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Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 31 60845 
 
SHAKESPEARE-CHARACTERS. 
 
Printed by Ballantyne & Company, Edinburgh. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Upon various occasions, after I had quitted the profession of 
 public lecturer upon dramatic and general poetic literature, 
 .applications came to me, from both friends and strangers, to 
 print the courses I had formerly delivered upon " The Subor- 
 dinate Characters in the Plays of Shakespeare." 
 
 I heeded, and not heeded, one after another, those gentle 
 admonitions, until, some time since, an accomplished friend 
 I made me the same recommendation ; and having had full 
 experience of his judgment, also firmly believing in the sin- 
 cerity of his appeal, I have revised and remodelled my 
 manuscripts, for the purpose of presenting them to the read- 
 ing public. It became evident, in the course of a careful 
 scrutiny, that the form in which I had addressed my obser- 
 vations to a popular audience would be advantageously ex- 
 changed for one more suited to perusal ; and also, that while 
 in my lectures it was not necessary to treat of more than the 
 subordinate characters in each play, far greater completeness 
 and interest would be secured by including an examination 
 of the more prominent characters. 
 
 I have therefore prepared the following Essays, with the 
 hope that they will aid in directing attention to the ethical 
 scope and design of the several dramas, and to the sustained 
 
yi Preface, 
 
 harmony with which the Poet has delineated his characters 
 throughout: : accordingly, I may express my trust that the 
 Essays will prove acceptable to all who are interested in the 
 due appreciation of our great Moral Teacher. 
 
 It is a pleasure to me thus to give permanence to my hold 
 upon the regard of my former hearers, and to believe that in 
 another form will be recalled the disquisitions we formerly 
 enjoyed together upon the greatest and most lovable genius 
 that was ever vouchsafed to humanity, — a genius so lovable 
 as well as so great, that, in pondering and repondering his 
 productions for the chief portion of my life, I can sincerely 
 say my admiration has ever increased in proportion with my 
 study. 
 
 An addition to my pleasure — and I think it will likewise be 
 one to my old hearers and new readers — is in the occasion 
 afforded me of mentioning, that my affectionate study of 
 Shakespeare has always been shared by one whom it were 
 scant praise to pronounce the " better part " of me, and that 
 to her feminine discrimination are owing many of the subtle- 
 nesses in character-development which we traced together, 
 and which form part of this volume. 
 
 In conclusion, I shake hands in spirit with all brother 
 Shakespeare-lovers who do my book the courtesy of perusal, 
 commending it to their kindliest reception. 
 
 CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE. 
 
 Genoa, July 1863. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ^' PAGE 
 
 MACBETH, 1 
 
 II. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT, . 33 
 
 III. 
 
 HAMLET, .... 61 
 
 IV. 
 
 MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM, ... ... 93 
 
 V. 
 
 OTHELLO, ■ . . . .Ill 
 
 VI. 
 
 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR, 139 
 
 VII. 
 
 KING LEAR, . . ^ ■ . 165 
 
 Vllff 
 TWELFTH NIGHT, 193 
 
 IX. 
 
 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA, 213 
 
vin 
 
 Contents. 
 
 X. 
 
 ALL S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XI. 
 
 TEMPEST, 
 
 273 
 
 XII. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, 
 
 293 
 
 KING JOHN, 
 
 XIII. 
 
 317 
 
 winter's tale. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 343 
 
 RICHARD II., 
 
 XV. 
 
 367 
 
 MERCHANT OF VENICE, . 
 
 XVI. 
 
 387 
 
 HENRY IV., 
 
 XVII. 
 
 413 
 
 RICHARD III., 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 451 
 
 XIX. 
 
 coriolanus, 
 
 473 
 
 measure for MEASURE, 
 
 XX. 
 
 495 
 
SHAKESPEARE-CHARACTERS. 
 
I. 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 When I first proposed to myself the undertaking of a Course 
 of Lectures upon the Genius of Shakespeare, my first feeling 
 was, that I could scarcely hope to originate any new theory 
 upon the principal characters in his dramas ; for they have 
 been subjected to and have passed the ordeal of the most 
 acute critical intellects of the most civilised nations of the 
 world during more than a century past ; and therefore for a 
 while I suspended my intention. But then it occurred to me 
 that the secondary movements, the "subordinate characters'' 
 in his plots, have, to a considerable extent, been neglected, — 
 the satellites of the several systems have been merged in the 
 rays of their presiding and controlling suns. Of these " sub- 
 ordinate characters" it became my "hint to speak," according 
 to my homely wit ; and I hoped to show passages of beauty 
 that have been either too superficially, even thoughtlessly 
 read, mayhap altogether overlooked, and some delicate points 
 of character that have been undeservedly neglected. I did 
 not, therefore, take up this subject because the principal 
 points in the plays have been treated to repletion, but to ' 
 make manifest that the secondary ones are rich in nature 
 and dramatic effect ; and, in consequence, upon addressing 
 
4 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 myself to my task, I was constantly impressed with one 
 feature in Shakespeare's intellectual organisation, and that 
 is the pervading harmony of his inferior characters with the 
 great and single end he had in view towards the developing 
 and maturing of his plan. I do not mean, in using the word 
 " harmony," that his subordinate characters are as consistent 
 with themselves as are the heroes and heroines of his plots ; — 
 that would indeed be a gratuitous remark, of which it would 
 require no ghost to come and inform us ; although, in many 
 of the inferior dramatists, this discrepancy in characteristic 
 development might be quoted to a considerable extent ; — 
 but what I mean by the pervading harmony in his secondary 
 characters is, that they are both consistent in themselves, 
 and consistent in fulfilling the designs of the poet or creator : 
 — in short, that, like contrary movements in a grand musical 
 composition, their intention and action combine in imparting 
 unity and continuity to its design and progression. Shake- 
 speare had doubtless an instinctive perception of propriety in 
 " keeping," (as the painters term it,) and his range of mind 
 would simultaneously grasp the combinations of qualities 
 requisite to conceive and perfect two such beings as Othello 
 and lago ; but it comes not within the range of human 
 accomplishment that all those profound, heart-shaking bursts 
 of passion and indefinable subtleties of character, like the 
 minute threads in our nervous system, all combining to 
 produce the one grand result of sensation, — that all that 
 Creator-like harmony of design (I speak not irreverently ; 
 for, with his divine faith in " goodness in things evil," and his 
 toleration of the infirmities of his species, Shakespeare was 
 an emanation of the Author of all Good,) — that all his 
 wonderful harmony of design, I say, should have cost him 
 ' no more brain-effort than to write the poems of the Venus 
 and Adonis, and Tarquin and Lucrece, exquisite as those 
 compositions are, it were childish for an instant to conclude 
 
Macbeth. 5 
 
 I do not say that there is manifestation of effort in anything 
 that Shakespeare wrote, but there is prodigious contrivance, 
 and a felicitous consummation of cause and effect ; and all 
 this harmonious arrangement, I assume, did not come to him 
 with the facility of hooting to an owl. ^ 
 
 ^ In this very play of Macbeth, for instance, not a scene, 
 not a character in the dramatis personce occurs, which does 
 not tend, with undeviating current, to carry us on towards 
 the catastrophe, and magnify its qualities ; while the inferior 
 ag ents are individualised with a minuteness of surpassing 
 truth to nature. >- 
 
 And before entering upon a discussion on these minor 
 characters, I will commence by as brief a summary as I 
 am able of the ruling qualities in the two master-springs 
 in the structure — Macbeth and his wife. 
 
 Macbe th, from circum stance, has become wholly eng rossed 
 and swayed by ambition ; but it is to be noted,„that his i s 
 e ssentia 11 j^the ambition of opport unity. The accident of his 
 birth, which places him within as approximate a claim to the 
 crown of Scotland as the reigning monarch, first excites it. 
 Then the predic tions of the weird sisters — : or, in other 
 words, the suggestions of his own imagination tampering 
 
 ' wif-h pngQi'Vilp r~Vionr-pg — ar<» the npvt incitement . _Thg"comes 
 the ^ temptinpr occasion of the king's housing with him at h is 
 own rastip- And to crown all, his wife's representation of 
 the ease with which the deed of the murder may be perpe- 
 trated. In pe rusing his character, we b ecome consciou s that 
 Macbeth is an irresolute being ; he perpetually seeks s upport 
 and confirmation from his accomplices. In almost every 
 point he is the very antipodes of Richard III., with whom he 
 has been compared, (the single motive of ambition being 
 excepted ;) and how finely has the poet individualised and 
 made historical the royal murderers ! So far from " seeking 
 support," (like Macbeth,) Richard relies solely on himself, 
 
6 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 using others merely as his agents — his tools. IJeJiss-.axi-' 
 unm isgiving _rr.nfirlpn^f in lii'i n""" -f'^'-p'-Ci and an insolent 
 scorn for those who stand as obstacles in the way of accom- 
 plishing his purposes. Macb eth admits the excellence s of 
 Duncan even while meditatinpjiis-assasaiiiation, and almost 
 
 _the_circumstances of their m utual position to sway 
 him fxom his intent Kicnard treats his implements of crime 
 with business-like order and despatch. The scene wherein 
 he sends the two murderers to kill his brother Clarence is 
 almost gay, in its bold, blunt, resolved tone. 
 
 Ho w different from Marheth's conference with the men he 
 employs to waylav Ban quo ! In every pointitis suggestive 
 of the man who feels his way to the matter in hand, and who 
 tries the dispositions of the men he would make the instru- 
 ments of his deed. There is positively a strong infusion of 
 the national quality of caution imparted to his nature and 
 course of action. He begins by an indication of his own 
 distrust in them. He bids his attendant " go to the door '" 
 during their stay, and "wait there till called." He i) ext 
 s hows that he has previously had an interyissLwith these 
 men, in which he has _soug'ht__ tQ stir^heirresentment against 
 
 Banqiin_hy rp|Maaa<»nUI inns i'>r -iU-offirp'; np _h^gpar<- tOWards 
 
 them. He urges this again, and goads them. He goes on 
 enlisting their interest of hatred to strengthen them into fit 
 instruments of serving his own. While Richard rn rnmandg 
 and commends the diligenc^ _pf t^'g '-"ffi^"'i, Marbpf-Ti lures 
 •jnf^ almn^^t- rniirfg t Viesc fcllows int o being villains enough for 
 tJie-spriirp pvprii Hon of his purpos e. It is the war y dealing 
 of the self-misgivin g man, who seeks to c onfirm his cmnrs^f^- 
 lu don at the garrjp timp fliat Tip dpgjrp,.^ fp make sure of theirs. 
 A singular touch occurs in the next scene, confirmatory of 
 this uncertainty and mistrust that pervades Macbeth's actio ns. 
 It is at the place appointed for the men to lie in wait for 
 Banquo and Fleance ; and it begins thus : — 
 
Macbeth. 7 
 
 " Enter THREE MURDERERS. \ 
 
 " \st Murd. But who did bid thee join with us ? • 
 
 "ZdMurd. Macbeth. 
 
 " 2d Murd. He needs not our mistrust, since he dehvers 
 Our offices, and what we have to do, 
 __JCo-the direction thus." 
 
 It is precisely t his feature of indec ision — t he indecision of 
 a soul unhardened in guilt— which accompanies Macbeth 
 t hroughout in his pursuit of the objects of his ambition, (so 
 accurately in tu ne with the character given of him bv his 
 wife,) which individualises that ambition, an d rende rs it a 
 quite different passion from that which actuates Rich ^-d. 
 Richard's ambition renders him inflexible, reckless, insolent ; 
 Macbeth's allows him to be full of hesitation and compunction. 
 Macbeth's am bition is scarce sufficiently poten t- tn VinlH him 
 J lq his purpose. He himself feels it to be thus inadequate ;_ 
 he owns, by one little sentence in soliloauv. that it require s 
 urging and stim ulating. He says : — 
 
 " I have no spur j 
 
 To prick the sides of my intent, but only / 
 Vaulting ambition." / 
 
 " Only vaulting ambition ! " Ij ijhat m oment he confesses it 
 to be insufficient to furnish hi m with arguments agaiflSt th OBfc' 
 hphaHj iist admitted to be of force in withholdinrr him frnm 
 t he act which should secure him the object of his- jjabttion. 
 It is this very betrayal of something imperfect in Macbeth's 
 ambition, .something which permits it to be touched and 
 swayed by the workings of his feelings, that causes the char- 
 acter of Macbeth to take that strong hold upon our sympa- 
 thies. It is because we behold i n him a mirror of human 
 frailty <-t^^7~?r [in^i ^JJes so "pn^'^pff"! a" ini-prp<;f- witVi us, and 
 that we cannotfind it in '"'■' hf n rh "<-<-'"-1y <-" ^-^^<- t^'^ "■■<- 
 
8 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 and condemn him. We cannot, u nmoved, hear of the ^%^ 
 ta ted be tr ayals of coun tenance which reveal MacbethTIii ward 
 str uggl es. What an awful picture is twice conveyed to us by 
 the comments of his wife upon his appearance ! One, the 
 well-known passage : — 
 
 C^ " Your face, my Thane, is as a book where men 
 \ May read strange matters." 
 
 And the other is her remonstrance : — 
 
 " Come on ! 
 Gentle my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks ; 
 Be bright and jovial 'mong your guests to 
 
 How horribly and palpably is thus presented to us the 
 convulsed features and gloom of expression which paint the 
 desperate tumult of the soul within ! 
 
 ■A.s an instance of Macbeth's p rnnpnpc;.; fp t^''-^-fl" him^Hf 
 _upon others forenjinurni^euiLiiL in hxjj umbi4km § struggl es, 
 and of his wan t of complete self-reliance, may be nnt^ his 
 .resarting_to_the witches in the 4th Act ; seeking from their 
 pred i ction s fr esh insti gations fr> fres h deeds of r niclty nnd 
 , bloodshed . With allthis minute detail in mental portraiture, 
 Dr Johnson pronounces Macbeth to exhibit "no nice dis- 
 criminations of character ! " 
 
 Entirely different is the quality of Lady Macbeth's am- 
 bition and mind altogether. I;^reqiiim.; neitjifr-enmni-agp- 
 _ment nor "s p ur, " 7\s MnrhnhliV r fnpg " ftr'Ts^with her, an 
 ever-present, a paramount consideration. It suflSces to absorb 
 and obliterate all other feelings. It enables her to control 
 her imagination, and to keep it ever fixed upon the one aim 
 she has in view. It inspires her with courage to face and 
 despise all contingent obstacles, and with firmness to supply 
 that which she instinctively knows is deficient in her hus- 
 band's nature. It has no hesitation, no vacillation, like his • 
 
Macbeth. 9 
 
 it yields to no compunctious visitings of conscience. "Con- 
 science " is to her an unknown tongue, — it is a sixth sense : 
 she admits no nice casuistry of right and wrong. The object 
 of her ambition must be obtained — come it how it may. 
 Means are nothing to her ; — the end is everything. The 
 means are merged in the end. It becomes to her a neces- 
 sity, to which all other circumstances must give way. She 
 neither sees nor will hear of any let or hindrance to the 
 accomplishment of her purpose. She neither listens to the 
 promptings of her own mind, nor to those of her husband. 
 She has neither scruples, doubts of success, nor fears of con- 
 sequence. She is in one blaze and sunlight of hope and 
 exultation, when once the golden promise of her ambition 
 shines fully before her. She unflinchingly fixes her gaze 
 upon it — eagle-like ; and never after suffers her imagination 
 to be for one instant diverted or withdrawn. She no sooner 
 beholds it as a possibility, than that very moment it becomes 
 to her a certainty. Her first exclamation is : — 
 
 " Glamis thou art, and Cawdor ; ' 
 And shalt be what thou art promised!' 
 
 The only thing wanting, she feels, is steadfastness in her 
 husband ; and this she knows she can supply. What energy, 
 what grandeur in her invocation to him : — 
 
 " Hie thee hither, 
 That I may pour my spirits in thine ear ! " 
 
 She sets herself the task of controlling and effectually stifling 
 all weak misgivings that might have lingered within her, 
 .and is at once prepared to meet her lord with that resolute 
 bearing which shall infuse its spirit into his :— 
 
 " Great Glamis ! worthy Cawdor ! 
 Greater than both, — by the all hail hereafter ! " 
 
I o Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 The words she uses in speaking of her guest and victim, 
 King Duncan, are wonderfully characteristic, and carry with 
 them a slight womanly redemption, which Shakespeare so 
 well knew to convey. She says to her husband : — 
 
 " He that's coming 
 Must be provided for : and you shall put 
 This night's great business into my despatch." 
 
 In the next scene, we note how closely she keeps her 
 purpose in sight, and adheres to her plan of carrying it 
 forward. Her eye has been fixed upon her husband — has 
 noted the vacillations in him which she dreaded, and the 
 conflict of mind which causes him to leave the supper- 
 chamber. She follows him, expostulates with him ; rises 
 into remonstrance and reproach, — even into the bitterness 
 of taunt : — 
 
 " What beast was 't then, 
 That made you break this enterprise to me .■' " 
 
 And when he falters out — 
 
 " If we should, fail .■' " 
 
 she rejoins — 
 
 " We fail !— 
 But screw your courage to the sticking-place, 
 And we '11 not fail." 
 
 Lady Macbeth neglects nothing which shall assure the 
 accomplishment of her purpose. When the deed of murder 
 is to be enacted, we find that she has not omitted to partake 
 of the sleeping-cup — the posset — upon retiring to rest. 
 Having then drugged the possets of the grooms, she enters 
 upon the scene with these tremendous words : — 
 
 " That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold • 
 What hath quench'd them hath given me fire." 
 
Macbeth. 1 1 
 
 This was a grand dramatic circumstance to introduce, illus- 
 trating the manners of the time ; and singularly illustrative 
 of the character of the woman, who disdains no means that 
 may help to nerve and confirm her. Wonderfully in keeping, 
 too, is her obtuse reply to her husband's agony of remorse, 
 and affecting apostrophe to sleep : — 
 
 " Still it cried, ' Sleep no more,' " &c. 
 "Lady M. What do you mean f " 
 
 Impressive indeed is the lesson the poet reads upon the 
 fruits of a bad ambition reaped by unhallowed means in the 
 after-career of Lady Macbeth. Not only has he presented 
 us that terrible vision of her haunted and restless sleep ; but 
 even in the very first glimpse we have of her alone, — after 
 she is crowned queen, — is there any triumph ? any satisfac- 
 tion .' — Oh no ! — sadness, discontent, despondency. This is 
 her tone of musing : — 
 
 " Naught 's had, all 's spent. 
 Where our desire is got without content : 
 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy. 
 Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy." 
 
 Inexpressibly affecting, and profound in its admonition, is 
 the half envy of the murderous survivors for their victim. 
 Macbeth, too, says : — 
 
 '' Better be with the dead. 
 Whom we, to gain our place, have sent to peace. 
 Than on the torture of the mind to lie 
 In restless agony." 
 
 With all her energy, however, to screen and sustain her 
 husband, where is her own spirit.' — Cast down — prostrate. 
 She is capable of immense exertion while the pressure of 
 necessity lasts ; during that excessive demand upon her. 
 
1 2 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 during the banquet scene, she appears omnipotent : but 
 when the guests are gone, we behold the sudden reaction : 
 — she sinks down into the utterly dispirited being, and utters 
 but a few languid sentences in reply to her husband's words. 
 
 It is, indeed, a striking lesson to behold Lady Macbeth as 
 she is now, and to recall what she was. Her vigour, her 
 animation, her fiery eloquence, when the object of her ambi- 
 tion was in view, and as yet unattained ; her broken spirit, 
 her depression, alternated with spasmodic efforts in her 
 husband's behalf, her saddened days, her awful nights, her 
 premature death, as we find them when her ambitious desires 
 are crowned. When we desire to realise the intense bliss of 
 rectitude and innocence, we have but to analyse the motives, 
 the actions, and the consequences of a blood-guilty ambition, 
 as thus depicted by Shakespeare. In scrutinising the career 
 of such people as Macbeth and his wife, — and especially of 
 Macbeth, who was an impressible and imaginative man, — who 
 does not sympathise with — who does not pity him } and, in 
 the comparison of suffering, who does not even envy the 
 victim of his ambition .' 
 
 And now, to proceed to the minor agents in this illustrious 
 drama, and to notice their no less individuality and truth to 
 nature, with their uniform current of action, carrying us on 
 to its grand catastrophe. 
 
 Thus. we have the first victim of Macbeth's ambition, "the 
 good king Duncan," described as a man formed in the very 
 mould of unoffending gentleness ; even his murderer is con- 
 strained to testify that he 
 
 " Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been 
 So clear in his great office, that his virtues 
 Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against 
 The deep damnation of his taking off" 
 
 And so beautifully do these qualities in his nature shinp 
 
Macbeth. 1 3 
 
 forth, that they have nearly pushed the traitor from his pur- 
 pose. And when the deed has been perpetrated, with what 
 appropriate and poetical Hcence has the poet heightened its 
 circumstances, calling in the elements to 
 
 " blow the horrid deed in every eye, 
 That tears shall drown the wind." 
 
 With what a simple and, consequently, forcible effect has 
 he introduced that conversation between the Earl of Rosse 
 and an " old man," without the walls of the castle, the morn^ 
 ing after the murder, the circumstance of their wonder and 
 amazement harmonising so finely with the romantic and pre- 
 ternatural character of the whole story ! 
 
 "Old M. Threescore years and ten I can remember well ; 
 Within the volume of which time I have seen 
 Hours dreadful, and things strange ; but this sore night 
 Hath trifled former knowings. 
 
 " Rosse. Ah ! good father ! 
 
 Thou seest the heavens, as troubled with man's act, 
 Threaten his bloody stage. By the clock, 'tis day, 
 And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp. 
 Is 't night's predominance, or the day's shame. 
 That darkness does the face of earth entomb. 
 When living light should kiss it .' 
 
 " OldM. 'Tis unnatural, 
 
 Even like the deed that 's done. On Tuesday last, 
 A falcon, towering in her pride of place. 
 Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd." 
 
 [Note the felicity of that image, — the courtly falcon, the 
 familiar of the royal fist, struck to death by a night-bird of ' 
 prey — a " mousing owl." How apt, too, the epithet !] 
 
 " Rosse. And Duncan's horses, (a thing most strange and 
 certain,) 
 Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race. 
 
1 4 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 Turn'd wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, 
 Contending 'gainst obedience, as they would 
 Make war with mankind. 
 
 " Old M. 'Tis said they ate each other. 
 
 " Rosse. They did so, to the amazement of mine eyes. 
 That look'd upon it." 
 
 The next victim to the ambition of the usurper is Banquo, 
 whose offence, in the eyes of his murderer, is traceable to the 
 prime movers of the whole tragedy — the weird sisters. They 
 prophesied that he should be " lesser than Macbeth, and 
 greater;" that he should "beget kings, though 'A^ be none." 
 It is interesting to notice, in the career of Banquo, how skil- 
 fully the poet has avoided a dramatic tautology (if I may 
 so use the term) in bringing about the death of two worthy 
 men immediately upon the heels of each other. Banquo was 
 endowed with those qualities which Lady Macbeth attributes 
 to her husband. Banquo, also, is too " full of the milk, of 
 human kindness to catch the nearest way to advancement." 
 He too " would be great ; is not without ambition, but with- 
 out the illness which should attend it. What he would highly, 
 that would he holily." And these quahties stand all appa- 
 rent in the course of his brief career. For instance, the pro- 
 phecy of the witches having been verified in the point of 
 Macbeth's being created " Thane of Cawdor," the recollection 
 that " the greatest was yet behind," and to be fulfilled, acted 
 like a spark upon the dormant tinder of Banquo's ambition ; 
 but the singleness of his nature restrained him even from an 
 unjust aspiration. Thus, at the close of the banquet with 
 King Duncan in Macbeth's castle, when he is retiring to rest, 
 and is evidently brooding over his destiny, he says, in soU- 
 loquy — 
 
 " A heavy summons lies hke lead upon me. 
 And yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers ! 
 
Macbeth. 1 5 
 
 Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature 
 Gives way to in repose." 
 
 And immediately after, in conversation with Macbeth, still 
 ruminating upon their scene with the witches, he says : — 
 
 " I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters ; 
 To you they have show'd some truth." 
 
 Macbeth, knowing that he is at that moment preparing to 
 murder the king, indifferently replies — 
 
 " I think not of them ; 
 Yet when we can entreat an hour to serve, 
 We would spend it in some words upon that business. 
 If you would grant the time. 
 
 " Bang. At your kindest leisure." 
 
 Then upon Macbeth's sounding the disposition of his brother 
 soldier, and saying — 
 
 " If you shall cleave to my consent when 'tis. 
 It shall make honour for you" — 
 
 Banquo's answer to the insinuation strictly harmonises with 
 his straightforward disposition. He says — 
 
 " So I lose none — [that is, no ' honour '] — 
 In seeking to augment it, but still keep 
 My bosom franchis'd and allegiance clear ; 
 I shall be counsell'd." 
 
 The next time we meet with Banquo is in the courtyard, 
 when the household are summoned upon the discovery of 
 Duncan's assassination, an hour or so after the conference 
 just quoted ; and still the transparent frankness of his nature 
 reveals itself In a spasm of horror at the deed, he ex- 
 claims — 
 
1 6 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 " When we have our naked frailties hid, 
 That suffer in exposure, let us meet, 
 And question this most bloody piece of work, 
 To know it farther. Fears and scruples shake us. 
 In the great hand of God I stand; and thence 
 Against the undivulged pretence I fight 
 Of treasonous malice." 
 
 Again — the poet brings him to brood over his future for- 
 tune, as connected with the fulfilment of the witches' pro. 
 phecy in that of Macbeth. He has just witnessed his coro- 
 nation at Scone. 
 
 " Thou hast it now. King, Cawdor, Glamis, all 
 As the weird women promised ; — and, I fear. 
 Thou play'dst most foully for it : — yet it was said. 
 It should not stand in thy posterity : 
 But that myself should be the root and father 
 Of many kings. If there come truth from them, 
 (As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine,) 
 Why, by the verities in thee made good, 
 May they not be my oracles as well, 
 And set me up in hope i" — But, hush ; — no more." 
 
 This is one out of multitudes of examples, showing the 
 undeviating watchfulness of Shakespeare in preserving the 
 proportion and harmony of his characters : — this last speech 
 of Banquo is strictly in keeping with his first : he closes his 
 mind against every prompting of a sinister ambition. His 
 whole course of action is a running comment upon his first 
 ejaculation : — 
 
 " Merciful powers ! 
 Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature 
 Gives way to in repose." 
 
 He really is, as the witches said, — 
 
 " Not so great as Macbeth, yet much greater ■" 
 
Macbeth. 1 7 
 
 he has the power to resist temptation, and the courage to' 
 fear an unjust act. 
 
 It is worthy of notice, too, that Shakespeare impresses 
 us with the one prevailing quality in his characters, quite as 
 much by casual actions or insignificant remarks, as by the 
 most formal display or announcement of them. For instance ; 
 true gentleness of heart is rarely unaccompanied by an appre- 
 ciation of the beauties of nature, animate and inanimate. To 
 Banquo, therefore, with delicate taste and propriety, is given 
 that lovely reflection upon the characteristics of the house- 
 swallow, confirming Duncan's commendation of the pleasant 
 position of Macbeth's castle. He says : — 
 
 " This guest of summer. 
 The temple-haunting martlet, does approve. 
 By his lov'd mansionry, that the heaven's breath 
 Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze, buttress. 
 Nor coign of vantage, but this bird hath made 
 His pendent bed, and procreant cradle : where they 
 Most breed and haunt, I have observ'd, the air 
 Is delicate." 
 
 Banquo has himself noticed this fact in natural history, and 
 the exquisite polish of his diction displays the man of quality 
 and attainment. Macbeth testifies to the superiority of his 
 
 nature : — 
 
 " Our fears in Banquo 
 Stick deep ; and in his royalty of nature 
 Reigns that which should be fear'd : 'tis much he dares ; 
 And to that dauntless temper of his mind, 
 He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour 
 To act in safety. There is none but he 
 Whose being I do fear ; and under him 
 My genius is rebuk'd, as, it is said, 
 Mark Antony's was by Caesar." 
 
 It has been objected, as a violation of propriety, the intro- 
 duction of one of the murderers during the banquet. But, in 
 
1 8 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 the first place, we must bear in mind the different ordination 
 of ceremony, or rather the absence of all ceremony, in that 
 early and rude stage of society, when royalty, in its rough- 
 hewn simplicity, sat, as it were, " at the receipt of custom," 
 and was accessible to all comers. Besides, the ruffians in 
 this play were gentlemen of broken fortunes ; they had been 
 fellow-soldiers of Macbeth and Banquo, — men "whom the 
 vile blows and buffets of the world had so incensed, that they 
 were reckless what they did to spite the world." It is with 
 such instruments that such deeds are commonly achieved. 
 
 I will dismiss these remarks upon the character of Banquo 
 with one more observation, and that upon the disposition of 
 one of the incidents in this wonderful drama. Of all the 
 appalling situations, (and it is brimful of them,) no one 
 makes so powerful an appeal to my own individual feelings 
 as the unprepared introduction of Banquo's spirit at the 
 supper-table. The idea of such a visitation, at such a point 
 of time, is sufficiently ghastly in itself; but the effect is 
 enhanced by the consummate skill and simple power of the 
 poet in causing the murderer to recognise his victim. The 
 Earl of Rosse says to Macbeth — 
 
 " Please it your highness 
 To grace us with your royal company .-• 
 
 "Macb. The table's full. 
 
 " Lennox. Here 's a place reserv'd, sir. 
 
 "Macb. Where.? 
 
 "Lennox. Here, my lord. What is 't that moves 
 Your highness "i 
 
 " Macb. Which of you have done this .' " 
 
 The abrupt and startling force of this incident has, I should 
 suppose, never been surpassed ; and it is one which an ordi- 
 nary writer of plays would have diluted, and spread over pages 
 of talky-talk, and, in consequence, he would have missed his 
 point. Whereas, Shakespeare has simply denoted the action 
 
Macbeth. 1 9 
 
 and left the result to the imagination of the reader. The 
 first impulse of Macbeth's mind in saying, "Which of you 
 have done this ? " is, that his treachery has been discovered, 
 and that the real body of Banquo, with its twenty gashes, 
 has been placed in his presence in order to confront and con- 
 found him ; — a course of proceeding perfectly reconcileable 
 with the primitive and savage era of the history. — The next 
 impression is, after his wife has sneeringly told him that, 
 " when all 's done, he is but looking on a stool ! " that the 
 spirit of his victim has come to taunt him ; and he makes 
 that tremendous appeal to the apparition, " Take any shape 
 but that, and my firm nerves shall never tremble : " &c. And 
 lastly, upon her upbraiding him with his unmanliness, he 
 gives her the most convincing excuse for it : " If I stand here, 
 I saw him ! " How artful, too, is the using of that relative 
 pronoun, "him" upon the occasion, not naming the object of 
 his thoughts — she knowing it. After all that may be said in 
 the way of comment and eulogy, it is such minute points as 
 this that confirm the true poetic genius. 
 
 The purlieus of a court have never been famed for breath- 
 ing the pure air of homely and sincere speech — scarcely, 
 mayhap, of sincere thought ; but in the region of a usurper, 
 and who is also tainted with violence and crime, men had 
 need bear " charmed lives," if they are afflicted with inconti- 
 nence of speech. Then the feeble-minded and the self-seek- 
 ing become strengthened in duplicity ; and the bolder resort 
 to the equivocation of irony, — the only freedom triumphant, 
 and which cannot be quenched under a tyranny. Even 
 this subtlety has not escaped Shakespeare in drawing the 
 characters subordinate to the hero in this tragedy. It is to 
 be remarked, that whatever conversation arises among them 
 relative to the murder of the king, he has contrived to impress 
 the reader with the feeling that they all suspect the same man 
 of the crime, and no one breathes a suspicion to his fellow. 
 
2 o Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 Their dialogues are short, and conducted in dry sentences. 
 The Earl of Rosse says to Macduff: " How goes the world, 
 sir, now?" " Why, see you not ?" is his brief reply. "Is't 
 known," he resumes, "who did this more than bloody deed ? " 
 
 " Macd. Those that Macbeth hath slain." 
 
 The man who makes the nearest approach to a plain at- 
 tainder is Lennox ; and his speech is ironical throughout. In 
 conversation with another lord, he says : — 
 
 " My former speeches have but hit your thoughts. 
 Which can interpret farther : only, I say, 
 Things have been strangely borne ; the gracious Duncan 
 Was pitied of Macbeth : marry, he was dead : 
 And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late ; 
 Whom you may say, if 't please you, Fleance kill'd. 
 For Fleance fled. Men must not walk too late. 
 Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous 
 It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain 
 To kill their gracious father ? — damned fact ! 
 How it did grieve Macbeth ! — did he not straight. 
 In pious rage, the two delinquents tear. 
 That were the slaves of drink, and thralls of sleep .■• 
 Was not that nobly done .' — Ay, and wisely too .■■ 
 For 'twould have anger'd any heart alive 
 To hear the men deny it. So that, I say. 
 He hath borne all things well : and I do think, 
 That had he Duncan's sons under his key, 
 (As, an 't please Heaven, he shall not,) they should find 
 What 'twere to kill a father ; so should Fleance. 
 But peace ! " 
 
 Again, towards the close of the play, in the dialogue be- 
 tween the physician and Lady Macbeth's waiting-woman, an 
 ordinary play-writer would have followed the usual recipe for 
 concocting a lady's maid, by making her clack like a mill- 
 wheel. Shakespeare knew that courtly serving-women hear, 
 see, and say nothing ; and in such a court as that of Mac- 
 
Macbeth. 
 
 21 
 
 beth, an attendant would scarcely be over-confidential. The 
 whole of this scene is a masterpiece of natural effect ; the 
 first two or three sentences of which will be sufficient to con- 
 firm my previous remark. The curiosity of the Doctor, — ^who 
 is, moreover, a court-doctor, and characteristically inquisitive, 
 — and the cool reserve of the waiting-woman, are, in their 
 respective vocations and habits, both edifying. The Doctor 
 says : — 
 
 " I have watched two nights with you, but can perceive no 
 truth in your report. 
 
 " Gent. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen 
 her rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, unlock 
 her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, 
 afterwards seal it, and again return to bed ; yet all this while 
 in a most fast sleep. 
 
 " Doct. A great perturbation in nature ! to receive at once 
 the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching. In this 
 slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual 
 performances, what at any time have you heard her say ? 
 
 " Gent. That, sir, which / will not report after her!' 
 
 " Doct. You may to me, and 'tis most meet you should. 
 
 " Gent. Neither to you, nor to any one, having no witness 
 to confirm my speech!' 
 
 Such points as these, interwoven with the tissue of the 
 plots of his plays, produce that harmonious proportion men- 
 tioned in my introduction ; and which we may vainly seek, in 
 equal proportion, from any other dramatic writer. 
 
 Again, — and still referring to his consistency in maintain- 
 ing the propriety as well as the harmony in his characters, — 
 I may bring to recollection the grand manner in which he 
 has made Macbeth and his wife severally to descant upon 
 the indelible testimony of their crime — their bloody hands. 
 He, the masculine and more robust being, uses the stronger 
 and more magnificent image : — 
 
2 2 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 " Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood 
 Clean from my hand ? No, this my hand will rather 
 The multitudinous seas incarnardine, 
 Making the green, one red." 
 
 She, upon the same dreadful theme, with womanly feeling, 
 personal feeling, and association, says, " Here's the smell of 
 the blood still : all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten 
 this little hand." The whole of the sleep-walking scene, with 
 the doctor's ejaculation, " God ! God ! forgive us all ; " and 
 the simple beauty of the waiting-woman's protestation, " I 
 would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of 
 the whole body," is one of the most solemnly affecting ap- 
 peals ever penned. . 
 
 I have spoken of the duplicity to which all are compelled, 
 who by the force of circumstances draw their resources from 
 the dispensations of a usurper and tyrant. The feeble- 
 minded and the pliable-conscienced sink their scruples 
 fathoms below their interests. Such only remain about 
 him ; and such only we find to be the retainers of Macbeth. 
 Macduff, his early friend, has retired from the court. In his 
 character it is interesting to notice how the poet has pre- 
 served its consistency, and placed it in high relief with the 
 other persons of the drama. Macduff is an honest, but im- 
 petuous man, and, therefore, no tactician. He acts from 
 impulse ; and when he does give utterance to his thoughts, 
 he delivers himself in concise and blunt sentences. That he 
 is a man of sudden movement, and no method, appears in 
 his flight into England, leaving his family unprotected, and 
 ignorant of his course. By no other apparent contrivance 
 than the one adopted could the poet have judiciously dis- 
 posed of Lady Macduff and her children ; moreover, the 
 barbarous massacre of the whole brood, — " all the pretty 
 chickens and their dam," — from its enormity and wantonness 
 
Macbeth. 23 
 
 lashes the husband into revolt against, and extermination of 
 the murderer. 
 
 The other feature in Macduff's character that has been 
 noticed, — his honesty of speech, — shines conspicuously in the 
 conference between himself and Malcolm, to whom he has 
 fled in England, for the purpose of assisting him in his 
 design to regain the crown of his inheritance. The whole 
 management of this dialogue is eminent for the subtlety with 
 which the dispositions of the two men are sustained. Mal- 
 colm is wary, and suspicious of his new adherent ; and, in 
 the sequel, gives good reason for being so. He says : — 
 
 " What you have spoke, it may be so perchance ; 
 This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, 
 Was once thought honest ; you have lov'd him well ; 
 He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young ; but some^ 
 
 thing 
 You may discern of him through me ; and wisdom 
 To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb 
 To appease an angry god." 
 
 Macduff bluffly answers : — 
 
 " I am not treacherous, 
 
 " Mai. But Macbeth is. 
 
 A good and virtuous nature may recoil 
 In an imperial charge. But, crave your pardon, 
 That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose : 
 Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell ; 
 Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace. 
 Yet grace must still look so." 
 
 Not only is Shakespeare the closest of all reasoners, but 
 the web of his argument is always of a golden tissue. 
 
 The 'Prince next upbraids him with deserting his wife and 
 child — " those precious motives, those strong knots of love " 
 — without leave-taking ; and he adds — 
 
24 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 " I pray you, let not my jealousies be your dishonours, 
 But mine own safeties ; you may be rightly just 
 Whatever I shall think." 
 
 Macduff can bring no antidote to these surmises against 
 himself; in accordance, therefore, with his impetuous nature 
 he attempts no excuse, but cuts short the conference with — 
 
 " Fare thee well, lord ; 
 I would not be the villain that thou think' st 
 For the whole space that 's in the tyrant's grasp. 
 And the rich East to boot." 
 
 Malcolm, still unsatisfied, and reasonably so, notwithstand- 
 ing the other's asseveration, (for the greatest defaulters make 
 the loudest protests,) adopts a third course to try the integrity 
 of Macduff's nature, by taxing himself with vicious propensi- 
 ties. He describes himself as being lustful, avaricious, covet- 
 ous of the wealth of others, quarrelsome, and treacherous. 
 His object is to discover whether Macduff be a spy from the 
 usurper, or, at best, a mere worldling, who had come over to 
 the old legitimacy, knowing the instability of the new dynasty, 
 and which he had hitherto served. With an excess of candour, 
 therefore — and yet consistent with youth — after the detail of 
 his own vices, he puts it to the new partisan whether it were 
 patriotic and just to substitute one tyrant for another. " If 
 such a one be fit to govern," he concludes, " speak : I am as 
 I have spoken." Now the indignant honesty of Macdufi 
 bursts forth, and stands revealed. 
 
 " Fit to govern ! No ! not to live ! 
 O Scotland, Scotland ! O nation miserable ! 
 With an untitled tyrant, bloody sceptred, 
 When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again } 
 Since that the truest issue of thy throne 
 By his own interdiction stands accus'd. 
 And does blaspheme his breed. 
 
Macbeth. 25 
 
 Fare thee well : 
 These evils thou repeat' st upon thyself 
 Have banish'd me from Scotland. Oh, my breast, 
 Thy hope ends here." 
 
 This hearty and unequivocal declaration has blown from 
 the firmament of the Prince's mind all clouds of doubt and 
 suspicion. It is pleasant to contemplate the smile at heart 
 with which he must recognise the success of his scheme ; and 
 his good fortune, too, in securing at least one true friend to his 
 cause, in which that of his native land is involved. Malcolm's 
 last speech comes upon us like the morning sun into one's 
 room, after darkness and perplexing dreams. It is precisely 
 the effusion which would aiiford relief to a young and generous 
 nature, rendered prematurely distrustful by snare and strata- 
 gem. I scarcely could name a more cheering contrast than 
 is presented to us in this scene, coming, as it does, against the 
 previous reiterated stunnings of treachery, cruelty, and blood- 
 guiltiness. The young Prince joyously exclaims : — 
 
 "Macduff! this noble passion, child of integrity," &c. 
 
 — Act iv., sc. 3. 
 
 Malcolm's diction is marked throughout by princely elo- 
 quence, and a beautiful moral, rectitude. It is he who in the 
 fourth scene of the play makes that fine speech, relating the 
 death of the rebel chieftain, the thane of Cawdor.- It con- 
 cludes : — 
 
 " Nothing in his life 
 
 Became him like the leaving it : he died 
 
 As one that had been studied in his death ; 
 
 To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd, 
 
 As 'twere a careless trifle." 
 
 Of the porter-scene in Macbeth's castle, writers have been 
 at variance ; some denouncing it utterly, and Coleridge going 
 even so far as to assert that "unquestionably" it is not 
 
26 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 Shakespeare's. With the full deferential feeling upon me in 
 such a presence, I cannot but think that it is accurately the 
 poet's manner. And not the less is it his, from its being so 
 closely conjoined with the late scene of the assassination and 
 terror; because such associations are constantly recognised 
 in real life. The American editor, (Hudson,) in a masterly 
 comment on this tragedy, gives full justification to the speech 
 of the porter. He says : " This strain of droll broad humour 
 oozing out, so to speak, amid a congregation of terrors, has 
 always in our case deepened their effect ; the strange, but 
 momentary diversion causing them to return with the greater 
 force." 
 
