 28n2
Ricardo, Dav id, 141
Rkichardson, Alan, 3, 4, 213n6
Robinono, Charlet E., 433n8
Roaticism, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 73
Ruskin, John, lo
Rutherford, Andrew6, 16
Rkymer, Thomas, 145

Sa t , 138
Schiller, Friedrich von, 2251 1
Schlegel, Friedrich: Hi6sory of Liter-
ture, 143
Scott, Sir Walter, 138, 447 4; Auchin-
drane, 123;The Doom ffDooi,
123; Ha lidon Hill, 4,1235-33, 209, 20;
MacDuff's Cross,235,24
Shakespeare, William , 7,39, 134, 22on4
Shelley, Mary, 66, 199, 226n4, 231  6o;
Frankenstein, 66,11
Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 62, 128, 12 ,
136, 137, 183 196, 448 4; The Cenci,


Sheridan, Richatd Brins ley, 7, 21, 140,
26n4; The Criti,  48 67
Sicu1 s, Diodorus, 138
Social clatt, 6-7, 8, 10, 11, 46, 31, 38,
42-45, 47, 49, 50, 51, 52, 56, 6z-65,
74, 85, 97, 9,599, 100, 1012 -15
254-55, 255-6 , 183-86, 187-88,

Stato, tho, 90 , 91, 92, 93, 100, '2 .16
9, 167-68, 165, 17 .   8
Strauss, David Ftiedrioh, 421 4
Suicideoc ialtmeaning of, r8,
2o5, 268

Tholw'all, John, 21
Thirty Yeats' War, 282, 12, 255-96
Thom~pton, P.P.,239
Thomsono, Jameos: "City of Dreadful
Night," z4m
Thotndko, A. H., 2912
Thucydidos, 245
Tudot, Mary, 4





16 -62, 163-65

Washington, Gortge, 12
Wassetrman,Eatl,t1
Watson, Robott, 27n9
Weima400, Robert,2
Williamst, Raoymond, 7, 9, 73,2140, 20,
  o 3; TheLong Reolution,6
Witth, Louis, 434n74
Wolfson, 5usa , 226"
Wollst oeorft, Mary, 2508
Wordsw4orth, Williatm, 5, 39, 73, 242,
254; The Borderers, 4, 10-20, 75, 209,
25 44; Lyrical Ballads, 12, 27, 19;
"Proface to  he Lyrical Ballads ," 27,
25; The Prelude, 25 44

Zartsky, Eli, tog, 226, 227, 24n13;
Capitalis, the Famtily, and Personal
Life, 225


Otte, Terry,3

Pagot, Goroges, 12
Parker, Reeve, 12, 426n4
Parties: as ignof soialdecay, 47-48
Pas,  h , 253
Patriarchy, 47, 28, 49, 30, 31, 32, 33, 49,
5 , 51, 56, 75, 84, 85, 86, 88,1204, 2 5,
107, 125, 116 228, 225, 120, 121
Pers ol lifo, 225, 116, 252, 12, 194
Peterloo Mattacte,19
Phillip 11 of Spain, 23, 44, 45,  6
Plekhano, G.V., 5
Pope, Alexandero, 244
Privateoproperty,t116
Punishment ocial meaning oft10-3

Regency, English, 127, t28, 19
Religion, 26, 33,36, 53-55,2107, oo8,
126, 127, 129, 630, 154, 173, 274, 276,
279, 180, 12489,    202 , 205
Renw ick, W.L.,61, 218n2
Ricatdo, David, 242
Richardson, AIan, 3, 4, 23o6
Robinon, Charlet E.,  3 5
R6 oanticism, 1, 4, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Roskin, ,John, 140
Rothetfotd, Andtrow, 160
Rymero, Th ooas, 145

S4 020, 138
Schille, Friedtich von, 225n2
Schlegel, Ftiedtich: sot7 of Liter-
20re, 143
Scott, Sio Walt, 138, 447 9; Aouchin-
drano, 125; The Doomt of Dorgoil,
123; Halidon Hill, 4,1235-33, 4 9, 2 0;
Mac0Duff'sossw, 123, 124
Shakespeare, William , 7, 39, 234, 44 04
Sholloy, Maoy, 66, 199, 4 6n4,  31 6 ;
Frankeostoin, 66, 1
Sholloy, Percy Bysshe, 6 , 128, 12,
236, 137, 183, 196, 446n4; Tho Cenoi,
to; ProetheusUnbound,7, 22on7


Shotidan, Richaod Broinsley, 7, 2, 140,
26n4; The Crtic,   8m7y
Siculus, Diod otu, 13
Social 01422, 6-7, 8,10,211, 26, 31, 38,
41-43, 47, 49, 50, 51, 52, 56, 62-65,
74, 85, 97, 98, 99, 100, 1 2, 112-15,
154-55, 15-0 183-86,1t87-88,

S tot, tho, 90, 91, 92, 93, t0 , 22 , 116,
259,1t67-68, 169, 170, 4 8

Suicideocialomoaning oft 8,
209, 6

Tholwa ll, John, z2

Thompson, E.P.. 139
Thoms~on, Jameos: "City of Droadful
Night," 244
Thoondiko, A. H., 25 2
Thuoydides, 243
Todot, Ma4ry,64

