The impulsive need for visuals

As a genre of artistic expression, the illustration of Shakespeare's works has as its benchmark Nicholas Rowe's 1709 six-volume edition in octavo format, which includes engravings of scenes at the beginning of each play. The literary reputation of the Stratford poet, dead for nearly a century, was growing by leaps and bounds, and Rowe believed that publishing a critical, illustrated edition of Shakespeare's works made reasonably good business sense.

Too bad he used the corrupt Fourth Folio for his text. In Rowe's defense, it should be remembered that the First Folio and the various quartos of Shakespeare's plays had not yet been recognized as the all-but-sacrosanct textual goldmines that they were to become in later years.

The Bodleian Library at Oxford even made the horrifying, epic mistake of getting rid of their First Folio, which they figured they should do in light of their acquisition of a Third Folio in 1664. A bit like discarding an old phone book, evidently.

The Bodleian later saw the wisdom of buying that First Folio back when the opportunity presented itself in 1905. The whole episode is probably not on their highlight reel.

It was during the early 1700s that Shakespeare's literary reputation was beginning to take on the monumental status it would achieve by the end of the century. The enormous success of his plays and of particular players (none more so than David Garrick) in London's theaters during the 1730's and thereafter would put Shakespeare's name on the lips of the statesmen of the age as well as the man on the street. And before the century was done, the phenomenal Shakespearean actress Sarah Siddons would rule the stage and the hearts of the London theatrical set.

Yet despite Shakespeare's undeniable mastery of scene-painting through language, many book buyers still seemed to enjoy the pictorial assistance that illustrations provided for the mind's eye.

A case in point is the engraving above, from an 18th-century octavo copy of The Merchant of Venice (T. Bensley, Fleet Street, London, 1798). It shows the Prince of Morocco in astonished disappointment as he realizes he has picked the wrong casket and failed in his pursuit of the desirable but elusive Portia, standing behind him with her lady-in-waiting, Nerissa. 

Despite Shakespeare's vivid word-picture of this gregarious, exotic character, the scene itself offered a memorable opportunity for graphic recreation, in this case with a William Ridley engraving. Without doubt, the engravings also added to both the aesthetic and monetary value of the books, making them worth more but also more expensive to produce. By this time Shakespeare was becoming the colossus of the English literature: his works were among the safest of safe bets.

The whirlwind of Romanticism

In the earliest years of the nineteenth century, Europe's epicenter wasn't in London. Nor could it be found in Rome, pinpointed among the baroque splendors of Vienna, or sought after as far east as Moscow.

Europe's epicenter could best be found in the mind of Napoleon Bonaparte.

Not since Julius Caesar had the world seen a man with such a will to glory guided by such an expansive intellect, and with enough physical courage to make his dreams his life. At least until Waterloo.

This human whirlwind, coming in the turbulent wake of the French Revolution, made neo-classical restraint seem old-fashioned, like yesterday's news for yesterday's people. In music, in poetry, in art, in literature, the new sensibilities of Romanticism were sweeping Europe and the message seemed clear: either dive into the maelstrom or trudge along in a life less lived.   

Early traces of Romanticism can be found in a number of illustrations of  Shakespeare's plays, as human figures in these artworks began to assume more vigorous postures in an evident attempt to mirror the tumult in their souls. This marked a departure from so much of the artwork that had been created prior to the Revolutionary years. These earlier Shakespearean illustrations tended to look more formal and restrained, accentuating the 18th-century belief that nothing is more dangerous to social order than an untethered emotion.

Pictured above are engravings from A Midsummer Night's Dream (upper) and Hamlet that show traces of this transition to a more expressive, aggressively vigorous depiction of human emotion. The Midsummer engraving, from a 1799 octavo copy (London, Printed by T. Bensley, Bolt Court, Fleet Street) shows Shakespeare's Helena, in Act II, suddenly coming upon a sleeping Lysander in the woods, and expressing her astonishment in a very reserved, stylized fashion, in keeping with the acting standards of the day.