 It may be thought that I ought to include among the 
 "subordinate characters" in this consummate romantic tra- 
 gedy those awful anomalies, the Witches — agencies employed 
 in this our Gothic Drama, as the Fates and the Furies were 
 in the ancient Greek Drama ; each impersonation being 
 strictly in harmony with the faith, the spirit, and the design 
 of both ages of the world — their history, poetry, and architec- 
 ture. The witches of this drama, however, can scarcely be 
 said to be (in the strict sense) "subordinate'' members of the 
 dramatis personcB, seeing that, by their power and control, and 
 by their influence, the poison of diabolism was infused into 
 the mind of the hero. They are the prime movers of his 
 whole future course of action, and by their will he is urged 
 on with blind impulse and delusion to his eternal ruin. It 
 may be well, however, upon this point to note again the con- 
 sistency of moral action in the poet. Although he has made 
 the witches to assume a supremacy over the mind of Macbeth, 
 yet a careful reader of the play will, I think, perceive that 
 they have only done this when they found that mind prepared 
 to commit the crime of murder. He was an instrument of 
 mischief ready made to their hands, and they turned it to full 
 account, and with a double purpose. They stimulated him • 
 
Macbeth. 2 7 
 
 they "pricked the sides of his intent;" they prompted and 
 confirmed him in his design upon the life of King Duncan ; 
 then they wound him in their devil's web, and finally sacrificed 
 him. By this arrangement in the plot, the grandeur of the 
 moral is enhanced.. Had Macbeth been made the mere pas- 
 sive instrument of this principle of evil, without any power of 
 self-control, he would have claimed no other feeling than that 
 of sympathy and commiseration ; and this was by no means 
 the intention, or indeed the moral code of Shakespeare. The 
 witches were supernatural and master-agents in the plot ; 
 but they were never intended to be the partners, still less the 
 rivals of Omnipotence. We are to bear in mind that they 
 addressed the two men at the same time — both ambitious 
 men — and cast upon each the seeds of temptation. That 
 one only was ensnared is a proof, I think, that Shakespeare 
 meant to give due sway to the freedom of the will ; and that 
 the soil of Macbeth's mind was apt for maturing that seed. 
 Also, that his after course of action was but the result of 
 a foregone conclusion should appear from his sudden self- 
 betrayal, (as at an abrupt presentation of his own precon- 
 ceived idea, when the witches first hailed him as king,) noted 
 by Banquo's words : — 
 
 " Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear 
 Things that do sound so fair ? " 
 
 And again, afterwards, by the rejoinder of his wife, when 
 his mind for the moment misgives him, and he repents of his 
 purpose : — 
 
 " We will proceed no farther in this business. 
 He hath honour'd me of late ; and I have bought 
 Golden opinions of men ; " 
 
 and she retorts upon him, — 
 
 " What beast was 't, then. 
 That made you break this enterprise to me?" 
 
28 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 " Nor time nor place 
 Did then adhere, and yet you would make both" 
 
 The conduct of Lady Macbeth, by the way, throughout 
 their joint career, may, I think, be cited as a corroboration of 
 my argument. Be it remembered, she has never seen the 
 witches, she has only heard of them ; and yet she plunges 
 into the scheme with more vehemence, more unmitigated 
 'cruelty, than her partner — the tempted and the swayed being : 
 the simple account of the prophecy at once overbears and 
 consolidates her determination in their unmatured project. 
 Lady Macbeth has not a single misgiving from the moment 
 the plot is entertained. With unparalleled sublimity of lan- 
 guage she ejaculates : — 
 
 " Come, you spirits 
 That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, 
 And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full 
 Of direst cruelty ! make thick my blood. 
 Stop up th' access and passage to remorse ; 
 That no compunctious visitings of nature 
 Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between 
 Th' effect and it ! Come to my woman's breasts. 
 And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers, 
 Wherever in your sightless substances 
 You wait on nature's mischief ! Come, thick night. 
 And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell. 
 That my keen knife see not the wound it makes. 
 Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, 
 To cry, ' Hold, hold ! ' " 
 
 No such language as this is put into the mouth of the man. 
 She goes beyond him in purpose, having no other spur than 
 her own cruel nature, and tremendous impulse of WILL. I 
 think I may conclude, therefore, that Shakespeare, having 
 availed himself of the weird machinery, made it wholly sub- 
 servient to dramatic effect ; the double use to which he has 
 put it, resembling the Two Times of the Action which occur 
 
Macbeth. 29 
 
 in some of his dramas ; and which the author of the " Noctes" 
 (Professor Wilson) so ingeniously detailed in Blackwood's 
 Magazine, in his series of papers entitled "Dies Boreales." 
 Had Shakespeare intended to insist upon the uncontrolled 
 potency of those beings, he would have brought it to bear 
 upon Lady Macbeth also ; and, moreover, he would not have 
 wholly rescued Banquo, who was equally tempted with his 
 fellow-soldier. There could then have been no misapprehen-"*- 
 sion as to his design. Of the personal character of Lady 
 Macbeth, in the teeth of all her unmitigated cruelty, amount- 
 ing almost to a violation of nature, Shakespeare redeems 
 himself, (as he does in every charge,) by giving us one soli- 
 tary touch of human sympathy, even in her conduct. I need 
 hardly note the well-known instance, where she says, (speak- 
 ing of the old king, Duncan,) " Had he not so much resembled 
 my father, as he slept, / had done it ! " And, like all violent 
 natures, she is the first to give way ; the mental energy has 
 worn out the physical one, and both become diseased. If 
 this be not Nature, and at once an awful lesson, I should be 
 glad to have one more home-striking pointed out to me. 
 
 The employment of the fearful agency of the witches in 
 swaying the destinies of those whom they fascinated, and 
 after destroyed, has been resorted to by Shakespeare but 
 once in the course of his numerous productions ; and with 
 that sublime effort he (as usual) preoccupied and exhausted 
 his subject. The statement respecting Middleton's drama of 
 the " Witch," asserted, and for some time believed to be the 
 precursor of " Macbeth," has been proved to be a chronologi- 
 cal error. Had it been otherwise, however, the merit of ori- 
 ginality must still have been awarded to Shakespeare, for his 
 treatment of the weird creations, who are totally distinct 
 beings from the squalid, ribald hags of the other poets. 
 
 One of the grandest images out of the thousand that are to 
 be quoted from this play is the exclamation made by Banquo 
 
30 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 to Macbeth, upon the vanishing of those beings at their first 
 interview with them on the heath. In astonishment, he ex- 
 claims : — 
 
 " The earth hath bubbles as the water has, 
 And these are of them : whither are they vanish'd ? 
 
 " Macb. Into the air ; and what seem'd corporal melted 
 As breath into the wind." 
 
 Nothing can surpass this for vividness and intensity of de- 
 scription. Had the poet himself witnessed the scene, he could 
 have made no more of the event ; and this is the prerogative 
 of imagination, to "give to airy nothing a local habitation" — 
 an absolute identity. 
 
 It has been objected to the incantation scenes in Macbeth, 
 that the subjects and language in them are revolting. They 
 are so ; nothing, however, can be more irrational than to take 
 exception against them on that score. The witches are an 
 impersonation of those qualities which are antagonist to all 
 that is gentle, and lovely, and peaceful, and good. They are 
 loathsome abstractions of the " evil principle," and are the 
 precursors, as well as providers of all the stormy passions 
 that shake this poor citadel of man. They represent the re- 
 pulsive as well as the cruel propensities of our nature ; every 
 one, therefore, who is a slave to his lower passions, is spell- 
 bound by the "weird sisters ;" and this, I have little doubt, 
 was the moral that Shakespeare intended to read to his 
 brother mortals : for, we should bear in mind that Macbeth 
 was, by nature, an honourable and even generous man ; but 
 as he was unable to withstand the impulse of an unworthy 
 ambition, and could not resist the sneers of his uncompro- 
 mising partner, he rushed into that bottomless hell of torment 
 — a guilty and an upbraiding conscience. What can be more 
 affecting than his self-reproaches after he has made his first 
 step in the blood of a fellow-creature } That dreadful voice 
 
Macbeth. 3 1 
 
 ringing in his ears — " Still it cried, Sleep no more ! to all the 
 house." His piteous anguish to his help-meet in crime — 
 " Oh, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife ! " Then his 
 envy of his victims : 
 
 " Duncan is in his grave ; 
 After life's fitful fever he sleeps well." 
 
 And next, his bitter regret for his lost good name, and its 
 attendant peace of mind : — 
 
 " I have liv'd long enough : my way of life 
 Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf : 
 And that which should accompany old age, 
 As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, 
 I must not look to have ; but in their stead 
 Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath. 
 Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not." 
 
 And lastly, as the climax of horror, when he has become 
 stupefied with the pressure of remorse, calamity, and despair, 
 he enquires "What is that cry.?" and adds : — 
 
 " I have almost forgot the taste of fears : 
 The time has been, my senses would have cool'd 
 To hear a night-shriek ; and my fell of hair 
 Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir 
 As life were in't. / have suppdfull with horrors : 
 Direness familiar to my slaughterous thoughts 
 Cannot once start me." 
 
 A more terrific picture of a mind recoiling on itself, and 
 effecting its own retribution, who shall quote .' Oh, let the 
 over-zealous purist, when he proceeds to question the morality 
 of Shakespeare, turn to and reflect upon the homily he has 
 preached against cupidity, injustice, and cruelty, in the most 
 unhappy career of Macbeth. 
 
II. 
 
 ^0 fou Utile ft. 
 
' II. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 And now from the pitchy smoke of Acheron, and from the 
 hot and stifling atmosphere of injustice and cruelty, midnight 
 murders and haunting spirits, bloody wrongs and fierce re- 
 sentments, we emerge into the blue and sunshine of God's 
 own heaven, and feel the " unchartered winds " from the 
 mountain in our faces, blowing away towards the deep ocean 
 of oblivion all clouds of mistrust and despair«at man's un- 
 kindness and folly. We are in the forest of Arden ; and 
 under the green shaws will we crack nuts and jokes with that 
 pretty squirrel, the pranksome Rosalind, or descant upon her 
 blithe wisdom with that sedate and most loving of all cousins, 
 the devoted, the cordial, the confiding Celia. To make the 
 world one " perfect chrysolite " of happiness, let every man 
 respect the predilections of his fellow : nothing is worth 
 quarrelling about, not even unkindness ; for that is a mistake 
 which always brings its own retribution, silent or revealed. 
 So we will talk of the gallant and gentle bearing and stalwart 
 proportions of her lover with the crystal-hearted Rosalind ; 
 and repeat within hearing of the exiled Duke (for elderly 
 gentlemen — especially aristocratic ones — love to hear them- 
 selves quoted) his own moral reflections upon the "sweet 
 
36 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 uses of adversity ;" — ^worthy, by the way, to be quoted at all 
 seasons, for it is perfect in itself, and is an amulet to hang 
 round the necks of the desponding. No one can know any- 
 thing of Shakespeare and be ignorant of his first speech, 
 
 " Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile," &c. 
 
 — Opening of Act ii. 
 
 The exiled Duke is a perfect exemplar of what should 
 comprise a Christian's course — a cheerful gratitude for the 
 benefits that have been showered upon him ; a calm, yet 
 firm endurance of adversity ; a tolerance of unkindness ; and 
 a promptitude to forgive injuries. How sweet, and yet how 
 strong is his moral nature ! It seems as though no trial, 
 social or physical, could change the current of his gracious 
 wisdom. In a scene subsequent to that containing his 
 celestial confession of moral faith, we have the proof that 
 his philosophy is no cold profession merely, — no lip-deep 
 ostentation, — no barren theory without practice. His con- 
 duct shows that his cheerful morality nestles in his heart, and 
 inspires his actions. It is the seventh Scene of the second Act, 
 where he and his followers are about to sit down to their 
 woodland meal, when Orlando rushes in with his drawn 
 sword, and demands food. There is in every point of the 
 Duke's behaviour on this occasion, the forbearance, the gentle- 
 ness, the charity, and the cordial courtesy which grow out 
 of such philosophy as his — that of unaffected contentment. 
 " Sweet are the uses of adversity," indeed, when they teach 
 such lessons as these ! We cannot fancy that this true-hearted 
 gentleman could have so perfected his native character had 
 he never known the reverse of fortune, which exiled him 
 from his court, and sent him among the forest-trees to learn 
 wisdom from all-bounteous Nature ; to know the worth of 
 his true friends, who forsook land and station to share his 
 seclusion ; and to secure a peace of soul seldom known to 
 
As You Like It. 37 
 
 those who hve perpetually in the turmoil of public life. We 
 find how dear his sylvan haunts have become to him ; how 
 happy have been the hours spent among them with his 
 friends ; how entirely their calm has penetrated his soul, and 
 made part of his existence, by the unwillingness with which 
 he prepares to quit these scenes at the end of the play, when 
 his dukedom is restored to him. He receives the news with 
 his own philosophic composure ; .and, by a word or two that 
 he lets fall, it may be shrewdly suspected that he only in- 
 tends returning to repossess himself of his birthright, in 
 order to secure it for his daughter Rosalind, and her future 
 husband, Orlando ; and then that he will quietly leave the 
 young people at court, and steal back with a few of his faith- 
 ful friends to close their days in retirement on the spot where 
 they have been so contentedly happy. Mayhap, as the years 
 creep on, and age-aches warn him not to disregard the 
 " seasons' difference," he will exchange the table under the 
 greenwood tree for one beneath the oaken roof But be sure 
 that his house will be close upon the forest glades, and on 
 his table will smoke a haunch of the red deer for old lang 
 syne. 
 
 When we design to change our course of the moralising in 
 this most perfect of Arcadian plays, we will accompany the 
 " melancholy Jaques " — albeit not an especial favourite with 
 us, for he is somewhat tinged with the affectation of melancholy 
 and philosophy. Besides, we recognise no more affinity with 
 " melancholy " than did Shakespeare himself, who never 
 misses an opportunity of girding at your pompous and 
 affectedly pensive character, and of proclaiming the superior 
 qualifications of cheerfulness and good-humour. Instances 
 of this might be multiplied ; while I know of none that en- 
 courage melancholy, or even gravity, as being in itself, and 
 for itself, a test of wisdom. " Laugh if you are wise',' says 
 one of his characters. " Frame your mind," says Kit Sly's 
 
38 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 page, " to mirth and merriment ; which bars a thousand harms, 
 and lengthens life." " Let me play the fool," says Gratiano ; 
 "with mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come." That 
 chirping rogue, Autolycus, sings : 
 
 " A merry heart goes all the day ; 
 Your sad tires in a mile-a." 
 
 And, in the mouth of Falstaff, he urges it as a vice in the 
 cold blooded-nature of Prince John of Lancaster, that "a 
 man cannot make him laugh." 
 
 Jaques, nevertheless, is a great character in his way, and 
 good too ; as, indeed, says the Duke, " there is good" (more 
 or less) " in everything." His chuckling account of the court 
 fool, whom he stumbles upon in one of his rambles through 
 the forest, is choicely good, and is as famous ; both as giving 
 a capital sketch of the man described, and as affording a 
 characteristic picture of the mind of him who is describing. 
 Jaques finds the fool-jester's conventional affectations irre- 
 sistibly comic, while he betrays his own individual affectations 
 even in the act of laughing at the other's. 
 
 Jaques is the model of a man addicted to self-contempla- 
 tion ; he always appears to be before his own mental looking- 
 glass. He has inherited or acquired the tact to discern the 
 worthlessness of artificial society, but he has not carried that 
 tact into the wisdom of turning his philosophy the sunny side 
 outwards. He, forsooth, would undertake to reform the 
 world, having seen no more of the world than is comprised 
 within the precincts of a court. Jaques says some of the 
 finest things in the play; but, lest he should become an 
 authority with the world, (and here again we note Shake- 
 speare's watchfulness in inculcating a bland and cheerful 
 philosophy,) by one stroke we are let into the secret of his 
 character, — that it is, or at least has heretofore been not alto- 
 gether the exemplar to place before a reforming society. 
 
As You Like It. 39 
 
 Strong conclusions are to be drawn as to the amplitude and 
 benignity of Shakespeare's moral code, from the slightest and 
 most casual hints and incidents. His most home-striking in- 
 junctions are conveyed by actions, rather than by saws and 
 theories. When Jaques, in his sudden admiration of the fool, 
 after he had met him in the forest, and, with the fantastical- 
 ness of a self-Tvorshipper, will undertake the office of reformer- 
 general, he proposes that the Duke invest him with the insignia 
 of the order. He says : — 
 
 " Invest me in my motley ; give me leave 
 To speak my mind, and I will through and through 
 Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, 
 If they will patiently receive my medicine. 
 
 " Fie on thee (answers the Duke), I can tell what thou 
 
 would'st do. 
 " Jaqt What, for a counter, would I do but good } 
 " Duke. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin ; 
 For thou thyself hast been a libertine, 
 As sensual as the brutish sting itself ; 
 And all th' embossed sores, and headed evils, 
 Which thou with licence of free foot hast caught, 
 Would'st thou disgorge into the general world." 
 
 From this rebuke, it appears clear that Shakespeare had in 
 view the overweening mouth-moralist ; for, with all the re- 
 flections and sarcasms he has put into the mouth of this self- 
 asserting philosopher, and which have the air of being glean- 
 ings from the harvests of other men rather than the result of 
 his own growth, it is to be remarked that he never brings him 
 point to point in contest of wit with any of the other charac- 
 ters of the play, but he is foiled ; they, being natural people, 
 outwit the artificial one. He first tries his hand with Orlando, 
 and upon a tender point — his mistress and his love-making; 
 and the bout between them is as good as a match at single- 
 stick : — 
 
40 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 " Jaq. I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I 
 had as lief have been myself alone. 
 
 " Orl. And so had I ; but yet, for fashion's sake, I thank 
 you too for your society. 
 
 " Jaq. God be with you, let us meet as little as we can. 
 
 " Orl. I do desire we may be better strangers. 
 
 " yaq. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love- 
 verses in their barks. 
 
 " Orl. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading 
 them ill-favouredly. 
 
 " Jaq. Rosalind is your love's name .' 
 
 "Orl. Yes— just. 
 
 " Jaq. I do not like her name. 
 
 " Orl. There was no thought of pleasing you when she was 
 christened. 
 
 " Jaq. What stature is she of.? 
 
 " OrL Just as high as my heart. 
 
 " Jaq. You are full of pretty answers : have you not been 
 acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them out of 
 rings .' 
 
 " Orl. Not so ; but I answer you right painted cloth, from 
 whence you have studied your questions." 
 
 [This answer of Orlando's refers to grave points of morality, 
 which it was the custom to impersonate, by painting them on 
 cloth.] 
 
 " Jaq. You have a nimble wit : I think it was made of 
 Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me .' and we 
 two will rail against our mistress the world, and all our 
 misery." 
 
 Now, note the answer of the man who had just reason to 
 "rail at misery," having been fortune's foot-ball from his 
 infancy. How beautifully the moral of a cheerful endurance 
 comes out against the affectation and petulance of a querulous 
 selfishness ! Orlando's reply is the very offspring of a modest 
 self-knowledge and experience. How few can trace their ill 
 
As You Like If. 41 
 
 fortunes to any other source than ignorance or indiscretion. 
 With a beautiful candour he replies : — 
 
 " I will chide no breather in the world but myself; against 
 whom I know most faults. 
 
 " jFdq. The worst fault you have is to be ih love. 
 
 " Orl. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I 
 am weary of you. 
 
 " Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found 
 you. 
 
 " Orl. He is drowned in the brook ; look but in, and you 
 shall see him. 
 
 " Jaq. There shall I see mine own figure. 
 
 " Orl. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher. 
 
 " Jaq. I'll tarry no longer with you ; farewell, good Signior 
 'Love!' 
 
 " Orl. I am glad of your departure: adieu, good Monsieur 
 'Melancholy!'" 
 
 The fact is they all smoke him for being a solemn pre- 
 tender to a quality not natural to him. When he desires to 
 make the acquaintance of Rosalind, her objecting reply is, 
 " They say you are a melancholy fellow." And he takes but 
 little by his answer when he says,-" Why, 'tis good to be sad, 
 and say nothing ; " for she retorts, " Why, then, 'tis good to 
 be a post." 
 
 Another instance (to my mind at least) that Shakespeare 
 intended Jaques for a grave coxcomb, appears with some 
 strength in that short parley between him and Amiens, after 
 the sprightly song, " Under the greenwood tree." Observe the 
 pomposity and patronising air with which the philosopher 
 condescends to encourage the ballad-singer : — 
 
 " More, more, I prithee, more. 
 
 "Am. It will make you melancholy. Monsieur Jaques." 
 
 Amiens is hoaxing him. What is there in a merry rounde- 
 lay to make a man melancholy .? Jaques, however, is so en- 
 
42 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 grossed with himself that he takes the songster gravely and 
 literally. 
 
 " I thank it," he says — ^that is, for its melancholy. " More, 
 I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a 
 weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more. 
 
 ''Am. My voice is ragged. I know I cannot please you. 
 
 " Jaq. I do not desire you to please me — I do desire you 
 to sing. Come, more ; another stanza. Call you them 
 stanzas .■' 
 
 "Am. What you will. Monsieur Jaques. 
 
 " Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names ; they owe me no- 
 thing. Will you sing .' 
 
 "Am. More at your request than to please myself. 
 
 " Jaq. Well, then, if ever I thank any man, I will thank 
 you." 
 
 What a prig ! Why not thank him ? Is it requisite, when 
 a man sets up for a philosopher, that he should begin by 
 being a hog } So he continues : — 
 
 " When a man thanks me heartily, methinks I have given 
 him a penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, 
 sing ; and you that will not, hold your tongues. 
 
 "Am. Well, I'll end the song. Sirs, cover the while. The 
 Duke will drink under this tree. He hath been all this day 
 to look iox you. 
 
 " Jaq. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is 
 too disputable for my company. I think of as many matters 
 as he ; but I give Heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. — 
 Come, warble — come." 
 
 Shakespeare certainly intended the character of Jaques to 
 be a satire upon your pretenders to wisdom ; and I have the 
 rather enlarged and insisted on this reading of it, because the 
 world (both literary and theatrical) appear to have misunder- 
 stood the poet's intention. One more reason for my opinion, 
 and which reason, be it observed, is one of the numerous in- 
 stances displaying Shakespeare's habit of drawing conclusions 
 
As You Like It. 43 
 
 as to his characters from acts, and not from descriptions: — 
 Jaques, the ostensibly melancholy man, and who is always 
 talking about himself, has no trials to perplex him, and is 
 unstricken by adversity. The Duke, who has most cause to 
 complain of all the characters in the play, is not only the least 
 querulous, but he is uniformly the most hopeful and cheerful. 
 With all his moral professions, Jaques is either not a sincere 
 man to himself, (and consequently is not true to others,) or 
 he is really a man without affection or attachment. It may 
 be retorted that he follows the fortunes of the banished Duke. 
 He does so ; but it is evident that he takes that course to 
 please his own humour, and from an affectation of singularity 
 — also, to carry out the character he has assumed, of a cynic 
 philosopher ; and, at all events, he prefers that course to a 
 steadiness of friendship, since he deserts the Duke when he 
 is restored to his patrimony. But, after all, let us part upon 
 pleasant terms with " Monsieur Melancholy," if it be only for 
 his gentle reflections upon the wounded deer; and for his 
 perfect portraiture of the "Seven Ages of Man," {Act ii., 
 sc. 7) 
 
 In the character of Orlando, Shakespeare has depicted the 
 very perfection of gentleness in manliness — modesty in man- 
 hood. He is an exemplar of the power of gentleness, and 
 the gentleness of power. His inadequate training and breed- 
 ing — the result of his despotic brother's tyrannous restraint 
 and miserly allowance — induces a withdrawing, a self-mistrust, 
 that is only counterbalanced by his inherent nobleness and 
 high spirit. Orlando is by nature generous, warm, eager, 
 without one spark of conceit or presumption. He is by con- 
 formation robust, athletic — a model of manly vigour — and 
 yet, as old Chaucer hath it, " Meek of his port as is a maid." 
 The dramatist has markedly and vividly kept before us this 
 point of Orlando's personal strength as a counterbalance to 
 the extreme mildness of his disposition. He perpetually re- 
 
44 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 minds us of his might of frame, his might and command of 
 limb, and his bodily force, in order that his tenderness of 
 heart and modesty of deportment may in no wise show like 
 effeminacy, or an undue softness, but in their full advantage 
 and truth of manly gentleness. 
 
 His consciousness of a too homely and unworthy nature is 
 well set off by his spirited remonstrance to his ungenerous and 
 unjust elder brother; his signal encounter with Charles, the 
 wrestler, and complete overthrow of the "strong man," en- 
 hance the pathos of his self-resigned speech, uttered imme- 
 diately before he enters upon his athletic trial ; and his firm 
 yet courteous reply to Duke Frederick, and his self-possessed 
 bearing to the courtier, Le Beau, heighten by contrast the 
 diffidence and touching emotion of his address to the two 
 princesses — or rather of his reception of the words which they 
 address to him. 
 
 Afterwards, too, when we find him comforting, sustaining, 
 and cheering the good old Adam, with words well-nigh 
 womanly in their affectionate kindness, the poet takes dis- 
 tinct care all the time to maintain in us the recollection of 
 the young fellow's massive proportions, by making him bear 
 the aged serving-man in his arms, and carry him to where he 
 may have food and shelter. 
 
 The most manifest display of Orlando's combined qualities 
 of personal force and courage with moral suavity is in the 
 scene where he rushes with drawn sword to the greenwood 
 table of the banished Duke, to demand food for his faithful 
 old servitor ; and where, upon being received with that mild 
 inquiry — 
 
 " What would you have 1 Your gentleness shall force 
 More than your force move us to gentleness ; " 
 
 he at once resumes the bearing natural to him ; and after 
 explaining his urgent need, concludes with, 
 
As You Like It. 45 
 
 " Let gentleness my strong enforcement be : 
 In the which hope, / blush, and hide my sword ; " 
 a perfect illustration of manly diffidence. But the triumph 
 of Orlando's generous nature — at once capable of revenging 
 itself by force of arms, yet incapable of revenge by force of 
 gentle-heartedness — shines forth in his slaying the lioness 
 that would have killed his sleeping brother: that brother 
 who had dealt so unjustly by his orphaned youth ; and, in- 
 deed, who had treacherously sought his life. Orlando uses 
 his strength of body, instructed by his strength of bland 
 spirit, to protect, not to injure his enemies. He destroys 
 their enmity instead of themselves ; converting it into grati- 
 tude and love by the high tone of his magnanimity. He 
 disarms by dint of forbearance, in lieu of by dint of blows 
 and opposition ; and such forbearance comes with double 
 effect from a man whose thews and sinews insure victory. 
 The conquest is irresistible and complete which is achieved 
 by gentleness, when power might have enforced submission. 
 
 Rosalind is one of the most enchanting among jocund- 
 spirited heroines. Her first scene shows the womanly senti- 
 ment, as well as the womanly vivacity of her character. We 
 see her natural cheerfulness clouded by sympathy for her 
 banished father ; revived at the instance of her cousin, the 
 crystal-hearted Celia, who cannot endure to see her cast 
 down. Their opening dialogue well displays the affectionate 
 nature and playful wit of both women ; for Celia is hardly 
 inferior to Rosalind in witty accomplishment, though rarely 
 displaying it, in order, with a generous prodigality, that her 
 cousin's may shine forth uninterruptedly. But, perhaps, the 
 two most gifted of Shakespeare's women, with that peculiar 
 power of fancy and instinct called "wit," are Rosalind and 
 Beatrice. But how individually and distinctively has he 
 characterised the wit of the respective heroines! That of 
 Beatrice is sarcastic — that of Rosalind, playful. The one is 
 
46 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 biting, pointed, keen ; the other is sprightly, sportive, sympa- 
 thetic. The one is like the lightning, sudden, dazzling, start- 
 ling, and sometimes scathing ; the other is like the sunshine, 
 cheerful, beaming full of life, and glow, and warmth, and 
 animation. We are apt to shrink from the wit of Beatrice ; 
 we bask in that of Rosalind. The one is fulminated in bril- 
 liant coruscations, occasionally heedless whom they wound ; 
 the other shines with gentle, genial radiance. It may be 
 that one secret of this difference in character lies in the fact 
 that Beatrice's wit is apt to verge upon ^& personal and home- 
 thrtisting in its rapier-like play ; whereas Rosalind's is more 
 general, and deals with subjects rather than with people. It 
 is difficult to make choice of a scene, where all are of almost 
 level perfection, in which this enchanting creature shines; 
 but, perhaps, the most sportive is that one where, in her dis- 
 guise of a forest youth, she pretends to play the part of her 
 lover's mistress, and has been acting the marriage ceremony 
 through with him, before her cousin Celia, {Act iv., sc. i.) 
 
 Of that cousin, I must take leave to descant at will; for 
 she is of inestimable worth. Celia is one of those characters 
 that pass through society in almost unrecognised perfection. 
 They are beloved for their tempers, and respected for their 
 understandings and attainments. They make no display of 
 their qualities ; and yet they are an unfailing resource when 
 a friend needs assistance or advice — domestic or mental. It 
 is difficult, upon demand, to indicate any prominent example 
 of their intellectual or social excellences — the impression in 
 their favour is general and unequivocal. And so with the 
 career of Celia in this play : it leaves a bland and gratified 
 impression upon the mind of the reader; with a sense of 
 uncertainty as to what scene we should quote as a specimen 
 of more than quiet excellence. Indeed, it would be difficult 
 to point out a more perfect example of the spirit of loving- 
 kindness than the character of the cousin to Rosalind. She is 
 
As You Like It. 47 
 
 generous, warm-hearted, unselfish; so enthusiastic in her at- 
 tachments, that she can see no fault in those she loves ; and 
 almost loses sight of herself in the contemplation of their ex- 
 cellences. By deed, as well as by word, she is ever ready to 
 prove the strength of her affection ; and when the time comes 
 for making active demonstration in the shape of sacrifice, so 
 unhesitatingly, so unostentatiously is it made — so much is it 
 taken for granted, and so completely as a matter of course, 
 by her — that ishe absolutely strips it of all appearance of 
 sacrifice, letting it seem a fulfilment of her own pleasure no 
 less than theirs. And it is her own pleasure ; it is her plea- 
 sure to please her friend — to minister to her comfort ; it is 
 her happiness to secure the happiness of her cousin. So 
 entirely does she love that cousin, so perfectly has she made 
 her well-being part and parcel of her own, that she can only 
 dwell contented herself so long as she knows Rosalind to 
 enjoy content. If " Rose " will not be " merry," why, then, 
 no more will she ; if " Rose " be sad at her father's absence, 
 why, then, she will be sad for company. Or rather, as sad- 
 ness is not for such loving hearts as hers, or for such blithe 
 natures as Rosalind's, she will e'en teach her to look upon 
 her own father as a parent, vowing that Rose shall be his 
 heiress instead of herself 
 
 By banter, part made up of cheerful images, part of the 
 profoundest tokens of her answering affection couched be- 
 neath light-seeming words, she constantly contrives, with her 
 own gentle witchery of loving-kindness, to maintain Rosa- 
 lind's spirits in their native element of buoyancy and airy 
 mirth. She has such fond and implicit admiration for her 
 cousin's powers of fancy, of eloquence, of playfulness, of ima- 
 ginative wit and humour, that she would fain have them 
 never dulled, or silenced by anxiety or uneasiness ; and she 
 whets her sharpest ingenuity to divert her from pondering 
 on existing vexations, as well as to ward off ills that may 
 
48 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 threaten. On the first intimation of her father's harshness, 
 she consoles her cousin beneath his sentence of banishment 
 by no less a measure than instantly proposing to share it ; 
 and she not only proposes this, but actually does accompany 
 her into exile. Throughout the play, wherever Rosalind ap- 
 pears, there too is Celia. When one approaches, the other is 
 not far distant. They enter together ; and they make their 
 exit in company. In one scene we have, " Enter Rosalind^ 
 reading a paper ;'' and a moment after, "Enter Celia, reading 
 a paper." 
 
 Celia is a worshipper of her cousin ; and yet so pure in her 
 loving idolatry, that neither the idol appears conscious of 
 superiority, nor does the idolater become inferior. Celia 
 accompanies and attends her friend implicitly, but so genuine 
 and spontaneous is her personal attachment that she scarcely 
 seems to follow Rosalind. She is, in fact, her double, her very 
 shadow ; yet so clear and lustrous is her own affectionate 
 nature that it is never thrown into shadow, even by the efful- 
 gence of Rosalind's wit. The very generosity with which she 
 constantly, and as if involuntarily, cedes the precedence to 
 Rosalind's keener intellect, only serves to heighten the effect 
 of her own fine understanding and just perception. Indeed, 
 Celia would be a wit and heroine of the first water in any 
 other play, and as a character by herself. But seen by the 
 side of Rosalind — to whom her own modesty (the modesty 
 of loving-kindness) chooses to yield the palm, in standing 
 silently by, while her cousin keeps up the ball of wit-raillery 
 with others — she does not display to the same brilliant ad- 
 vantage. What she does say, however, amply testifies that, 
 if she chose, she could shine to the full as brightly as the 
 gifted Rosalind : by which means the poet has ingeniously 
 conveyed to us the impression that hers is a voluntary non- 
 speech, — a silence arising from preference to hear her cousin, 
 and from no deficiency on her own part. 
 
As You Like It. 49 
 
 He has another artistic subtlety, in the resemblance with 
 which he has invested Celia's wit in its congenial quality with 
 that of her cousin. It is the resemblance — totally apart from 
 the servility of imitation or plagiarism — which unconsciously 
 colours the thoughts and mode of speech of one who lovingly 
 admires another. 
 
 Rosalind is Celia's ideal of excellence — morally, intellec- 
 tually, and personally — and she unwittingly allows her heart, 
 mind, and frame to become as much one as possible with 
 those of this cherished being. Her spirit assimilates by in- 
 tensity of appreciation, as her exterior conforms, in matters 
 of gesture, conduct, and habit, by daily and affectionate com- 
 panionship. This is no copying ; it is just the similarity, the 
 accordance, that naturally grows out of a strong and enduring 
 attachment. 
 
 As an example of what I mean, with regard to this resem- 
 blance in the tone of the two cousins' imaginative wit, I would 
 point to the circumstance of their both dealing in classical and 
 poetical allusions, which seems to tell of their having read 
 together, thought together, and discussed together the beau- 
 ties of the old mythology. This is remarkable ; for the 
 instances might be multiplied to a curious extent. 
 
 It is a singular thing, — as a corroboration of the loving 
 terms on which Celia feels herself with her cousin, of the 
 perfect ease of heart which reigns between them, and which 
 characterises the regard that Celia bears towards Rosalind, — 
 that the flow of wit, which betokens Celia to be no less accom- 
 plished in intellectual sprightliness than her cousin, always 
 pours forth most freely when she is alone with Rosalind. 
 When they are both in the company of others, she stands 
 tranquilly by, letting her brilliant cousin take the lead in con- 
 versation and bandy repartee with the rest. She seems not 
 only content, but best pleased, to listen while Rosalind gives 
 free scope to her gay-souled sallies. When they are by them- 
 
50 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 selves, she rejoins, retorts, and tosses jests to and fro, with as 
 playful animation as her friend, — bantering her, teasing her, 
 sporting with her curiosity, plaguing and joking her about her 
 love and her lover, with as hearty a spirit, as much roguery 
 and mischief, as much pretended mercilessness of wit, as need 
 be. But, true to her kindly nature, her humour is always 
 affectionate, her sportiveness ever gentle ; and both have the 
 genuine soul of kindness — they know when to cease. Celia, 
 loving Celia, always checks the career of her wit, when it 
 curvets beyond the comfort of her interlocutor. She regards 
 the feelings of her friend, even beyond the prosperity of her 
 jest, — a rare virtue in a wit, more especially in a woman- 
 wit. 
 
 But Celia is pre-eminently womanly. She has the best 
 qualities of womanly nature. She is devoted, constant, femi- 
 ninely gentle, yet frank and firm in opinion. She has touches 
 of warmth, both of liking and disliking — of out-and-out eager 
 partizanship, and at times of vehement indignation; and these 
 qualities are essentially womanly. For instance, how like a 
 woman in its acknowledgment of the want of personal strength 
 her taking refuge in a crafty device — and that an unfair one 
 — is that exclamation of hers when Orlando is about to try 
 his match with Charles, the wrestler. She says : — " I would 
 I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the leg" One 
 would swear that none but a woman would have thought of 
 that speech. Then observe her womanly delicacy, and dis- 
 cretion too, on behalf of her cousin Rosalind, who betrays 
 her incipient love for Orlando by returning towards him, 
 affecting to think that she hears him address them, and 
 saying : 
 
 " He calls us back : my pride fell with my fortunes : 
 I '11 ask him what he would. Did you call, sir .' 
 Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown 
 More than your enemies." 
 
As You Like It. 5 1 
 
 This palpable hint is enough for Celia ; and Orlando, not 
 able to respond to it, being overpowered with his own new- 
 born passion for Rosalind, Celia smilingly recalls her friend 
 with the words, " Will you go, coz ? " 
 
 Again, afterwards, what nice consideration and complete 
 womanly tact she betrays, when Rosalind, recovering from 
 her swoon, well-nigh reveals the secret of her disguise by 
 answering Oliver's, "Well, then, take a good heart, and 
 counterfeit to be a man," with " So I do ; but i' faith, I 
 should have been a woman by right ; " Celia interposes, and 
 says, " Come, you look paler and paler ; pray you draw 
 homewards. Good sir, go with us." Even those simple words, 
 "Good sir, go with us," are in perfect keeping with the 
 feminine beauty of the character. They secure support for 
 her fainting cousin, and secure the prolonged stay of the 
 man with whom she has just begun to feel herself falling 
 fast and deeply in love. 
 
 The whole of this "love at first sight" on her part, is 
 managed with Shakespeare's masterly skill. I have always 
 felt those three little speeches to be profoundly true to in- 
 dividual nature, where the ladies are questioning Oliver re- 
 specting the incident of the lioness and the snake in the forest, 
 and of Orlando's timely succour. Celia exclaims, in amaze- 
 ment, "Are you his brother.'" Rosalind says, "Was it you 
 he rescued?" And Celia rejoins, "Was't you that did so oft 
 contrive to kill him t " Celia's first exclamation is surprised 
 concern to find that this stranger, who interests her, is that 
 unnatural brother of whom she has heard. Rosalind's thought 
 is of her lover, — Orlando's generosity in rescuing one who has 
 hitherto behaved so unnaturally towards himself ; while Celia 
 recurs to the difficulty she has in reconciling the image of 
 one who has acted basely and cruelly, with him she sees 
 before her — who is speedily becoming to her the impersona- 
 tion of all that is attractive, estimable, and loveable in man. 
 
5 2 Shakespeare-Characters, 
 
 Her affectionate nature cannot persuade itself to believe 
 this villany of him ; she therefore incredulously reiterates, 
 "Was 't YOU that did so oft contrive to kill him ? " And his 
 reply is a beautiful evidence of the sweetness which beams 
 transparent in her ; since it already influences him, by effect- 
 ing a confirmation of the virtuous resolves to which his 
 brother's generosity has previously given rise, and by caus- 
 ing him to fall as suddenly in love with her, as she with him. 
 He says : 
 
 " 'Twas I ; but 'tis not I ; — I do not shame 
 To tell you what I was, since my conversion 
 So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am." 
 
 It is one of the refined beauties that distinguish Shake- 
 speare's metaphysical philosophy, to show us how a fine 
 nature acting upon an inferior one, through the subtle agency 
 of love, operates beneficially to elevate and purify. At one 
 process it proclaims its own excellence, and works ameliora- 
 tion in another. Celia's charm of goodness wins the unkind 
 brother of Orlando (Oliver) to a passionate admiration of her- 
 self, at the same time that it excites his emulation to become 
 worthy of her. It begins by teaching him the bravery of a 
 candid avowal of his crime — ^the first step towards reforma- 
 tion. Celia's loving-kindness, like all true loving-kindness, 
 hath this twofold virtue and grace; it no less benefits her 
 friends than adorns herself. In enumerating the touches 
 that go to make up the exquisite character of Celia — a 
 character often too lowly rated, from the circumstance of its 
 being seen in juxtaposition with the more brilliant Rosalind, 
 (for, in fact, its own mild radiance of loving-kindness is no 
 less intense; it is only less striking than the vivid intellectual 
 sunshine of her cousin ;)— in alluding, I say, to the lovely 
 touches that characterise her, I would not omit to note that 
 interesting and natural one, where, on Rosalind's swooning. 
 
As You Like It. 53 
 
 Celia's first impulse is to call upon her by the old familiar 
 name of " Cousin ! " The hurry of anxiety for her she so 
 loves causes the old fond word to spring to her lips : the next 
 moment, however, the womanly instinct, the feminine pre- 
 sence of mind, come to her aid, and she redeems the inad- 
 vertency by exclaiming " Ganymede ! " 
 
 It is a glowing instance of Shakespeare's prodigality of 
 loving resources, and his potency, as well as plenitude of 
 means to inspire infinity of liking, that he makes us admire 
 and love Rosalind the more for her vicinity to the sweet- 
 hearted Celia, and Celia the more for hers to the bewitching 
 Rosalind. We love and esteem each the better for the other's 
 sake. Shakespeare has this in common with Nature — and 
 how many qualities does he not possess in common with her ? 
 The love he causes us to feel for his several characters — in- 
 dividually distinct and dissimilar as they may be, or sympa- 
 thetic and analogous one with the other as they may be — 
 never interferes with your love for them all. In teaching us 
 to see the enchanting qualities that embellish a Rosalind, he 
 never lets us lose sight of the tender devotion and unselfish 
 beauty that distinguish a Celia. In making us feel the full 
 value of a gentle, affectionate being like Celia, he never 
 suffers us to overlook the grace and fascination of her cousin. 
 Like the love which Nature puts into our heart — ^with its 
 own bounteous magic, it fills our soul for one selected object, 
 while it still affords room for loving regard and estimation 
 towards all existing human merit. Nay, the exclusive pre- 
 ference for the one beloved, but expands our capacity for 
 perceiving excellence elsewhere, and for yielding it our ad- 
 miration and ouf loving-kindness. 
 
 We have another proof of the estimation in which Shake- 
 speare held a cheerful philosophy, in the personal qualities he 
 has given to Touchstone, the clown. Touchstone — the uni- 
 versal favourite — the man of mirth and good-humour ; but 
 
54 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 who, nevertheless, can tang out a sarcasm with any professor 
 of cynicism. Touchstone is a fellow possessing genuine 
 qualities of attachment and affection. When Rosalind is 
 expelled the court by the usurping Duke, and Celia, in that 
 gentle speech, resolves to share her fortunes, the question is 
 started, whether it were not good to have the Fool for their 
 safeguard ; and she says, " He '11 go along o'er the wide world 
 with me: leave me alone to woo him." And in this act 
 Touchstone makes a generous sacrifice ; for he has been born 
 and bred in the luxury of what the Neapolitans call the 
 " dolce fa_niente " — ^the " delicious do naught : " — ^he had all 
 his days run about the court and amused himself : he is an 
 over-fed lap-dog, with all the snappishness, and none of the 
 ill-temper. The court-life was to him a second nature ; never- 
 theless, it becomes a second object in his choice when his 
 young mistress is to leave it. And although^it may be said 
 that he was ignorant of what he had to encounter in follow- 
 ing a woodland life, subject to the shrewd caprice of the 
 elements ; yet, when he does encounter them, he bears the 
 change from that he prefers, with all the playfulness and 
 sweet temper of the wiseliest ordered mind. " I care not for 
 my spirits," he says, " if my legs were not weary." And to 
 Celia, who can walk no farther, and begs them to " bear with 
 her :" " For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear 
 you ; yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you, [the cross 
 was a coin ;] for I think you have no money in your purse. 
 Now I am in Arden ; the more fool I : when I was at home 
 I was in a better place ; but travellers must be content." 
 