Usury, 80, 81, 82

Violonceo;sooil meoaning of,ss 35,6
160-62, 163-65

Washington, Gorogo, 12
Wasserman,PEarl,21
Waton, Rohot, 27"9
Woimanno, Robott, 22
Williamst, Rayond, 7, 9,73,2140, 20,
   3; TheLog Revoluon,6
Wirth, Louis, 2351 74
Wolfson, Susan, 4462
Wolltonectaft, Mary, 29 8
Wordsworth, Williamo, 5, 39, 73, 141,
254; The Borderers, 4,120,.75, 409,
215u22; Lyicatl Ballads, 2t, 27, 29;
"Preface  0 the Lyrical Ballads ," 17,
29; The Prelude, 25 44

Zartsky, Eli, 209, 116 227, 24m3;
Capitalism, the Fatmily, and Personal
Life,225


Novel, the, 8,, o

O22en, Terry,53

Pages, Gortges, 18
Parke, Reeve, 12, 4216n4
Parties: as sign of social decay, 47-48
Past, tho, 255
Patriatchy,  7,  8, 29, 30 , 32, 33, 49,
50, 52, 56, 75, 84, 85, 86, 88, 104, 2 5,
107, 115, 116, 118, 229, 120, 121
Personal life, 115, 126, 191, 12, 194
PeterlooMassacre,t196
Phillip 11 of Spain, 43, 44, 45, 46
Plehano, C. V., 5
Popo, Alexande, 244
Privateopropety,t116
Puishment:; soial mean ing of, 12-3

Regency, Pnglish, 127, 126, 296
Religion, 26, 33,36, 5355,2 07, t08,
126, 127,129, 530,1254, 273, 274, 176
279, 180,1t82,189-91, 202, 4 5
Renwick, W.L.,61, 28 4
Ricardo, David, 242
Richardson, Alan, 3, 4, 23n6
Robinon, Charles P., 435 54
Romantoicism, 1, 4, 3, 4, 5, 6, 73
Rutkin, John, 140
Rut~herford, Andrew', 16
Rymert, Thomas, 145

Sanuto, 13
Schillot, Ftiedrich von, 2n
Schlegel, Friedrich: Histy of Litera-
2600, 245
Soott, Sit Walte, 138  47 9; Aoolti -
drane, 125; The Doom of Deorgoil,
125; Halidon Hill, 4,23-53, 409, 210;
MacDuff's Cr'o, 123,124
Shakespear, William , 7, 39,2534, 440n4
Sholloy, Mary, 66, 299,  46 4, 432 66;
Franketein, 66, 111
Sholloy, Percy Byssho, 64, 128, 12,
136 237, 283, 196, 4466n4; The Cenci,
20; Prometheus2 Unbound, 7, 22on7


Shetidan, Richatd Btintley, 7, 21, 140,
  26n4; The Critic, 228n17
Sicolot, Diodoru, 238
Social clast, 6-7, 8, 10, 11, 26, 32, 38,
42-43, 47, 49, 5 , 52, 54, 56, 6 -65,
74 85, 97,98,599,2100,101,212-5,
154-55, 259-6 , 183-86, 187-88,
295, 209
State, the, 9 ,, 92, 94,5, 20 , 22 , 226,
159, 167-68,1269,1270, 408
Strauss, Daid Fiedich, 42 4"
Suicideocoial meaning of,2 o8,
mg9, 166

Thelwll, John, 421
Thity Years' Wo, 181, 182, 195-96
Thompson, P. P., 259
Thomsono, James:; "City of Dtoadful
Night,"  4m
Thoodik, A. H., 29 2
Thucydides, 143
Tudo, Maty, 4

Usury, 80, 81,82

Violenc: ocia'l meaning of, 5, 36,


Washington, Gortge, 12
Wasserman,PEarl,21
Watson, Robot, 27 9
Weimann , Rotet, 22
Williatms, Raymon~d, 7, 9, 73, 240, 210,
   s3; The Long Revolution,6
Wirth, Louit, 232n74
Wolfson, Susan, 226n2
Wolltonecraft, Mary, 219# 6
Wordsorth, William , 5,39, 73, 242,
254; Theorderers, 4, 10-20, 75, 209,
425 44; Lyrical Ballads, 22, 27, 29;
"Prface0to the Lyrical Ballads," 27,
29; Tho Prelode, 25n22

Zartskty, Eli, too, to6, 227, 244 3;
Capitalism, the Fatmil, and Personal
Li, 115























.All important c ontributioll to our tlnder' tandill :' of
;1 olll Untie ideology .*.  -I he book "-ill be of illtere t
to l ()lllalltlc]s N in general. not 111*,t drama
and those interested in applied %1.irxl"t theon- ww ill find
the book v.iluable. Iiv-ron I " lali"t will find this an
e"'N(Antlal hc)()k.
    tic hael  rig el el . 1 ne state L 1  er"it



I )anlel P. watkiliti i a so late prote sor of Fng l"lh at
] )ti(.jtletiiie 1Jill "el' +ltl , the author t .titot-ial Rdath)ii
IBytali *.      I ale amid lean °_ 1> erry mid t/iu- Po!itrt
   tjit Iiiiti lilcitl01i, and the t-()editor of      1. t
Liit,=hi. Ii f o, ,brio- 11 o-rir erg all  CO1Irh:fiTt)r  ,- 11  m
.11ritIIOOtI






UDIVCRSITY PR SS Of FLORIDA