In contrast, Johann Henry Fuseli's c1789 painting of Hamlet, and its subsequent engraving, shows the Prince of Denmark struggling to follow the ghost of his father on the battlements of Elsinore. The work shows traces of a transition in artistic expression in favor of a more emotive, unrestrained physicality. To live meant to strive, and the painter Fuseli seemed to embrace that ethic with a passion fit for a revolutionary age.

He became a prolific painter of scenes from Shakespeare's plays, and created works for John Boydell's Shakespeare Gallery in London that were also engraved for a folio and an illustrated set of the great poet's works.

This less restrained artistic sensibility would continue, despite taking on a more subdued profile during the Victorian years, through much of the nineteenth century. The stiffness and formality of most 18th-century Shakespearean illustration created prior to the French Revolution no longer passed muster in this new whirlwind of Romanticism.

The gratifying habit of survival

An intriguing thing about books: it's remarkable that many of them avoid destruction as long as they do.

So many other cultural accoutrements meet with an earlier demise: active abuse or passive neglect usually does the trick. Chairs, tables, bedsteads fall apart. Tableware gets smashed, or perhaps stolen for silver content. Paintings that fall out of fashion are often consigned to oblivion, mildew-covered in the back of a closet, rotting at the bottom of a trash dump.

It's painful to remember that Leonardo da Vinci's Last Supper, painted on a wall in the refectory of Sta. Maria delle Grazie in Milan, was in a state of deterioration within a few years of its creation, and was damaged by bored French troops during their occupation of the city right around the turn of the sixteenth century. One ruffian, one thief, one fanatic, one war can obliterate a sublime act of creation.

Books rarely top the shopping list of the barbarian at the gate. It sometimes takes the iniquity and thoroughness of a Hitler or a Stalin to imperil the printed volume.

Pictured above is the opening page of the aforementioned Shakespeare octavo (see posting immediately below). It shows pride of ownership in a bit of marginalia at the top of the page, courtesy of one Elizabeth Philips, who added the date of May, 1788. The small woodcut illustration includes a king's crown along with shackles and a chain, evidently touching on the burdensome nature of kingship that frequently emerges and reemerges throughout Shakespeare's works. Or perhaps it's a symbolic depiction of Macbeth's tyrannical rule.

The slightest bit of doodling in the pages of a centuries-old book is one of an antiquarian volume's great delights.  Who exactly was Elizabeth Philips? Was she English? Or was she a young American in a new nation trying to gets its footing? Did she recoil in horror at Macbeth's murder of Duncan, or at Lady Macbeth's unladylike complicity? Sustenance for the imagination.

The Katharine Hepburn of the 18th century

This 1788 octavo copy of Shakespeare's Macbeth (the volume also includes King John) was "Printed for, and under the direction of, John Bell, British Library, Strand. Bookseller to His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales."

It includes an engraving of the stage immortal Sarah Siddons in the role of Lady Macbeth. That role, among so many others, brought her enormous fame and adulation. Her brilliance and beauty dominated the late-18th century London stage. In a farewell performance as Lady Macbeth at Covent Garden in 1812, once her sleepwalking scene (engraved above) was concluded, the uproarious ovation from the audience was such that the evening's play was not even continued to its conclusion.

By the time that lengthy demonstration of affection finally subsided, the curtain was reportedly raised to find that Mrs. Siddons had changed into her own clothes (no quick matter in that era) and was ready to thank the audience for their many years of enthusiastic support. Having endured a disappointing start in her earliest stage efforts at Drury Lane, she had sharpened her acting skills on provincial  stages around the country and had returned to London with a vengeance that proved Shakespearean in its grandeur.

The engraving is by Jean Marie Delattre from a painting by J. Rhamberg. Sarah Siddons had her portrait painted by two of the finest British portrait painters of the day, Thomas Gainsborough (whose work is shown immediately below) and Sir Joshua Reynolds (whose portrait of Sarah Siddons as "The Tragic Muse" is at bottom).

She still gave occasional stage performances after her formal retirement from the stage, hardly surprising for a person who came from a family of theatrical performers (her younger brother John Philip Kemble and niece Fanny Kemble, among others, achieved considerable acclaim as well).

Sarah Kemble Siddons died in London in 1831, and was honored with a statue on Paddington Green.