 Touchstone has good and gentlemanly feeling: witness 
 his rebuke to the courtier Le Beau, who give's a description of 
 the hurts and wounds of the three young fellows who have 
 been overthrown by Charies the wrestler, and the moan made 
 over them by their poor old father ; and which encounter he 
 details with a cruel relish and enjoyment as "sport," and 
 
As You Like It. 55 
 
 expressing regret that the ladies have missed seeing it. 
 Touchstone asks : " But what is the ' sport,' Monsieur, that the 
 ladies have lost ? " 
 
 " Le Beau. Why, that that I speak of. 
 
 " Touch. Thus men may grow wiser every day ! It is the 
 first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for 
 ladies." 
 
 Touchstone has also n^^^^ feeling ; for, although his worldly- 
 reaped terrors of matrimony give him a qualm or two, and 
 a momentary thought of availing himself of the hedge-par- 
 son's services to wed him, that so slip-knot a marriage might 
 give him a chance of retreating, in case of repenting at 
 leisure ; yet his good faith and " right feeling " hold good, 
 and he determines to act honourably by the trusting and 
 doating Audrey. 
 
 He has a keen eye for pretension ; for he sees through 
 Professor Jaques's pretended immaculacy, and his assump- 
 tion in moral philosophy. He treats him with a kind of old- 
 glove easiness of familiarity, — a negligent, dressing-gown air 
 of equality, as amusing in effect as it is warranted in fact : — 
 
 " Good even, good Master What-d'ye call 't : — How do you, 
 sir .' — You are very well met I am very glad to see you. — 
 Nay ; pray be cover'd." 
 
 He has the delightful quality (quite that of a sweet- 
 natured person, — one who is at once good-hearted, good- 
 humoured, and good-minded,) of being able to make himself 
 happy and contented wherever fortune chances to cast him. 
 He is gay and easy at court ; — he is good-tempered and at 
 ease in the forest. He makes himself at home anywhere and 
 everywhere ; for he carries his own sunshine about with him. 
 Touchstone is not a mere jester — a mere extracter oi fun 
 from what occurs around him ; and he is not in the least a 
 
56 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 buffoon : — there is nothing low or common in his composition. 
 He has excellent sense, and the good feeling to draw truth 
 and beauty, as well as fine humour, out of passing life. How 
 charmingly he and his lady-mistress . interchange gay phi- 
 losophy ! She tells him he '11 be whipped one of these days 
 for his saucy speeches ; and he replies : — 
 
 " The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely what wise 
 men do foolishly. 
 
 " Celia. By my troth, thou say'st true : for since the little 
 wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise 
 men have, makes a great show." 
 
 As a specimen of his good sense, — how fine his answer as 
 to the various degrees of the " lie ! " — his celebrated speech : — 
 
 " O, sir, we quarrel in print, by the book ; as you have books 
 for good manners. I will name you the degrees. The first, 
 the Retort courteous ; the second, the Quip modest ; the 
 third, the Reply churlish ; the fourth, the Reproof valiant ; 
 the fifth, the Countercheck quarrelsome ; the sixth, the Lie 
 with circumstance ; the seventh, the Lie direct. — ^All these 
 you may avoid, but the lie direct ; and you may avoid that 
 too, with an 'If! I knew when seven justices could not take 
 up a quarrel : but when the parties were met themselves, one 
 of them thought but of an 'If;' as, 'If you said so, then I 
 said so : ' and they shook hands, and swore brothers. Your 
 if is the only peace-maker ; much virtue in if'.' 
 
 How many portentous quarrels in certain grand assemblies 
 have been polished off with this same oily monosyllable ! 
 
 It was a happy thought to introduce the court-jester among 
 the shepherds and shepherdesses of a pastoral drama. His 
 pert railleries and waggishness come with the best possible 
 relief to the honey-dew sentimentalities of the writers of love- 
 verses. His quizzing of Rosalind is in the best style of light 
 o' love, and mock romance. " I remember when I was in 
 love," he says, " I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him 
 
As You Like It. 57 
 
 take that for coming a-nigh to Jane Smile. We that are true 
 lovers run into strange capers ; but, as all is mortal in nature, 
 so is all nature in love mortal in folly." Rosalind tells him 
 that he has " spoken more wisdom than he was aware of ; " 
 and he answers with amusing conceit and mock humility : 
 " Nay, I shall never be aware of my own wit, till I break my 
 shins against it." It was a happy thought to bring the court- 
 fool into this scene ; for, although he always has the best of 
 it when he is bandying speeches with the philosopher and the 
 sentimentalists, yet Shakespeare has paid the highest compli- 
 ment to a life of rural simplicity in the dialogue between him 
 and the shepherd Corin. It is an amusing specimen of cock- 
 a-whoop insolence to bear down the poor rustic with the 
 notion that he will be damned, because he has never been at 
 court ! — and what a reason to give for his being in a state of 
 perdition ! — ^what a deduction ! — what a " sequitur ! " — " Why, 
 if thou hast never been at court, thou never saw'st good 
 manners ; and if thou never saw'st good manners, then thy 
 manners must be wicked ; and wickedness is sin, and sin is 
 damnation : — ^thou 'rt in a parlous state, shepherd ! " 
 
 Poor Corin's reply to his hoaxing clatter is nevertheless 
 much to the purpose : — " Sir, I am a true labourer ; I earn 
 that I eat ; get that I wear ; owe no man hate, envy no man's 
 happiness ; glad of other men's good, content with my harm : 
 — and the greatest of my pride is, to see my ewes graze, and 
 my lambs suck." Many a wordy preachment upon the 
 merits of content are less to the purpose than this simple 
 summary of honest Corin's. 
 
 It was good, also, to pay that compliment to rural sim- 
 plicity, that the court-bred clown should become honestly 
 attracted by a primitive clod of mother-earth ; and most true 
 to nature that the country-^vench should have her head turned 
 by the wooing of a gentleman, who had been the companion 
 of princes. Audrey is th^ most perfect specimen of a won- 
 
58 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 dering she-gawky. She thanks the gods she is foul ; and if 
 to be poetical is not to be honest, she thanks the gods also 
 that she is not poetical. When Touchstone inquires of her 
 whether he is to be the favoured individual — ^the man of her 
 choice, how thoroughly rustic is her reply : he might just as 
 well talk Greek to her, — 
 
 " Come apace, good Audrey : I will fetch up your goats, 
 Audrey. — ^And how, Audrey i" — Am I the man yet 1 — Doth 
 my simple feature content you ! 
 
 " Aud. Yonx features ! Lord warrant us ! what features I" 
 
 She would be anything that her new lover might require of 
 her. She casts off William, as if he were a broken patten, 
 and gallops away with his rival, as she would to a harvest- 
 home, or a wake at a fair. She has no idea of marriage 
 beyond a merry-making, — a new gown and ribands, cakes 
 and ale, and a rousing country-dance. Audrey is a homely 
 type of human nature — a rough clod turned off the great 
 lathe, untrimmed, unglazed. Happy for her that she made 
 choice of one who did not make a goddess of her at first, and 
 a broken-spirited drudge afterwards. Touchstone is a kind- 
 hearted fellow, and who has no idea of being laughed out of 
 his wife, since he chose her himself : — " An ill-favour'd thing, 
 sir, but my own. A poor humour of mine, sir, to take that, 
 that no one else will. Rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in 
 a poor house ; as your pearl in your foul oyster." Blessed is 
 the woman, conscious of a plain face, with a loving heart, 
 that owns a Touchstone for her mate. 
 
 Jaques, it is true, when he takes his leave of the company 
 — leaving at the same time his -sting behind for each of them — 
 says of Touchstone and Audrey, that their "loving voyage is 
 but for two months victualled." But Jaques is a cur, and I 
 think better of Touchstone than to fancy he could be unkind 
 to any one who had received his preference and favour ; and 
 
As You Like It. 59 
 
 as for Audrey, she evidently looks upon him as a prodigy of 
 accomplishment, — and that, in itself, is a certain holdfast upon 
 a woman's affection. 
 
 We must not pass over unregarded that beautiful little 
 sketch of a character in old Adam, with his heart of fourteen, 
 and his body of fourscore years. He must have honourable 
 mention, if it be only for the lovely homily put into his simple 
 and confiding mouth, when he shares with his young master, 
 Orlando, his little " all " of savings, trusting for the hereafter 
 to Him, that " doth the ravens feed, yea, providently caters 
 for the sparrow." And how sincerely characteristic is his 
 honest self-commendation : — 
 
 " Here is the gold ; 
 
 All this I give you : — Let me be your servant ; 
 
 Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty ; 
 
 For in my youth I never did apply 
 
 Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood ; 
 
 And did not with unbashful forehead woo 
 
 The means of weakness and debility : 
 
 Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 
 
 Frosty, but kindly." 
 
 There is no point in which Shakespeare displays the trust- 
 ingness and sweet humility of his nature more heart-homely, 
 than when he inculcates an implicit and cheerful reliance upon 
 that benevolent principle, which, indeed, is the only cement 
 and bond of humanity. A similar instance to the above (and 
 an affecting one it is) occurs towards the close of Hamlet's 
 career: — "Thou knowest not, Horatio, how ill all is here 
 about my heart : — 'but' we defy augury. There is a special 
 Providence, even in the fall of a sparrow." 
 
 A word has heretofore been spoken of the " cheerful phi- 
 losophy" in this most exquisite play of "As You Like It;" — 
 but, indeed the whole composition is one varied homily upon 
 the many-featured moral and social philosophy. There is 
 Touchstone's philosophy ; the Duke's philosophy ; the old 
 
6o Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 shepherd Conn's philosophy; the old serving-man Adam's 
 philosophy, all here brought into subtle contrast. There 
 is the Duke's — a serene wisdom of contentment, born of 
 adversity in a placid nature : — there is the ostentatious mo- 
 ralising and sententious dictatorialism of Jaques, — engen- 
 dered by disgust of the world, when the world's pleasures 
 have been revelled in to satiety : — there is the simple common 
 sense, plain sense, good sense, best sense of old Corin, — the 
 fruit of a pure life of daily toil in the eye of Nature, and her 
 clear, self-evident lessons : — there is the reliant philosophy of 
 old Adam, — produced by duty, fidelity, and honest worth : — 
 and there is Touchstone's philosophy, — a choice and rich 
 amalgam of sweet temper and untiring humour. 
 
 "As You Like It" has been denominated a "Pastoral 
 Drama." I have no objection to the term, and have no in- 
 clination to discuss the principles of the pastoral : — in this 
 instance, suffice to me to arrive at the conclusion, that no com- 
 position of the same class will bear comparison with it, for 
 the combination of exquisite poetry, — both descriptive and 
 moral, fanciful, playful, and passionate ; for variety and amia- 
 bility of character ; for gravity, wit, and broad humour. It 
 is altogether so perfect a piece of homage to the happy state 
 of a rural, unartificial life, that every scene in it, untainted 
 with bad passions, occurs amid the pomp and garniture of 
 God's creation — the green fields and the forest glades. Well 
 is it said by Coleridge, " In Nature there is nothing melan- 
 choly:" so also in this great composition, the only evil of 
 man's contrivance is perpetrated under his own artificial roof: 
 — the usurping Duke and the unnatural brother vent their 
 evil machinations within their own walls. And, (to echo the 
 poet Campbell's cordial remark upon the play,) " even these 
 culpable, but at last repentant beings, we easily forgive, by 
 reason of our hearts being so stricken with the other benevo- 
 lent beings in the comedy." 
 
III. 
 amlet* 
 
III. 
 
 HAMLET. 
 
 Hamlet is the prince of poetical philosophers. To philoso- 
 phise is the habit of his mind. To reflect and reason upon 
 every thing and every person that comes within his sphere, — 
 to ponder upon every event that occurs, — ^to consider and re- 
 consider each circumstance that arises, — is with him a part of 
 his nature. He can no more help philosophising than he can 
 help breathing; it is his mental atmosphere, as the air is his 
 vital one. He philosophises upon his mother ; upon his mis- 
 tress ; upon his friend ; upon the king ; upon the old courtier, 
 Polonius ; upon the water-fly, Osric ; upon " the sponge," 
 Rosencrantz ; and upon the spy, Guildenstern. He'* even 
 philosophises upon himself, and upon himself most of all. 
 Yet, with all this, as the poet has managed it, there is nothing 
 dictatorial or dogmatical in Hamlet ; for Hamlet is a gentle- 
 man — a more accomplished, a more courteous gentleman than 
 he, is not to be found in all Shakespeare, (and, I was going to 
 say,) or anywhere else. Hamlet is not either dry or prolix. 
 He is not didactic ; for his reflections are rather for his own 
 behoof than delivered as precepts for others. He is not sen- 
 tentious ; for his words flow on in the shape of reverie and 
 musing rather than in that of terse, brief phrases, uttered for 
 
64 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 effect. His moral philosophy is not studied ; it has no rule, 
 no set or specific rule, but is a rich emanation of his own 
 spiritual being — flowing from his profound heart, his noble 
 mind, his fertile imagination, his great and lofty soul. He 
 moralises almost unconsciously ; so naturally, so spontane- 
 ously do his ideas take that form. 
 
 How artistically has Shakespeare made Hamlet fall into 
 that habitual mode of parlance, even in the very hour of 
 awaiting the dread apparition on the platform at midnight. 
 On his first coming in, — ^when we may imagine that they have 
 all dropped into silence, as they approach the haunted spot, 
 — Hamlet complains of the chill night breeze : — 
 
 " The air bites shrewdly ; it is very cold." 
 
 But no sooner has the cannon sounded which announces the 
 royal carousal, and the voice of his friend Horatio is heard, 
 asking whether this be a custom, than the Prince answers in 
 the philosophic strain natural to him : — 
 
 " Ay, marry is it : 
 But to my mind, — though I am native here. 
 And to the manner born, — it is a 'custom' 
 More honour'd in the breach than the observance. 
 This heavy-headed revel, east and west, 
 Makes us traduced, and tax'd of other nations : 
 They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase 
 Soil our addition ; and indeed it takes 
 From our achievements, though perform'd at height, 
 The pith and marrow of our attribute. 
 So, oft it chances in particular men. 
 That for some vicious mole of nature in them. 
 As in their birth, (wherein they are not guilty. 
 Since nature cannot choose his origin,) 
 By the overgrowth of some complexion, 
 Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason ; 
 Or by some habit, that too much o'er-leavens 
 The form of plausive manners ; — that these men, — 
 
"FT A VIT.T.'.T 
 

 ^m. :'■ 
 
Hamlet. 65 
 
 Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, 
 
 Being nature's livery, or fortune's star, — 
 
 Their virtues else (be they as pure as grace, 
 
 As infinite as man may undergo,) 
 
 Shall in the general censure take corruption 
 
 From that particular fault : — The dram of base 
 
 Doth all the noble, sustance often d'out, 
 
 To his own scandal. \Eitter Ghosti] 
 
 " Hor. Look, my lord, — it comes ! 
 
 " Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us ! " 
 
 This is wonderfully striking ; and as characteristic as it is 
 striking. No one like Shakespeare for consistency in charac- 
 ter, and for making that consistency a heightener of his 
 dramatic and poetical effects, as well as of his portraiture- 
 effects. Monsieur Guizot, in his clever book upon our great 
 English poet, — " Shakespeare and his Times," — declares 
 •■'unity of impression" to be the great law of Shakespeare's 
 dramatic art ; and the marvellous harmony and consistency 
 in his characters forms one portion of this " unity of impres- 
 sion." 
 
 Hamlet's proneness to soliloquy bespeaks the reflective 
 man ; and it not only serves to denote his philosophic mood^ 
 but it paints the perturbed condition of his spirit under the 
 onerous task of revenge, imposed upon him by fate. Inex- 
 pressibly affecting is that eagerness he betrays to get by him- 
 self, — to feel free and unwatched, — that he may revolve the 
 thoughts of his burthened heart at liberty. We feel the load 
 taken from him in those words of his, " Now I am alone" 
 when Polonius, the players, and the two sycophant lords, 
 Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, leave him. And also, after- 
 wards, on the journey, when he bids the two latter prying 
 personages " Go on before," that he may indulge his reverie 
 upon meeting with the captain of Fortinbras's forces. The 
 vast responsibility laid by the Ghost upon him constantly 
 rises upon his tide of thought, haunting, and urging him to 
 
66 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 his settled course of action. When all the company have 
 gone on, — soldiers and courtiers, — he breaks forth : — 
 
 " How all occasions do inform against me. 
 And spur my dull revenge ! What is a man, 
 If his chief good, and market of his time. 
 Be but to sleep, and feed ? a beast, no more. 
 Sure, He that made us with such large discourse, 
 Looking before and after, gave us not 
 That capability and god-like reason 
 To fust in us unus'd. Now, whether it be 
 Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple 
 Of thinking too precisely on th' event, — 
 A thought) which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom. 
 And ever three parts coward, — I do not know 
 Why yet I live to say, ' This thing 's to do ;' 
 Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means, 
 To do it." ***** 
 
 And he concludes his twentieth vacillation with this resolve : — 
 
 " Oh-! from this time forth. 
 My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!" 
 
 Hamlet's philosophy not unfrequeritly takes the form of 
 bitter jests, while foiling the eaves-dropping treachery of 
 those two hireling courtiers. He contemptuously dallies with 
 their curiosity, and plays with their puzzled perceptions. He 
 even strikes off into a wild levity and startling humour at 
 times ; and this eccentricity of demeanour, it is unnecessary 
 to observe, was prepared and adopted by him to carry out 
 his plan of subterfuge-action in ^ assuming the character of 
 insanity. For instance, where he replies to the King's in- 
 quiries a,fter the dead body of Polpnius, with those scoffing 
 answers : — 
 
 " King. Where is Polonius .' 
 
 " Ham. In heaven : send thither to see. If your messenger 
 find him not there, seek him in th' other place yourself But, 
 
Hamlet. 67 
 
 indeed, if you find him not within this month; you shall nose 
 him as you go up stairs into the lobby. 
 
 " King. [To some attendants. \ Go, seek him there. 
 
 " Ham. {Calling after them.'] He will stay till you come." 
 
 This dash of the grotesque, in his occasional words, en- 
 hances the effect of the profound and settled sadness dwelling 
 within Hamlet's soul; just as the circumstance of the skull, 
 which the grave-digger throws up at Hamlet's feet, being that 
 of a jester, augments the solemnity of the event. Its being 
 the skeleton head of that soul of whim and mad waggery, 
 upon whose shoulder the boy Hamlet had ridden a thousand 
 times, gives additional awe to the sympathetic shudder with 
 which we behold him handle and moralise upon it. In the 
 same manner, the boorish jokes of the two grave-digging 
 clowns increase the grim melancholy of the church-yard 
 scene. 
 
 I will say a few words upon the feigned madness of Hamlet, 
 and, as succinctly as I am able, justify my argument by au- 
 thorities from his own speech and action. 
 
 The readers of this most mysterious of all the characters in 
 Shakespeare are divided into those who believe in his real 
 insanit y, occasioned by that awful accumulation of circum- 
 stances,^the revealing of his father's spirit ; the promulga- 
 tion of his murder ; and the tremendous responsibility- arising 
 out of it, to avenge his violent and unnatural death :— while 
 the other party hold the opinion that the poet intended to 
 convey nothing more than the assumed madness of the prince, 
 for the purpose of shrouding his course of retribution. 
 
 That this latter is the true reading of the character, the 
 following passages appear to be confirmatory. 
 
 In the 1st Act, after the scene with the Ghost, he prepares 
 Horatio and Marcellus for the part he is about to act : — 
 
 " As I perchance hereafter shall think meet 
 To put an antic disposition on!' 
 
68 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 Afterwards, in the scene with his mother, {Act iii., Jf. 4,) 
 when he has again seen his father's ghost, she calling his 
 behaviour upon the occasion, "ecstacy, the coinage of his 
 
 brain," he replies : — 
 
 " Ecstacy ! 
 My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, 
 And makes as healthful music : it is not madness 
 That I have utter'd : bring me to the test, 
 And I the matter will re-word ; which madness 
 Would gambol from." 
 
 And at the close of the same scene, he counsels his mother 
 not to allow the king to worm from her his secret : — 
 
 " Let him not 
 Make you to ravel all this matter out, 
 That I essentially am not in madness, 
 But mad in craft." 
 
 But the strongest proof of all that his insanity is assumed 
 is, that in his soliloquies he never utters an incoherent phrase. 
 When he is alone, he reasons clearly and consistently ;— it 
 may be inconclusively, because he seeks in sophism an excuse 
 for deferring the task of revenge imposed upon him ; — ^but it 
 is always coherently. At the close of the celebrated soli- 
 loquy, — " To be, or not to be," — than which nothing more 
 grandly reflective and heart-absorbing was ever penned by 
 poet, he is surprised at finding that he has been overheard 
 in his rationality by Ophelia, who is at the back of the scene ; 
 and he then immediately begins to wander, in order that he 
 may maintain his scheme of delusion ; his language to her 
 being the naturally conceived expression of an over-heated 
 and excited brain, and not the disjointed incoherency of the 
 incurable maniac. 
 
 Especially fine, too, is he in that soliloquy of the 4th scene, 
 Act iv., after meeting with the forces of Fortinbras; and 
 
Hamlets 69 
 
 which speech Schlegel justly describes as being the key to 
 the character of the prince. Hamlet says, sedately reflect- 
 ing:— 
 
 " Rightly to be great, 
 Is not to stir without great argument. 
 But greatly to find quarrel in a straw, 
 When honour's at the stake. " How stand I then. 
 That have a father kill'd, a mother stain' d, 
 Excitements of my reason and my blood, 
 And let all sleep .? While, to my shame, I see 
 The imminent death of twenty thousand men, 
 That for a fantasy and trick of fame. 
 Go to their graves like beds." 
 
 This greatly reasoning scene is never represented on the 
 stage ; — and, by the way, it has not unfrequently been the 
 practice to argue on a question in Shakespeare's plays, from 
 what is known of them through the actors ; yet the theatrical 
 copies are so notoriously abridged, that it is impossible to 
 judge fairly of the poet's delineation of character, who never 
 wrote a line that did not harmonise with, and tend to define 
 the portrait he was limning. 
 
 In the scenes, too, with his heart-friend, Horatio, Hamlet is 
 uniformly rational : — with one exception only ; and that is 
 immediately after the play-scene, and the discovery of the 
 king's appalled conscience, when the wild words he utters 
 may be fairly imputed to the result of his excitement, conse- 
 quent upon the confirmation of the Ghost's murder-tale. 
 
 With the players, too, and the grave-digger, where it is 
 unnecessary to maintain the consistency of the part he had 
 assumed, he is perfectly collected, and even utters sound 
 criticism and profound philosophy. His apology to Laertes, 
 wherein he decidedly imputes his former misconduct to men- 
 tal aberration, is the nearest approach to a confirmation of 
 the idea that he has been really insane : but this scene takes 
 place in the presence of the whole court, whom he has all 
 
70 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 along intended ±o deceive, — his revenge, moreover, being still 
 left unaccomplished. I therefore conclude, and I think 
 reasonably, that they have read the whole play with very 
 little reflection who conceive that Shakespeare intended to 
 portray real, and not feigned madness in the conduct of 
 Hamlet. 
 
 I should suppose that there never was a more artistical 
 piece of dramatic event achieved (at all events, my own read- 
 ing cannot quote its rival) than the arrangement of the ma- 
 chinery in the first scene of this play, for the introduction of 
 the Ghost. How gradual, how solemn, and withal how serene, 
 are its approaches ; — the opening eyelids of the dawn not 
 more impressive. We first behold the soldier, Francisco, on 
 his watch. The stillness of the scene is broken by the pass- 
 word of his comrade, Bernardo, who comes to relieve guard, 
 and take Francisco's post. His natural question to his pre- 
 decessor, — " Have you had quiet guard .' " for Bernardo 
 knows of the spirit's appearance, and wishes to discover 
 whether Francisco have seen it also. To him, however, " not 
 a mouse has been stirring." And here I would draw atten- 
 tion to one of the most signal examples of the far-sightedness 
 and comprehension of his subject on the part of the poet, 
 which occurs in the first two sentences of this play ; the pur- 
 port of which is so subtle, that it must escape the casual and 
 light reader. Francisco is the guard on duty ; and Bernardo, 
 coming in to relieve him, calls out, " Who 's there 1 " — which 
 challenge the other naturally retorts, with, "Naf, answer 
 me; stand, and unfold yourself." Bernardo being full of the 
 apparition that he and Marcellus had witnessed the night 
 before, in his perturbation questions everything he encoun- 
 ters in the night gloom. And when he is about to be left 
 alone on the platform, — midnight close at hand, — the awful 
 point of time for the visitation, he anxiously commissions 
 Francisco, "If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, the 
 
Hamlet. 7 1 
 
 rivals of my watch, bid them make haste."* Immediately 
 upon this, the two in question enter : Horatio having come to 
 prove the truth of what had been reported to him by the 
 other two, — ^he doubting the fact. Marcellus, who had been 
 a witness of the apparition, calls it, " This dreaded sight twice 
 seen of us." Now, all this appears to me the perfection of 
 forethought, with contrivance. Horatio, still doubtful, says : 
 "Tush, tush, 'twill not appear." Then Bernardo adds cir- 
 cumstance to the testimony of his companion : — 
 
 " Last night of all. 
 When yond' same star that 's westward from the pole. 
 Had made his course t' illume that part of heav'n 
 Where now it burns ; Marcellus and myself. 
 The bell then beating one, — 
 
 " Peace ! break thee off," exclaims Marcellus, " look 
 where it comes again." 
 
 How thrillingly grand is all this ! and how natural ! Still, 
 the dignity of the event is to be sustained ; and Horatio 
 being the "scholar," also the bosom-friend of Hamlet, is 
 urged to address the spirit : — and here again, it is noticeable, 
 that though all three are officers and gentlemen, yet the 
 language of Horatio is cast in a more classical mould than 
 that of the others, and this unvaryingly so throughout. 
 How solemn and how deprecatory is his aj^uration !— "^ 
 
 " What art thou, that usurp'st this time of night, 
 Together with that fair and warlike form. 
 In which the majesty of buried Denmark 
 Did sometimes march.? — By heaven I charge thee, speak!" 
 
 The spirit stalks away, deigning no reply ; the consumma- 
 tion of its errand is yet to be fulfilled : it is yet to speak ; and 
 
 * This lecture was written some years before a zealous and clever article ap- 
 peared in the Quarterly Review, upon " Hamlet, "—in which this prevision of his 
 plan by the poet was noticed. 
 
7^ Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 to no ears but those of Hamlet. Marcellus now exclaims to 
 his doubting comrade : — 
 
 " How now, Horatio ! you tremble, and look pale. 
 Is not this something more than fantasy .? 
 What think you on 't ">. 
 
 " Hor. Before my God, I might not this believe, 
 Without the sensible and true avouch 
 Of mine own eyes." 
 
 In the midst of a conversation of conjecture and surmise 
 that ensues upon this event, Horatio again brings forward his 
 classical accomplishments ; and, what is remarkable, Shake- 
 speare has put into his mouth a complete anticipation of the 
 Newtonian theory of the tides. All this bye-play is to add 
 dignity to Horatio, the friend and companion of the hero. 
 After speaking of the prodigies that are said to have appeared 
 in Rome previously to the assassination of the " mightiest 
 Julius;"— 
 
 " The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead 
 Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets ; "— 
 
 he concludes : — 
 
 " And the moist star [the moon] 
 Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands. 
 Was sick almost to dooms-day with eclipse." 
 
 Then follows that sweetly solemn winding up of the scene; 
 after the second vanishing, at the crowing of the cock, with 
 the remembrance of that pious superstition as recorded by 
 Marcellus ; — and what an exquisitely poetical term to use ! 
 
 " It faded at the crowing of the cock." 
 
 Let any one try to find a more apt phrase than that to 
 describe the dissolving of a shade into the elements, and he 
 will be lucky if he succeed. Macbeth presents an even more 
 
Hamlet. 73 
 
 vivid picture to the imagiuation upon the vanishing of the 
 witches : — " What seem'd corporal," he says, "melted as 
 breath into the wind." 
 
 Marcellus then concludes : — 
 
 " Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes 
 Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated. 
 This bird of dawning singeth all night long : 
 And then, they say, no spirit can walk abroad ; 
 The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, 
 No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm ; 
 So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.'' 
 
 Horatio, the scholar and the philosopher, consistently 
 answers : — 
 
 "So have I heard, and do in part believe it." 
 
 It will be recollected that he was sceptical as to the appear- 
 ance of the ghost. Wonderfully artistical is that discrimina- 
 tion between the minds of Horatio and Marcellus. And then, 
 lastly, what poetry in the breaking up of their conference ! 
 
 " But, look, the morn in russet mantle clad. 
 Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill. 
 Break we our watch up." 
 
 In this introductory scene we are presented with all the 
 chief characteristics of the sublime ; and of which, not the 
 least prevailing feature is the effect produced by the gigantic 
 power of stillness. The quiet midnight ; the cold and misty 
 moon ; the wondering under-breath discourse of those who 
 had assembled to witness that tremendous vision. The aw- 
 ful and unsubstantial form itself, in silent and majestic sorrow 
 passing among, and about them, and yet not with them ; pre- 
 sent, and yet absent ; cognisable, identical, and yet intangible. 
 This all-absorbing, this mighty abstraction, congealed, as it 
 were, into a stern reality, in dumb eloquence and thrilling 
 
74 Shakespeare-Characters. ""* 
 
 stillness announces to us the coming events of a heart-shaking 
 tragedy. Great is the majesty of "Silence," says Thomafe 
 Carlyle ; and I know of nothing comparable in grandeut with 
 the still and silent course of the first introduction of the Ghost 
 in Hamlet. 
 
 At the subsequent appearance of that awful form, which 
 occurs in the closet scene between the Prince and his mother, 
 Shakespeare, so far from having committed an anti-climax, 
 (which must have happened to an ordinary dramatist,) has 
 even more deeply rooted our interest in the sorrows of the 
 "perturbed spirit;" for, on his first coming, the motive for 
 appearing to his son being to stir him to revenge, he would 
 tardily and scantily have carried our sympathies with him ; 
 but his second appearance is blended with an emotion of 
 tenderness towards her who had lain in his bosom in her days 
 of innocence and happiness ; in those days when — 
 
 " She would hang on him. 
 As if increase of appetite had grown 
 By what it fed on:" 
 
 and who now was stricken to the heart with blood-guiltiness 
 and remorse. 
 
 " But look, amazement on thy mother sits : 
 Oh ! step between her and her fighting soul." 
 
 In the first scene with his son, when charging him to re- 
 venge the "foul and unnatural murder," he enjoins exception 
 in behalf of his guilty queen : — 
 
 " But, howsoever thou pursu'st this act. 
 Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive 
 Against thy mother aught; leave her to Heaven, 
 And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, 
 To prick and sting her." 
 
 It was just like the divine humanity in our poet to foster 
 
Hamlet. 75 
 
 the idea of love in that life beyond life, still hovering with 
 angelic tenderness and pardon over his weak and repentant 
 partner in the flesh. And how beautifully this little touch of 
 yearning emotion on the part of the spirit harmonises with 
 the previous character given of him by his son : — 
 
 " So loving to my mother, 
 That he might not beteem the winds of heaven 
 Visit her face too roughly." 
 
 It is the verifying these points of harmony and consistency 
 in the creations of this wonderful genius, that makes the study 
 of his productions a constant source of astonishment as well 
 as delight. 
 
 Horatio is not merely the gentleman and scholar, as has 
 been observed, and therefore worthy to be the companion of 
 Hamlet ; but the higher attractions of his honourable nature, 
 his bland and trusting disposition, his prudent mind, and 
 steadfastly affectionate heart, have raised him to the highest 
 social rank that man can attain in this world — he is his 
 prince's confidant and bosom-friend. The character of 
 Horatio is the only spot of sun-light in the play ; and he is a 
 cheering, though not a joyous gleam coming across the dark , 
 hemisphere of treachery, mistrust, and unkindness. The 
 cheerfulness of the grave-digger arises from an intimacy with, 
 and a callous indifference to his occupation, which, as Horatio 
 says, 
 
 " Custom hath made in him a property of easiness." 
 
 It is the result, too, of a healthy old age ; or, in some sort, it 
 is not a sentiment, but a physical consequence ; even a nega- 
 tion. 
 
 But in the deportment of Horatio we have the constant 
 recognition of a placid and pensive man ; making no protes- 
 tations, yet constantly prepared for gentle service. Modest, 
 
76 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 and abiding his time to be appreciated, his friendship for 
 Hamlet is a purely disinterested principle, and the Prince 
 bears high testimony to it,— an illustrious and eloquent 
 tribute to the qualities of his bead and heart : — 
 
 " Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man 
 As e'er my conversation cop'd withal. 
 
 " Hor. O ! my dear lord ! 
 
 " Ham. Nay, do not think I flatter : 
 
 For what advancement may I hope from thee, 
 That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits. 
 To feed and clothe thee ? Why should the poor be flat- 
 
 ter'd ? 
 No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp ; 
 And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee. 
 Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear "> 
 Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice, 
 And could of men distinguish, her election 
 Hath seal'd thee for herself : for thou hast been 
 As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing ; 
 A man, that fortune's buffets and rewards 
 Hast ta'en with equal thanks : and bless'd are those 
 Whose blood and judgment are so well co-mingled. 
 That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger ' 
 To sound what stop she please. Give me that man 
 That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him 
 In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, 
 As I do thee." 
 
 And all this is no lip-deep attestation. Horatio has it, and 
 has earned it. As he adhered to his friend through life, so 
 would he have followed him in death ; and only consented to 
 survive him that he might redeem his character with the world. 
 It is worthy of notice, that Horatio's speeches, after the first 
 scene, consist almost entirely of simple assents to the obser- 
 vations of Hamlet ; but when the final catastrophe has ensued, 
 he comes forward, and assumes the prerogative of his posi- 
 tion ; and, as the companion and confidant of his Prince, he 
 
Hamlet. 77 
 
 takes his station by Fortinbras, and the ambassadors, and at 
 once assumes the office of moral executor and apologist for 
 his friend. Was there no forethought, — no contrivance in all 
 this subtle consecution of action ? To me there is an inde- 
 scribable charm in this Doric order of friendship and attach- 
 ment, which Shakespeare has so frequently repeated in his 
 plays : — simple, and unornate in exterior pretension ; but 
 massive and steadfast in design and structure. 
 
 With scarcely an exception, no one character in this tragedy 
 has, I think, been worked out with more pains and accurate 
 consistency, than that of the Lord Chamberlain, old Polonius. 
 In his conduct and demeanour the critical task has been 
 achieved of blending the highest useful wisdom (the know- 
 ledge of mankind) with the garrulity of an imbecile old age. 
 Although Polonius, however, prates away at all times, and 
 never omits an occasion to proffer his opinion, yet he does 
 not babble ; for no one dispenses sounder advice, or speaks 
 more practical axioms. These, it is true, from his courtly 
 education and gold-stick employment, he frequently con- 
 verts into the " crooked wisdom " of cunning and manoeuvre ; 
 for, so carefully is his conduct laid out by the poet, that every 
 one of his plans has in it a double-move, as it were, (like a 
 game of chess,) before he makes his hit. Polonius is a 
 thorough-paced diplomatist, and seems to have (like the bulk 
 of his tribe) a positive horror of simple and sincere action : as 
 if stratagem and circumvention were the genius and staple 
 of political commerce. His well-known advice to his son, 
 Laertes, upon the young man's leave-taking for France, is as 
 fine as an essay in Bacon : — it consists of a string of axioms 
 that would make a perfect gentleman and man of business, 
 whether civil or commercial : — 
 
 " Yet here, Laertes ! aboard, aboard, for shame ! 
 The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail. 
 And you are stay'd for. There, — my blessing with you ! 
 
78 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 And these few, precepts in thy memory. 
 
 Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, 
 
 Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. 
 
 Be thou famihar, but by no means vulgar. 
 
 The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, 
 
 Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel ; 
 
 But do not dull thy palm with entertainment 
 
 Of each new-hatch' d, unfledg'd comrade. Beware 
 
 Of entrance to a quarrel ; but, being in, 
 
 Bear't, that th' opposed may beware of thee. 
 
 Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice : 
 
 Take each man's measure, but reserve thy judgment. 
 
 Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, 
 
 But not express'd in fancy ; rich, not gaudy : 
 
 For the apparel oft proclaims the man ; 
 
 And they in France, of the best rank and station. 
 
 Are most select and generous, chief in that. 
 
 Neither a borrower, nor a lender be : 
 
 For loan oft loses both itself and friend ; 
 
 And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. 
 
 This above all, — to thine own self be true ; 
 
 And it must follow, as the night the day. 
 
 Thou canst not then be false to any man. 
 
 Farewell : my blessing season this in thee." 
 
 Here we see the instinct and native disposition of the man ; 
 but when his object is to obtain an account of the mode of 
 life his son is leading in Paris, he descends to subterfuge and 
 manoe\ivre ; even with their servant Rinaldo, who is about to 
 join his young master ; giving him licence to lie, and traduce 
 the conduct of Laertes at home, in order that he may induce 
 his French associates to betray any irregularities that he may 
 have committed in their company. This scene is the first of 
 the 2d Act ; and a masterpiece of writing it is ; — at 'that point 
 of it especially where the old man hurries himself out of 
 breath with explanation, and suddenly forgetting the thread 
 of his instruction, exclaims : — " Where was I > Where was 
 I } " It is like a dialogue taken in shorthand. 
 
Hamlet, 79 
 
 Again, in the scene with his daughter, (the conclusion of 
 the one just quoted,) when she comes running in to inform 
 him of Hamlet's altered behaviour, how characteristic is the 
 self-rebuke of the practised courtier, in having desired her to 
 decline the prince's advances, and refuse his letters ; and with 
 what close and practical experience he concludes his observa- 
 tion upon her report : — 
 
 " That hath made him mad. 
 I am sorry that with better heed and judgment 
 I had not quoted him ; I fear'd he did but trifle. 
 And meant to wreck thee ; but, beshrew my jealousy ! 
 It seems as proper to our age 
 To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions. 
 As it is common for the younger sort 
 To lack discretion." 
 
 Here, we see, he regrets his over-caution ; for, that he would 
 have promoted (and rationally) a safe alliance for his daughter 
 with the heir to the throne : yet afterwards, in conversation 
 with the king and queen, he makes a merit of having con- 
 fronted her, and solely on the ground of the disparity of their 
 conditions : — 
 
 " Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star ; 
 This must not be : and then I precepts gave her, 
 That she should lock herself from his resort. 
 Admit no messengers, receive no tokens." 
 
 How accurately does all this shuffling and moral imbecility 
 square with the temporising courtier ! Yet again ; his ten- 
 dency to manoeuvre and insincerity are noticeable in his 
 making Ophelia act a part in the scene he had contrived for 
 discovering whether the madness of Hamlet were confirmed 
 or not : — 
 
 " Ophelia, walk you here, .... 
 
 Read on this book ; 
 
 That show of such an exercise may colour 
 Your loneliness." 
 
8o Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 And then the genuine nature of the honourable man stares 
 out of the artificial man of society. He says to himself : — ' 
 
 " We are oft to blame in this, — 
 'Tis too much prov'd, — that with devotion's visage, 
 And pious action, we do sugar o'er 
 The devil himself" 
 
 So thorough, so pliant, and hard-working a courtier is he, 
 that he even offered to act the eaves-dropper to the king, 
 that he may report to him the result of the interview between 
 Hamlet and his mother — an act which brings upon him so 
 terrible a retribution ; but which, at the same time, preaches 
 a caustic moral to all disreputable, uncompromising time- 
 servers : the moral being the more stringent in his case, 
 because, by nature, Polonius possessed an instinct T)f honour 
 and self-respect, which a course of unworthy pliancy and 
 intrigue (perhaps almost inseparable from his office) had 
 soiled and tainted. 
 
 In introducing the character of the ill-starred and forlorn 
 Ophelia, I will, previously, take occasion to offer a remark or 
 two upon that part of the celebrated dissertation on Hamlet, 
 by Goethe, in his " Wilhelm Meister," which bears upon one 
 phase in her conduct. 
 
 The eminent German critic starts with the position that 
 Ophelia possessed a temperament which would lead her to 
 become an easy prey wherever her fancy had been attracted ; 
 and, having taken that point, he draws his conclusions from 
 the warnings given to her by both father and brother, to be 
 upon her guard in admitting the addresses of the Lord Ham- 
 let ; and he crowns his inferences by quoting the snatches of 
 songs she sings during her madness, as the foregone conclu- 
 sions of a mind (to use the mildest term) not -tempered with 
 the chariest discretion, or habituated to the most delicate 
 associations. 
 
Hamlet. 8 r 
 
 Now, all this appears to me the question-begging of one 
 who would merge all love into the sensual, at the expense of 
 the idtal — a conclusion totally unwarrantable in the case of 
 Ophelia; for the only confession we have of her love for 
 Hamlet is wholly comprised in the absorbing adoration of 
 his intellectual endowments — a higher order of love than 
 Goethe seems to think her capable of even discovering. With 
 a passionately chaste lament, she says : — 
 
 " Oh ! what a noble mind is here o'erthrown ! 
 The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword ; 
 The expectancy and rose of the fair state. 
 The glass of fashion, and the mould of form. 
 The observ'd of all observers, quite, quite down ! 
 And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, 
 That suck'd the honey of his music vows. 
 Now see that noble and most sov' reign reason,. 
 Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh." 
 
 This is not the language of a gross or even a light-minded 
 female, which Goethe, with all his wariness, and ingenuity of 
 expression, would have his readers think Ophelia to be. Nor 
 would Shakespeare have given to her a complaint of such 
 character and tone, had she been deceived, and then deserted 
 by Hamlet. Moreover, we may be sure that she was not — 
 in any form — a victim to her wantonness, or. his infidelity ; 
 for, after her death, in an ecstacy of genuine passion, he 
 says : — " I loved her above forty thousand brothers ! " And ' 
 he would not have used that language had his intercourse 
 with her been a merely illicit one. 
 
 As to that branch of the critic's argument, drawn from the 
 warning of Ophelia's father and brother, it is unnecessary to 
 remind any adult that such a precaution is perfectly consis- 
 tent with the most spotless purity of heart, where that heart 
 is wholly occupied and absorbed by the one sentiment and 
 passion of love and admiration : the father and brother both 
 
82 Shakespeare-Characters. . 
 
 recognising the irresponsible position of the prince ; and this, 
 joined with their fears and jealousy lest she bewray the 
 family honour; while that is a natural precaution on their 
 part, (both being men of the world, and the artificial world of 
 a court — and such a court as that of Claudius the murderer 
 and adulterer ;) whatever the precaution (I say) on their part, 
 it by no means involves, or even implies, a laxity on hers. 
 
 With regard to the critic's inuendo (and this is the least 
 reputable of his insinuations) respecting her real character, 
 drawn from the songs she sings during her insanity ; Goethe, 
 as a psychologist, ought to have known that no such con- 
 clusion can be drawn from the actions of a person under that 
 suspension : — on the contrary, it is an argument of her native 
 innocence of character; and Shakespeare knew this two hun- 
 dred years before Goethe lived ; experience constantly re- 
 minding us that insane people are wont to be, for the time, 
 the total opposites af their real natures — your madmen 
 plotting to kill those whom they most loved when in a state 
 of sanity ; your profligates breaking forth into piety ; your 
 pious into blasphemies ; and your most reserved and chaste 
 indulging in a laxity of expression astonishing to those who 
 knew their former course of life and principles. And, after 
 all, these same snatches of songs, alluded to by Goethe, and 
 which, by the way, consist of two, and not much in those, 
 they display the constant thought and contrivance of the 
 ■ poet to carry on within as well as without the scene a con- 
 tinuity and consistency of thought, as well as of action in the 
 character. Upon referring again to the passage for my pre- 
 sent purpose, I can come to no other conclusion than that 
 he intended to convey in those wanderings of Ophelia the 
 reflected lights of past reflections in her sane moments, re- 
 sulting from the warning and advice that had been given to 
 her in admitting the advances and protestations of her royal 
 lover ; but that they were intended to be the foregone con- 
 
Hamlet. 83 
 
 elusions of an unstable virtue, could only proceed, I think, 
 from a prurient mind, apt for catching at such a suggestion. 
 
 I regret, though I confess I am not surprised at the tone 
 of this commentary in the eminent critic, since I have never 
 been able entirely to shake oft" the idea that Goethe himself 
 was not wholly untainted with the leaven of grossness ; and 
 therefore was the more apt at imputation. The celebrated 
 Bettina, in one of her letters to him, makes the remark, that 
 she wonders from what class in society he chose his heroines, 
 they are such questionable people. I am sure that in the 
 self-absorption of the homage toll-fee Goethe's appetite was 
 grossness itself 
 
 In how much finer a spirit has Doctor Bucknill, in his 
 admirable work on the "Psychology of Shakespeare," ap- 
 preciated the character of Ophelia. Doctor Bucknill is the 
 superintendent of a lunatic asylum, and therefore speaks with 
 authority. He says, " The not very delicate warning of 
 Ophelia's disagreeable brother, that she is likely to lose her 
 honour to Hamlet's unmastered importunity, is evidently dis- 
 tasteful to the poor girl, and gives occasion to the only 
 sparkle of displeasure which the gentle creature ever shows, 
 in that quick-witted retaliation of advice : — 
 
 ' But, my good brother. 
 Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, 
 Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven ; 
 Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless Ubertine, 
 Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads. 
 And recks not his own read.' " 
 
 Ophelia's reference to the primrose path of dalliance which 
 her libertine brother was likely to Ix&^A, shews, from the first, 
 that her purity of mind is not the result of ignorance. Her 
 belief in the honour and truth of her lover, Bucknill adds, 
 is the " credulity of innocence, but not of stupidity'.' Old Dan 
 Chaucer says of the Duchess Blanche of Lancaster, 
 
84 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 " I say not she knew no evil. 
 Then had she known no good, 
 So seemeth me." 
 
 Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are favourable samples of 
 the thorough-paced, time-serving court knave — servants of 
 all-work, ticketed, and to be hired for any hard or dirty job. 
 Shakespeare has at once, and unequivocally, signified his 
 opinion of the race, by making Rosencrantz, the time-server, 
 the schoolfellow of Hamlet, and, under the colour of their 
 early associations, professing a personal friendship — even art 
 affection for him, at the very time that he had accepted the 
 office of spy upon his actions, and traitor to his confidence. 
 " Good, my lord, what is your cause of distemper } You do 
 surely but bar the door upon your own liberty, if you deny 
 your griefs to your friend." Immediately upon the heel of 
 this protestation he accepts the king's commission to convey 
 his " friend " to England, where measures had been taken for 
 his assassination. Rosencrantz and his fellow would designate 
 themselves as thoroughly "loyal men;" they make no com- 
 promise of their calling ; the " broad R " is burnt into them ; 
 they are for the king's service exclusively; and with the 
 scavenger's calling, they would scoop all into that reservoir. 
 The poet has sketched them in few and bold outlines ; their 
 subtleties of character stare out like the bones of a starved 
 beast. They are time-servers by profession, and upon hire ; 
 and "verily they have their reward." The great Hebrew 
 legislator has said, "Thou shalt not muzzle the ox that 
 treadeth out the corn ;" but the corn that such oxen tread 
 out no noble beast would consider worthy of "protective 
 duty " at all. No one works so hard as a time-server ; and, 
 under the fairest auspices, his labour is well worthy of his 
 pay. The machinery he constructs to accomplish his little 
 
 ends, is always complicated and eccentric in movement 
 
 like the Laputan's invention for cutting a cabbage, requiring 
 
Hamlet. 85 
 
 a horse-power to put it in action; or like the painstaking 
 of Bardolph, who stole the lute-case, carried it seven leagues, 
 and sold it for three-halfpence. The same great master-spirit 
 — Shakespeare — has made another time-server say, " How 
 wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!" 
 but how much more wretched is that poor prince who needs 
 such hangers-on as Guildenstern and Rosencrantz ! What a 
 hell on earth has the man who is the suborner of meanness 
 and villany! — the constant sense of subjection — the instinc- 
 tive sense of insincerity and sham respect — ^the rising of the 
 gorge at the fawning and the mouth-honour, the self-inspec- 
 tion, (which will come,) the surmises, the fears, the trepida- 
 tions, the heartaches : " Verily, both parties have their reward," 
 even here, " on this bank and shoal of time." I know of no 
 bitterer satire upon the compact between state hire and state 
 service than is put into the mouth of this Rosencrantz, ad- 
 dressed to such a king as Hamlet's uncle ! — 
 
 " The single and peculiar life is bound. 
 With all the strength and armour of the mind, 
 To keep itself from 'noyance ; but much more 
 That spirit, upon whose weal depend and rest 
 The lives of many. The cease of majesty 
 Dies not alone ; but like a gulph doth draw 
 What 's near it with it ; it is a massy wheel, 
 Fix'd on the summit of the highest mount. 
 To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things 
 Are mortis'd and adjoin' d, which when it falls. 
 Each small annexment, petty consequence. 
 Attends the boist'rous ruin. Never alone 
 Did the king sigh, but with a general groan." 
 
 This is a specimen of time-server logic for an act of state- 
 policy: it is the argument of a hireling to sugar over the 
 king's act to murder Hamlet, in order that the peace and 
 safety of the suborner may be secured. Assuredly, no one 
 has been less of a flatterer, with stronger inducements to be 
 
86 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 one, than Shakespeare. In the spirit of just retribution, these 
 two worthies fall into the trap they had set for their oldfriend 
 and schoolfellow. 
 
 On another occasion I have spoken of Shakespeare's large 
 discourse upon the " Philosophy of War," and its utter worth- 
 lessness. In the short scene between Hamlet and the cap- 
 tain of Fortinbras, — and which, as already observed, is never 
 acted, — ^we have the poet again upon the same theme, but in 
 a calm and lofty vein of satire, exposing the contemptible 
 grounds upon which these vicegerents on earth will play their 
 bloody gambols at the expense of the life and treasure of 
 those uninterested in the game. Shakespeare was our first 
 poet who saw and exposed its absurdity ; and Cowper was 
 the last, who followed it out with a dash of radicalism in the 
 sentiment: — "But war is a game, which, were their subjects 
 wise, kings would not play at." 
 
 The dialogue I have alluded to is an edifying commentary 
 upon the light causes and grave effects of strife and conten- 
 tion. Hamlet says to the captain : — 
 
 " Gdod sir, whose powers are these .' 
 
 " Capt. They are of Norway, sir. 
 
 " Ham. How purposed, sir, I pray you .' 
 
 " Capt. Against some part of Poland. 
 
 " Ham. Goes it against the main of Poland, sir, or for some 
 frontier 1 
 
 " Capt. Truly to .speak, and with no addition. 
 We go to gain a little patch of ground. 
 That hath in it no profit but the name. 
 To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it ; 
 Nor will it yield to Norway, or the Pole, 
 A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee. 
 
 " Ham. Why, then, the Polack never will defend it. 
 
 " Capt. Yes, 'tis already garrison'd. 
 
 " Ham. Two thousand souls, and twenty thousand ducats, 
 Will not debate the question of this straw ; 
 
Hamlet. 87 
 
 This is th' imposthume of much wealth and peace, 
 That inward breaks, and shows no cause without 
 Why the man dies." 
 
 How searching that philosophy ! and what truth and feli- 
 city in the metaphor, with its application ! Hamlet, after- 
 wards, when ruminating upon this circumstance in connexion 
 with his own irresolute action, says, (as already quoted,) — 
 
 " To my shame, I see 
 The imminent death of twenty thousand men. 
 That for a fantasy and trick of fame, 
 Go to their graves like beds ; fight for a plot 
 Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause. 
 Which is not tomb enough, and continent, 
 To hide the slain." 
 
 I have always been struck with the dialogue between 
 Hamlet and Osric, the " gilded water-fly," as he terms him, 
 who comes to announce to the Prince the wager at fence with 
 Laertes. Who that has ever observed the action of that 
 peculiar insect, — skimming to and fro, and round and round 
 upon the water's face, with no apparent purpose but mere in- 
 consequence, — can fail to recognise the aptitude of that assi- 
 milation !* — the " gilded yisXex-^y" too! 
 
 The choice language and peculiar idiom of the dandy lord, 
 with the superior bearing and regal dignity of the Prince, not 
 carrying with it the slightest tinge of insolence or " pride of 
 place" — (I repeat, there is no perfecter gentleman drawn than 
 Hamlet) — his fooling Osric to the " top of his bent," is in the 
 pure spirit of the highest-bred gentility : — 
 
 " Your bonnet, sir, to his right use ; 'tis for the head. 
 " Osr. I thank your lordship ; 'tis very hot. 
 " Ham. Noj believe me, 'tis ve^y cold ; the wind is northerly. 
 " Osr. It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed. 
 " Ham. But yet, methinks, it is very sultry and hot ; or my 
 complexion — ^ 
 
88 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 " Osr. Exceedingly, my lord ; it is very sultry,— as 'twere, 
 — I cannot tell how." 
 
 With all his vapid pliancy, however, when Osric comes to 
 speak upon the accomplishments which alone, in those days, 
 betokened the gentleman, Shakespeare knew that he must 
 no longer make him contemptible : in descanting, therefore, 
 upon Laertes' pretensions, he is made to use the choicest 
 terms, describing him as an " absolute gentleman, full of 
 most excellent differences, of very soft society, and great 
 showing." And he dilates upon the weapons that are to be 
 used with an accurate and professor-like technicality, and in 
 language as polished as their blades : " Six French rapiers 
 and poniards, with their assigns, hangers, and so. Three of 
 the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very responsive 
 to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of very liberal con- 
 ceit." Upon referring to this scene, it will be observed, I 
 think, that Shakespeare, in Hamlet's mouth, intended to 
 ridicule the dandy nomenclature of the day ; for, with an 
 amusing air of simplicity, he takes the tone of a stranger to 
 the mysteries of the profession of arms, requiring an explana- 
 tion of the terms so fluently used by Osric. It may appear 
 affected to attach importance to a scene like this — ^trifling, 
 indeed, as compared with the solemn and gigantic events that 
 have transpired in the course of the drama ; yet this simple 
 and very natural prelude to the quenching of the noble spirit 
 of the hero, produces, in my mind, a sense of reality and of 
 pathos that are more easily suggested than explained, and 
 suffers no detraction ; if, indeed, it be not heightened by the 
 gentle and modest tone in which the Prince dismisses the 
 messenger : — 
 
 " Sir, I will walk here in the hall : if it please his majesty, 
 it is the breathing time of day with me : let the foils be 
 brought, the gentleman willing, and the king hold his pur- 
 
Hamlet. 89 
 
 pose, I will win for him if I can ; if not, I will gain nothing 
 but my shame, and the odd hits." 
 
 Amid the glittering firmament of beauties with which this 
 amazing drama is studded, it -is no questionable homage to 
 turn aside and examine with interest so insignificant a charac- 
 ter as that of Osric ; and, moreover, for the mind to come to 
 the satisfactory conclusion that even the great master-movers 
 in the scene are not more ably conceived, or produced with 
 greater force or truth to nature. 
 
 It is immediately after his accepting the challenge that the 
 "coming event" of his death, "casting its shadow" across the 
 mind of Hamlet, draws from him that affecting confession to 
 his bosom friend, Horatio ; and which, as associated with all 
 the circumstances of his unhappy mission, together with the 
 deep and solemn piety of his comment, I confess, I never 
 even recur to without an indescribable emotion of awe and 
 reverence. He says : — 
 
 "Thou wouldst not think how ill all's here about my 
 heart ; — but 'tis no matter. 
 
 " Hor. Nay, my good lord, — 
 
 "Ham. It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gain- 
 giving as-would, perhaps, trouble a woman. 
 
 " Hor. If your mind dislike anything, obey it : — I will 
 forestall their repair hither, and say you are not fit. 
 
 " Ham. Not a whit ; — we defy augury : there is a special 
 providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to 
 come ; if it be not to come, it will be now ; if it be not now, 
 yet it will come : — the readiness is all." 
 
 Ah ! when the ignorant or the thoughtless, or, the worse 
 than both, the hypocritical, talk of Shakespeare's immorality, 
 refer them to this simple and beautiful little homily upon 
 resignation and reliance. 
 
 Laertes is one of that large class in humanity of the level 
 standard in morals,— loud, turbulent, and boisterous in pro- 
 
90 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 fession ; yet so weak in judgment, and unjust in act, (and 
 injustice must always involve a perversion of intellect,) that, 
 for the purposes of revenge, he will become the principal in a 
 plot to commit treachery and murder : — at the same time, in 
 strict accordance with such a disposition and temperament, 
 he is remorse-stricken at the issue of his villany. This is 
 human nature in fac-simile. It was a touch of fine art in the 
 poet to place the character and deportment of Laertes in 
 contrast with that of his victim, at the immediate point of 
 time when he was about to put his plot in action. 
 
 The apology Hamlet makes for his previous excitement 
 towards the brother of Ophelia, at her grave, is conceived in 
 the very highest sense of magnanimity and gentle bearing ; — 
 "gentle" in every sense; — a perfect gentleman. In conclud- 
 ing his speech, he says : — 
 
 " Sir, in this audience, 
 Let my disclaiming from a purpos'd evil 
 Free me so far in your most generous thoughts. 
 That I have shot mine arrow o'er the house, 
 And hurt my brother." 
 
 While we are upon the subject of " contrasts," how fruitful 
 a theme for reflection is the whole of the grave-digging scene : 
 how full of character ; full of unexpected thought ; and how 
 free from effort and display of every kind, — in short — for the 
 thousandth time — "how natural!" The thoughtless gaiety 
 of the sexton, singing over his work ; " Custom having made 
 it in him a property of easiness," as Horatio says ; and, as 
 Hamlet beautifully follows up the explanation, " The hand 
 of little employment hath the daintier sense : " — a philoso- 
 phical apology for those unimaginative classes in society 
 whose sole occupation is connected with the last offices of 
 life, and Xh.^ first of death. Indeed, our beloved Shakespeare 
 had a considerate and a gentle heart. 
 
Hamlet. 9 1 
 
 Again,-^"m contrast," — the recognition of Yorick's skull, 
 and the two men's characteristic associations with the same 
 individual ; — the clown remembering him for a " pestilent 
 mad rogue, who had poured a flagon of Rhenish on his 
 head;" — the practical jokes only of the jester remained in 
 the sexton's memory. Hamlet recalls his social and intellec- 
 tual qualities; an epitaph to his fame, and a lecture upon 
 vanity that will be coeval with poetry itself : — 
 
 "Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of 
 •Ig^nite jest, of most excellent fancy : he hath borne me on 
 his back a thousand times ; and now, how abhorred in my 
 imagination it is ! — my gorge rises at it. Here hung those 
 lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your 
 gibes now "i your gambols .' your songs .' your flashes of mer- 
 riment, that were wont to set the table in a roar i" — Not one 
 now to mock at your grinning .' quite chapfallen .? — Now get 
 you to my lady's chamber ; and tell her, let her paint an inch 
 thick, to this favour she must come : — make her laugh at 
 that." 
 
 The rise, progress, and consummation of the whole plot of 
 the tragedy of Hamlet is a consistent theme upon the conflict 
 between determination and irresolution, arising from over-re- 
 flection ; and in nothing throughout the whole scheme of the 
 play is the art of the poet more grandly developed than in 
 making the vaccillation of the hero to turn solely upon that 
 over-reflectiveness of his nature ; and indeed, under the cir- 
 cumstances, it was Shakespeare's only resource. Had Hamlet 
 wavered from any other cause, we must have dismissed him 
 with disrespect ; as it is, we make the handsomest excuse for 
 him ; and, in short, elevate him in our esteem by the acknow- 
 ledgment that he was the most unfit instrument for the mission 
 imposed upon him, simply because he had a mind superior to 
 the carrying of it out in detail. 
 
 And, to conclude so pigmy a comment, as the one now pre- 
 
92 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 sented upon this giant of philosophical dramas ; rise from it 
 when we may, and as often as we may, our hearts are warmed 
 by wiser and holier thoughts ; and our sole comment upon 
 the creative mind that was permitted to give such a work to 
 his fellow-mortals may well be summed up in the words of 
 his own hero : — 
 
 " How noble in reason ! how infinite in faculties ! in action 
 how like an angel ! in apprehension how like a God ! " 
 
IV. 
 
 iEtDsummer i&tsf)rs ©ream, 
 
IV. 
 MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 The play of a Midsummer Night's Dream is plausibly con- 
 jectured to have been composed when Shakespeare was in 
 his thirtieth year ; that lusty season of life when the luscious 
 honey-dew of youth has not yet dried up or evaporated, and 
 when the sinews of genius have consolidated into the firm 
 maturity of luxuriantly developed manhood. 
 
 This, and the play of the " Tempest," are the only ones in 
 which the poet has availed himself of, and rendered important 
 for the purpose of his plot, the agency of the fairy world ; 
 and although in no one of his dramas are there to be found 
 more exquisite flights of fancy than in the "Midsummer 
 Night's Dream," yet, as a compounded whole, the most ordi- 
 nary judge would be able to recognise in it less of the de- 
 veloped experience and tact in dramatic arrangement than in 
 that superb composition and uninterruptedly perfect plot of 
 the " Tempest." There, the several classes of character keep 
 their appointed state, and become more or less prominent 
 according to their several grades. The important beings — I 
 mean those on whom the onward march of the story depends 
 — never decline into secondary consequence in the reader's 
 imagination. From the storm and shipwreck, in the first 
 
96 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 scene, raised by Prospero, to the dissolving of the mighty- 
 pageant by the same magician-power, when his plans are 
 fulfilled, in the last scene, the consummation of events is in 
 undeviating progress. A less complicated, and more interest- 
 ing story, with more varied forms of fanciful creation, has 
 rarely, if ever, been combined than in the " Tempest." 
 
 In the play now under consideration, the "subordinate" 
 agents pre-occupy the mind, by reason of their great potency 
 and surpassingly beautiful creation ; or by the engrossing 
 demand that others make on our attention, on account of 
 their fine dramatic nature and verisimilitude, with side- 
 shaking broad humour. Really and truly, Demetrius and 
 Lysander, Hermia and Helena, with their love-crosses and 
 perplexities, constitute the chief agents in the drama. Their 
 way of life is the "plot" — disturbed, it is true, "by the mad- 
 cap sprite Puck, whose mischievous agency is so admirably 
 employed to distort the course of their true love ; and, with a 
 two-handed scheme to befool poor little Titania, becomes 
 not only the important movement in the machinery, but, in 
 fact, we scarcely think of any other in conjunction with him ; 
 he and his fellow-minims of the moon's watery beams are the 
 great (though little) people of the drama. Bottom and his 
 companions are the cap and bells ; and the classic stateliness 
 of Theseus and Hypolita, with their sedate and lofty nup- 
 tialities, form — as Schlegel happily observes — "a splendid 
 frame to the picture." These take no part in the action, but 
 appear with stately pomp, and dwell apart in royal exclusive- 
 ness. Their discourse upon the pleasures of the chase, with 
 his descriptions of his hounds, is the best, and, indeed, almost 
 the only passage that presents itself to the memory when we 
 think of the characters themselves. The whole of that scene 
 is redolent of rural life ; like Esau's garment, " it smelleth as 
 of a field." It has all the bracing vigour and life of the 
 young day, when, as old Chaucer says, 
 
Midsummer Nighfs Dream,. 97 
 
 " The sun looks ruddy and brode, 
 Through the misty vapour of the morrowning ; 
 And the dew, as silver, shining 
 Upon the green and sote grass." 
 
 " My hounds (says Theseus) are bred out of the Spartan 
 kind; 
 So flew'd, so sanded, and their heads are hung 
 With ears that sweep away the morning dew ; 
 Crook-knee' d, and dew-lapp'd like Thessalian bulls ; 
 Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells. 
 Each under each. A cry more tuneable 
 Was never hoUa'd to nor cheer'd with horn." 
 
 It was a happy thought of the poet, in introducing the 
 play within the play, got up by the " Athenian mechanicals," 
 in honour of Duke Theseus's marriage, to make a travesty of 
 the old tragic legend of " Pyramus and Thisbe," and thereby 
 turning it, as it were, into a farce upon the serious and 
 pathetic scenes that occur between the lovers in the piece — 
 Demetrius and Helena, and Lysander and Herraia. 
 
 But what a rich set of fellows those " mechanicals " are ! 
 and how individual are their several characteristics ! Bully 
 Bottom, the epitome of all the conceited donkeys that ever 
 strutted and straddled on this stage of the world. In his 
 own imagination equal to the performance of anything 
 separately, and of all things collectively ; the meddler, the 
 director, the dictator. He is for dictating every movement, 
 and directing everybody — when he is not helping himself. 
 He is a choice arabesque impersonation of that colouring of 
 conceit which, by the half-malice of the world, has been said 
 to tinge the disposition of actors, as invariably as the rouge 
 does their cheeks. Peter Quince, although the delegated 
 manager of the company, fades into a shadow, a cipher, a 
 nonentity before him ; for the moment Peter announces the 
 commencement of proceedings with, "Is all our company 
 
98 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 here ? " — in darts first tragedian, Bottom, " You were best to 
 call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip." 
 And when Quince does produce the scroll, the other instantly 
 proposes something else. It is interesting to follow out this 
 feature in Bottom's character — a perfect variety in the " class" 
 " bumptiousness," ranging under the general " order " " con- 
 ceit." Our "first tragedian" then interrupts the manager 
 with : " First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats 
 on ; then read the names of the actors ; and so, grow to a 
 point." And no sooner, again, does Quince proceed to read 
 the title of the play, than Bottom bursts in with his comment : 
 " A very good piece of work, I assure you, and 2l' merry" — 
 merry ! — it was high tragic in their estimation. And then he 
 instantly resumes his dictation : " Now, good Peter Quince, 
 call forth your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread your- 
 selves." His own name coming first, he promptly replies : 
 "Ready. Name what part / am for, and proceed." His 
 part is the chief point. And when the part of Pyramus, the 
 lover's part, is assigned to him, he announces that the 
 audience " must look to their eyes ; for that he will move 
 storms " — " he will condole in some measure." Great, how- 
 ever, as Mr Bottom professes to be in the lover's vein, his 
 " chief humour (he declares) is for a tyrant. I could play 
 Ercles rarely ; or a part to tear a cat in ; to make all split." 
 Then he will play Thisbe — the heroine — if he may hide his 
 face ; and he will " speak in a monstrous little voice." Then 
 he will play the lion : " Let me play the lion, too. I will 
 roar, that it will do any man's heart good to hear me. I '11 
 roar, that I '11 make the Duke say, ' Let him roar again ! kt 
 him roar again!'" What an amusing caricature of self- 
 esteem ! The idea of a man pluming himself on the possi- 
 bility of being encored in a roar. But the roaring is objected 
 to, for that it would frighten the ladies ; and that were 
 enough to hang every mother's son of them. But when is 
 
Midsummer Nighfs Dream. 99 
 
 true conceit ever put to a nonplus ? — and so with our friend 
 Bottom. Like a Chinese tumbler, however you may thrust 
 him from his centre, he instantly regains his position ; he is 
 equal to all contingencies, and, therefore, he answers the 
 objection to the roaring by the amendment, that he will so 
 " aggravate his voice, that he will roar you as gently as any 
 sucking-dove ; " he will " roar you an 'twere any nightingale." 
 Nothing is proposed, but an amendment comes from Pro- 
 fessor Bottom. Quince says : " We will have a prologue ; 
 and it shall be written in eight and six : " that is, in alternate 
 lines of eight and six feet. "No, make it two more, (rejoins 
 the dictator) ; let it be written in eight and eight." What a 
 happy example of opposition for opposition's sake ; for 
 Quince's was the better plan. 
 
 Peter Quince, by the way, displays the part of an ex- 
 perienced manager, in tickling the conceit of his first trout- 
 tragedian, and moulding it to his purpose when he declares, 
 " You can play no part but Pyramus : for Pyramus is a sweet- 
 faced man : a proper man, as we shall see in a summer's 
 day ; a most lovely, gentleman-like man : therefore you must 
 needs play Pyramus." 
 
 Roscius Bottom becomes suddenly mollified by this testi- 
 mony, and he acquiesces : " Well, I will undertake it." And 
 then he falls to discussing the all-important point — his cos- 
 tume. 
 
 " What beard were I best to play it in .' " 
 
 " Quin. Why, what you will. 
 
 " Bot. I will discharge it in either your straw-coloured 
 beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, 
 or your French-crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow." 
 
 I knew of an actor who summoned the whole green-room 
 at a morning rehearsal to see his new dress for the part of 
 Romeo. The glory of that sartorial -achievement obliterated 
 all consideration of the embodying the character of the prince 
 
loo Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 of lovers. The part, nothing,-^the satin, everything. So 
 with our immortal Bottom : the professional complacency, 
 and gravity of consideration with which his costume is de- 
 bated, is accurately in character with a personage who feels 
 confidently that the whole burthen of the piece is on his 
 shoulders, — that upon him wholly rests its success, — that he 
 is the mainspring and Atlantean support of the entire struc- 
 ture. Theatrical conceit was never better impersonated than 
 by the great representer of Pyramus. Roscius Bottom is a 
 type of that class of gentry who are illustrated in an admir- 
 able caricature-sketch which once appeared in Punch, where 
 a certain Mr Walter Belville is represented looking up at the 
 bust of Shakespeare in Stratford-on-Avon Church, and in- 
 dignantly ejaculating in soliloquy : " Immortal bard, indeed ! 
 I should just like to know, my buck, where you 'd have been 
 if it hadn't been for — well — no matter." 
 
 / The character of Bottom is well worthy of a close analysis, 
 I to notice in how extraordinary a manner Shakespeare has 
 carried out all the concurring qualities to compound a 
 thoroughly conceited man. Conceited people, moreover, 
 being upon such amiable terms with themselves, they are 
 ordinarily good-natured, if not good-tempered. And so with 
 Bottom ; whether he carry an amendment, or not, with his 
 companions he is always placable ; and if foiled, away he 
 starts for some other point — nothing disturbs his equanimity. 
 When Puck has transformed him into the ass, and his com- 
 panions all scour away from him, exclaiming, "Bless thee, 
 Bottom! thou art translated!" Snout comes in, and, in 
 amazement, exclaims : — 
 
 " Oh, Bottom, thou art changed ! What do I see on thee .' 
 " Bot. What do you see 1 You see an ass's head of your 
 own, do you } " 
 
 J His temper and self-possession never desert him : " I see 
 
Midsummer NigMs Dream. loi 
 
 their knavery. This is to make an ass of me, and fright me 
 if they could : but I will not stir from this place, do what 
 they can. I will walk up and down here, and I will sing, 
 that they shall hear I am not afraid." 
 
 Combined with his amusing and harmless quality of con- 
 ceit, the worthy Bottom displays no inconsiderable store of 
 imagination in liis intercourse with the little people of the 
 fairy world. How pleasantly he falls in with their several 
 natures and qualities ; dismissing them one by one with a 
 gracious speech, like a prince at his levee : " I shall desire of 
 you more acquaintance, good master Cobweb. If I cut my 
 finger I shall make bold with you. Your name, honest 
 gentleman .' " " Peas-blossom." " I pray you commend me 
 to Mrs Squash, your mother, and to master Peas-cod, your 
 father. Good master Peas-blossom, I shall desire of you 
 more acquaintance too. Your name, I beseech you, sir.'" 
 " Mustard-seed." " Good master Mustard-seed, I know your 
 patience well ; that same cowardly giant-like ox-beef hath 
 devoured many a gentleman of your house. I promise you 
 your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire of 
 you more acquaintance, good master Mustard-seed." 
 
 And how daintily epicurean the fellow shows when he is 
 installed in the court of Queen Titania : — " Monsieur Cob- 
 web : good monsieur, get your weapons in your hand, and 
 kill me a red-hipped humble-bee on the top of a thistle. 
 And, good monsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret 
 yourself too much in the action, monsieur ; and, good mon- 
 sieur, have a care the honey-bag break not. I would be 
 loath to have you overflown with the honey-bag, signior." 
 
 Also, under his transformation to the ass, his epicurean 
 tendency runs into the brute nature : so, he becomes dainty 
 in oats, and manifests a fastidious tooth for peas and beans. 
 Titania says to him — 
 
I o 2 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 " Say, sweet love, what thou desirest to eat. 
 
 " Bot. Truly, a peck of provender : I could munch your 
 good dry oats. Methinks I have a great desire for a bottle of 
 hay : good hay, sweet hay hath no fellow. 
 
 " Tit. I have a venturous fairy, that shall seek the squirrel's 
 hoard, and fetch thee new nuts. 
 
 " Bot. I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas." 
 
 We never lose the cock-a-whoop vein in Bottom's char- 
 acter. He patronises his brother-mechanics ; he patronises 
 the fairies : he even patronises himself : " If I had wit enough 
 to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own 
 turn." 
 
 Then, there is Snug, the joiner, who can board and lodge 
 only one idea at a time, and that tardily. He begs to have 
 "the lion's part written out, because he is slow of study;" 
 and is amazingly comforted by the intelligence, that he " may 
 do it extempore ; for it is nothing but roaring." 
 
 To him succeeds Starveling, the tailor, a melancholy man, 
 and who questions the feasibility and the propriety of every- 
 thing proposed. Being timid, he thinks the lion's part had 
 better be omitted altogether : " Will not the ladies be afeard 
 of the lion .'' / fear it, I promise you." 
 
 If, as some writers have asserted, Shakespeare was a pro- 
 found practical metaphysician, it is scarcely too much to con- 
 clude that all this dove-tailing of contingencies, requisite to 
 perfectionate these several characters, was all foreseen and 
 provided in his mind, and not the result of mere accident. 
 By an intuitive power, that always confounds us when we 
 examine its effects, I believe that whenever Shakespeare 
 adopted any distinctive class of character, his " mind's eye " 
 took in at a glance all the concomitant minutiae of features 
 requisite to complete its characteristic identity. " As from a 
 watch-tower," he comprehended the whole course of human 
 action, — its springs, its motives, its consequences ; and he has 
 
Midsummer Night's Dream. X03 
 
 laid down for us a trigonometrical chart of It. I believe that 
 he did nothing without anxious premeditation ; and that they 
 who really study — not .simply read him, must come to the 
 same conclusion. Not only was he not satisfied with pre- 
 serving the integrity of his characters while they were in 
 speech and action before the audience ; but we constantly 
 find them carrying on their peculiarities — out of the scene — 
 by hints of action, and casual remarks from others. Was 
 there no design in all this .' no contrivance .' no foregone 
 conclusion 1 — nay, does it not manifest consummate intellec- 
 tual power, with a sleepless assiduity .' 
 
 And now, what can we say, worthy to be said, of those tiny 
 beings of the elements — those substantial shadows of poetical 
 fancy — ^those transparent and aether-like forms, that glanced 
 hither and thither, as moonlight on the water's ripple .-' — now 
 in the upper regions, bathing their wings in rainbow dews ; or 
 listlessly floating with the gossamer upon the summer air ; or 
 rousing the mole-cricket with their midnight roundels upon 
 the pearly grass. What can we say of those lovely denizens 
 of the fairy mythology .■• What of the feminine waywardness 
 and sweet humanity of the little queen, Titania, with that 
 pretty story of the Indian mother and her babe } And what 
 of Oberon, with his ape-like mimicry of mortal royalty, grudg- 
 ing and restless, till he had beguiled her of her infant page .■■ 
 What of their sportive gambols on the ocean-marge, " chasing 
 the ebbing Neptune ;" or of their merry assiduity and swift 
 obedience, glancing hither and thither on their errands, like 
 the summer-fly } 
 
 " Over hill, over dale. 
 Thorough bush, thorough briar, 
 Over park, over pale, 
 Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
 I do wander everywhere, 
 Swifter than the moon's sphere : 
 
I04 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 And I serve the fairy queen, 
 To dew her orbs upon the green ; 
 The cowslips tall her pensioners be ; 
 In their gold coats spots you see. 
 Those be rubies, fairy favours, 
 In those freckles live their savours : 
 I must go seek some dew-drops here. 
 And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear." 
 
 And oh ! more than all, what of that madcap, will-o'-the- 
 wisp — that spiritualisation of fun, frolic, and mischief — im- 
 mortal Puck } 
 
 As Ariel was the etherealised impersonation of swift obe- 
 dience, with an attachment perfectly feminine in its character 
 — Puck, Robin Goodfellow, is an abstraction of all the " quips, 
 and cranks, and wanton wiles," of all the tricks and practical 
 jokes in vogue among the "human mortals." Puck is the 
 patron saint of "skylarking." How prompt his spirit for 
 carrying out a plot ! " I '11 put a girdle round the earth in 
 forty minutes." He is the poet's anticipated personification 
 of the electric telegraph : — ■ 
 
 " I go, I go ; — look how I go ; 
 Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow." 
 
 And when his victims are well limed and caught, what 
 infection in the outbreak of his mirth ! We can fancy him 
 scouring through the forest glades ; outvieing the clatter of the 
 woodpecker; scaring the hermit squirrel at his hoard; and 
 perplexing the solemnity of the monastic owl : — 
 
 " I am that merry wanderer of the night. 
 I jest to Oberon, and make him smile. 
 When I a bean-fed horse beguile, 
 Neighing in likeness of a filly foal : 
 And sometimes lurk I in a gossip's bowl. 
 In very likeness of a roasted crab : 
 And when she drinks, against her lips I bob. 
 
Midsummer Night's Dream. 105 
 
 And on her wither'd dew-lap pour the ale. 
 The wisest aunt, telling her saddest tale, 
 Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me ; 
 Then slip I from her bum, down topples she, 
 And ' Tailor ' cries, and falls into a cough ; 
 And the whole quire hold their hips, and laugh. 
 And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear 
 A merrier hour was never wasted there." 
 
 But, like a true minion of waggery and mischief, while he 
 assumed the office of Grand Inquisitor, and corrector general 
 of slatternly menials and other household delinquents ; while 
 he pinched the lazy kitchen-wench black and blue; and 
 beguiled the loitering hind into the mud-pool, and then 
 would " whirr away laughing his ho, ho, ho ! " yet was merry 
 Robin also the coadjutor and hearty assistant of all indus- 
 trious housewives and honest labourers ; the former finding 
 their " cream-bowls duly set " for them ; and for the latter, 
 " ere glimpse of morn, his shadowy flail would thresh their 
 corn." He was the good genius of honest thrift ; the house- 
 hold deity of order and cleanliness, as well as prologue and 
 superintendent of the graver passages in the career of mor- 
 tality :— 
 
 " Now the hungry lion roars, 
 And the wolf behowls the moon ; 
 Whilst the heavy plowman snores, 
 All with weary task foredone. 
 Now the wasted brands do glow. 
 Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud. 
 Puts the wretch that lies in woe 
 In remembrance of a shroud. 
 Now it is the time of night. 
 That the graves, all gaping wide, 
 Ev'ry one lets forth his sprite. 
 In the church-way paths to glide : 
 And we fairies that do run 
 By the triple Hecate's team, „ 
 
1 06 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 From the presence of the sun, 
 Following darkness like a dream, 
 Now we frolic. — Not a mouse 
 Shall disturb this hallow'd house : 
 I am sent with broom before. 
 To sweep the dust behind the door." 
 
 This is the sedate and propitious feature in his attributes : 
 but, as in the old Greek mythology, their gods were supposed 
 to preside over the most contrarious qualities and passions ; 
 so with this fantastic offshoot of Celtic demonology, the 
 character by which he is most familiarly recognised is that 
 of a boisterous mischief-maker. 
 
 The echo of his laugh has reverberated from age to age, 
 striking the promontories and headlands of eternal poetry : 
 and to those whose spirits are finely touched, it is still heard 
 through the mist of temporal cares and toils — dimly heard, 
 and at fitful intervals ; for the old faith in that fairy presence 
 has ceased for ever, and exists only in the record of those 
 other elegant fancies that were the offspring of the young 
 world of imagination. We have passed into an age of prac- 
 ticality and demonstrative knowledge — great, and even won- 
 derful in its results ; but perhaps somewhat too exclusive in 
 its occupation of the human faculties. We lack the Holy-day 
 — the Sabbath of the Fancy. We have been divinely told 
 that " man cannot live by bread alone ; " the mind of man 
 cannot go straining on from utility to utility, from practicality 
 to practicality ; nevertheless, as Keats says, " The poetry of 
 earth is never dead : " poetry, like the fiery element, exists 
 through all created Nature, animate and inanimate, waiting 
 only for the Promethean touch of the magician's wand to give 
 it form and action. 
 
 The Fairies are gone : — Oberon and Titania, with all their 
 train, lie embalmed in the winding-sheet of the poet's fancy : 
 — but he who contemplates his fellow-beings with the eye of 
 
Midsummer Nighfs Dream. 107 
 
 imagination, will raise up to himself a vision of beauty and 
 heart-stirring truth that will compensate him for all the tur- 
 moils of world-cares and anxieties. Look at those fairy 
 beings of the material world — those tender buds of humanity 
 — the little children around us. What creation of the poet's 
 brain can compare with those lovely little creatures for tricksy 
 waywardness and pretty caprices .' Talk of Robin Good- 
 fellow's laugh ! what a genuine thing is the laugh of a child ! 
 it is as if sorrow never had been, and never could be, the 
 companion of that soul. There we have the spirit of Puck 
 in our homes and in our streets — the spirit of irrepressible 
 and unaffected merriment. 
 
 The creative power of the fancy is a blessed gift in itself ; 
 but he substantiates that gift who converts it into the ordinary 
 occurrences of daily life, drawing from them the honey-bag 
 of sweet and joyous thought ; and I am one who, having had 
 my sorrows, can still believe that there is a sunny side 
 to almost all the events of our life, if we will but turn to it 
 with a sincere and trusting heart. 
 
 No fairy mirth ever surpassed the mirth of happy children. 
 Only observe a bevy of them seated on a door-step, joining 
 in tiny chorus to the directing melody of an elder precentor. 
 The soul of music is there, for it is the music of the heart. 
 The dance of fairies round a mole-hill of wild-thyme, footing 
 it to the cricket's song, is a lovely object of the fancy ; but 
 look at a knot of infants, hand-in-hand, holding each other's 
 frocks, dancing to a street organ. How absorbed are they in 
 their pastime ! how zealously they perform their little rites, 
 totally unconcerned, and unconscious of observing eyes. Will 
 any after occupation in life be more seriously entered upon 
 by them, or more conscientiously fulfilled >. 
 
 Then, for the gravity of children : how profound it is ! I 
 know of nothing more intense than the seriously inquiring 
 face of an infant — the face of Newton, on the threshold of a 
 
io8 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 discovery, not more eloquent. One might fancy it capable 
 of solving the great mystery of life and death. Again ; — 
 observe two or three of those little creatures seated knee to 
 knee, and one of them imparting to the assembly some recent 
 event that has transpired in their neighbourhood ; or are 
 debating the propriety of electing a fourth to partake in their 
 solemnities : no grave council of state can be more earnest, 
 more occupied. 
 
 Yet again, if we are amused with the human jealousies 
 and sparrings of the fairy Oberon and Titania, when each, 
 to obtain possession of the little page, left in her care by the 
 Indian woman — his tiny majesty commits himself by royal 
 poutings, and upbraidings, and plots, and crooked chicaneries ; 
 while his consort asserts her prerogative by a consistent ob- 
 stinacy of purpose to retain the boy ; so that, as Puck says, 
 
 " Now they never meet in grove or green, 
 By fountain clear, or spangled star-light sheen, 
 But they do square ; — that all their elves, for fear, 
 Creep into acorn-cups, and hide them there : " 
 
 have we no counterpart in the manceuvrings, and plots, 
 and counter-plots, bickerings, and angers of our little human 
 fairies — their casus belli turning, perchance, upon the posses- 
 sion of a doll, or the fee-simple of a doll's house .' 
 
 Truly may it be said, " The poetry of earth is ceasing 
 never ;" for there is poetry, or the power of creative intellec- 
 tual embellishment, to every action and substance throughout 
 all nature ; and we do not neutralise or destroy the action or 
 substance by such process of the fancy — we sublimate, and 
 present it in the most agreeable form to the senses. Poetry 
 is the electricity of the intellectual world. It is the principle 
 of life and movement, stirring the inert masses of mind-matter. 
 " Poetry," says Hazlitt, "is the universal language which the 
 heart holds with nature and itself In all human beings the 
 
Midsummer Night' s Dream. 109 
 
 poetical faculty (or an apprehensiveness of the beautiful in 
 Nature) exists in various degrees of intensity; but it still 
 exists. The consummation of the faculty lies in producing 
 those feelings in the form of winged words." 
 
 I repeat, therefore, that we have our little fairies of the 
 material world — our graceful and lovely children ; and he 
 who contemplates them and their miniature ways with an 
 eye of fancy will multiply his sources of pleasure, and, at the 
 same time, amplify his own heart's benevolence. 
 
 In one sense the child may, indeed, be said to be the 
 "father to the man;" for they read us many a wholesome 
 lesson in sincerity and social wisdom. Little children are 
 the bright emanations of omnipresent loving-kindness ; they 
 are the virgin snow, shed in the dawn, before the smoky 
 atmosphere of day has tarnished its splendour. 
 
 When that miserable wretch, Corder, was hanged for the 
 murder of a girl, I remember being deeply touched with one 
 circumstance that transpired after his death. It was that of 
 his having been noticed by his neighbours to be very kind 
 and gentle towards the little children in the streets, usually 
 having some dainty in his pocket to give them. Now, was 
 this a movement of instinct in him, — that the aroma of in- 
 nocence — the loveliness, the divine, beauty of innocence would 
 assuage in his heart the torment of the fire of bloodguiltiness .' 
 We cannot know what passed in that wretched man's mind 
 after he had committed the murder — after he had killed the 
 being who had given him her whole truth and self; — what 
 throes ! what spasms ! what collapsings of the heart ! what 
 pangs of remorse! He used to stalk about his bed-room 
 through the night-watches and the darkness, to the per- 
 plexity and dismay of his wife; for then the worm was 
 gnawing his heart : and on the morrow he went among the 
 children, and made himself meek and kind, hoping to wipe 
 out the blood-spot by mingling with their white souls. And 
 
no Shakespeare-Characters, 
 
 God was merciful to that " cruel man of clay," who had him- 
 self " cut mercy with a sharp knife to the bone." 
 
 Experience has told us that our term of years is extended 
 by a consociation with children ; and I am sure that, next to a 
 conscience void of offence, nothing more tends to keep the 
 heart young, and fresh, and green, amid the winter-snows of 
 age, than the habit of accustoming oneself to sympathise 
 with and take delight in the actions of this fairy race of our 
 own species. The habit itself keeps the mind young ; and 
 the mind imperceptibly acts upon the body. This, upon a 
 very essential point, may be denominated "poetical utili- 
 tarianism." 
 
 Let me not be thought indiscreet, still less irreverend, 
 when I say — for I do say it in the implicit adoration of the 
 unbounded love that dwelt in the Divine Speaker — " Suffer 
 little children to come unto me ; for of such is the kingdom 
 of heaven." 
 
V. 
 
V. 
 OTHELLO. 
 
 Upon feading again this tragedy of Othello for tny present 
 purpose, two or three presumed discrepancies in the conduct 
 of the principal character recur to me, which I will state as 
 succinctly as possible, and then proceed to the main object of 
 my Essay. 
 
 In the first place, then, we niay state, without feaf of con- 
 tradiction, that thea iuling- moral principle in the character of 
 Q thello is an artgi-rir.r::^fir. pride, and a quick sense Of honour . 
 
 ^'^g'TS'"'"g, "^""^ "^11 but cwfijlnwi'ng' up p-^re-ry ntli pj^^ emotJ On 
 
 ^r passion of his jye.art,^ Every sentiment, every movement 
 in his career, convinces us that, in his ordinary conduct, he 
 would as soon turn his baCk in the day of battle as commit 
 a single act of duplicity in the social transactions of life. 
 That he is imbued with the true aristocratic feeling, is mani- 
 fest in the first scene of the play, where, in conversation with 
 lago, he at once justifies his prerogative to claim alliance 
 with the haughty nobles of Venice. He says : — 
 
 " 'Tis yet to know, — 
 Which, when I know that boasting is an honour, • 
 I shall promulgate, — I fetch my life and being 
 From men of royal siege ; and my demerits 
 H 
 
1 1 4 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 May speak, unbonneted, to as proud a fortune 
 As this that I have reach'd." 
 
 That is, in modern parlance, " the bonnet being a badge 
 of dignity in Venice, my merits of fortune (?^«-bonneted) are 
 as high as those with which I have gained alliance." " De- 
 merit" and "merit" had the same signification in Shake- 
 speare — " mereo " and " demereo " having the same meaning 
 in Latin. 
 
 By birth, then, to say nothing of his individual accomplish- 
 ments, he places himself in a superior grade to the lineage of 
 his father-in-law, Brabantio. But why does the Venetian 
 lord and senator speak of him with aristocratic loathing — 
 the man who is generalissimo of the armies of the state, and 
 who is looked to with anxiety in every military emergency .' 
 Because h e is a foreigne r, (a noted ground of objection^ the 
 Italians,l_ a,_ man of another clim epand mo7e, of ano tliei^ 
 colour ; and, above all, of another faith. ni-hpl1r> bf^j t^g- a 
 Moor, wai~c ^s5t|uejj|Jjr a TVr^^JlOffletan — a religion hate fal 
 ^''3LQnB"^IIi2l^^1"'' ^" ^^'' ^'' go^''''^ among Catholics.,. Brabantio, 
 speaking of the stolen alliance with his family, says : — 
 
 " If such actions may have passage free. 
 Bond-slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be." 
 
 He is strictly designated as a Moor, not a negro ; Shake- 
 speare never would have confounded the two classes, knowing 
 what that extraordinary race of men had achieved in Spain. 
 The Venetians knew little if anything of negroes ; but they 
 had frequent intercourse with the Moors. Shakespeare, too, 
 who could have had no other association with the negro than 
 as a slave, never would have made a negro talk of his " royal" 
 birth. Besides, in the second scene of the fourth Act, Mauri- 
 tania is spoken of as the home of Othello. 
 
 Our poet, then, as it appears to me, has placed himself in 
 
Othello. 1 1 5 
 
 this dilemma with regard to consistency in his principal 
 character: h£jiaa_£ither turned him f'-pni^^- %'tll :±±1: 
 forefathers, or he h.- ^f; ^nrgntt^n thm-irnim-f-nnrr of hi-, lirmj^r 
 a.Mahnmefrin .;.4or Jt will b& jsc »Il € atcd, il ^-fes--last-■aa£ech. 
 Jie_says : — 
 
 ' When a malignant and a turban'd Tud! 
 Beat a Venetian, and traduced the state 
 I took by the throat the circumcised doe, 
 ind s mote him thus." 
 
 As a Mahometan, Othello could not have used such a 
 term ; and, to preserve the high sense of honour, and noble 
 generosity in his nature, he would not have done so ; for it 
 is the distinguishing characteristic of magnanimity to be for- 
 bearing towards an opinion or creed that we have abjured. 
 But we may be sure that Othello was a Mahometan, or 
 whence the consistency and propriety of his father-in-law's 
 (Brabantio's) protest, just quoted. 
 
 The next objection I have to hint, and which, I confess, 
 lowers the proud and great-minded Othello in my estimation, 
 is, when he consents to conceal himself, and become the spy 
 upon the words and actions of Cassio. It would be difficult 
 to reconcile such ■ a proceeding with a nature like hiSj unless 
 we admit the desire of confirming the guilt or innocence oi" 
 Desdemona ; or (which is the most probable) that the poet 
 intended to show the towering intellect of lago, in the pas- 
 siveness of Othello to an act repugnant to his own open and 
 direct character ; for it is lago who induces him to play the 
 eavesdropper — a most subtle course of cdnduct. The scene, 
 however, is judiciously omitted in the representation, for it 
 certainly is not dramatic. 
 
 My last and heaviest count of inconsistency in the noble 
 Moor's conduct is connected with the fatal handkerchief 
 The charge brought against him before the Senate by his 
 
J 1 6 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 father-in-law is, not only that he had seduced the affections 
 of his daughter, but that he had violated a law of the State, 
 in using the " arts inhibited " of sorcery and witchcraft 
 to effect his purpose. We all remember that Othello con- 
 cludes his defence with the simple statement, that it was 
 the story of .his life which had wooed and won the gentle 
 Desdemona : — 
 
 " She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd. 
 And I lov'd her that she did pity them. 
 This only is the ' witchcraft ' I have us'd." 
 
 Subsequently, however, when the handkerchief is missing, 
 we find that a vital importance attaches to the possession of 
 it : — it was a " charmed napkin," wrought by a Sibyl :— that 
 with it the wearer would " entirely subdue the affections of 
 her husband." And he afterwards repeats : — 
 
 " There 's magic in the web of it : 
 
 The worms were hallow'd that did breed the silk ; 
 And it was dy'd in mummy, which the skilful 
 Conserv'd of maidens' hearts." 
 
 Now, from this discrepancy we must come to one of the 
 following conclusions — either that the " noble Moor '' told a 
 deliberaite lie, or that the potent love-charm was a present 
 made subsequently to his marriage. Yet, when Emilia steals 
 it, she says, " It was her first remembrance from the Moor," 
 and that "heconjur'd her she should ever keep it." The 
 latter benefit, however, that it was a gift made after marriage, 
 I willingly extend to the poet ; whose fame, after all, is only 
 aggrandised by these puny exceptions — a fame which the 
 acutest of critical intellects combined, for more than two 
 hundred years, have not been able to reduce even to the 
 standard of acknowledged ordinary supremacy. The fact is. 
 
Othello. 1 1 7 
 
 whenever I am startled by some apparent oversight or dis- 
 crepancy in Shakespeare, I have learned to pause, and always 
 to suspect my own insufficient examination of all the possible 
 intentions the poet may have had in any seeming error, rather 
 than believe he has committed an actual one. In the present 
 instance, for example, the dramatist probably intended to 
 indicate, by these imperfections in the " noble Moor's " con- 
 duct that have been cited, how even the most high-minded' 
 nature may become warped into indirectness by the torturing 
 passion of jealousy. 
 
 In turning to my task of noticing the inferior points and 
 agents in the play, I would first glance at the naturalness, 
 the ease, and propriety with which the conversation among 
 the senators is carried on, relating to the Turkish fleet making 
 for Cyprus. The Duke opens the discussion by doubting^ the 
 authenticity of the news. " There is no composition in them," 
 he says, " that gives them credit." The reports vary as to the 
 number of the galleys. The Duke's letters say a hundred 
 and forty ; the ist Senator's, a hundred and seven ; and the 
 2d Senator's, two hundred. But he adds — 
 
 " Though they jump not on a just account, 
 (As in these cases when the aim' reports, 
 'Tis oft with difference,) yet do they all confirm 
 A Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus."- 
 
 Upon this ensues a most natural discussion why the expe- 
 dition should be intended for Cyprus rather than Rhodes. 
 Had Shakespeare been bred a secretary for foreign aifairs, 
 he could not have treated the question with graver techni- 
 cality. Then a messenger enters, confirming the news that 
 the fleet was seen steering for Rhodes, for the purpose of 
 joining an after-fleet intended to bear upon Cyprus. All 
 this is no more than a note of preparation to introduce 
 Othello, and, impart a dignity to his character by his being 
 
ii8 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 selected, in the State's emergency, to supersede the " trusty 
 and most valiant Montano." 
 
 Another circumstance of inferior action in this drama wor- 
 thy of notice, is the scene that occurs in Cyprus upon the 
 arrival of Othello and his suite, in different vessels, with the 
 bustle, the description of the storm, and the uncertainty of 
 the inhabitants whether it be the envoy of the republic, or 
 the Turks. One of the gentlemen remarks : — 
 
 " The town is empty ; on the brow o' the sea 
 Stand ranks of people, and they cry, ' A sail !' " 
 
 Who has not observed this, even upon ordinary occa- 
 sions, in a sea-port town ? — the inhabitants of which appear 
 to have more leisure for gape and gossip than any others. 
 The arrival of a strange vessel will bring them down to the 
 beach ; and there they stand patiently, as if they were Ota- 
 heitans, and Cook's ships had just cast anchor. No one being 
 at hand to give them certain news, the same gentleman de- 
 cides that the arrivals are " friends at least," for they " do 
 discharge their shot of courtesy." How easy and natural all 
 this! And what unity and consistency of thought in the 
 poet, who never for a moment appears to slumber at his 
 post, but constantly makes his action dove-tail with his cir- 
 cumstance and place. 
 
 Another minor point of attention to local knowledge and 
 propriety. In order to annoy Brabantio, Roderigo tells him 
 that Desdemona was " transported " from her home, 
 
 " with no worse nor better guard. 
 But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier." 
 
 Which is as if he had apprised a man like Lord Grey or the 
 Marquis of Westminster, that his daughter had gone off 
 under the protection of a cabman ; with the additional horror 
 conveyed to the mind of the senator : " The gondoliers of 
 
Othello. 119 
 
 Venice being the only conveyers of persons, and of a large 
 proportion of the property of the city, they are thus cog- 
 nisant of all intrigues, and the fittest agents in them ; and 
 are under perpetual and strong temptation to make profit of 
 the secrets of society." 
 
 Shakespeare is remarkable, also, for the oaths that he puts 
 into the mouths of his characters. They always suit both the 
 persons and their country. That they should be appropriate 
 in his English plays was to be expected from his familiarity 
 with our traditions and national chronicles ; for the oaths and 
 exclamations of many of our kings have come down to us. 
 Rufus used to swear by "the face of Luke!" Richard III., 
 by "Holy Paul!" Henry VIH. adjured the same patron 
 saint ; and even the " virgin queen " had her distinctive and 
 characteristic oath, and a tremendous one it was. In Venice, 
 Shakespeare has more than once made his characters swear 
 " by Janus ! " Now, it is familiar to every traveller, that even 
 in the present day the Italians retain their old Roman 
 mythological adjuration, "Per Bacco!" or "Corpo di Bacco!" 
 and which may be heard quite as often as our "by George !" 
 or any other the commonest exclamation. His friars exclaim, 
 " Jesu Maria ! " an expression perfectly appropriate to the 
 character, and never heard but in a purely Catholic country. 
 I make no apology for dwelling upon these minutiae of cir- 
 cumstance. The very sweepings of his genius are virgin 
 gold. 
 
 The character of Cassio is a remarkable specimen of variety 
 in the class of Shakespeare's military men. He displays the 
 same frank, unsuspicious, and generous nature, but without 
 their usual perception and appreciation of character. Cassio 
 is a sensualist, quickly excited by stimulants, arid, from their 
 combined effects, is infirm of purpose ; also, from geniality 
 of disposition, swayed against his better reason. The very 
 vices in Cassio's character would have made lago a better 
 
120 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 man, who envies him for his social nature as much as for 
 his having been advanced in rank above him. He says : 
 " Cassio hath a daily beauty in his life that doth make me 
 ugly." Nothing in the whole range of dramatic portraiture 
 can be finer than the delineation of these two men. Cassio, 
 from his excessive demonstrativeness — his sudden burst of 
 piety in his drunken fit ; and the bitterness of his self-re- 
 proach in his sobriety : — his utter prostration " upon the 
 knees of his heart " (as Essex would say) to his offended and 
 noble-minded friend and commander, are all the inevitable, 
 and therefore natural results of his open and generous nature. 
 But Cassio was the last man of the whole company who was 
 fitted to supersede Othello in the government of Cyprus. 
 His indiscriminate confidence was not the quality best adapted 
 to sway a garrison-town, and would surely be his "rock 
 a-head." No, no ! with his constitutional infirmities, poor 
 Cassio did not long succeed his general in the governorship ; 
 he was sure to commit some folly which would occasion his 
 being recalled to Venice. 
 
 Another. of the thousand instances which might be quoted 
 of Shakespeare's regard to consistency of conduct in his 
 delineations of character, occurs in the simple circumstance of 
 Othello's deportment towards Cassio. Through the first two 
 Acts, and before their estrangement, he uniformly calls him 
 by the familiar and brotherly name of "Michael;" after- 
 wards, when the poison of jealousy has entered his soul, he 
 speaks of him always as " Cassio." It may appear trivial to 
 notice these minutiae ; but in estimating character, " Trifles, 
 ■light as air, are confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ." 
 
 lago is the direct antipodes to Michael Cassio. lago may 
 be deemed the strongest of immoral philosophers — for he has 
 a philosophy : its code is, that " Evil" is " Power ;" that Good 
 is a nonentity — that Vice is an acquisition — and that Virtue 
 is a thing to be avoided, or to be taken advantage of, — in 
 
Othello. 1 2 1 
 
 either case a weakness. lago has no faith but in the intel- 
 lectual supremacy arising from Will. He has no faith in 
 mutual Love. Here is his confession : |' I have looked upon 
 the world for four times seven years ; ^nd since I could dis- 
 tinguish a benefit from an injury, I never found a man who 
 knew how to love himself"; No one among Shakespeare's 
 men of intellect utters stronger axioms of social and moral 
 philosophy than this remarkable character. The career which 
 he had chalked out for himself furnished him the motive for 
 this, and his mental power and energy were stimulants to his 
 motive. That lago's is a voluntary system — a deliberate 
 choice and pursuit of wickedness — his own words prove in 
 glaring and marvellous strength : — 
 
 "Virtue? — a fig! 'Tis in ourselves that we are thus or 
 thus. Our bodies are our gardens ; to the which our wills 
 are gardeners : so that, if we will plant nettles, or sow lettuce ; 
 set hyssop, and weed up thyme ; supply it with one gender 
 of herbs, or distract it with many ; either to have it sterile 
 with idleness, or manured with industry; why, the/oz«/^r and 
 corrigible authority of this lies in our wills'' 
 
 lago is essentially a self-lover — a self-worshipper. The 
 poor fool Roderigo has more belief in good than he. In 
 answer to lago's disgusting calumny against Desdemona, he 
 says : " I cannot believe that in her ; she is full of most blest 
 conditions." "Blest fig's-end!" is his reply. The loath- 
 some opinions he entertains of human nature, arising out of 
 his self-love and absorbing conceit in his own power, vent 
 themselves in language more gross than is to be met in any 
 character in all Shakespeare ; and how frequently do we find 
 this in our commerce with the world, that the self-lover and 
 self-worshipper are prone to gross implications by reason of 
 their utter obtuseness in perception of what is beautiful and 
 good and true out of their oAvn dark circle. I confess that I 
 
12 2 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 have rarely known a thoroughly selfish person who did not 
 betray a beastly opinion of his species. And lago's language 
 and allusions are not merely gross, they are hard, and un- 
 feelingly obscene. They do not even hint at a manifestation ; 
 they have not the redemption of self-enjoyment in their 
 utterance ; but are the vile fungus-growth of his malignant 
 misanthropy. They are the rampant off-shoots of his hatred, 
 lago's ambition partakes of his revengful nature. He 
 ministers to the gratification of his malignant and resentful 
 passions to the full as much as he does to the promptings of 
 his ambition in the steps he takes to bring about his pur- 
 poses:- His character is true to the baser and coarser part 
 of Italian nature — it is subtle and unforgiving ; but it is also 
 peculiarly his own individual character. It is based upon a 
 firm -conviction of his own intellectual superiority. That is 
 the only thing in which he has faith — his commanding geniusj 
 his mastery of mind. It is that he may obtain what he 
 conceives to be the due of that superiority, which makes him 
 ambitious. The object of his ambition is military promotion. 
 His ambition is that of his profession ; it is that ambition 
 which is almost a virtue — certainly the master-ingredient in 
 making a soldier. It is that quality which Lord Bacon de- 
 clares essential to the character, when he says, " To take a 
 soldier without ambition is to pull off his spurs." His first 
 speech of importance shows the quality of lago's ambition — 
 compounded of several ingredients. There is the conviction 
 of his own merit ; the hatred of Othello ; and the envy of 
 Cassio, while affecting to disparage him because of his having 
 been promoted to the post which he himself covets. Here is 
 a specimen of his paramount self-worship : — 
 
 " If I were the Moor, I would not be lago ; 
 In following him I follow but myself ; 
 Heaven is my judge, not I for love or duty, 
 But seeming so, for my peculiar end." 
 
Othello. 123 
 
 lago is essentially self-reliant. He has no accomplices ; 
 Roderigo is his mere puppet — his machine; his own brain 
 is his sole resource; he needs /no other; he feels that to 
 be all-adequate to the compassing of his ends. He has 
 thorough confidence in the force of Will, and in his own 
 powers to carry out the dictates of his Will. The merest 
 thread of circumstance will suffice to string his devices on. 
 He never doubts the capacity of his wit to disturb and' 
 destroy matters, however seeming smooth ; and to direct his 
 crooked ends, events however straightly progressing. While 
 watching the full content and the conjugal endearments of 
 Othello and Desdemona, when they meet at Cyprus, he 
 says, with the malignant confidence in future evil of the arch- 
 fiend himself, contemplating the joy of our first parents : — 
 
 " Oh, you are well tun'd now ! 
 But I '11 set down the pegs that make this music. 
 As honest as I am." 
 
 It is a substantive part of his craft to gain this reputation 
 for "honesty." It is strongly insisted on; and, as a soldier, 
 he cultivates bluntness, as harmonising best with his profes- 
 sional character ; and this character is asserted in his behalf 
 through the whole play. He is a magnificent illustration of 
 the superficial advantage that the man of intellect merely — 
 intellect without moral feeling, mind without soul — gains 
 over the man of noble nature. The unsuspecting, generous 
 Moor gives lago implicit credit for the qualities he lays claim 
 to. The man whose heart interferes nothing with the hard, 
 cold action of his intellectual faculties, sways at will the man 
 - of fervour and impulse : the man who has no faith in good- 
 ness — neither himself" inspired by goodness nor believing in 
 its existence in others — has yet the power to impress his 
 victim with the idea of his integrity of heart and clearness of 
 judgment. At times my brain has been in a whirl of wonder- 
 
124 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 merit as I have penetrated into the marrow of this extra- 
 ordinary character. Othello says of him : — 
 
 " This fellow 's of exceeding honesty ; 
 And knows all qualities with a learned spirit 
 Of human dealings." 
 
 This is accurately the facility of belief and trust which 
 unscrupulous knavery obtains from a guileless nature. It is 
 precisely the dupery we appreciate ; while we loathe and 
 condemn the depraved ingenuity that has $ucceeded in 
 triumphing over it. We estimate the deceiver, and despise 
 the deluder — all the more for his superior talent, perverted 
 to so vile a use. 
 
 In his conduct, too, and principle of action, how finely has 
 the poet discriminated the deportment of lago toward his 
 victims.. With Othello he is merely suggestive and deferen- 
 tial, and is satisfied with clinching the opinions and conclu- 
 sions drawn by his jealous-poisoned prey. 
 
 " Let me be thought too busy in my fears, 
 As worthy cause I have to fear I am." 
 
 Also, of the handkerchief, which he says he saw Cassio 
 " wipe his beard with," 
 
 " If it be that, [he concludes,] or any that was hers. 
 It speaks against her, with the other proofs." 
 
 With Cassio he is patronising, and liberal of his advice. 
 He knows the placability of his temper, and the demonstra- 
 tive gratitude of his heart for proffered benefits. 
 
 With Desdemona he is sympathising : — 
 
 " Can he be angry .? 
 Something of moment, then : I will go meet him : 
 There 's matter in 't, indeed, if he be angry." 
 
Othello. 125 
 
 Lastly, with Roderigo, he coolly sways the "snipe," (knd 
 what a happy term to give him !) as if he had ordained his 
 destiny. Roderigo he does not admit even to a parley, but 
 constantly enjoins him silence when he wants to talk him 
 into obedience. " Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be 
 instructed!' However superior he might feel to all the others, 
 and that feeling was paramount, he never would have ven- 
 tured upon that tone with any one of them. He even deems 
 it a due concession to the majesty of intellect to account for 
 his associating with such an imbecile as Roderigo : — 
 
 " For I mine own gain'd knowledge should profane. 
 If I would time expend with such a snipe, 
 But for my sport and profit." 
 
 Besides the perversion of his intellect to minister to his malice, 
 there is another odious feature in lago's conduct. His am- 
 bition partakes of avarice — an execrable form of passion. 
 He uses Roderigo as a means of obtaining money, as well as 
 revenge : " Thus do I ever make my fool my purse." He 
 cheats and robs the poor dotard of jewels, under pretence of 
 ^ifts to win Desdemona to his suit. In short, lago's ambition 
 is compounded of still viler passions than the desire to rise 
 unlawfully. It is made of hatred, malignity, revenge — nay, 
 it is even subordinate to them ; for we, perceive it only occa- 
 sionally lurking in the midst of them, as but one among the 
 incentives that actuate him. He takes a keen pleasure in the 
 pursuit of his villanies for their own sake, and for the sake 
 of the exercise they afford to his intellectual ability. The 
 recompence is but part of the sport, not its sole aim : — 
 
 " I '11 make the Moor 
 Thank me, love me, and reward me 
 For making him egregiously an ass, 
 And practising upon his peace and quiet 
 Even to madness." 
 
126 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 The most consummate instance of his skill in machination 
 appears, I think, in his recommending Cassio, after he has 
 been cashiered by Othello, to induce the gentle Desdemona 
 to intercede for him with her husband ; by which show of 
 interest and sympathy he hoodwinks all parties. He main- 
 tains his character for honesty ; and, at this one cast of his 
 net, encloses all his victims. This single move in the plot of 
 this astounding play is in, and of itself, a piece of perfect 
 mastery. Communing afterwards with himself, he says : — 
 
 " How am I, then, a villain. 
 To counsel Cassio to this parallel course, 
 Directly to his good .■' Divinity of hell ! 
 When devils will the blackest sins put on, 
 They do suggest at first with heavenly shows, 
 As I do now ; for while this honest fool 
 Plies Desdemona to repair his fortunes. 
 And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor, 
 I '11 pour this pestilence into his ear — 
 That she repeals him for her body's lust ; 
 And by how much she strives to do him good, 
 She shall undo her credit with the Moor ; 
 So will I turn her virtue into pitch ; 
 And out of her own goodness make the net 
 That shall enmesh them all." 
 
 And the most awful instance of his fiend-like nature, is 
 when he contemplates Othello, as he approaches, after he 
 has poisoned his mind against his ill-starred wife : — 
 
 " Look, where he comes ! 
 Not poppy, nor mandragora, 
 Nor all the drowsy syrops of the world. 
 Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep 
 Which thou owd'st yesterday." 
 
 The character of lago alone, in this tragedy, is a profound 
 subject for psychological study. M. Guizot, in his book 
 
Othello. 127 
 
 entitled " Shakespeare and his Times " — (a remarkable pro- 
 duction for a man who has passed the chief portion of his 
 life in political activity, and one which proves him to be not 
 only an elegant scholar, but one possessed of more candour, 
 deference, and discrimination than have frequently marked 
 the criticisms of his countrymen upon our poet) — M. Guizot 
 has a fine passage upon the character of lago, illustrative 
 of the subject before us. He says : — " lago is not merely 
 an irritated enemy, desirous of revenge, or an ordinary rascal, 
 anxious to destroy a happiness which he cannot contemplate 
 with satisfaction ; he is a cynical and reasoning wretch, who 
 has made for himself a philosophy of egoism, and a science 
 of crime ; who looks upon men merely as instruments or 
 obstacles to his personal interests ; who despises virtue as an 
 absurdity, and yet hates it as an injury ; who preserves entire 
 independence of thought while engaged in the most servile 
 conduct ; and who, at the very moment when his crimes are 
 about to cost him his life, still enjoys with ferocious pride 
 the evil which he had done, as if it were a proof of his supe- 
 riority." To return : lago is the wickedest man of intellect 
 upon record ; and, indeed, he would be an anomaly — a moral 
 monster, but for one circumstance ; which, although no ex- 
 tenuation in itself of such a career of enormity, would be 
 ample apology to a man of his gross perceptions and selfish 
 propensities. And here again we recognise Shakespeare's 
 insight into human nature. No intelligent being could enter 
 upon and sustain so systematic a career of diabolism, without 
 a niotive, although an insufficient one ; and that motive was 
 revenge, for the suspected injury he had received from both 
 Othello and Cassio, with reference to his wife Emilia ; but 
 the unjust conduct (as he terms it) of Othello, in promoting 
 Cassio over himself, perpetually rankles in his bosom, and is 
 the sole spring of his action. lago, then, is not an anomaly, 
 a nondescript, as some have pronounced the character ; but 
 
128- Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 it is one of more stupendous contrivance, intricacy, and 
 management, plausibility, rationality, and working up to a 
 climax, than is, perhaps, to be parallelled in the whole range 
 of the poet's dramatis personce. He is an incarnation of the 
 evil principle that threw a blight over the fairest flowers in 
 Paradise. 
 
 Roderigo is a florid specimen of one of Shakespeare's 
 simpleton lovers. He has placed his whole fortune at the 
 disposal of lago, to use for the purpose of winning favour for 
 him with Desdemona, not having the courage and ability to 
 woo for himself ; or rather, having an instinctive knowledge 
 of his own incompetence, with so profound and devout a 
 respect for the talent of his adviser, as to leave the whole 
 management of the diplomacy in his hands. Although 
 Roderigo is a compound of vacillation and weakness, even 
 to imbecility ; although he suddenly forms resolutions, and 
 as suddenly quenches them at the rallying contempt and 
 jeering of lago ; and even, although being entangled in the 
 wily villain's net, he is gradually led on to act unconsonantly 
 with his real nature; yet withal, Roderigo has so much of 
 redemption in him, that we commiserate his weakness, and 
 wish him a better fate ; for he is not wholly destitute of 
 natural kindness : he really is in love with Desdemona, and 
 was so before her marriage. lago has had his purse, " as 
 though the strings were his own," to woo her for him ; and 
 yet we find, with all Roderigo's subserviency to the superior 
 intellect, that the very first words of the play announce his 
 misgiving that his insidious friend has played him false, since 
 he knew of the projected elopement of Desdemona with 
 Othello, and did not apprise him of it. With this first false- 
 hood palpable to him, he again yields to the counsel of lago, 
 who schools him into patience with the promise that he shall 
 yet obtain his prize. 
 
 Next, after Othello's triumph with the Senate, and that he 
 
Othello. 129 
 
 has led off his bride, Roderigo, in blubbering despair, vows 
 he "will incontinently drown himself." To mark the sway 
 of intellect, we notice, that all through the play Roderigo has 
 constant misgivings of lago, and upon various occasions 
 even revolts against his arguments, yet through incontinence 
 and passiveness he uniformly yields to them. In this very 
 scene his professing " friend " out-jeers him from " drowning ;" 
 urges him to " put money in his purse ; " renews the promise 
 that he shall possess his prize ; and the scene ends consist- 
 ently with Roderigo's counter-resolution — " T'm changed. 
 I '11 sell all my land." 
 
 Again, shortly after, we find him betraying his misgiving of 
 his adviser. He says : — 
 
 " I follow here in the chase, not like a hound that hunts, 
 but one that fills up the cry. My money is almost spent ; 
 I have been to-night exceedingly well cudgelled, [his friend's 
 provision ;] and I think the issue will be, I shall have so 
 much experience for my pains ; and so, with no money at all, 
 and a little more wit, return to Venice." 
 
 The next scene presents the poor gull, in the full con- 
 viction that he has been thoroughly duped. He makes the 
 one sensible resolution of his life. He says : — 
 
 "The jewels you have had from me would half have cor- 
 rupted a votarist. You have told me she has received them, 
 and returned me expectations and comforts of sudden re- 
 spect and acquittance ; but I find none. ... I will make 
 myself known to Desdemona. If she will return me my 
 jewels, I will give over my suit, and repent my unlawful solici- 
 tation. If not, assure yourself / will seek satisfaction of you!' 
 
 lago now finds him serious. He therefore shifts his tact of 
 dictator, and praises his courage : — 
 
 " Why, now I see there 's mettle in thee ; and even from 
 this instant do build on thee a better opinion than ever be- 
 
 I 
 
130 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 fore. Give me thy hand, Roderigo. Thou hast taken against 
 me a most just exception ; but yet I protest I have dealt 
 most directly in thy affair." 
 
 The interview concludes with the renewed promise that he 
 shall still gain his Desdemona ; but to that end, and for their 
 mutual interest, that Cassio must be got rid of. lago wins 
 him over ; he joins in the plot, and he himself falls by the 
 hand of his tempter. A grand moral lesson to all who are 
 able to distinguish between right and wrong, and good and 
 evil, yet swerve to the evil path. 
 
 In the character of Montano we are presented with a 
 welcome specimen of an honest-hearted soldier, devoid of all 
 pettiness or jealousy. Montano, who is to be superseded by 
 Othello, pays him the highest compliment of any of the other 
 characters, and himself a still higher one in making the 
 welfare of his native country subservient to his own indi- 
 vidual interest. Alluding to the tempest in which Othello is 
 sailing for Cyprus, he says : — 
 
 " Pray Heaven he be safe ; 
 For I have serv'd him, and the man commands 
 Like a full soldier." 
 
 Then follows one of those charming pieces of scenic paint- 
 ing, that are as real in two or three words as the magic can- 
 vas of a Vandevelde or a Stanfield : — 
 
 " Let 's to the sea-side, ho ! 
 As well to see the vessel that 's come in. 
 As to throw out our eyes for brave Othello ; 
 Even till we make the main and the aerial blue, 
 An indistinct regard!' 
 
 Stevens, who, by the way, is not the most obtuse of the 
 commentators, has misrepresented the conduct of Montano 
 
 in the drinking-scene with Cassio and lago. He says: 
 
 " He is not very characteristically employed where he is, 
 
Othello. 1 3 1 
 
 tippling with people already flustered, and encouraging a 
 subaltern ofiicer, who commands a midnight guard, to drink to 
 excess." In the first place, it was natural that a free, open- 
 hearted soldier should welcome the arrival of his brother- 
 officers with a rouse. And in the next, they had some warrant 
 for a relaxation of discipline, seeing that the new governor, 
 Othello, had issued a proclamation that there should be " full 
 liberty'' for revels, sporting, and feasting. It is scarcely 
 worth while noticing such an objection, unless it be to show 
 how constantly Shakespeare releases himself from the pick- 
 thanking of his critics. But what a choice scene is that 
 drinking-bout ! The forced and artificial sociality of lago, 
 plying his victim with the liquor, feeding his vanity, and 
 avoiding even the chance of offending him by the slightest 
 contradiction, knowing his irascible nature. The piety of 
 Cassio in his cups, so constantly witnessed in persons of a 
 demonstrative tendency, and who are three-fourth roysterers, 
 and one-fourth what, by correct people, is denominated 
 " serious ;" that is, persons who have an inkling that a pro- 
 fession of "form " is the " correct thing," and, in itself, sub- 
 stantive. His quickness to check the remotest disrespect 
 towards himself. lago, the Ancient, may be saved ; but the 
 Ancient must not be saved before the Lieutenant, who is his 
 superior officer. The constant presence of his late promotion. 
 His sudden recollection that they are committing a breach of 
 discipline in this carouse : — 
 
 " Let us have no more of this : let 's to our affairs. I hold 
 him unworthy of his place who does these things. Forgive 
 us our sins ! Gentlemen, let 's look to our business. Do not 
 think, gentlemen, I am drunk : this is my Ancient ; this is 
 my right hand, and this is my left hand. I am not drunk 
 now : I can stand well enough, and speak well enough." 
 
 No scene is more dramatically or more accurately detailed. 
 Gratiano is one of the poet's " walking gentlemen " of the 
 
132 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 level standard. It is he who, as it were, represents the grief 
 of Desdemona's friends on account of the calamity that has 
 befallen her. Through him we hear of the death of her 
 father, in those tender words : — 
 
 " Poor Desdemona : I am glad thy father 's dead. 
 Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief 
 Shore his old thread in twain : did he live now 
 This sight would make him do a desperate turn ; 
 Yea, curse his better angel from his side, 
 And fall to reprobance." 
 
 The characteristics of Lodovico are calmness and caution. 
 For the first quality, turn to the opening scene of the fourth 
 Act, where he comes to summon Othello home to Venice. 
 All his questions and observations are put with the most 
 phlegmatic temper. Like a thorough-bred politician, he 
 " neither loves nor hates." He has a dry duty to perform, 
 and he executes it like a parliamentary report. Even when 
 the Moor strikes his wife in his presence, the only observation 
 he makes is, " This would not be believed in Venice." And, 
 for his caution, we note that when Cassio is calling for as- 
 sistance, after lago has wounded him at night in the street, 
 Lodovico says to Gratiano : — 
 
 " Two or three groan ! it is a heavy night, [that is, 
 dark night :] 
 These may be counterfeits ; let's think 't unsafe 
 To come in to the cry without more help!' 
 
 This is remarkable. And, again, in the last scene of the 
 play, when Othello, in his paroxysm at being made so de- 
 luded a victim, wounds lago, Lodovico tells some one "to 
 wrench his sword from him ; " he does not attempt to do it 
 himself. He is as collected and methodical as a surgeon at 
 an operation. 
 The clown in Othello (and, probably, few readers recollect 
 
Othello. 133 
 
 that a clown is introduced in that play) comes in but for a 
 minute or two; but he employs his time to advantage in 
 mystifying the musicians whom Cassio has engaged to 
 serenade the General : — 
 
 " Well, masters, here 's money for you ; and the General so 
 likes your music, that he desires you, of all loves, to make no 
 
 more noise with it If you have any music now that 
 
 may not be heard, to 't again ; but, as they say, to hear music 
 the General does not greatly care." 
 
 The character of Emilia has not, I think, hitherto been 
 properly understood by either commentators or performers : 
 the latter, among other misapprehensions of the poet's inten- 
 tion, always make her speak at her husband in the celebrated 
 scene where Othello traduces Desdemona. She says : — 
 
 " The Moor 's abus'd by some most villanous knave, 
 Some base, notorious knave, some scurvy fellow : 
 O Heaven, that such companions thou 'dst unfold. 
 And put in every honest hand a whip. 
 To lash the rascal naked through the world." 
 
 That she had no thought of including lago in that surmise 
 is evident from her immediately adding : — 
 
 " Some such squire he was 
 That turn'd your wit the seamy side without, 
 And made you to suspect me with the Moor." 
 
 But, indeed, Emilia, who had the best means of knowing the 
 character of lago, is the last to believe him dishonest. She 
 acknowledges him to be rough, blunt, and wayward ; but she, 
 with all the others, believes him to be a true friend. She 
 urges Desdemona to intercede in behalf of Cassio with 
 Othello : — " Good madam, do ; I know it grieves my husband 
 as if the case were his." She purloins the handkerchief solely 
 " to please his fantasy ; " the bare thought of his turnihg it 
 
1 3 4 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 to a dishonest purpose never enters her head. Moreover, in 
 every subsequent emergency, and in Desdemona's distress, 
 she constantly appeals to her husband ; and, up to the very 
 last scene, she bears him harmless of all suspicion. She 
 says : — _ 
 
 " Oh, are you come, lago .■' you have done well. 
 That men must lay their murders on your neck." 
 
 And, indeed, all through the same scene, she iterates in the 
 most natural tone of surprise to all the charges crowding in 
 against him, " My husband ! " as if she could not possibly 
 take it into her faculties that he was capable of a treachery. 
 She is uniformly submissive to him, till his own lips have 
 proclaimed his calumny of Desdemona's infidelity with 
 Cassio ; and only then is it that she throws off her allegiance 
 to him. 
 
 " Emil. Did you ever tell him she was false .' 
 
 " lago. I did. 
 
 " Emil. You told a lie ; an odious, damned lie ; 
 Upon my soul, a lie ; a wicked lie : — 
 She false with Cassio ! Did you say with Cassio ? 
 
 " lago. With Cassio, mistress. Go to, charm your tongue. 
 
 " Emil. I will not charm my tongue ; I 'm bound to speak : 
 My mistress here lies murder'd in her bed." 
 
 And in answer to his order that she " go home," she says : 
 
 " Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak ; 
 'Tis proper I obey him, but not now." 
 
 The only expression that can convey any previous suspicion 
 on her part of her husband is, when she exclaims, "Oh, 
 villany ! villany ! / thought so then;" but this merely implies 
 that she believed some treachery was on foot— by no means 
 that her husband was the traitor ; on the contrary, she is so 
 overwhelmed, upon the discovery of his guilt, that she even 
 
Othello. 135 
 
 says, " I '11 kill myself with grief." Every step in the plot, 
 up to the climax of his appropriating the handkerchief, goes 
 to prove Emilia's love for, and confidence in, her husband. 
 Even the very act of retaining it, and telling Desdemona the 
 deliberate lie, that she knew nothing of it, may be quoted as 
 a desire on her part to screen him ; but it is likewise a glow- 
 ing example not only of the mischief accruing from indirect 
 conduct, but of the extraordinary compromise that common- 
 minded people make with their sense of right and wrong. It 
 is trite enough to say, that there could have been no catas- 
 trophe, no calamity, had Emilia told the truth in the first 
 instance ; but what a lesson does the great master teach us, 
 in working out so disastrous a consequence from such an 
 origin ! — an apparently innocuous deception and falsehood on 
 the part of Emilia, in the first instance ; — thus tracking, in 
 short, the murder of Desdemona to her friend and champion, 
 and not to the arch-plotter, and her bitter enemy, lago. 
 This, I must say, appears to me the very sublime of social 
 moral philosophy. 
 
 The whole character of Emilia is a perfect specimen of a 
 free woman of the world, having no evil or malice prepense in 
 her composition ; at the same time, retaining her virtue only 
 by a slip-knot. For an exquisite portraiture of the pure and 
 holy truth of female delicacy and conjugal love, let any one 
 read the conversation at the close of the fourth Act between 
 Desdemona and Emilia, while the latter is undressing her 
 mistress for bed, (a scene — that portion at least — never acted,) 
 and then let him rival it, if he can, from the pages of any 
 professor of social morality. This very scene, by the way, 
 contains one of those surprising touches of nature which 
 indicate the headlands and promontories of genius. When 
 Othello, who has made up his mind for the murder, bids 
 Desdemona go early to bed, Emilia (after he is gone) says, 
 " How goes it now .' He looks gentler than he did." Some 
 
136 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 one has truly said, "An inferior dramatist would have ex- 
 tended that thought over two pages." Yes, and have made a 
 flat result of it. 
 
 Another artistical contrast, showing the triumphant beauty 
 of conjugal love, is instituted between the conduct of Desde- 
 mona and that of the courtesan, Bianca, who, nevertheless, 
 is no offensive specimen of her class, as she would have been 
 delineated in the coarse pages of the contemporary dramatists. 
 When I think how Bianca would have been exhibited by 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, Etheridge, Dryden, and Wycherly, 
 she is a positive purist in the hands of Shakespeare. Al- 
 though her career of life, and intimacy with the vilest lan- 
 guage, are suggestive of much that might legitimately be put 
 into her mouth, she is an absolute vestal, both in heart and 
 tongue, compared with lago : and, indeed, Shakespeare seems 
 to have been incapable of originating an atrocious female 
 character. Even the harlot Bianca possesses a strong infusion 
 of that kindliness which " makes the whole world kin." She 
 shows an unselfish, animal love for Cassio ; and the truth of 
 this is only allowed to appear, in the poet's artful but prodigal 
 way, by a side-wind observation from one of the other 
 characters. When Cassio has been assassinated in the street 
 at night, lago says, "Prythee, Emilia, go know of Cassio 
 where he supped to-night." Then turning suddenly upon 
 Bianca, he adds, "What do you shake at.'" pretending to 
 criminate her, and knowing how easily suspicion attaches to 
 her unhappy sisterhood, he himself having wounded Cassio. 
 Bianca answers, "He supped at my house, but I therefore 
 shake not." What an exquisite thought to show by action, 
 and not by profession, that the peril of him she loved had 
 unnerved her ! Shakespeare had Divine authority for know- 
 ing that such as Bianca (deluded, and then misused beings) 
 will be received where the Pharisees and hypocrites will be 
 rejected. 
 
Othello. 137 
 
 " Othello," says Coleridge, " has no life but in Desdemona : 
 the belief that she, his angel, had fallen from the heaven of 
 her native innocence, wrought a civil war in his heart. She is 
 his counterpart, and, like him, is almost sanctified in our eyes 
 by her absolute unsuspiciousness, and holy entireness of love. 
 As the curtain drops, which do we pity most .^ " ^ — , 
 
 Schlegel designates the play of " Othello " as a " tragical 
 Rembrandt." The main incident of the story is indeed " dark 
 with fierce keeping ; " and the reader must retain his imagi- 
 nation, and his feelings too, completely under control, who 
 can rise from an absorbed attention to its steadily-accumulat- 
 ing and grievous catastrophe, without feeling harassed and 
 exhausted by reason of its intense reality. 
 
VI. 
 
JIEUKV WIVKS or WINDSOR. 
 
VI. 
 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 The " Merry Wives of Windsor " is one of those delightfully- 
 happy plays of Shakespeare, beaming with sunshine and 
 good humour, that makes one feel the better, the lighter, and 
 the happier, for having seen or read it. It has a superadded 
 charm, too, from the scene being purely English ; and we all 
 know how rare and how precious English sunshine is, both 
 literally and metaphorically. The " Merry Wives " may be 
 designated the " sunshine " of domestic life, as the " As You 
 Like It " is the " sunshine " of romantic life. The out-door 
 character that pervades both plays gives to them their tone 
 of buoyancy and enjoyment, and true holiday feeling. We 
 have the meeting of Shallow and Slender and Page in the 
 streets of Windsor, who saunter on, chatting of the " fallow 
 grey-hound, and of his being out-run on Cotsal ;" and, still 
 strolling on, they propose the match between Slender and 
 " sweet Ann Page." Then Ann brings wine out of doors to 
 them ; though her father, with the genuine feeling of old 
 English hospitality, presses them to come into his house, and 
 enjoy it with a "hot venison pasty to dinner." And she 
 afterwards comes out into the garden to bid Master Slender 
 to table, where, we may imagine, he has been lounging about. 
 
1 4 2 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 in the hope of the fresh air relieving his sheepish embarrass- 
 ment. When Doctor Caius bids his servant bring him his 
 rapier, he answers, " 'Tis ready, sir, here in the porch," — con- 
 veying the idea of a room leading at once into the open air 
 — such a room as used to be called "a summer parlour." 
 Then we hear of Ann Page being at a " farm-house a-feast- 
 ing;" and we have Mrs Page leading her little boy William 
 to school ; and Sir Hugh Evans sees people coming " from 
 Frogmore over the stile this way ;" and we find that Master 
 Ford " is this morning gone a-birding." Even the very head- 
 ings to the scenes breathe of dear, lovely English scenery — 
 "Windsor Park" — "A field near Frogmore." They talk, 
 too, of Datchet Lane ; and Sir John Falstaff is " slighted into 
 the river." And, with this, come thronging visions of the 
 " silver Thames," and some of those exquisite leafy nooks on 
 its banks, with the cawing of rooks ; and its little islands, 
 crowned with the dark and glossy-leaved alder ; and barges 
 lapsing on its tranquil tide. To crown all, the story winds 
 up with a plot to meet in Windsor Park at midnight, to trick 
 the fat knight beneath " Heme's oak." The whole play, 
 indeed, is, as it were, a village, or even a homestead pastoral. 
 
 The dramatis personcz, too, perfectly harmonise, and are 
 in strict keeping with the scene. They are redolent of health 
 and good humour — that moral and physical " sunshine." 
 
 There are the two " Merry Wives " themselves. What a 
 picture we have of buxom, laughing, ripe beauty ! ready for 
 any frolic " that may not sully the chariness of their honesty." 
 That jealous-pate. Ford, ought to have been sure of his wife's 
 integrity and goodness, from her being so transparent-charac- 
 tered and cheerful ; for your insincere and double-dealing 
 people are sure to betray, some time or other, the drag that 
 dishonesty claps upon the wheel of their conduct. The 
 career of a deceitful person is never uniform. In the sequel, 
 however, Ford does make a handsome atonement — that of a 
 
Merry Wives of Windsor. 143 
 
 frank apology to the party whom he had abused by his sus- 
 picions ; and he winds up the play with the rest, not the 
 least happy of the group from having an enfranchised heart. 
 He says well : — 
 
 " Pardon me, wife. Henceforth do what thou wilt. 
 I rather will suspect the sun with cold 
 Than thee with wantonness. Now doth thy honour stand. 
 In him that was of late a heretic, 
 As firm as faith." 
 
 Shakespeare also says, "The husband is to blame if the 
 wife do fall." But, good heaven ! what a donkey a jealous 
 man is, morally as well as politically ! He is a donkey as 
 regards his wife, if she be dishonest ; for he gives her every 
 advantage over him, by putting her on her guard to outwit 
 him. But I think that, in ninety-nine cases out of the hun- 
 dred, where the marriage-knot has been broken, we may de- 
 pend upon one of two things, — either that the woman did not 
 give her heart, only her hand ; or that she has been chilled 
 by coldness or want of confidence in her partner. For I 
 assume it as an axiom, that, where a woman does love, no- 
 thing can shake the constancy of her attachment. The Duke 
 in " Twelfth Night" says :— 
 
 " However we do praise ourselves. 
 
 Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, 
 More longing, wav'ring, sooner lost and worn 
 Than women's are." 
 
 I confess that I have so little respect for a jealous man, and 
 so much of the mischief of " old Harry " in me, that (but for 
 the woman's peace) I would keep his steam at high pressure. 
 Then, there is Page, the very personification of hearty 
 English hospitality. You feel the tight grasp of his hand, 
 and see the honest sparkle of his eye, as he leads in the 
 wranglers with, " Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink 
 
144 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 down all unkindness." If I were required to point to the 
 portrait of a genuine, indigenous Englishman, throughout the 
 whole of the works of Shakespeare, Page would be the man. 
 Every thought of his heart, every motion of his body, ap- 
 pears to be the result of pure instinct ; he has nothing exotic 
 or artificial about him. He possesses strong yeoman sense, 
 an unmistakable speech, a trusting nature, and a fearless 
 deportment; and these are the characteristics of a true 
 Englishman. He is to be gulled — no man more so ; and he 
 is gulled every day in the year — no proof, you will say, of 
 his " strong yeoman sense ; " but an Englishman is quite as 
 frequently gulled with his eyes open as when they are hood- 
 winked. He has a conceit in being indifferent to chicanery. 
 He confides in his own strength when it behoves him to exert 
 it; and then he abates the nuisance. The English have 
 never yet been fooled to their ruin ; and my belief is, that 
 they never will be. They go on bearing the most insolent 
 injustice with an apathy that is inscrutable to foreigners, who 
 know their character when they are opposed : at length they 
 wake up, come to the sudden conclusion that this thing has 
 lasted long enough, and then down it goes. Your true 
 Englishman is confiding ; and for that very reason he is an 
 " awkward customer " when his confidence is betrayed. And 
 yet, " nevertheless and notwithstanding," (as the lawyers say,) 
 our brother John does at times contrive to make a prodigious 
 Tom-noddy of himself And he has lately been kicking up 
 his heels in that fashion to a wonderful extent. I am not 
 launching into politics. It is neither the place nor the occa- 
 sion. But this, and no more, I will say : — ^When all the 
 Frenchmen in the world are turned into gnats, we may then 
 dread being taken unawares by an invasion of a million of 
 them upon some fine, calm day, with a south wind — and not 
 till then. And if they do come, not one will go back alive. 
 But our revered brother John not only allows himself to be 
 
Merry Wives of Windsor. 145 
 
 bamboozled, but, worse than that, to be hectored over by a 
 very low and very presumptuous minority of his family. And 
 he has a positively sleepless horror of that ubiquitous lady, 
 " Mrs Grundy," who has only to stare him in the face, when 
 he would do something without consulting her, and down will 
 his whole soul, courage and all, sink into his shoes. " I knew 
 a fine hulking fellow, with limbs of iron, and a heart of honey, 
 who could have tried a fall with Goliath — and he did belabour 
 and half kill a first-class prize-fighter ; yet that man's wife 
 (a little, shrewd, waspish woman) so crowed over, and would 
 so peck and spur him, that he was a totally different man 
 when in her company, and seemed not to have a soul of his 
 own. She was his " Mrs Grundy," and he was afraid of her. 
 Now Page was of a better breed in the race than this. When 
 Ford makes his almost abject apology to his injured wife. 
 Page says : — 
 
 " 'Tis well, 'tis well ; no more : 
 Be not as extreme in submission 
 As in offence." 
 
 The commentators have called Page " uxorious ; " which, 
 in plain-spun English, means that he is in love with his wife : 
 it is a term of contempt, applied by men who are Turkish in 
 their homes, and whose wives are their freehold servants. 
 But, so far from seeing any disgrace in a man being thoroughly 
 in love with his wife, I only hope the complaint may become 
 more and more epidemic. What is fighting for our hearths 
 but fighting for our wives? and what is a hearth worth 
 without a wife } Where there is something at home worth 
 struggling for, the whole world in arms, all the turbulent 
 malcontents, and all the brood of zig-zag politicians will go 
 screaming down the wind. Page was a thoroughly kind- 
 hearted man. He joins in the hoax of the squabble between 
 
 Sir Hugh and the Frenchman, but he says he "had rather 
 
 K 
 
146 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 hear them scold than fight." Mrs Quickly bears testimony 
 to the transparency and unsuspecting kindness of his nature 
 in that speech to Falstaff, wherein his generosity is inferred 
 from the liberty of action he allows his wife. The woman 
 Quickly says : — 
 
 " Truly, Master Page is an honest man. Never a wife in 
 Windsor leads a better life than she does : — do what she will, 
 say what she will, take all, pay all ; go to bed when she list, 
 rise when she list, all is as she will ; and truly she deserves 
 it, for if there be a kind woman in Windsor, she is one." 
 
 One word more upon Page and his wife before their dis- 
 missal. He has been strangely enough spoken of, in com- 
 bination with his comely partner, as " the foolish Page and 
 his no less foolish wife." These are the terms in which the 
 worthy yeoman of " The Merry Wives of Windsor " is men- 
 tioned by a German critic ; who resolves all in Shakespeare's 
 writings into an aesthetic truism, or a mere technicality of 
 art. Can the right worshipful and very ponderous Herr 
 Doctor Ulrici see nothing else than the " folly " of Page, be- 
 cause he makes a mistaken plan for his daughter's bestowal 
 in marriage .'' Can he see nothing of the " wisdom " of non- 
 malice-bearing, and a cheerful acquiescence with things that 
 have been done when they cannot be undone, in his prompt 
 forgiveness of his child's young husband, when he finds 
 they have stolen a match .?— " Well, what remedy } Fenton, 
 Heaven give thee joy! What cannot be eschewed must be 
 embraced." Can he see nothing of the " wisdom " of frank 
 English hospitality, with hearty English peace-making, and 
 love of making quarrellers reconciled, in Page's " Come, — ^we 
 have a hot venison pasty to dinner, — come, gentlemen, I 
 hope we shall drink down all unkindness." Can he see 
 nothing of the " wisdom " of Page's sturdy English confidence 
 in his wife's honesty, where he says, upon hearing of Falstafif's 
 
Merry Wives of Windsor. 147 
 
 proposed attempt upon her virtue,—" If he should intend 
 this voyage towards my wife, I would turn her loose to him j 
 and what he gets more of her than sharp words, let it lie on 
 my head ? " That the reliance is not a blind one, we have 
 already learned from Mrs Page's own words, just previously, 
 where she says of her good man, — " He 's as far from jealousy 
 as I am from giving him cause ; and that, I hope, is an un- 
 measurable distance." Such a speech as that argues but 
 little "foolishness" in the "no less foolish wife." But we 
 have plentiful evidence, too, of Mrs Page being no fool. 
 Witness the ready wit of her arch reply to Ford ; when he 
 says, — alluding to the . strong attachment subsisting be- 
 tween herself and Iris own wife, — "I think, if your hus- 
 bands were dead, you two would marry,'' she retorts, "Be 
 sure of that — two other husbands" This is no slight to her 
 own lord and master ; but only a smart rap on the knuckles 
 for her friend's jealous-pated one. There is anything but 
 " foolishness " in the brisk way with which she carries on the 
 jest, in concert with her gossip, Mrs Ford, against the "greasy 
 knight," as she calls Falstaff. There is anything but lack of 
 wit in her exclamation, " Heaven guide him to thy husband's 
 cudgel ; and the devil guide his cudgel afterwards." And 
 though, in anticipation, her sense of humour prompts this 
 lively sally ; yet, at the time, her sense of justice, and also 
 her wise kind-heartedness, will not see him beaten too un- 
 mercifully. 
 
 Upon my life, I can see nothing " foolish " in all this ; but, 
 on the contrary, a sprightly, sensible, quick-witted woman, 
 who deserves her husband's confidence — and has it — by her 
 faithful, true-hearted allegiance to him; who secures and 
 preserves his love by her cheerful spirits, and blithe good- 
 humour; and who seconds her husband in all his hos- 
 pitable, peace-making schemes ; for, at the end of the play, 
 she says, " Let us every one go home, and laugh this sport o'er 
 
148 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 by a country fire — Sir John and all" In short, they are a 
 perfectly worthy couple ; — ^worthy of each other, in their good 
 temper, good faith, and excellent good sense. To call them 
 " the foolish Page, and his no less foolish wife," is no less 
 than flat blasphemy against the " wisdom " of good-nature. 
 But many persons confound good-nature with weakness — 
 often, perhaps, with the hope of finding it weak enough to be 
 taken advantage of. It is, doubtless, infinitely more easy to 
 write a flippant, undervaluing word of one of Shakespeare's 
 characters, than to discern and appreciate its multitudinous 
 beauties. Both the Pages are people of kind-hearted common 
 sense ; which is as far removed from " foolishness " — quite as 
 far removed — as a boring into the mere- rules and strictnesses 
 of dramatic art is from a clear perception of the poetry, the 
 philosophy, the harmony, the consistency, the truth to nature, 
 the knowledge of character, and a hundred things beside, 
 that exist in Shakespeare's dramatic art. 
 
 And now, with a slight infringement of the plan of these 
 Essays, — viz., that of giving extra discussion to " subordinate 
 characters," — I would speak a word of FalstafF — incomparable 
 Sir John Falstaff ! — for it would be an absolute indignity to 
 this sunshiny play, (like flouting the sun itself!) to omit men- 
 tioning Falstaff" when enumerating its characters. He, in 
 himself, is all sunshine ; for he is capable of dazzling the 
 eyes with his brilliancy, even while they look upon roguery 
 and vice. The desire to speak of him is in reply to what has 
 frequently, nay, over and over, been asserted, that Falstaff, 
 in the " Merry Wives," does not show to such advantage as 
 in the plays of Henry IV. But if we call to mind some of 
 his finest passages here, we shall find, I think, that he scarcely, 
 if at all, comes short of himself in the other two dramas. 
 For instance, what can exceed the insolent self-possession 
 and sublime coolness, with which he throws overboard the 
 accusations of Shallow and Slender .> (in the opening of the 
 
Merry Wives of Windsor. 149 
 
 play.) His entering, with that illustrious, bullying swagger 
 — ^that lordly contempt and defiance of all objection : — " Now, 
 Master Shallow ; you '11 complain of me to the king ?" Telling 
 the poor flabby knight that he will only " be laughed at." 
 Then, turning upon Slender : — " Slender, / broke your head ; 
 what matter have you against mef" His deciding the pick- 
 pocket allegations of his rascally followers, who, of course, 
 deny the charge of robbing Slender : — " You hear these mat- 
 ters denied, gentlemen — you hear it." The word of denial of 
 such men to be taken for granted ! and an appeal made for 
 the truth of their asseveration ! " You hear it." 
 
 Then, for the adventure in the " buck-basket," and his 
 being " slighted into the river ! " No description in the pre- 
 vious plays exceeds this, both in wit and humour : — 
 
 " You may know, by my size, that I have a kind of alacrity 
 in sinking. ... I had been drowned, but that the shore 
 was shelvy and shallow — a death that I abhor ; for the water 
 swells a man ; and what a thing should I have been, swelled ! 
 I should have been a mountain of mummy !" 
 
 His very mishaps only furnish him with matter for jests 
 and witty description. He goes on rioting in the detail of 
 this same adventure — 
 
 " Crammed in with stinking clothes, .... think of that, 
 a man of my kidney ! — think of that ; that am as subject to 
 heat as butter — a man of continual dissolution and thaw : it 
 was a miracle to escape suffocation. And in the height of 
 this bath, when I was more than half stewed in grease, like a 
 Dutch dish, to be thrown into the Thames, and cooled, glow- 
 ing hot, in that surge, like a horse-shoe: think of that — hissing 
 hot,— think of that, Master Brook !" 
 
 These are two or three bricks, for samples of the perfect 
 
 structure. 
 
 There is a fine self-consciousness about Falstaff, which 
 nevertheless is not so much egoism as " Falstaffism.' If 
 
1 5 o Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 proof were wanting of FalstafTs being equal in this play 
 to himself in the " Henry the Fourths," witness that single 
 little speech of his, when Mrs Page affects to reproach him 
 with his joint love-making to Mrs Ford. In the midst of his 
 eagerness to make his escape, he says : — " I love thee, and 
 none but thee : help me away !" His selfishness, glaring as it 
 is, and gross as his illimitable person, has a right to exist ; 
 for is it not his own self— Jack Falstaff, that most unique and 
 fine of individualities ? 
 
 Moreover, his similes are none the less exquisite in wit 
 and humour from their being elicited by his own calamities. 
 It seems as if that very fact gave a keenness to their point, and 
 set the edge of their sharp severity. And then, with what 
 audacity of joke does his self-love take out its revenge against 
 ill-fortune ! Never was there a bolder jest than the one with 
 which the following speech concludes. It forms a climax to 
 Falstaff's daring impudence of wit. He says : — 
 
 " I would all the world might be cozened ; for I have been 
 cozened, and beaten too. If it should come to the ear 
 of the court how I have been transformed, and how my 
 transformation hath been washed and cudgelled, they would 
 mock me out of my fat, drop by drop, and liquor fisher- 
 men's boots with me. I warrant they would whip me with 
 their fine wits, till I were as crest-fallen as a dried pear. I 
 never prospered since I forswore myself at primero. Well, 
 if my wind were but long enough to say my prayers, I would 
 repent !" 
 
 "Mine host of the Garter" is one of the most original 
 characters in the play. He is imbued with an eccentric 
 fancy, and has the richest humour for a joke or a hoax. More- 
 over, mine host is the prince of good fellows. He feels per- 
 fectly easy whether Falstaff pay him " ten pounds a-week " 
 or two ; and he, good-naturedly, takes his " withered serving- 
 man " (Bardolph) " for a fresh tapster." His self-conceit in 
 
Merry Wives of Windsor. 1 5 1 
 
 his own skill and management is delicious : — " Am I politic ? 
 am I subtle ? am I a Machiavel ? " And again, " The Ger- 
 mans shall have my horses ; but I '11 make them pay — I '11 
 sauce them." But he loses his horses, and then his " mind is 
 heavy," — the last thing we should expect from him. We do 
 not, therefore, regret that his loss is made up in the " hundred 
 pounds in gold" promised him by Fenton. There is no 
 malice in mine host's "waggery;" and he manages the 
 quarrel between Sir Hugh Evans, the parson, and Dr Caius 
 in the best spirit imaginable. What rich drollery in his 
 taking advantage of Caius's ignorance of English to befool 
 him in the eyes of the company, while the Frenchman is 
 waiting to fight with Sir Hugh. Shallow says : — 
 
 " Master Doctor Caius, I am come to fetch you home. I 
 am sworn of the peace. You have showed yourself a wise 
 physician, and Sir Hugh hath showed himself a wise and 
 patient churchman. You must go with me, Master Doctor." 
 
 " Host. Pardon, guest Justice. A word. Monsieur Muck- 
 water. 
 
 " Caius. Muck-vater ! Vat is dat ? 
 
 " Host. Muck-water, in our English, is ' valour,' Bully. 
 
 " Caius. Be gar, den I have as much muck-vater as de 
 Englishman. Scurvy, jack, dog, priest ! Be gar, me vitl cut 
 his ears." 
 
 " Host He '11 clapper-claw thee tightly. Bully. 
 
 " Caius. Clapper-de-claw ! Vat is dat ? 
 
 " Host That is, he will make thee amends. 
 
 " Caius. Be gar, me look he shall clapper-de-claw me ; for, 
 be gar, me vill have it. 
 
 " Host And I will provoke him to it, or let him wag." 
 
 Next come Shallow and Slender,— specimens of imbecility 
 run to seed. Choicely effete is the Justice's vapouring about 
 his dignities! Not only is he "Coram," but he is "Cust- 
 
 alorum" ay, and " Ratolorum," too; and writes himself 
 
 " Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation,— 
 
152 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 Armigero." The very "totting up" of his qualifications 
 creates a ". real presence " of the man. Shallow's saturnalia 
 is in the Second Part of Henry IV. He there exhibits in 
 rampant folly. His gabble and his nonsense are superb. It 
 is there that we have Master Shallow in his glory. 
 
 The reintroduction of these characters into the "Merry 
 Wives of Windsor" — Shallow, and Bardolph, and Pistol, and 
 Nym — is, in itself, a proof how thoroughly they were appre- 
 ciated by the public upon their first appearance ; and still 
 more is it a proof of their author's power in investing them 
 with unfaded vigour and interest ; for we know by experience 
 how rarely a second portraiture of a character has succeeded 
 with the public. And yet, although they are identically the 
 same people, not one of the whole party repeats himself. 
 We have met them at the Boar's Head in East Cheap, and at 
 Coventry ; and here they are again in Windsor, — the same 
 characters, but with a difference. 
 
 Slender comes out in this play witli extraordinary force. 
 He and Falstaff are the persons who at once present them- 
 selves to the imagination, when it is referred to. What a 
 speaking portrait we have of Slender in the conversation 
 between Mrs Quickly and his man. Simple! His "little 
 wee face, with a little.yellow beard — a cane-coloured beard." 
 He is a " tall fellow, too, of his hands, as any is, between this 
 and his head." The humorous, quaint, and witty old Fuller 
 says : — " Your men that are built six stories high have sel- 
 dom much in their cockloft." But Master Slender hath 
 earned a reputation, at all events, with his serving-man ; he 
 hath " fought with a warrpner." And he doth not hide his 
 pretensions to valour, especially from the women, or his 
 station in society. He takes care that Anne Page shall 
 know he "keeps three men and a boy, till his mother be 
 dead ;" and that he lives like a "poor gentleman born." He 
 says this before Anne, not to her. 
 
Merry Wives of Windsor. 153 
 
 It is interesting to note the distinction that Shakespeare 
 has made in drawing the two fools, Sir Andrew Aguecheek 
 and Master Slender. The difference between them seems to 
 be, that Andrew is stupid, awkward, and incompetent, and 
 fails in all cases from lack of ideas to help him in his need : 
 if he had these, his stock of conceit would carry him through 
 and over anything; but he is a coward, as well as a fool. 
 Slender possesses not only the deficiencies of Aguecheek, but 
 he is bashful, even to sheepishness. This quality makes him 
 uniformly dependent on one or another for support. His 
 spirit is so rickety that he cannot trust it alone ; and yet, 
 withal, in little non-essentials of conduct and character. 
 Slender is not so perfect a fool but that he has the tact to 
 display his accomplishments to win his mistress's favour. 
 Some have not even that wisdom, who would, nevertheless, 
 turn up their noses at Master Slender. Having insinuated 
 his rank and " possibilities," what love-diplomacy can surpass 
 the patronising, and the magnanimous indifference with 
 which he introduces the subject of his courage? Anne is 
 sent to entreat him to dinner : — 
 
 " I pray you, sir, walk in. 
 
 " Slen. I had rather walk here, I thank you. I bruised my 
 shin the other day with playing at sword and dagger with a 
 master of fence, — three veneys for a dish of stewed prunes ; 
 and, by my troth, I cannot abide the smell of hot meat since. 
 Why do your dogs bark so .' be there bears in the town .? 
 
 " A nne. I think there are, sir ; I heard them talked of. 
 
 " Slen. I love the sport well ; but I shall as soon quarrel 
 at it as any man in England. You are afraid if you see the 
 bear loose, are you not .' 
 
 "Anne. Ay, indeed, sir. 
 
 "Slen. That's meat and drink to me now. I have seen 
 Sackerson loose twenty times, and have taken him by the 
 chain ; but, I warrant you, the women have so cried and 
 shrieked at it, that it pass'd ; but women, indeed, can't abide 
 'em ; they are veryill-favour'd rough things." 
 
1 54 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 Does not this precisely tally with Mrs Quickly's descrip- 
 tion of the man, that he " holds up his head, as it were ; and 
 struts in his gait." Again, be it said, Master Slender is not 
 so great a fool, but that he is to be drawn by a thread where 
 he has a dawning that his interests are conspicuous. He will 
 not only marry Anne Page, with her " seven hundred pounds 
 and possibilities," but he " will do a greater thing than that," 
 upon " the request of his cousin Shallow, in any reason" That 
 morsel of a scene is worth its weight in gold, where his uncle 
 Shallow and Parson Evans have concocted the match between 
 him and Anne Page, and are badgering him into an explicit 
 declaration of his affection ; and which, from sheepishness, he 
 constantly eludes, by negative acquiescences. His concluding 
 resolve is immortal : — 
 
 " I will marry her, sir, at your request; but if there be no 
 great love in the beginning, yet Heaven may decrease it upon 
 better acquaintance, when we are married, and have more 
 occasion to know one another. I hope upon familiarity will 
 grow more contempt ; but if you say, ' Marry her,' that I am 
 freely dissolved, and dissolutely." 
 
 All who have intercourse with the world can testify that 
 the character of Master Slender is by no means an anomaly. 
 The love-scene between him and Mistress Anne is a notable 
 display of broad humour ; and what a thought it was to make 
 him ask his man Simple for his book of sonnets and love- 
 songs, to woo with ! for he has not a word of his own to throw 
 to a dog ; and a pretty girl frightens him out of his little 
 senses. When he first sees her, he says in a faint fluster, 
 "O heaven! this is Mistress Anne Page!" And when 
 dragged to the wooing-stake, like a lugged bear, by his cousin 
 Shallow, we hear him yearning, "I had rather than forty 
 shillings I had my book of songs and sonnets here." In 
 default of this, his book of riddles might serve. Riddles to 
 make love with ! But the book of riddles he had lent to Alice 
 
Merry Wives of Windsor. 155 
 
 Shortcake a week before " Hallowmas." So the poor soul 
 stands gasping, like a stranded grampus. And when left 
 alone in wretchedness with her, her very first question flab- 
 bergasts him. If she had not led off, he would have stood 
 there till now : — 
 
 " Now, Master Slender. 
 
 " Slen. Now, good Mistress Anne. 
 
 "Anne. What is your will .■■ 
 
 " Slen. My will t Odds heartlings, that's a pretty jest, in- 
 deed ! I ne'er made my will yet, thank Heaven. I am not 
 such a sickly creature, I give Heaven praise. 
 
 "Anne. I mean. Master Slender, what would you have 
 with me.' 
 
 " Slen. Truly, for mine own part, I would little or nothing 
 with you. Your father and my uncle have made motions. 
 If it be my luck, so ; if not, happy man be his dole ! They 
 can tell you how things go better than I can." 
 
 Nothing can surpass this. Well might Anne, in despair, 
 say : — 
 
 " This is my father's choice. 
 Oh, what a world of vile ill-favour'd faults 
 Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a-year ! " 
 
 That is an excellent touch of worldly prudence on the part 
 of Anne's father, by the way, brought in to justify his objec- 
 tion to the addresses of Fenton ; whose " riots past, and wild 
 societies ; " his not only being " galled in his expense," and 
 which he " seeks to heal " by an alliance with his daughter : 
 but Page, moreover, being a plain, unaspiring yeoman, is also 
 unfavourable to Fenton, on account of his being " too great of 
 birthV This simple, fleeting expression places the whole 
 character of the father before us in perfect integrity and 
 consistency ; and is alone, and in itself, a refutation of Ulrici's 
 charge against him, for folly, — "the foolish Page!" It is 
 worth a whole scene of see-sawing and protesting. It also 
 
156 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 prepares us for Fenton's honest justification of himself And 
 here we have one of Shakespeare's lessons in wisdom — viz., 
 in the matrimonial contract to avoid everything in the shape 
 of duplicity and mental reservation — most especially before 
 the fulfilment of it. This passage in Fenton's courtship is 
 the only one which gives him an interest with us as a lover, 
 because it raises him in our esteem ; and with the confession, 
 it is natural that Anne should promote his suit. In answer 
 to his report of her father's objection to him, that " 'tis 
 impossible he should love her but as a property," like a 
 sensible girl, she candidly replies, " May be he tells you 
 true ; " and he as candidly and fervently replies : — 
 
 " No, Heav'n so speed me in my time to come ! 
 Albeit, I will confess, thy father's wealth 
 Was the first motive that I woo'd thee, Anne ; 
 Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value 
 Than stamps in gold, or sums in sealed bags ; 
 And 'tis the very riches of thyself 
 That now I aim at." 
 
 And the consummation of his good sense and steadiness of 
 character appears at the close of the play ; and Shakespeare's 
 own matrimonial morality is displayed, where Fenton suc- 
 ceeds in carrying oft" Anne, in the teeth of Page and his wife, 
 who each wanted to force her into a money-match. Fenton's 
 rebuke is excellent; and the father and mother's reconcili- 
 ation perfectly harmonises with their frank and generous 
 dispositions. Fenton says : — 
 
 " Hear the truth of it. 
 You would have married her most shamefully. 
 Where there was no proportion held in love. 
 
 * * * * * " * 
 
 The offence is holy that she hath committed ; 
 And this deceit loses the name of craft. 
 Of disobedience, or unduteous title ; 
 
Merry Wives of Windsor. 157 
 
 Since therein she doth evitate and shun 
 
 A thousand irreligious cursed hours, 
 
 Which forced marriage would have brought upon her." 
 
 Next in order comes the good-natured but peppery Welsh 
 parson. Sir Hugh. Like the worthy Parson Adams, in 
 Fielding's " Joseph Andrews," he is thrown into various 
 undignified attitudes by the author ; and although we laugh 
 with, and sometimes at him, yet Shakespeare has never 
 once committed his character in such a way that we should 
 refuse cordially to grasp his hand. The country parish 
 priests in those days were a different class of men from the 
 present members of the Establishment : nevertheless, some 
 scattered remnants of the old brotherhood may still be met 
 with in those secluded villages where the high post and 
 railroads swerve in the distance: men of almost indiscrimi- 
 nate sociality, taking an inoffensive part in the pastimes and 
 homely mirth of the parishioners. I knew a gentleman who 
 well remembered Dr Young, the eminent author of the 
 " Night Thoughts," in his rectory of Welwyn, in Hertford- 
 shire. He had dined at his table on the Sunday, when he 
 and any of his school-fellows had acquitted themselves 
 creditably during the week at the grammar-school. Among 
 other personal anecdotes, he told me that he had constantly 
 seen him playing at bowls on the Sunday, after he had 
 preached the words of peace, and good-will, and eternal 
 salvation to his flock. He not only tolerated, but even 
 promoted that harmless recreation ; at the same time he had 
 a keen eye and a reproof for all who were truants at the hour 
 of prayer. 
 
 Sir Hugh Evans stands not aloof from the plot to get 
 Anne a good husband ; and he is master of the band of 
 fairies to pinch and worry the fat knight in the revelry under 
 " Heme's oak." 
 
 " Trib, trib, fairies ; come, and remember your parts ; be 
 
158 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 pold, I pray you ; follow me into the pit ; and when I 
 give the watch-'ords, do as I pid you : come, come ; trib, 
 tribl" 
 
 And he was an actor, too, as well as manager of the revels ; 
 for Falstaff says while they are tormenting him : — " Heavens 
 defend me from that Welch fairy ! lest he transform me into 
 a piece of cheese ! " Even in the noted scene of the duel with 
 Doctor Caius, although the honest preacher is forced into a 
 ludicrous and " unhandsome fix " by the hoax of mine host 
 of the Garter, yet our kindly feeling for Sir Hugh remains 
 unimpaired. It is true, he waxeth into a tremendous Welch 
 passion : he is full of " melancholies," and " tremplings of 
 mind ;" moreover, not being a professed duellist, his self- 
 possession is not conspicuous : he sings a scrap of a madrigal 
 and a line of a psalm, and mixes both. 
 
 " Pless my soul ! how full of cholers I am, and tremplings 
 of mind ! — I shall be glad if he have deceived me. How 
 melancholies I am ! pless my soul ! \Sings. 
 
 ' To shallow rivers, to whose falls.' 
 Mercy on me ! I have great dispositions to cry. \^Sings. 
 
 ' Melodious pirds sing madrigals, 
 When as I sat in Pabylon, — 
 And a thousand fragrant posies.' " 
 
 But when the belligerents do meet, and he finds that they 
 have been fooled by the whole party, he is the one to preserve 
 their mutual self-respect. 
 
 " Pray you, let us not be laughing-stogs to other men's 
 humours ; I desire you in friendship ; and I will one way or 
 other make you amends. He has made us his vlouting-stog ; 
 and let us knog our prains together, to be revenge on this 
 same scall, scurvy, cogging companion, 'the host of the 
 Garter." 
 
 And the way in which he revenges himself is — like a prac- 
 
Merry Wives of Windsor. 159 
 
 tical teacher of the " Sermon on the Mount " — to come and 
 put the host on his guard against trusting the Germans with 
 his horses. 
 
 " There is a friend of mine come to town, tells me, there is 
 three cousin Germans, that has cozened all the hosts of Read- 
 ings, of Maidenhead, of Colnbrook, of horses and money. I 
 tell you for good-will, look you ; you are wise, and full of 
 gibes and vlouting-stogs, and 'tis not convenient you should 
 be cozened. Fare you well." 
 
 Doctor Caius is one of those exotics, half professional, 
 whole quack, whose chief source of attraction with John Bull 
 is, that they are not native. The French Doctor, therefore, is 
 always flourishing of his success at court. By the blessing of 
 an impenetrable assurance, and a ball-and-socket morality — 
 turning at will in every direction of their interest, and desire 
 of their patrons ; and above all, with that choicest and most 
 needful of accomplishments for a quack — an utter uncon- 
 sciousness of misgiving, or of dififidence with regard to their 
 own talents, these same exotics are received by our easy, 
 gullible brethren with " outstretched arms ; " while " patient 
 merit goes out sighing." This prejudice, however, in favour 
 of foreign talent is not without its advantage to brother 
 John, who would subside into an indolent animal if he en- 
 countered no opposition ; but being put upon his mettle, and 
 moreover, inheriting no small store of pugnacious obstinacy, 
 with great and available talent, he contrives to keep pace 
 with his rivals ; and he will yet maintain his ascendancy in 
 the civilised world. Real ability, like truth, must prevail ; 
 and though quackery may, and does succeed for a season, it 
 is commonly but with the empty-skulled and the frivolous. 
 
 Pretty little Anne Page, who contributes no small portion 
 of the " sunshine " in this delightful comedy, is not so deeply 
 and anxiously enamoured of Master Fenton, but that she can 
 
i6o Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 afford to trifle and amuse herself with the single-speech 
 courtship of Slender ; and her very protestation against the 
 suit of the Frenchman has in it such a spice of humour as 
 makes one fall head-and-ears over in love with her. 
 
 " Good mother, do not marry me to yond' fool ! [Slender.] 
 " Mrs Page. I mean it not ; I seek you a better husband. 
 " Mrs Quick. That 's my master, master doctor. 
 ''Anne. Alas ! T had rather be set quick in the earth, and 
 bowled to death with turnips" 
 
 But although a " subordinate character," how very import- 
 ant a person in this play is Mistress Quickly, the house- 
 keeper to Doctor Caius ; or, as Sir Hugh designates her, 
 "his nurse, or his dry-nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his 
 washer, or his wringer." What a perfect specimen she is of 
 a fussy, busy-bodying old woman ! " That foolish carrion, 
 Mrs Quickly," as Mrs Page calls her ; making herself neces- 
 sary to all, by reason of her fussiness ; and conspicuous, by 
 reason of her folly. A large family, — the race of the 
 Quicklies ! Our Mrs Quickly, the type of the whole breed, 
 meddles and "trepots" in every one's affairs: with the 
 seriousness and sincere dealing of a diplomatist, she acts 
 the go-between for Falstaff with the two merry wives ; she 
 courts Anne Page for her master, undertaking the same 
 office for Slender. She favours the suit of Fenton ; and if 
 the Welsh parson had turned an eye of favour upon the 
 yeoman's pretty daughter, she would have played the 
 hymeneal Hebe to him too. Her whole character for mere 
 busy-bodying, and not from any active kindness of heart, — 
 for they who are sweet to all alike, have no principle worth a 
 button ; — her whole character is comprised in that one little 
 speech in the 4th scene of the the 3d Act, when Fenton gives 
 her the ring for his " sweet Nan." After he has gone out, she 
 says : — 
 
Merry Wives of Windsor. i6i 
 
 " Now Heaven send thee good fortune ! [She would have 
 uttered the same benediction for Slender.] A kind heart 
 he hath : a woman would run through fire and water for such 
 a kind heart. But yet, I would my master had Mistress 
 Anne ; or I would Master Slender had her ; or, in sooth, 
 I would Master Fenton had her. I will do what I can for 
 them all three : for so I have promised, and I '11 be as good 
 as my word ; but speciously for Master Fenton." 
 
 He was the last applicant to, and had paid her. 
 
 Some people are such idiots, and are so rabidly bent on 
 match-making, that they would marry a girl to an ass rather 
 than not marry her. Your match-making people are thought 
 amusing, and are laughed at ; and they have the character of 
 being assiduous, and serviceable in their neighbours' affairs ; 
 but they come next to the tale-bearers for the mischief they 
 frequently occasion. It is not the paramount concern with 
 them, whether tastes and tempers assimilate, but whether the 
 girl wants a housekeeper's place for life ; and some marriages 
 are no whit superior to that arrangement ; or whether her 
 jointure be worthy his, or his equal hers ; and if so, they 
 think it a mere flouting at the gifts of Providence if they do 
 not snap the bait like gudgeons. They who have not wit- 
 nessed some of this mischievous trumpery, have made but a 
 select acquaintance in the world. 
 
 Mrs Quickly, however, is as much a professional as an 
 amateur match-maker. She takes her fee of office ; and it is 
 observable that Fenton, the least capable of the three suitors 
 to be disbursatory, is the only one liberal for her services, 
 Her first introduction to us, in all the importance of house- 
 keeping, the players would call " a hit." She patronises her 
 fellow-servant. Jack Rugby : — 
 
 "What, John Rugby ! I pray you, go to the casement and 
 see if you can see our master. Master Doctor Caius, coming. 
 If he do, i' faith, and find anybody in the house, here will be 
 
1 6 2 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 an old abusing of God's patience and the king's English. Go, 
 and we '11 have a posset for it anon at night, in faith, at the 
 latter end of a sea-coal fire. {Exit Rugby.J An honest, willing, 
 kind fellow, as ever servant shall come in house withal ; and 
 I warrant you no tell-tale, nor no breed-bate. His worst fault 
 is, that he is given to prayer ; he is something peevish that 
 way ; but nobody but has his faultr 
 
 She cross-questions Slender's man. Simple, (already quoted,) 
 and receives her master with prepared alacrity, humming a 
 tune of acted unconsciousness, having hidden Simple in the 
 closet. Her first scene with Fenton is inimitable, where she 
 goes on about a wart on his face : — 
 
 " Master Fenton, I'll be sworn on a book she loves you. 
 Haven't your worship a wart above your eye .' 
 
 " Pent. Yes, marry have I ; what of that ? 
 
 " Quick. Well, thereby hangs a tale. Good faith, it is such 
 another Nan ; but, I detest, an honest maid as ever broke 
 bread. We had an hour's talk of that wart. I shall never 
 laugh but in that maid's company ; but, indeed, she is too 
 much given to allicholy and musing. But for you — ^well, go 
 to. 
 
 " Pent. Well, I shall see her to-day. Hold, there 's money 
 for thee. Let me have thy voice in my behalf If thou seest 
 her before me, commend me. 
 
 " Quick. Will I .? I'faith, that we will ; and I will tell your 
 worship more of the wart the next time we have confidence, 
 and of other wooers!' 
 
 Like a true potterer, she interferes in every conversation, 
 and elbows herself in wherever she sees business going on. 
 Sir Hugh cannot even examine the little boy Page in his 
 Latin exercise but .she must put in her comments. That little 
 scene, by the way, (the first of the 4th Act,) is an amusing 
 specimen of what might be styled " closet comedy," and is an 
 additional illustration of the farcical character of the woman. 
 
 Warton calls the "Merry Wives of Windsor" "the most 
 
Merry Wives of Windsor. 163 
 
 complete specimen of Shakespeare's comic powers." Had he 
 said low comic, humorous, or farcical powers, we should per- 
 haps acknowledge the dictum of the critic. But although 
 there is as much broad fun in the " Twelfth Night," and in 
 the " Much Ado About Nothing," there is also a considerably- 
 stronger infusion of the most refined and quintessentialised 
 wit in those two plays, — an absolute desideratum in the legiti- 
 mate comedy, — to say nothing of the poetry and the sentiment, 
 sublimating and imparting the most delicate rainbow tints 
 to all that is graceful, and passionate, and lovely in human 
 nature. We do not expect, and we do not meet with these 
 qualities in the present comedy. Yet the " Merry Wives of 
 Windsor" is a wonderful production. It is all movement and 
 variety, from the first scene to the very last ; and the last 
 ends in a rich piece of romance. Dr Johnson is right in his 
 estimate when he says, " Its general power, that power by 
 which works of genius shall finally be tried, is such, that per- 
 haps it never yet had reader or spectator who did not think 
 it too soon at an end." 
 
KING LEAE. 
 
VIL 
 
VII. 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 The play of King Lear — as, I think, must be apparent to 
 every one who studies it psychologically — is a practical ex- 
 ample of the calamities_resu]iing_fronijinbridledi^^ 
 self-will. " fF«//," independent of, and irresponsible to, jus- 
 tice and rationality, is the pivot upon which turn all the 
 disasters that befall its leading characters. Like a steam- 
 engine without check or safety-valve, they destroy themselves, 
 and scatter ruin and dismay among those within the range 
 of its fury. Besides the leading character, Lear, the same 
 principle of action — that of self-will — forms the leading 
 feature in the characters of Gonneril and Regan : as witness 
 their wolf-like grasping at power the moment it comes within 
 their reach ; the unrelenting spirit with which they exercise 
 it over their father and husbands ; their passion for Edmund, 
 and which resolves itself as much into mutual struggle for 
 the mastery over each other, and dominion, as in their lust of 
 a criminal and riotous self-indulgence ; and, lastly, their im- 
 perious bearing, up to the very close of their career. The 
 tide of will in their minds is ever at the flood, rolling on 
 without an eddy of misgiving or remorse, till it ends in a 
 climax of fierce defiance. At the end of the Sth Act, when 
 
1 6 8 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 Albany, Gonneril's husband, threatens her with the mur-- 
 derous letter found upon the steward, and which she had 
 despatched to Edmund : — 
 
 " Shut your mouth, dame, 
 
 Or with this paper I shall stop it 
 
 No tearing, lady ; — I perceive you know it." 
 
 This is her answer : — 
 
 " Say, if I do, — the laws are mine, not thine : 
 Who can arraign me for it ? 
 
 "Alb. Most monstrous ! 
 
 Know 'st thou this paper ? 
 
 " Gon. Ask me not what I know." 
 
 And with this characteristic retort, she leaves the scene, and 
 we hear no more of her, except that she destroys herself, — 
 self-willed to the last. 
 
 The lust of "will" and of "power," again, is the main- 
 spring of Edmund the bastard's character. Not content 
 with the indulgent affection of his father, Gloster, and jealous 
 of the rights of his legitimate brother, Edgar, he treacher- 
 ously ejects him ; and in the sequel, compasses the disgrace 
 of his father, in order that he himself may become " Earl of 
 Gloster ;'' and which title he at once assumes. 
 
 It may appear paradoxical to instance the conduct of the 
 perfect Cordelia, when treating of the dominant passion 
 which controls the progress of this drama ; but it is inter- 
 esting to notice, that she inherits, in a degree and kind, the 
 self-will and obstinacy of her father. Having once resolved 
 to say, "Nothing," in answer to the old king's question, 
 which of his three daughters " doth love him most," no lead- 
 ing questions, no inducements can make her qualify the tone 
 of that reply. She resolves " to love, and be silent." She 
 will love her father according to her bond ; no more nor less. 
 "So young, and so untender," (says the old king) "So 
 
King Lear. 1 69 
 
 young, my lord, and true," is her persistent answer. Another 
 confirmation of the argument for the predominance of " will " 
 in Cordelia's character appears in the 4th Act ; she makes 
 her passion of grief subservient to dominion. The passage is 
 in a scene between Kent and a gentleman, and is one of 
 matchless beauty and pathos : — 
 
 " Kent. Did your letters pierce the queen to any demon- 
 stration of grief ? 
 
 " Gent. Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my presence ; 
 And now and then an ample tear trill'd down 
 Her delicate cheek : it seem'd she was a queen 
 Over her passion ; who, most rebel-like, 
 Sought to be king o'er her. 
 
 " Kent. O, then, it mov'd her. 
 
 " Gent. Not to a rage : patience and sorrow strove 
 Who should express her goodliest. You have seen 
 Sunshine and rain at once : her smiles and tears 
 Were like a better way : those happy smiles, 
 That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know 
 What guests were in her eyes ; which parted thence. 
 As pearls from diamonds dropp'd. — In brief, sorrow 
 Would be a rarity most belov'd, if all 
 Could so become it. 
 
 " Kent. Made she no verbal question .? 
 
 " Gent. 'Faith, once or twice sheheav'd the name of ' father' 
 Pantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart ; 
 Cried, ' Sisters ! sisters !---Shame of ladies ! sisters ! 
 Kent ! father ! sisters ! What, i' the storm .' i' the night } 
 Let pity not be believ'd ! ' — There she shook 
 The holy water from her heavenly eyes, 
 And clamour moisten'd : then away she started 
 To deal with grief alone." 
 
 The conduct of Cordelia has been quoted to corroborate 
 the position started with, — that the unyielding exercise of 
 " will " forms the principle of moral unity which sways the 
 course of action in all the leading characters of the drama — 
 the good as well as the bad, and finally brings about the 
 
lyo Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 great catastrophe by the ruin of both parties. I am not un- 
 conscious, that by thus enlisting, as it were, this characteristic 
 feature in the disposition of Cordelia, for the purpose of 
 carrying out the general principle of the drama, I incur the 
 charge of wire-drawing in criticism, — a charge I would cer- 
 tainly avoid. I am aware, too, that the admirers of Shake- 
 speare are ever prone to seek out, and give him credit for 
 intentions that probably never entered his head ; nevertheless, 
 I would say upon the present occasion, that, at all events, it 
 forms a remarkable coincidence that all the offspring of the 
 self-willed old king should, with certain modifications, have 
 inherited his constitutional obstinacy ; and that, if such were 
 the foregone conclusion in the poet's mind, it only proves his 
 contrivance, and comprehension of his subject, to be little less 
 than perfect. 
 
 Besides the character of Lear, and that of the other prime 
 movers in the play, I would quote, and lastly, Gloster, as 
 another of the victims to the effects of an irresponsible "self- 
 will," and of the selfishness inherent with it. His self-indul- 
 gence in early life, and scanty dispensation of justice to his 
 natural son, Edmund, — one part of a vicious system in morals, 
 and which proves to himself so bitter a scourge in the sequel, 
 —and his blind rage against the legitimate son, both emanate 
 from his ruling passion, and both concur in effecting his down- 
 fall. This is the grand and imperishable principle upon 
 which Shakespeare's ethics are constructed. In his code of 
 morality we have no epicene or doubtful virtues, and we have 
 no amiable or elegant vices. He does not make seduction, 
 or treachery of any sort, one of the indispensable properties 
 of a gentleman ; neither does he perk in our faces, like an 
 Old Bailey pleader, the heroic disinterestedness of a midnight 
 ruffian. In Shakespeare we have no Don Juan adulteries, 
 and we have no Blueskin sentimentalities. Shakespeare has, 
 indeed, written expressions that modern refinement rejects as 
 
King Lear. 171 
 
 indelicate ; but he has nowhere given to virtue the hoof of a 
 fiend, or to vice the golden wings of an angel. And, if ever 
 the time should arrive that he is denounced for immorality, — 
 and the spread of a liberal intelligence happily renders such 
 a result problematical, — it may, indeed, be apprehended, (to 
 use the words of Voltaire,) that " Virtue has left the heart and 
 rested only on the lips." 
 
 The despotism of self-worship, then, in the irresponsibility - 
 of the " will," sways the chief characters of this play. Another 
 feature in the consistency with which the poet has worked up 
 to the spirit of the sketch from whence he took his plot, may 
 be observed in the broad and strong colouring, and in the 
 massive shadows he has used for the purpose of preserving a 
 propriety in all its subordinate figures ; and these, we must 
 bear in mind, are all of them his own invention. Thus, the 
 broad outline of the old ballad legend came to him, fraught 
 with the simple, uncompromising, and exaggerated features of 
 primitive history. The main incident, the characters of the 
 principal agents, and their course of action being all strained 
 to the utmost tension of probability, his naturally fine instinct 
 at once prompted him, that to preserve a harmonious propor- 
 tion throughout, it was necessary that he should aggrandise 
 the moral qualities of the inferior persons in the dramatis 
 personce. We therefore notice that all the contrasted passions 
 are thrown into high lights. The virtuous characters become 
 glowingly conspicuous by their juxtaposition with the vicious 
 ones ; and not merely so, for by themselves, and uncontrasted, 
 they are perfect specimens of truth, honour, disinterested love, 
 and self-devotion, and these form the antagonist passion or 
 principle in the. plot to that of " self-will." 
 
 Thus, the daughters of Lear, the two elder and the young- 
 est, form, in themselves, studies of contrasted character, 
 harmonising with the whole construction of this sublime 
 character-drama. The same strongly-marked features in 
 
172 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 evil nature, and high lights in virtuous nature, are visible 
 through each. Cordelia is so forcibly drawn, — though with 
 so few brief touches, — that we marvel at the masterly hand 
 that could delineate a female figure known to us as perfectly 
 as our own sister's, by means so succinct. There is a certain 
 conciseness in all that is said of Cordelia, as well as all that 
 she herself says, which consists singularly with her own 
 character, — this being the extreme of reticence. Her father 
 makes allusion to her having a soft, gentle, low voice ; but it 
 it is not only these, — it is seldom heard. Her very first 
 words are uttered aside ; — marking her habit of self-com- 
 muning, rather than overt expression of thought. Her 
 speeches throughout the play amount to but a small number, 
 and they are for the most part composed of but sparing 
 words. Essentially condensed is Cordelia's character. She is 
 reserved, and, like many reserved people, has a fund of latent 
 pride — the pride of rectitude — which takes refuge beneath 
 an ultra-quiet exterior demeanour. Conscious of her rich 
 hoard of filial love, of the sterling quality of her superiority 
 to her hollow professing sisters, of her being perfectly unde- 
 serving her father's harshness, she is content to seem cold, 
 passive, almost hard. -There is a curious combination of 
 loftiest dignity with lowliest humility in her nature, which 
 combine to form the beautiful piece of womanhood known to 
 us as Shakespeare's Cordelia. Observe the way — at once 
 supreme in self-respect and simple in expression — in which 
 she urges her father to clear her from imputation of real 
 blameworthiness, and to "make known it is no vicious 
 blot," &c,, that has deprived her of his favour ; with which 
 she superbly dismisses the Burgundian Duke : — 
 
 " Peace be with Burgundy. 
 Since that respects of fortune are his love, 
 I shall not be his wife ;" 
 
 and with which she leaves her sisters, committing her father 
 
King Lear. 173 
 
 to their "professed bosoms." This condensedness, this inten- 
 sity in Cordelia's temperament and utterance, is equally 
 displayed in what she says of this kind, as in what she says 
 of a gentle and tender kind. Few instances of concentrated 
 disdain could be quoted as more pungent than Cordelia's 
 "Shall we not see these daughters, and these sisters f" when 
 she and her father are brought in prisoners ; while her gentle- 
 ness, her modesty, her meekness, are no less summarily 
 indicated by the short quiet speeches she makes to the 
 physician who is tending Lear in the crisis of his recovery. 
 With the same subtle eloquence of brevity are Cordelia's 
 emotions made visible through those one or two sobbed-out 
 replies, " And so I am, I am," and, " No cause, no cause," 
 as her old father pathetically endeavours to reassemble his 
 wandering ideas and fix them in recognition upon her. As 
 much as by her own words, is Cordelia made known to us by 
 what others speak of her. Through the Fool having " much 
 pined away ; " through Kent's fine appreciation and firm 
 attachment ; and through inferences to be drawn from Lear's 
 conduct, we gather that thorough knowledge of Cordelia's 
 character which we possess ; and which — ^were it not for this 
 magical art of the poet — we could not, from the very nature 
 of the reticent character itself, obtain. How evident is her 
 father's experience of her untalked but not unevinced love in 
 his first address to her, when he turns to her, saying, " Now, 
 our joy, although our last, not least," &c., and when he soon 
 after, in the very midst of his wrath, betrays how rooted is 
 his trust in her proved affection, by the words, " I lov'd her 
 most, and thought to set my rest on her kind nursery." 
 Very noteworthy, too, is the point, that Lear at first talks of 
 filial ingratitude generally ; afterwards, he says, " two perni- 
 cious daughters," asks, "Hast thou given all to thy two 
 daughters ?" In the scene where he arraigns them of cruelty, 
 he speaks only of Gonneril and Regan, What he deemed 
 
174 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 of Cordelia's undutifulness never recurs to him ; for he has 
 already long ago recognised the fact of its having been 
 a delusion. Very affecting — ^just one of Shakespeare's exqui- 
 site touches of hinted suggestion, speaking volumes of heart- 
 history — is that casually-dropped, muttered sentence of 
 Lear's, while he is half-listening to the Fool's prattle, and 
 attempting to keep up response to it, (in the 5th scene of the 
 1st Act) : "I did her wrong." And again, how wonderfully 
 is the loveliness of her nature indicated in the remorse felt by 
 Lear when his eyes are opened .to the truth of his having 
 wronged it ; in the shame he feels, in the sense he shows of 
 the injury he has done her, by kneeling to her for forgiveness 
 when he recognises her for his " child Cordelia." Even the 
 very terms in which he addresses her, on first awaking, serve 
 to impress upon us the pure look, the angelic spotlessness of 
 Cordelia, where he says, "Thou art a soul in bliss," and, 
 "You are a spirit, I know." Few of Shakespeare's women 
 are more consummately depicted (although she is so tersely 
 characterised) than "fairest Cordelia." 
 
 In following our course of the " contrasted characters " in 
 this drama, the sisters of Cordelia immediately and naturally 
 present themselves. And having already observed that the 
 whole legend came to our poet with the full credentials of 
 ballad history, he was bound to enter no party questions 
 against the chronicler, — to assert no prerogatives for Dame 
 Nature ; but, according to his subject and " brief," to display 
 with ogre-like hideousness the anomalous, unmixed, and un- 
 redeemed cruelty of an offspring (and a female, too,) towards 
 her aged parent. There is no motive for the barbarity and 
 wanton ingratitude that Regan and Gonneril exercise towards 
 their father ; therefore, their whole conduct is a violation of 
 nature : for (unless there be insanity in the case) motive is 
 to action what cause is to effect; and hence the revulsions 
 that our senses undergo when we read some of the monstrosi- 
 
King Lear. 175 
 
 ties of character that we meet in the elder dramas, — mere 
 gratuitous exhibitions of hideousness and horror ; and so 
 " out of drawing," as to be caricatures of enormity, results 
 without principles, conclusions without ratiocination. 
 
 In the case of Regan and Gonneril, then, Shakespeare 
 clung implicitly to his subject ; and, as if to show his mastery 
 over himself, as well as his principles, he has carried the 
 anomaly of unredeemed moral deformity to a pitch of ter- 
 rible perfection. History presents no parallel in criminality 
 to the conduct of the two elder daughters of Lear ; and the 
 poet, with unerring instinct in ethics, has extended their hard 
 and cruel undutifulness towards their husbands, as well as 
 their parent. In this part of their conduct will again be 
 recognised that " harmony " in the poet's mind, heretofore so 
 frequently referred to. Children who could leave a fond and 
 too indulgent father to perish, would scarcely be faithful and 
 affectionate to those with whom they had formed a merely 
 civil compact — an alliance for convenience, if not for interest. 
 We therefore find them plotting against each other, and 
 against the lives of their husbands, in order that they may 
 riot in criminal intimacy with the bastard Edmund. 
 
 Throughout their career of wickedness, we cannot fail to 
 be struck with the tact and feeling of the poet, in toning 
 down the externals of their natures upon those occasions when 
 they are brought into communion and contact with their 
 father. Then we find that their speeches are subdued, and 
 delivered with a certain air of deference, as though the pater- 
 nal authority were not wholly extinct in their minds. The 
 unfilial .deportment bursts forth, and is displayed when he 
 has quitted the scene. Gonneril expostulates with him upon 
 the riotous conduct of his attendants ; but she has previously 
 instructed her steward to neglect, and even insult him. 
 Shakespeare has made the unkindness of Gonneril and Regan 
 to their father to be neuter-passive in its character and action. 
 
17$ Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 Their constraint upon his conduct lashes him into fury, and 
 he scours from one to the other in helpless resentment. 
 
 There is also another point in which the two characters 
 attract attention, and that is in their individuality. It has 
 frequently been observed that there is no distinction or pre- 
 dominance in the cruelty of the two daughters of Lear. They 
 are twins in wickedness, and yet there is a characteristic 
 difference in the mmd-manner of the two women. Gonneril 
 is more towering and haughty in her deportment. She never, 
 for a moment, loses sight of her descent — she never forgets 
 the aristocrat. Her conduct towards her husband is uniformly 
 that of one who has descended from a higher sphere to ally 
 herself with, and to tolerate a husband ; and whom (when she 
 encounters a person more agreeable to her fancy) she plots to 
 assassinate. 
 
 Her corollary of defiance upon being shown her treasonable 
 letter, with her climax of criminality, have been noted. 
 
 Regan is only equal to her sister in undutifulness. Her 
 mind is of a coarser grain. There is a ribald ferocity in her 
 nature which one would suppose it impossible to transcend. 
 When she and Cornwall, her husband, her really " other self," 
 act the frightful scene of tearing out Gloster's eyes, Regan's 
 behaviour and language bear the character of a butcher in a 
 slaughter-house, jesting at the resistance and contortions of 
 his tethered victim. They are choice illustrations of cruelty 
 by nature. — 
 
 Turn we from this "smell of the sin," to that gracious 
 emanation of all that is gentle, and constant, and cheerful, 
 and true— the Fool ; certainly the one of all Shakespeare's, 
 or of any other dramatist's, Fools with whom we have the 
 most sympathy. In the character of this most illustrious 
 creation we recognise a tender, fondling nature,— a passive 
 dependence on, and attachment to his old master,— an active 
 affection for Cordelia, when she is expelled by her father, 
 
King Lear. i77 
 
 his sorrow taking the character of sickness. This — with the 
 exception of a line indicating Lear's care for the lad — is the 
 first we hear of him ; and an exquisite thought to adopt such 
 a course for the means of begetting an interest in his character 
 with the reader. 
 
 It is in the 4th scene of the ist Act, when the king begins 
 to be disturbed at the waning duty and incipient disrespect 
 of his daughter Gonneril's servants. He repeatedly calls for 
 his fool, that he may divert the current of his thoughts. He 
 says, " I have perceived a most faint neglect of late ; which 
 I have rather blamed as mine own jealous curiosity, than as 
 a very pretence and purpose of unkindness, — I will look 
 farther into it. But where 's my fool } I have not seen him 
 this two days." His attendant knight answers, " Since my 
 lady 's going into France, sir, the fool hath much pined away." 
 " No more of that ; I have noted it well." And after, 
 through all his melancholy wanderings, his thought for and 
 care of the Fool are both gentle and constant. In the crowd 
 of all his vehement reproaches, and explosions of rage and 
 invective, he constantly turns with affecting tenderness to 
 provide for his faithful companion. The unkindness of his 
 daughters, the bitter fruits of misplaced confidence, the un- 
 pitying elements, — all cannot quench this spark of love in the 
 corner of his old heart. In the midst of the storm, when the 
 hovel is pointed out to him, his first thought is for the Fool. 
 
 " My wits begin to turn. — 
 Come on, my boy : how dost, my boy ? Art cold ? 
 I am cold myself — Where is this straw, my fellow 'i 
 The art of our necessities is strange. 
 That can make vile things precious." 
 
 And then, in the depth of his misery, and in the rage of the 
 storm, he turns from his own sufferings to think of his Fool : — 
 
 " Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart 
 That 's sorry yet for thee." 
 
 M 
 
1 7 8 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 — " Knave " is of Saxon origin, and signifies neither more nor 
 less than " boy." In Chaucer's story of " Griselda," she gives 
 birth to a "knave child." The constancy of attachment 
 between the two opposite natures of Lear and his Fool is 
 one of the most masterly, as well as beautiful creations that 
 ever entered the mind of any poet. At one time of their 
 companionship the Fool is alone with him. In the opening 
 scene of the storm on the heath, Kent asks of a Gentleman, 
 " Where is the king 1 " who replies : — 
 
 " Contending with the fretful elements ; 
 Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, 
 Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main. 
 That things might change or cease ; tears his white hair, 
 Which th' impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage. 
 Catch in their fury, and make nothing of ; 
 Strives in his little world of man to outscorn 
 The to-and-fro conflicting wind and rain. 
 This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch. 
 The lion and the belly-pinchfed wolf 
 Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, 
 And bids what will take all. 
 
 " Kent. But who is with him ? 
 
 " Gent. None but the fool ; who labours to out-jest 
 His heart-struck injuries." 
 
 And this is the strong point in his character ; all his facul- 
 ties are strained to cheer and divert his master. He never 
 gives way: and here again we recognise Shakespeare's ap- 
 plication of the " sweet uses of cheerfulness in adversity ; " 
 and which, not only keeps alive, but constantly brings out 
 the kindly qualities of the king's heart. 
 
 It is, perhaps, the most masterful combination of the 
 humorous and the pathetic that ever poet achieved. The 
 character itself contains a singular union of the two ; and its 
 position in the tragedy affords as wonderful a concomitant 
 source of the two emotions. The Fool's own struggles be- 
 
King Lear. 1 79 
 
 tween his hearfs sadness and his duty's jesting, form one 
 powerful self-contrast; and the way in which Shakespeare 
 has used this humour of the Fool, as a forcible heightening 
 of the mournful and the tragic in the play, forms another. 
 There is an admirable poetic harmony in the jarring of the 
 Fool's words against the old king's words, with the tumult 
 of the elements, and the fearful moral discord that reigns 
 through all. No one but so great a genius as Shakespeare 
 would have dared to place the grotesque levity of the Fool's 
 expressions against the sublime of Lear's passion. He knew 
 that they only served to render more terrible that storm of 
 grief in appeal, with their affecting attempts at pleasantry 
 in the midst of distress. Their very licence makes them only 
 the more startling in their effect of forced mirth, as the poor 
 Fool " labours to out-jest " his master's " heart-struck in- 
 juries." The mingled humour and pathos in the Fool's 
 speeches, with their effect upon the reader's mind, recall that 
 exquisite sentiment of Bacon's, where he speaks of alternated 
 impression. He says : — " Is not the precept of a musician, 
 to fall from a discord or harsh accord upon a concord or 
 sweet accord, alike true in affection .■' Is not the trope of 
 music to avoid or slide from the close or cadence, common 
 with the trope of rhetoric in deceiving expectation .' Is not 
 the delight of the quavering upon a stop in music, the same 
 with the playing of light upon the water } " Thus with the 
 Fool in Lear ; our sympathies are no sooner attuned to the 
 key-note of affectionate tenderness in the lad's character, by 
 hearing just before his first entrance, that since Cordelia's 
 "going into France the fool hath much pined away," than 
 we see him come in with a playful manner, assumed to hide 
 his concern from his old master ; and from that time to the 
 close, maintaining a constant endeavour by sportive words to 
 veil his profound interest in all that takes place. How well, 
 for instance, does the sorrow with which he beholds Lear's 
 
i8o Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 paternal blindness betray itself beneath those apparently 
 careless words : — 
 
 " Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell ? 
 
 '^ Lear. No. 
 
 " Fool. Nor can I neither : but I can tell why a snail has 
 a house. 
 
 "Lear. Why.? 
 
 " Fool. Why, to put his head in ; not to give it away to his 
 daughters, and leave his horns without a case." 
 
 At another time he says : — 
 
 " Pr'ythee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy 
 fool to lie ; I would fain learn to lie. 
 
 " Lear. If you lie, sirrah, we '11 have you whipped. 
 
 " Fool. I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are : 
 they '11 have me whipped for speaking true ; thou 'It have me 
 whipped for lying ; and sometimes I 'm whipped for holding 
 my peace. I had rather be any kind o' thing than a fool : 
 and yet I would not be thee, nuncle : thou hast pared thy 
 wit o' both sides, and left nothing i' the middle." 
 
 Again, when Lear resents his daughter Gonneril's demean- 
 our toward him : " How now, daughter ! Methinks you are 
 of late too much i' the frown;" the Fool says, "Thou wast 
 a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to care for her 
 frowning ; — Now thou art an O, without a figure. I am better 
 than thou art now. I am a fool, — thou art nothing." 
 
 The bitter meaning couched in that very witty sentence is 
 farther confirmed in an after one he makes, still more preg- 
 nant of significance ; " He that has a house to put his head 
 in, has a good head-piece." Well may -Kent exclaim : — 
 " This is not altogether fool, my lord." No, he was a fool of 
 Shakespeare's generating. 
 
 It is the fidelity arid attachment of the Fool that beget 
 the respect and kindly consideration of Kent, who includes 
 
King Lear. i8i 
 
 him when preparing to bear the king under shelter. He 
 says : — 
 
 " Oppressed nature sleeps. 
 * * » * 
 
 [TV the Foor\ Come, help to bear thy master ; 
 Thou must not stay behind." 
 
 This, again, is one of those supernumerary, but inestimable 
 touches which the poet is constantly throwing in, to give 
 force to character ; — hints and byeplays of action, telling 
 more than meets the ear ; and showing also that he forgot 
 nothing. 
 
 The next in the list of the contrasted characters is Kent 
 the good, the mediator, the peace-maker. Kent is the per- 
 sonification of a brave, uncompromising, all-enduring friend- 
 ship. What in almost any other writer would appear like 
 a crude melo-drame friendship, by the force of genius, assumes 
 the air of a perfectly natural course of action. We are sur- 
 prised at no sacrifice on the part of Kent in behalf of his 
 master : we feel that he would have gone to his death to have 
 rescued him from his miseries ; and this, not from a blind, 
 serf-like obedience ; for Kent is a reasoning man, and in the 
 day of Lear's power is the only one who stands between him 
 and his perversity, and endeavours to protect him against 
 himself The blunt, rough-speaking of many honest friends 
 is not altogether free from an impertinent conceit of superi- 
 ority that we reluctantly resent : in Kent it is the manifes- 
 tation of disinterested love and fidelity ; with a sense to fore- 
 see the consequences of the king's headlong career, and 
 the power to rescue him from its consequences : and this he 
 would have done with as little ceremony of speech as he 
 would in act, had his master been about to cast himself into 
 a torrent. The future promise of the man is indicated in his 
 first speech. He attempts to mitigate the fury of Lear 
 against his daughter, Cordelia : — 
 
1 8 2 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 " Good, my liege, — 
 
 "Lear. Peace, Kent! 
 
 Come not between the dragon and his wrath. 
 I lov'd her most, and thought to set my rest 
 On her kind nursery." 
 With this, he portions out his kingdom ; and Kent again 
 deprecates, and protests : — 
 
 " Royal Lear ! 
 Whom I have ever honour'd as my king, 
 Lov'd as my father, as my master foUow'd, 
 As my great patron thought on in my prayers, — 
 
 "Lear. The bow is bent and drawn, make from the shaft." 
 
 Then follows the noblest vindication of the true principles of 
 friendship that ever was uttered in the same compass of 
 speech : — 
 
 " Kent. Let it fall rather, though the fork invade 
 The region of my heart : be Kent unmannerly 
 When Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, old man .' 
 Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak. 
 When power to flattery bows .' To plainness honour 's 
 
 bound. 
 When majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom ; 
 And, in thy best consideration, check 
 This hideous rashness ; answer my life my judgment. 
 Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least ; 
 Nor are those empty-hearted, whose low sound 
 Reverbs no hollowness. 
 
 "Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more. 
 
 " Kent. My life I never held but as a pawn 
 To wage against thine enemies ; nor fear to lose it. 
 Thy safety being the motive. 
 
 " Lear. Out of my sight ! 
 
 " Kent. See better, Lear ; andlet me still remain 
 The true blank of thine eye." 
 
 No speech can surpass this in magnanimity — the grandest 
 magnanimity — that of self-subjugation and depreciation, with 
 disinterested loyalty and devotedness. 
 
King Lear. 1 8 
 
 o 
 
 In this first -act of his career he has vindicated his title to 
 an unflinching friend ; and at every stage his character 
 dilates, and strengthens with the motive for exertion. So 
 large a promise in the outset, required no common sequences 
 of devotion ; we therefore find him, after the king's sentence 
 of banishment against him, returning in disguise to watch 
 over and serve his old friend. And here may be remarked 
 the judgment of the poet, in causing him to adopt a blunt, 
 plain-speaking character when he assumes the semblance of 
 a serving-man, as the one most easily to be supported, 
 from its giving scope to the habit of command, and ease, that 
 are native to his real rank and station. The quaint char- 
 acter he gives himself when he comes to be hired by the 
 king :— 
 
 " I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious tale in 
 telling it, and deliver a plain message bluntly ; that which 
 ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in, and the best of me 
 is diligence." 
 
 This honesty of manner naturally attracts Lear ; who, with 
 that instinct which has been remarked in monarchs, judges at 
 once of his character, and in answer to Kent's reply respecting 
 his own age, (" Not so young, sir, to love a woman for sing- 
 ing ; nor so old as to dote on her for anything,") Lear says, 
 " Follow, me ; thou shalt serve me : if I like thee no worse 
 after dinner, I will not part from thee yet." 
 
 Shortly after this, his active service begins ; and we find 
 him sharing with his master the brunt of his unparallelled 
 reverses ; watching over him with a care and tenderness 
 almost womanly ; constantly and actively alive to the inter- 
 ests of the absent Cordelia ; fiercely resenting any indignity 
 offered to those he loves, (as witness the rough handling 
 with which he salutes the steward ;) the constant cheerfulness 
 of his temper, most prominent when subjected to indignities 
 for his master's sake, — and the gravest men in the conscious 
 
1 8 4 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 exercise of kindness are always cheerful. While sitting in 
 the stocks, — a punishment applied to brawling drunkards, — 
 Gloster sympathises with, and says he will entreat for him ; 
 but he replies — 
 
 " Pray do not, sir ; — I have watch'd and travell'd hard ; 
 Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I '11 whistle. 
 A good man's fortune may grow out at heels." 
 
 And as the old king's career draws to a close, his pathetic 
 endeavour, during a lucid interval, to make himself known to 
 him ; and when dead, his wise and humane appeal to those 
 who would detain him from his last long sleep — 
 
 " Vex not his ghost : — O let him pass ! he hates him, 
 That would upon the rack of this tough world 
 Stretch him out longer ; " — 
 
 a complete answer in itself to the presumption of that man, 
 Tate, whose unhallowed ignorance converted this sublime 
 effort of passion, endurance, and poetical justice consum- 
 mated, into the vulgar finale of a holiday tale : — " And so, 
 they were all married, and lived very happy afterwards." 
 But, as Charles Lamb, in that fine Essay upon the Tra- 
 gedies of Shakespeare, has said: — "As if the childish plea- 
 sure of getting his gilt robes and sceptre again, could tempt 
 Lear to act over again his misused station ; as if, at his 
 years, and with his experience, anything were left but to die." 
 To which might be added : as if, at his years, Lear could 
 become another man ; as if he could become unwilful, and 
 even pliable. Theatrical enormities enough have, indeed, 
 been perpetrated, but no one sacrilege has ever yet equalled 
 Tate's mutilation of the tragedy of "King Lear." And 
 Garrick, of whom some acute critic said, that he possessed " a 
 kindred mind with Shakespeare,'' not only seconded, but con- 
 
King Lear. 185 
 
 firmed, the new version, by performing it. It were charitable 
 to hope that Garrick had never read the original text of 
 Lear ; for if he had, it would make his acquiescence in 
 Tate's profanation the more contemptible. A " kindred 
 mind !" Heaven help us ! In its incongruity, one is re- 
 minded of William Cobbett's powerful, and as coarse reply, 
 when some one had boasted of being a friend of the excellent 
 old Major Cartwright. " That man," said Cobbett, "call him- 
 self a 'friend' of Major Cartwright ! Why, a bug may as well 
 call itself a man's bedfellow." 
 
 It has so frequently formed the subject of observation and 
 comment, that I will simply allude to, and so dismiss it; — I 
 mean, that no discriminative development of character in the 
 drama of "King Lear" appears more clearly distinguished 
 and defined, than in that of the feigned madness of Edgar, 
 and the real mania of Lear. The speeches of Edgar are 
 quaintly fantastical ; mere strings of incongruous images, and 
 no more ; void of reason, as they should be, but full of inten- 
 tion. They have the fault, which they should have, and which 
 feigning maniacs uniformly commit, that of extravagant non- 
 sense. Those of Lear, on the other hand, are mingled with 
 flights of fancy, .uncontrolled imagination, and sudden acute 
 sarcasms, familiar to all who have been acquainted with the 
 victims of that awful malady. As Polonius says of Hamlet, 
 " How pregnant sometimes his replies are ! A happiness that 
 often madness hits on which reason and sanity could not so 
 prosperously be delivered of." It is noticeable, too, that 
 Shakespeare has not unfrequently given to Lear that strange 
 mixture of cunning, and love of stratagem, with irrationality 
 in the contrivance, so remarkable in insane people. For 
 instance ; " I will have a troop of horse shod with felt, and 
 steal upon them unawares, and kill, kill, kill !" 
 
 It is observable, that the first indication which Lear gives 
 of his madness having become palpable — and an affecting 
 
i86 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 indication it is — is when Edgar enters disguised as the " Tom 
 of Bedlam." He says, ''Didst thou give all to thy two 
 daughters? And art thou come to this?" Kent rephes, 
 " He hath no daughters, sir." "Death, traitor ! nothing could 
 have subdued nature to such a lowness but his unkind 
 daughters." And what a stroke of pathos in the speech that 
 Edgar makes {aside) upon encountering the forlorn wreck of 
 the poor old man's mind :— " My tears begin to take his part 
 so much, they '11 mar my counterfeiting." 
 
 In the character of the steward to Queen Gonneril, Shake- 
 speare has given an impersonation of blind feudal attachment. 
 He is the reverse of Kent. He, from the mere servility of 
 slavish obedience, would perpetrate any enormity of vice or 
 of good service with the implicit punctuality and passiveness 
 of a machine. It is no question with him whether an act be 
 just or unjust, merciful or cruel. Kent speaks of him to this 
 effect when he indignantly describes him as one of those who 
 " turn their halcyon beaks with every gale and vary of their 
 masters ; knowing naught, like dogs, but following." He is, 
 in short, a serf, and carries out the will of his mistress, as an 
 axe obeys the hand of an executioner. The spirit of active 
 and passive fidelity was never more aptly contrasted than in 
 the two characters of Kent and Oswald the steward. The 
 whole world would not stand between Kent and his zeal to 
 serve his friend ; and he has given proof that the whole world 
 would not bring him to commit an unjust act, or to approve 
 of it. The steward goes to his death in the service of his 
 mistress, and with his dying breath entreats Edgar, who has 
 killed him, to deliver the treasonable letter, upon his person, 
 from Gonneril to Edmund. He is accurately the character 
 that Edgar gives him : " A serviceable villain, as dexterous to 
 the vices of his mistress as badness would desire." 
 
 Among the mistakes that Dr Johnson has made in com- 
 menting upon Shakespeare, may, I conceive, be included his 
 
King Lear. 187 
 
 summary of the character of the steward. He deems it incon- 
 sistent in the poet to give to this man, whom he styles " a 
 mere factor of wickedness," so much " fidehty." As if 
 " fidelity" were the accident of his character, and "wicked- 
 ness" the basis; whereas, it is his serf-like fidelity to his 
 mistress which is his leading characteristic, and which, in fact, 
 is the cause of, and produces his evil deeds ; they being 
 merely her promptings or commands carried into action. The 
 poor wretch is base enough in all conscience, but it is the 
 baseness of servility and dogged servitude. His very reply 
 to Lear, which gives the old man so much offence, is the epi- 
 tome of his whole world of action : — 
 
 \Enter Steward^ 
 " Lear. O, you, sir, you ; come you hither, sir. Who am I, 
 sir } 
 
 " Stew. My lady's father." 
 
 He at once carries out the intention of his mistress, in strip- 
 ping him ef all quality but that of being the simple pro- 
 genitor of Queen Gonneril, who has just before instructed 
 him as to the bearing she wishes him to observe towards her 
 father : — 
 
 " If you come slack of former services. 
 You shall do well ; the fault of it I '11 answer. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Put on what weary negligence you please. 
 
 You and your fellows; I 'd have it come to question : 
 
 If he distaste it, let him to my sister, 
 
 Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one. 
 
 Not to be overruled." 
 
 Another feature in this play, worthy of attention : a reite- 
 rated confirmation of the poet's watchfulness in maintaining 
 the extrinsic properties as regards the condition and quality 
 of the subordinate members of the dramatis personce, — in other 
 
1 8 8 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 words, the principle of "harmony." The plot, and prime 
 agents in it, being all eminently aristocratic, the same high 
 tone of rank and civility is preserved throughout. There is 
 Curan, a courtier, introduced merely for the purpose of dis- 
 playing the retinue, and to ask the question of Edmund, 
 whether he has heard of no " likely wars toward, 'twixt the 
 Dukes of Cornwall and Albany." Then we have the attend- 
 ant and messenger between Kent and Cordelia, who is styled 
 " A gentleman." His description of her receiving the intelli- 
 gence of the old king's ill treatment, and that of his houseless 
 condition in the storm, have been already quoted. What 
 little we have of this character is developed with exquisite 
 taste and gentleness. His general bearing and fulfilment of 
 his mission, perfectly harmonise with the nature of his calling, 
 and the sphere in which he moves. The rich eloquence put 
 into his mouth is at once consistent with his station, and it 
 also displays the prodigality of the poet in investing so unim- 
 portant a character with such language. But no one less 
 than Shakespeare reserved himself to make "points," in 
 technical phrase. What was due to a character, however 
 subordinate, he gave in "imperial measure," regardless, or 
 rather, not fearing to make the inferior diminish the lustre of 
 the superior. He had no trick, but the trick of unsophisti- 
 cated nature, with his own consummate instinct and percep- 
 tion of propriety. Then, we have the " Old Man," who leads 
 in Gloster after his eyes have been put out. He is among 
 the lowest with regard to rank of all the characters, and he 
 has been fourscore years a tenant of the Earl and of his 
 father. He is a first-class yeoman. Even the menial servants 
 in Gloster's establishment sustain the poetical dignity of the 
 story. After Cornwall, with his own hands, has perpetrated 
 the horrid mutilation of the old Earl, by tearing out his eyes ; 
 and Regan, with a ferocious ribaldry, orders him to be turned 
 out of doors, that he may "smell his way to Dover," the 
 
King Lear. 1 89 
 
 servants make the following characteristic reflection upon the 
 scene they have just witnessed : — 
 
 " 2 Serv. I '11 never care what wickedness I do 
 If this man come to good. 
 
 " 3 Serv. If she live long, 
 
 And, in the end, meet the old course of death, 
 Women will all turn monsters. 
 
 " 2 Serv. Let 's follow the old Earl, and get the Bedlam 
 To lead him where he would : his roguish madness 
 Allows itself to anything. 
 
 " 3 Serv. Go thou. I '11 fetch some flax, and whites of 
 eggs, 
 To apply to his bleeding face. Now, Heaven help him!" 
 
 Good domestic surgery that, — ^whites of eggs to stop a 
 bleeding wound. Some authority has said that he could not 
 have chosen a finer immediate remedy. 
 
 The revolting scene of tearing out Gloster's eyes has been 
 protested against by some critics — Coleridge among the 
 number — as being the "tragic urged beyond the uttermost 
 mark and ne plus ultra of the dramatic." I have no more 
 wholesome defence to set up for the poet, than to refer to the 
 period of civilisation in which all the events of the story were 
 transacted ; — a period when mutilation, and even homicide 
 produced not more excitement, than in our day would ensue 
 upon seeing one man knock down another in the street. In 
 all young states of society we recognise a remarkable prodi- 
 gality and contempt of life. Sir Walter Scott, in his Preface 
 to the " Border Minstrelsy," alluding to the outrages in some 
 of the old ballad catastrophes, says that " a murder was not 
 merely a casual circumstance, but in some cases an exceed- 
 ingly good jest.'' It is also worthy of remark, that in all 
 barbarous ages, one of their pet revenges is to punch out the 
 eyes of an adversary. It is one of the mutilating feats of tar^ 
 and-feathering ruffians in America. It is an effectual method 
 
I go Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 of putting a troublesome party in "a fix," to gouge out his eyes. 
 You cut off his resources ; while you yourself keep on the 
 windy side of assassination and murder — ^which is convenient. 
 The "Cutting and Maiming Act" had not passed in the 
 reign of Queen Regan; her husband, therefore, busied himself 
 with the simple question, to extinguish his adversary, without 
 murdering him ; and no plan was so suggestive as that of 
 quenching his sight. 
 
 " Go, seek the traitor Gloster, 
 Pinion him like a thief, bring him before us. 
 
 \Exeunt Servants. 
 Though well we may not pass upon his life 
 Without thefonn of justice, yet our power 
 Shall do a courtesy to our wrath, which me?t 
 May blame, but not control." 
 
 The incorporation of the story of Gloster and his sons upon 
 the old legend of King Lear has also met with its censurers 
 upon the ground that the " unity " — that preposterous bug- 
 a-bo, the " unity " — of the action has thereby been compro- 
 mised : but one of the good commentators upon our poet — 
 the German critic, Schlegel — appears to have satisfactorily 
 annulled the objection. He says : — 
 
 "Whatever contributes to the intrigue, or unravelment, 
 must always possess unity. And with what ingenuity and 
 skill the two main parts of the composition are dovetailed 
 into one another ! The pity felt by Gloster for the fate of 
 Lear becomes the means which enables his son Edmund to 
 effect his complete destruction, and affords the outcast Edgar 
 an opportunity of being the saviour of his father. On the 
 other hand, Edmund is active in the cause of Regan and 
 Gonneril ; and the criminal passion which they both entertain 
 for him, induces them to execute justice on each other, — and 
 on themselves. The laws of the drama have therefore been 
 sufficiently complied with ; but that is the least : it is the 
 
King Lear. 191 
 
 very combination which constitutes the sublime beauty of 
 the work." 
 
 But, after all, bring the question to the test of feeling, — 
 a criterion worth a folio of argument upon the unities : Who 
 would forego the coadjutor story of Gloster and his sons, in 
 order to fulfil the tyranny of a conventional code in criticism ? 
 And what would be the condition of the original plot without 
 its powerful, and even indispensable alliance ? 
 
VIII. 
 
 N 
 
VIII. 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 If any proof were wanting to convince us of Shakespeare's 
 " sweetness of nature," and his tenderness of conscience in 
 asserting the laws of moral and poetical justice, we need only 
 turn to and note the principle of retribution he has carried 
 out in the person of every agent in the comedy of " Twelfth 
 Night." 
 
 With the serious and sentimental lovers, their web of life 
 is one ravelled yarn — a perpetual check — a system of cross- 
 stitch, (like a perplexing dream,) ending, nevertheless, in a 
 bright and golden tissue of priceless joy. These are the prin- 
 cipal, and almost sole conductors of the plot ; and these, 
 therefore, I shall dismiss very cursorily, with simply referring 
 to those scenes which they occupy, for some of the most 
 exquisite imagery, impassioned protestation, and chivalrous 
 ardour (verging, mayhap, upon the fantastic) to be fotind in 
 the whole range of the poet's wonderful stories of human life. 
 
 " It is impossible," as Mr Knight has truly observed, " for 
 one of ordinary sensibility to read through the ist Act of this 
 play without yielding himself up to the genial temper in 
 which the whole is written." We may, indeed, say that the 
 "sunshine of the breast" spreads its purple light over the 
 
ig6 ShakespearerCharacters. 
 
 whole champaign, and penetrates into every thicket and dingle. 
 From the very first line to the last, — from the Duke's, " That 
 strain again, it had a dying fall," to the Clown's song, "With 
 hey-ho, the wind and the rain," — there is not a thought or a 
 , situation that is not calculated to call forth pleasurable feel- 
 ings. The love-melancholy of the Duke is a luxurious aban- 
 donment to one pervading impression ; not a fierce and hope- 
 less contest with one over-mastering passion. It delights to 
 lie "canopied with bowers;" to listen to "old and antique 
 songs," which dally with its innocence; to be " full of shapes" 
 and " high fantastical." The love of Viola is the sweetest and 
 tenderest emotion that -ever informed the heart of the purest 
 and the most graceful of beings, with a spirit almost divine. 
 Perhaps in the whole range of Shakespeare's poetry there is 
 nothing which comes more unbidden into the mind, and always 
 in connexion with some image of the ethereal beauty of the 
 utterer, than Viola's celebrated speech to the Duke in her 
 assumed garb of the page, having hired herself into his ser- 
 vice : " She never told her love," &c., [Act ii., sc. 4.) 
 
 Viola's disguise, by the way, in the habit of page to the 
 Duke, and the involution and perplexity in the plot, occa- 
 sioned by her strong resemblance to her brother Sebastian, 
 although conducted in the most delightful manner, and with 
 the most artist-like ingenuity, nevertheless requires the im- 
 plicit faith of childhood to receive without a misgiving of 
 belief But he who reads Shakespeare in the true spirit, 
 reads him with kindred simpHcity of heart, blended, or rather 
 powerfully impregnated, with a relish for the romance of hfe, 
 combined with the profoundest of all sciences — the philosophy 
 of human action. The characters thus lightly glanced at, 
 with that of the Countess Olivia, Sebastian, Viola's brother, 
 and Antonio the sea-captain, comprise the serious agents in 
 the play. 
 
 No one but Shakespeare, with his reverence for what is 
 
Twelfth Night. ' 197 
 
 di;e to real refinement in the female character, could have 
 redeemed Olivia from the charge of violating the principles of 
 delicacy inherent in women ; fdr, instead of being the retiring 
 and attracting, she is the seeking party. The love of Olivia, 
 however, wilful as it is, is in no one instance masculine in 
 character or repulsive in manner. So strictly does she main- 
 tain the proprieties of her sex, that our sympathies constantly 
 accompany her perplexities, and we rejoice in her ultimate 
 happiness. 
 
 In the position of Olivia, as a countess in her own right," 
 and from her position in the world, (to a certain extent inde- 
 pendent of general opinion,) the poet's course was a compara- 
 tively easy one. Yet, in her case, as in that of Helena, in 
 "All's Well that Ends Well," he has retained the two women 
 from the remotest charge of unfeminity, at the same time that 
 he has demanded, and gained for them, intense sympathy 
 and interest from every worshipper of a true heart-love. 
 
 The character of Sebastian presents no "mark or likeli- 
 hood" for especial notice. He is the " counterfeit present- 
 ment" of his sister in external favour, and no more. Let us 
 hope that he made as kind a partner to the Countess as tbe 
 loving and lovely page, Viola, would have done under similar 
 circumstances. 
 
 Antonio, the sea-captain, is a delightful specimen of that 
 frank, open, and prodigal nature so common in the nautical 
 character — at all events, in the English sailor. His offering 
 Sebastian the use of his purse is done in the best manner -, 
 for it is homely, natural, and without ostentation : — 
 
 " Hold, sir, here's'my purse. 
 In the south suburbs, at the Elephant, 
 Is best to lodge. I will bespeak our diet, 
 Whiles you beguile the time, and feed your knowledge, 
 With viewing of the town : there shall you ha^,e me. 
 " Seb. Why I your purse ? 
 
igS Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 "Ant. Haply your eye shall light upon some toy 
 You have desire to purchase ; and your store, 
 I think, is not for idle markets, sir." 
 
 In this short scene (the third of the 3d Act) it is interesting 
 to note how the general character and previous career of the 
 seaman respond to this unaffected proffer of a bounteous 
 loving-kindness. 
 
 The secondary movement, or plot, in the drama, is one 
 round of fun, and hoaxing, and carousing, and mad waggery. 
 There never was, perhaps, a larger store of wit, and humour, 
 and roguish " larking," (unmingled with coarseness or malice,) 
 condensed within the same space of writing ; and a rare choice 
 of materials are brought together for the purpose. 
 
 There is the roaring blade. Sir Toby Belch, and his butt 
 and tool, Sir Andrew Aguecheek ; the former, so complete a 
 John Bull in character and habits, that we wonder how he 
 came to be domiciliated in Illyria, of all places, and to be a 
 kinsman (cousin) of the rich Countess Olivia ; but we need 
 not rigidly scrutinise his genealogy. Her mother we may 
 assume to have been an Englishwoman. 
 
 Then, there is the king of all clowns, a fellow that would 
 leave an atmosphere of fun behind him wherever he had been 
 for one hour ; and of shrewd and worldly sense, too. And 
 Fabian, the servant to the Countess, who possesses wit and 
 spirit enough to accomplish fifty gentlewomen's servants. 
 
 And lastly, that terrible little gadfly— that Robin Good- 
 fellow in petticoats — the waiting-woman, Maria. This phalanx 
 proved formidable odds to bring against the poor pragmatical 
 self-worshipper, Malvolio, the Countess's steward, who draws 
 on himself the mischief of their contrivances by his over-esti- 
 mation of himself, with a too rigid exaction from those rank- 
 ing below him in the household. He keeps no measure in 
 his contempt for them ; and they, in return, (as the vulgar 
 phrase has it,) "pay him out." 
 
Twelfth Night. 199 
 
 There is an inherent propensity in mankind to upset a 
 self-worshipper ; and if he be also a detractor, Heaven have 
 mercy on him, for no mortal will. We notice, however, that 
 all their teazing, notwithstanding the animal spirits exciting 
 and carrying it on, is attended by no malice, no ill-nature, no 
 vulgarity. At the close of the play, when their mistress, 
 Olivia, rebukes them for the extremity to which they had 
 carried their hoax, Fabian apologises for it all : — 
 
 " Good madam, hear me speak : 
 Most freely I confess, myself and Toby 
 Set this device against Malvolio here, 
 Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts 
 We had conceiv'd against him. 
 How with a sportful malice it was follow' d, 
 May rather pluck on laughter than revenge. 
 If that the injuries be justly weigh'd 
 That have on both sides pass'd." 
 
 Of all the subordinate persons in the " Twelfth Night," no 
 one character is more finely conceived and more thoroughly 
 followed out, than that of Maria. She is by nature of the 
 most boisterous spirits, irrepressible, outpouring. Her delight 
 is teazing ; her joy a hoax ; her happiness a good practical 
 jest. Worrying is her element, and she gambols in it, 
 " dolphin-like ; " tormenting is her beatitude on this earth, and 
 she would scarcely desire a new earth, and to live in it, if 
 debarred of her darling joke-inquisition, of which she is grand 
 inquisitor, arch-judiciary, and executioner. She has no female 
 companion, no associate of her own sex but her mistress, and 
 she (the Countess) is a recluse, shutting herself out from 
 society, musing over her brother's death. This circumstance 
 naturally throws one of Maria's temperament into fellowship 
 with the men of the household; and her conduct takes a 
 colour from that association. Her fun is all but masculine ; 
 and yet her gaiety is of the most inspiring kind, but still 
 
2O0 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 perfectly feminine ; so impulsive, so breathlessly eager, so 
 unmisgiving ! No one escapes her ; not one, even, of her 
 hoax-fellows. She rates Sir Toby, and soundly, about his 
 late hours; twitting him with his jollifications, and scofiSng 
 at his gull-companion. Sir Andrew Aguecheek. And when 
 this last enters, she has a tilt at him, jeering, joking, mystify- 
 ing, obfuscating him. 
 
 We next ^ee her, head-over-ears, in a plaguing-bout with 
 the Clown, whom she threatens with her lady's displeasure for 
 sc5me misdemeanour, of which she is curious to discover the 
 secret. But Feste is the only one who is a match for her ; 
 and he brings her two Rolands for her Oliver. He has a 
 secret of her own, and this gives him the whip-hand of her. 
 But she is never content except when plying the teazle upon 
 one hapless pate or other ; and. her talent is unmisgiving and 
 untiring. 
 
 Viola, disguised as the Duke's page, has an interview with 
 Olivia, and Maria hovers about like a gnat, watching her 
 opportunity to have a gird at the youth ; and on the first 
 symptom of her lady dismissing him, she steps forward with 
 an impertinence of alacrity to show him the door. She mani- 
 fests her delight in making him believe that she would gladly 
 shut it in his face. And yet, with all her impudence, there is 
 such a relish of fun, such a gusto of waggery in her, in the 
 midst of all her sauciness, that no one can be angry with her ; 
 no one but the grave self-worshipper, Malvolio, takes offence 
 at her sallies. He has the natural instinct of dislike towards 
 that which threatens to upset his pomposity. To such a man, 
 this grig of a girl, ever on the alert for roguery, sleepless for 
 mischief, on tip-toe for a prank or pert speech, is an absolute 
 abomination. He avoids her as a quicksand, perilous to the 
 stately bark of his dignity ; and he is right. Her vivacity 
 loathes his ponderous sedateness, and she resolves to scuttle 
 it. His own peculiarities furnish her with, the ready means ; 
 
Twelfth Night. 201 
 
 and to one of her disposition, the temptation to use them is 
 irresistible. How like the woman is the language of her 
 relish with which she devises the trick against the steward: — 
 
 " For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him. If I do 
 not gull him into a nay-word, and make him a common recrea- 
 tion, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed. 
 I know I can do it." 
 
 How like the kind of woman is that phrase ! She originates 
 and concocts the letter intended for him ; and when he has 
 fallen into the snare, we have the whole picture of her manner : 
 flitting hither and thither like a bat ; rushing in and out in a 
 breathless ecstasy as her plot thickens and her mischief begins 
 to ferment. She watches her prey, lynx-eyed, unwinking 
 upon him, and yet contriving to possess her fellow-conspira- 
 tors, from time to time, with all the particulars of his behaviour. 
 She is in a perpetual chuckle of merry malice the whole time 
 their trick is being played. Her zest in the game is infectious, 
 and we have caught the taint. At one time she darts in with 
 those immortal words : — 
 
 "If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into 
 stitches, follow me. Yond' gull Malvolio is turned heathen, 
 — a very renegado ; for there is no Christian that means to 
 be saved by believing rightly, .can believe such impossible 
 passages of grossness. He 's in yellow stockings ! 
 
 " Sir To. And cross-gartered .' 
 
 " Mar. Most villainously — like a pedant that keeps a school 
 i' the church. / have dogged him like his murderer. He does 
 obey every point of the letter that I dropped to betray him. 
 He does smile his face into more lines than are in the new map, 
 with the augmentation of the Indies. You haven't seen such 
 g. thino- as 'tis. / can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I 
 know my lady will strike him ; and if she do, he '11 smile, and 
 take 't for a great favour." 
 
 The little toad's hunting and badgering of the poor "gull," 
 (as she calls him,) are performed with a zest, and exquisite 
 
202 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 relish for tormenting, that are perfectly characteristic, and as 
 infectious. The men are noodles to her. Following up the 
 hoax, to the pretence that he is going mad, she says : — 
 
 " Get him to say his prayers. Sir Toby, get him to pray. 
 " Mai. \turning angrily?^ My prayers, minx t 
 " Mar. Oh, Lord ! No, I warrant you, he '11 not hear of 
 godliness." 
 
 And even when Fabian begins to relent, with, "Why, we shall 
 make him mad indeed," her only answer is, "The house will 
 be the quieter." Her hand is constantly in to help any hoax. 
 She zealously joins Toby and Fabian in urging Sir Andrew 
 to challenge Viola, the page. She is like the stormy peterel, 
 and mischief is her element. In her appetite for teazing, she 
 does not even spare her mistress the Countess : — 
 
 " If you will see the fruit of the sport, [that is, the effect 
 of the letter upon Malvolio,] mark his first approach before 
 my lady. He will come to her in yellow stockings, and 'tis a 
 colour she abhors ; and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests ; 
 and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable 
 to her disposition, being addicted to melancholy as she is, that 
 it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt." 
 
 Maria's intimacy with Sir Toby is more than implied two 
 or three times during the play. When the Clown hints his 
 suspicion to her, she says, " Peace, you rogue, no more of 
 that ; here comes my lady." Sir Toby, however, performs 
 the honourable part in the conclusion, and wisely marries her. 
 They were well calculated for each other. Nothing he could 
 do would quell her spirit ; and she would surely comb his 
 head for him. Her little, sprite-like figure is constantly 
 alluded to in the course of the play. Good taste this in the 
 poet, to keep the externals of the feminine character in the 
 mind's eye of the reader ; for a man-statured woman, a 
 horse-godmother, acting in the way that Maria did — hail- 
 
Twelfth Night. 203 
 
 fellow with the men— would be a vision too horrible to con- 
 template. With a strapping Amazon playing the same fan- 
 tastic tricks, there would be no alternative but to call in the 
 whole constabulary force, with the posse comitatus, — the 
 military being in reserve, — and at once, and for ever, put her 
 down. As it is, we feel that we could have been pleased, 
 almost, to have been the object of her mischievous sallies — 
 certainly to have shared in their merriment. But besides 
 inspiring us with this feeling respecting Maria, by letting us 
 know that she is a little creature, Shakespeare has, as is usual, 
 evinced his perception of the natural. Large women, with a 
 feminine instinct of what is graceful and becoming in their 
 sex, seldom indulge in pranks of this character ; whereas little 
 women are instinctively skilled in feats of tormenting ; they 
 are "powerful" at it, because they know, perhaps, that from 
 them it is not wholly unpalatable. Thus, of Maria, we think 
 as of a marmoset, or a mischievous fairy. Viola calls her 
 Olivia's " giant." Sir Toby says, " Good-night, Penthesilea," 
 — Penthesilea being an Amazon, a man-woman. And again, 
 " Here comes the little villain. How now, my nettle of 
 India.?" And lastly, "Here comes the youngest wren of 
 nine :" the wren, the smallest of our European birds ; and 
 the youngest bird in a nest being always the smallest of the 
 brood. 
 
 Sir Andrew Aguecheek is not only the foil of Sir Toby, 
 his butt and his tool, but he is his shadow — his echo. No 
 one, like Shakespeare, has portrayed the conceit of fatuity. 
 Other dramatists have drawn imbecile characters, but they 
 have ordinarily been objects, either revolting from their mental 
 degradation, or so overstrained and buffoon-like in the colour- 
 ing, as to be anomalous and monstrous. Shakespeare always 
 ranges within the worldly experience of us all. There are few 
 persons in commerce with society who cannot, in their own 
 experience, identify a Shallow, a Slender, or an Aguecheek ; 
 
204 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 but then, the wonder is, that although they are all of one 
 family, yet that the characteristic gradations in each should 
 have been retained with such accurate distinctness. Shallow 
 is iterative; he repeats and repeats, from lack of idea and 
 mere love of gabbling. Slender is bashful and conscious, 
 with a glimmering, and but a glimmer, of his own importance. 
 He hovers about the suburbs, and lives in the twilight of 
 intellect. Aguecheek is an unadulterated fool, without even 
 good nature to redeem his folly. He is chiefly imitative in 
 character. He apes Sir Toby, echoing all his phrases. Toby 
 is dictatorial and bullying, and Sir Andrew must mimic him 
 in that, although a coward to his heart's root : and being a 
 coward, there is every chance of his being a boaster ; he 
 therefore announces, that at a bout of fence he has " the back 
 trick, simply, as strong as any man in Illyria." Maria, how- 
 ever, in the opening of the play, tells us of him : — "Besides 
 that he 's a fool," she says, " he 's a great quarreller ; and but 
 that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in 
 quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent he would quickly 
 have the gift of a grave." Toby knows him, and says, " If 
 there be so much blood in his liver as will drown a flea, I will 
 eat the rest of the anatomy." He is fooled into the courage 
 to challenge the page Viola ; and Fabian says, " Oxen and 
 wainropes will not drag them together." He joins in the plot 
 against Malvolio, as a baboon would. He has received no 
 offence from him ; yet, through mere stupidity, and aping of 
 mischief, he would do him harm ; and admirably is the pol- 
 troon character maintained throughout. Maria says of Mal- 
 volio, " Sometimes he 's a kind of Puritan." " Oh ! if I 
 thought that," says Andrew, " I'd beat him like a dog." 
 "What, for being a Puritan.?" Toby answers; " thy exquisite 
 reason, dear knight .' " " I have no exquisite reason for it, but 
 I have reason good enough." The cowardly fool had just 
 sense enough to keep that to himself. The Puritans being a 
 
Twelfth Night. 205 
 
 sulifering class ; and, in doctrine, at all events, preaching the 
 return of " good for evil," Sir Andrew thought he could buffet 
 Malvolio with impunity. How flabby, and ineffectual too, 
 are his outbreaks of indignation ! " 'Slight, I could so beat 
 the rogue!" And again, "Fie on him, Jezebel!" The 
 very misapplication of that term was a happy thought. Then 
 his inane admiration of Viola's phrases : stupidly longing to 
 ape them, completes the consistency of his character. When 
 she, disguised as the Duke's page, says to Olivia, " Most ex- 
 cellent, accomplished lady ! the heavens rain odours on you!" 
 he mutters to himself, "That youth's a rare courtier! 'rain 
 odours ! ' Well ! " Again, she says, " My matter hath no 
 voice, lady ; but to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed 
 ear." He repeats — " ' Odours,' ' pregnant,' and ' vouchsafed.' 
 I'll get them all three ready" — for paying his court to the 
 Lady Olivia. But the full meridian blaze of his folly shines 
 forth when he is mimicking Sir Toby. Throughout the whole 
 play he never originates one single idea ; or scarcely makes 
 one observation which is not suggested to him. Toby says, 
 " Maria is a beagle true bred, and one that adores me ; what 
 o' that. I* " Echo replies, "I was adored once too." The 
 iteration of that word is worth a mint. Again, after the 
 success of Maria's plot against Malvolio, Toby comes roll- 
 ing in : — 
 
 " I could marry this wench for this device. 
 
 " Sir And. So could I, too. 
 
 "Sir To. And ask no other dowry with her but such 
 another jest. 
 
 " Sir And. Nor I neither. 
 
 " Fabian. Here comes my noble gull-catcher. 
 
 " Sir To. Wilt thou set thy foot on my neck .' 
 
 " Sir And. Or on mine either? 
 
 " Sir To. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become 
 thy bond-slave t 
 
 " Sir And. I' faith, or I either f 
 
2o6 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 " Sir To. To the gates of Tartar I '11 follow thee, thou most 
 excellent devil of wit. 
 
 " Sir And. I'll make one too'.' 
 
 With such a fool as this, one feels no repugnance at Toby's 
 making a nose of wax of him ; moreover, he merits all the 
 usage he receives. Fabian says, with a knowing wink, "This 
 is a dear manikin to you. Sir Toby." And he replies, " I 
 have been 'dear' to him, lad, some two thousand strong; or 
 so." None but such a character as Toby, who has a strong 
 spice of Falstaff's roguery as well as waggery, could so pigeon 
 and roast him. 
 
 Feste, the clown in this most delicious play, succeeds 
 Touchstone in especial favour — he is a capital fellow. Blest 
 with the most indomitable cheerfulness, the most elastic and 
 untiring spirits, nothing vexes him ; nothing makes him 
 anxious, or even grave ; not even the threat of his mistress's 
 displeasure ; nay, not hanging itself has any terrors for him. 
 If the Lady Olivia turn him away, he is prepared to rough it 
 in the open air, and consoles himself with the warmth of the 
 season : " Let summer bear it out." If he is to be hanged, 
 why, then, he philosophically reflects, " Many a good hanging 
 prevents a bad marriage." The fact is, he knows he has the 
 fee-simple of his lady-mistress's partiality for his merry 
 " quips and cranks." He hugs himself upon his power over 
 her, in being able to joke away her disapprobation ; for he 
 says, " Well, God give them wisdom that have it ; and those 
 that are fools, let them use their talents." As Olivia appears, 
 he mutters the aspiration, "Wit! an't be thy will, put me 
 into good fooling ! " and he goes on strengthening himself in 
 self-encouragement, saying, " Those wits that think they have 
 thee, do very oft prove fools ; and I, that am sure I lack thee, 
 may pass for a wise man : for what says Quiiiapalus, — 
 ' Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.' " His pleasant foolery, 
 and his cheerful temper together, soon win back his lady's 
 
Twelfth Night. 207 
 
 favour, as he has calculated. She cannot long withstand his 
 playful retorts. At first, we see the half frown with which 
 she says : — 
 
 " Go to ; you are a dry fool ; I '11 no more of you. Besides, 
 you grow dishonest. 
 
 " Clown. Two faults, Madonna, that drink and good counsel 
 will amend. For, give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not 
 dry ; bid the dishonest man mend himself — if he mend, he is 
 no longer dishonest ; if he ca.nnot, let the botcher mend him. 
 Anything that 's mended is but patched. • Virtue that trans- 
 gresses is but patched with sin ; and sin that amends is but 
 patched with virtue. If that this simple syllogism will serve, 
 so ; — if it will not, what remedy .■"' 
 
 Malvolio, who js sick of self-love, is the only person in the 
 play who does not affection the gay and sweet-spirited jester 
 The Duke likes him, welcoming him to his palace, and getting 
 him to sing sweet old songs, that soothe his love-melancholy. 
 There is choice taste and feeling in the modicum of colloquy 
 that ensues between Duke Orsino and cheerful-hearted Feste 
 at the conclusion of his song : — 
 
 " Duke. There 's for thy pains. 
 " Clo. No pains, sir ; I take pleasure in singing, sir. 
 " Duke. I '11 pay thy pleasure, then. 
 
 " Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or 
 other." 
 
 Pithy philosophy that! the philosophy of doing pleasant 
 things for pleasant things' sake. No surer self-contained re- 
 payment. 
 
 Master Feste's humour is strictly and professionally legiti- 
 mate. It spares no one, gentle or simple, chick or child. He 
 has a gird or two at Viola, in her apparent character of 
 Caesario, the Duke's page. When she asks him, " Art not 
 thou the Lady Olivia's fool ?" he replies, thinking (it will be 
 remembered) that Caesario is likely to wed his lady-mistress — 
 
2o8 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 " No, indeed, sir ; the Lady Olivia has no folly. She will 
 keep no fool, sir, till she be married : and fools are as like 
 husbands as pilchards are to herrings — the husbands are 
 the bigger. I am, indeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of 
 words. 
 
 " Vio. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino's. 
 
 " Clo. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun ; 
 it shines everywhere." 
 
 Shakespeare has given to Feste a mechanical skill in music, 
 as well as a "sweet breath" foi» singing. In one scene he 
 brings him in with a tabor. There is a portrait of Dick 
 Tarlton, the actor, and jester to Queen Elizabeth, which 
 represents him with a tabor in his hand. That Feste enters 
 playing, we find from Viola's address : " Save thee, friend, 
 and thy music ; dost thou live by thy tabor ? " Upon which 
 the Clown jokingly answers, " No, sir, I live by the church." 
 Will it be credited that one of the commentators should con- 
 fess that this reply of the Clown's is " not intelligible" to him.' 
 Why, the forlorn owl ! not to see that the humour is of the 
 same character as that which lay in the answer of the wounded 
 man, who, when asked by the surgeon, if he had received his 
 wound " near the vertebrse," said, " No, sir, near the obelisk." 
 
 Fabian, the man-servant, is artistically introduced to assist 
 Maria, and to restrain the impetuosity and rage of Toby and 
 Andrew, while they are all concealed in the garden watching 
 the effect of their plot against Malvolio. He is a blithe young 
 fellow, with sound sense, perfectly comprehending, as we have 
 just seen, the slip-shod honesty of Sir Toby ; and joining as 
 heartily to hoax Sir Andrew, as to " fool Malvolio black and 
 blue." He helps to reconcile us to their usage of the steward, 
 by showing how offensive he has contrived to make himself 
 to the whole household. Fabian, being the most sound-sensed 
 man of the group, is the least bitter against him — Shake- 
 speare's consistency, as usual. But, indeed, a valuable moral 
 is to be drawn from the conduct of Malvolio, and the treat- 
 
Twelfth Night 209 
 
 ment he encountered. He is honest and zealous in his 
 stewardship, and is so far estimable ; and he has his reward 
 in the confidence and favour of his mistress. But his honesty- 
 is bitter, and his zeal is overweening : and being so dragon- 
 like and " virtuous," he would banish all the " cakes and ale" 
 from good fellowship. He is a moral teatotaller, a formalist, 
 a pragmatist, and a self-worshipper. His gravity is that of 
 decorum, of. punctilio ; he is solemn in observance ; sober, 
 sedate, and inflexible in cerenionial. He would suffer ampu- 
 tation of a limb rather than that of a ceremony. He cannot 
 perceive the entertainment of jesting, either spoken or listened 
 to, and marvels that his mistress can tolerate, far more take 
 delight in the sallies of her jester — the fooleries of the fool. 
 He has measureless and -acrid contempt for those who can 
 endure such toys of mirth. He says, " I protest, I take these 
 wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better 
 than the fools' zanies." He is so steeped in, so saturated with 
 the idolatry of decorum, as the one thing needful, that he far 
 outstrips his mistress's injunctions in the control of her house- 
 hold ; and exercises his office with a bitterness of rectitude, 
 even a malignity of precision, that may be resolved into a 
 compounded love of power and love of propriety. Even in 
 such a trifle as the execution of her commission respecting 
 the restoration of the ring to Viola, as the page, he goes far 
 beyond his duty. Olivia simply bids him hasten after the 
 messenger, and return the ring, which she feigns was left with 
 her : but Malvolio, when he overtakes the page, represents 
 his mistress as highly incensed : he exaggerates her message, 
 and flings the ring back. There was no question of throwing 
 it ; but Malvolio says, " Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to 
 her, and her will is, it should be so returned. If it be worth 
 stooping for, there it lies in your eye ; if not, be it his that 
 finds it." All this fluster may have arisen from a horror of 
 the steward, in the idea that his darling formula of "decorum" 
 
2 1 o Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 had been violated in the page's having made an extempore 
 love-declaration to the Lady Olivia. Certain it is, that he 
 nurses his own disdain, while pretending to be the medium of 
 his mistress's displeasure. So also, when interrupting the 
 night-revel of Sir Toby and his co-mates, we feel that he is 
 quite as much venting his ill-temper at the hilarity and the 
 roistering, as that he is conveying her reprobation of their 
 obstreperous merriment. With austere relish of his rebuke, 
 he says : — • 
 
 " My masters, are you mad .' or what are you } Have you 
 no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at 
 this time of night } Do ye make an ale-house of my lady's 
 house, that you squeak out your coziers' catches, without any 
 mitigation or remorse of voice .' Is there no respect of place, 
 persons, nor time, in you t 
 
 " Sir To. We did ' keep time,' sir, in our catches. Sneck up ! 
 
 ' Three merry men we be.' " 
 
 Perfect is this scene and situation ! with the pompous man 
 in authority, surrounded, and bated by the hubbub of the 
 roisterers : they persisting in bawling their wine-songs, as a 
 note of his indignation ; and, in answer to his remonstrances, 
 screaming a chorus. His gravity has no odds against their 
 ungovernable mirth ; his sobriety is fairly upset and smothered 
 in their drunken uproar. He has nothing for it but retreat ; 
 and this he makes in as dignified ill-humour as need be, and 
 a threat into the bargain : " My lady shall know of it, by this 
 hand!" \Exit:\ 
 
 The fact is, Malvolio was intended to represent a member 
 of that class, the main features of whose character betrayed 
 an ostentatious moral vanity. Not satisfied with having ob- 
 tained the privilege to act according to the dictates of their 
 own consciences, and of having confirmed, in their own behalf, 
 the right of private judgment, they proceeded to wrench that 
 
Twelfth Night. 2 1 1 
 
 power to the restraining of all dissentients within their own 
 pinfold. When we consider that these men had begun to 
 influence the legislature to restrict the players in their per- 
 formances ; and that, if they could have instituted a puritani- 
 cal autocracy, every description of dramatic entertainment, 
 every quality of music, psalms only excepted, and they unac- 
 companied, would have been swept from the earth : when 
 these provocations to resentment are considered, it is with no 
 slight pleasure that we turii to the forbearance of our Shake- 
 speare in drawing the character of the overweening Malvolio. 
 He has greatly justified him at the close of the play. With 
 his unswerving sense of even-handed justice and righteous 
 dealing, he will not sufier us to cast away our respect for the 
 solid qualities in the steward's character, whatever encourage- 
 ment he may give to our laughing at his pragmatisms and 
 solemn coxcombry. The last impression he gives us of him 
 is that of respect and sympathy; and this, too, I take to be 
 sound morality, as well as a fresh confirmation of the innate 
 sweetness of the poet's nature. 
 
 The slight and third-rate character of Fabian the servant, 
 contains some of Shakespeare's rich waifs and strays, worthy of 
 the first-rate of any ordinary dramatist. These are the things 
 that suggested the taking for my subject the inferior members 
 of his dramatis personce. There is that fine simile, for instance, 
 at the close of Fabian's speech to Sir Andrew, whom he is 
 rallying and hoaxing for allowing the Duke's page to cut him 
 out in his pretensions to the hand of Olivia. Every line in it 
 contains a figure or a metaphor. He says — 
 
 " She did show favour to the youth in your sight, only to 
 exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire 
 in your heart and brimstone in your liver. You should then 
 have accosted her ; and with some excellent jests, fire-new 
 from the mint, you should have banged the youth into dumb- 
 ness. This was looked for at your hand, and this was baulked : 
 
212 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash off, and 
 you are now sailed into the north of my lad^s opinion, where 
 you will hang like an icicle on a Dutchman's beard." 
 
 In Fabian's mouth, too, occurs one of the instances, out of 
 numbers that might be quoted, of Shakespeare being always 
 up to the high-water mark in any appeal that is made from 
 one character to another. When Sir Toby desires to bring 
 on the duel between Aguecheek and the page, and defers to 
 Fabian whether the latter is not a coward, he replies, with a 
 spice of wit quintessentialised — " A coward ? — a most devout 
 coward, religious in it ! " Fabian, as I said, is the balance- 
 wheel between the other two, to keep them in check, while 
 they are all watching Malvolio during the famous soliloquy 
 and letter-scene in the garden : and to this I refer you, feel- 
 ing persuaded that it will lead (although for the fiftieth time) 
 to the reading and revelling over the whole play. 
 
IX. 
 
 ^nton^ anti Cleopatra* 
 
IX. 
 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 
 
 In these "Characters," Friend Reader, my main object has 
 been to contribute to your intellectual recreation : to consider 
 myself in the light of your "Poetical Remembrancer;" not 
 your teacher, not your pedagogue, but your companion, your 
 brother botanist, culling the simples of beauty, and wisdom, and 
 truth — and this is the highest wisdom — from that rich terrene 
 of anthology, the pages of Shakespeare ; — our Shakespeare — 
 the whole world's Shakespeare. And, indeed, a bare recur- 
 rence to the ample wisdom and bland morality of such a human- 
 ist as Shakespeare, brings with it both recreation and improve- 
 ment ; for what is his mind but a transmission in daguerreotype 
 of the created world, animate and inanimate ? and who that is 
 endowed with the reflective faculty, ever looks that creation 
 in the face without an accompanying thought that brings him 
 into communion with the Author of all that is great, and good, 
 and fair ? — the deep solemnity of the blue firmament, " fretted 
 with gold ;" the restless expanse of ocean ; the green earth, and 
 the mountains bare ; the waving forests ; and the unchartered 
 wind, that " bloweth where it listeth," — all preach to us a lesson 
 of "wisdom" and "beauty," of "truth" and peace, "beyond 
 whate'er was spoken." 
 
2 1 6 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 And he who has told us that we may find " books in the 
 running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything,' 
 does but square his moral code with the grand principle of 
 legislative wisdom promulgated in the book of universal 
 nature ; for there is " good in everything," even in " things , 
 evil;" which, like the "primal curse," may be converted into 
 inestimable blessings : and he who studies the principle of 
 human action in a philosophical spirit, must come to the same 
 conclusion. So with the writings of a genius like Shakespeare ; 
 that man must have a limited or perverted vision, who does 
 not perceive in them a whole Macrocosm — a Great World of 
 human knowledge, in which the principles of Good and Evil 
 are no more confounded than we find them in nature ; and 
 this axiom should be invariably asserted with reference to his 
 moral philosophy — indeed, the main point on which he is to 
 be studied for improvement, as well as recreation ; and I shall 
 have fulfilled my intention if I succeed in impressing this 
 truth, — one not sufficiently recognised by the casual reader 
 of his wonderful productions. 
 
 What a world of associations does not the fancy conjure 
 up, as we enter the precincts of the picturesque career of 
 Antony and Cleopatra ! The mind runs back through the 
 remote vista of scenes and events connected with the theatre 
 and arena on which they ran their wilful and tragical course. 
 Those long pageants and swart dynasties, the Pharaohs, the 
 Ptolemies, and the Sesostrises, with all the drums and tramp- 
 lings of a thousand conquests and depopulations, — kings in 
 their triumphal chariots borne home upon the tide of a con- 
 quered and captive people, — all pass in shadowy, silent review 
 before the mind's eye : and we stretch on in thought to that 
 most strange era, when the young Hebrew redeemed his tribe 
 from the bondage of their hard task-masters, and led them 
 forth to freedom, as on " dry land in the midst of the sea." 
 
Antony and Cleopatra. 2 1 7 
 
 No region of the world is more fruitful in local and historical 
 interest than the country of Egypt : — its monumental mounds 
 and mountain sculptures ; its gigantic and unique architec- 
 ture ; its pyramids, " so doting with age," (as old Fuller 
 quaintly describes them,) that they have forgotten not only 
 the " names' of their founders," but even their intention ; 
 its extraordinary river, which periodically sends forth its 
 great throbbing pulse of vitality over the parched earth ; and 
 lastly, its curious and infant-like picture literature ; — all is 
 mysterious, and all is interesting because of the mystery ; 
 and it is like nothing else in the whole world. 
 
 This was the stage of Cleopatra's voluptuous and reckless 
 career ; and this point in the world's history Shakespeare has 
 touched with his magician's wand, and the characters start 
 into hght, life, and identity. I cannot think that in any one 
 of his historical dramas, he has more grandly conveyed the 
 ideal, with the implicitly accurate in the historical, than in the 
 play now under consideration. 
 
 The historical character of Cleopatra may be briefly 
 summed. She was the grandest coquette that ever lived. 
 Caesars were her fit slaves, for she had imperial powers of 
 captivation. She was a gorgeous personification of female 
 fascination, — of bewitching womanhood in regal magnificence. 
 She used her female graces as enhancements of her queenly 
 state ; and made her power of pleasing, a crown to her royal 
 power. She was born a princess, reigned a queen, won an 
 emperor, swayed a hero, and defeated a conqueror ; while 
 her personal blandishments live, in the imagination of pos- 
 terity, as far outweighing the facts of her fortune. We think 
 of her as the queen of enslavers, more than as queen of 
 Egypt. She stands conspicuous to fancy in might of allure- 
 ment.* 
 
 » As the earnings of the wife are, by law, the property of the husband, I lay 
 claim to this summary of Egypt's queen from the pages of " World-noted Women." 
 
2 1 8 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 She overcame Julius Caesar by placing herself in his power, 
 — thereby trusting to her own, — and relying on his magna- 
 nirtiity and chivalry. She overcame Antony by dictating to 
 him, and then displaying the full panoply of her charms 
 before him. He had summoned her (as Triumvir of Rome 
 — and of the world) to appear before him, and answer certain 
 accusations that had been brought against her. She made so 
 light of his summons, as not to answer one of his letters ; but 
 set forward in her barge (gorgeously furnished beyond all 
 Eastern romance of luxury) to meet him. The whole popula- 
 tion came forth to see her in her state ; while Antony was 
 left totally alone, in the market-place, waiting for her ; — the 
 summoning judge, — the inquirer into her conduct, — left to 
 abide her coming. This was her first advantage over 
 Antony. 
 
 When she had landed, and he had beheld her, and had had 
 an interview, he sent to invite her to supper with him. She 
 returned for answer, (having, at a glance, seen him through 
 and through,) that he would do better to come and sup with 
 her ; and , Plutarch says, " He, to show himself courteous to 
 her on her arrival, was contented to obey her, and went to 
 sup with her; where he found such sumptuous fare, that 
 no tongue can express it." Step the second — his invitation 
 set aside, hers accepted ; and the delinquent, instead of being 
 entertained of the judge, becoming his entertainer. And 
 afterwards, when he did entertain her, she found his feast so 
 gross and soldier-like, that (as the historian continues) "she 
 gave it him finely; and, without fear, taunted him thoroughly." 
 Here was she already installed as rater of his conduct, instead 
 of rendering him an account of hers ; and, in the end, she 
 drew him completely within the spell of her witchery ; — the 
 fact being that she saw, at one review, that her victim was 
 weak in' judgment, and, in every sense, a sensualist; she 
 therefore baited for, and caught her prey. 
 
Antony and Cleopatra. 219 
 
 Cleopatra is said to have been not remarkable for beauty ; 
 but that she had so matchless and inexpressible a charm of 
 face, and that her company and conversation were so sweet, 
 that a man could not possibly but be taken. 
 
 Shakespeare has made her appear, speak, move, breathe, 
 and live again before us : he has caused us to behold her in 
 all that marked individuality, in those minute betrayals of 
 character, which only either personal knowledge or Shake- 
 speare's page enables us to witness. Diversified, yet com- 
 plete ; inconsistent, yet in keeping ; whimsical, yet direct of 
 purpose ; replete with jarring elements, yet in perfect con- 
 sonance with itself In what is said of her, in what is said to 
 her, in what she says of herself, he makes us equally behold 
 the actual woman — Cleopatra — compounded into one gor- 
 geously vivid impersonation. 
 
 To conclude in a dozen words : Cleopatra is enthroned 
 enchantress of the world. She captivated Julius Csesar ; 
 entranced the heart and senses of Mark Antony ; and suc- 
 ceeded in beguiling the wary Octavius. She, of all her sex, 
 in her person gave to the unworthy art of coquetry, a 
 something of magnificent and lustrous in its so potent 
 exercise. Hers was indeed the poetry of coquetry. 
 
 With Plutarch's life of Antony, and with Sir Thomas 
 North's noble translation for his text-book, Shakespeare has 
 availed himself of every dramatic point in the narrative, and 
 invested it with an air of unpremeditated ease and verisimili- 
 tude, that is as enchanting as it is wonderful. All the scenes 
 laid in Egypt, where the regal paramours are engaged, are 
 instinct with the wayward caprice and indecision of the 
 voluptuary, — the very atmosphere is heavy with inertness 
 and indolence. We have the resolute tone, and heroic pro- 
 mise of the old and practised soldier, Antony; with the 
 prostrate thraldom, and imbecile performance of Antony 
 the enervatecf Sybarite. 
 
2 2 o Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 In the full confidence of experience and power, he goes 
 into the sea-fight against Octavius; and while the "Vantage" 
 is in his favour, he 
 
 " Claps on his sea-wing, and like a doting mallard, 
 Leaving the fight in height, flies after ' Cleopatra.' " 
 
 Nothing can be finer than the skill with which the poet has 
 contrived to give us the natural character of Antony in 
 contrast, in order that he might rescue him from the debase- 
 ment into which he had sunk, after he became entangled in 
 the folds of his "serpent of old Nile ; " for Antony was really 
 in heart and compound the noblest and most generous of the 
 Triumvirate who succeeded the greatest man Rome ever saw 
 — the " mightiest Julius." Octavius was cold, calculating, 
 and treacherous : his heart was a stone, and his blood " very 
 snow-broth." Lepidus was merely cruel and sensual, — sen- 
 sual, too, in his cruelty : — he was gross, and brute-like, even 
 in his sanguinary indulgences. Antony had that in his 
 nature which might have turned to a better account. He 
 had prodigious constancy in adversity : Octavius bears testi- 
 mony to his power of endurance in that passage of vigorous 
 diction, where he is contrasting his soldierly accomplishments 
 and constancy in trial, with his prone vassalage to the regal 
 courtezan. Without this testimony, Antony's qualifications 
 to be the hero of a high-swelling tragedy would be question- 
 able ; and here the poet has converted a historical fact into 
 a lofty theme in morality. Antony might have swayed the 
 world had he not been a sensualist and a voluptuary — he 
 might have walked the earth with dominion ; but he dragged 
 a fine nature through the common sewer of licentiousness ; 
 and consequently he' lost the world's, and, what is worse, his 
 own respect. This is the moral read to us ; and this it is to 
 assert the real privilege of the drama, — " to show virtue her 
 own feature, vice her own scorn." 
 
Antony and Cleopatra. 221 
 
 This is the testimony alluded to, put into the mouth of 
 Octavius : — 
 
 " Antony, 
 Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once 
 Wast beaten from Modena, where thou slew'st 
 Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel- 
 Did famine follow ; whom thou fought' st against, 
 Though daintily brought up, with patience more 
 Than savages could suffer : thou didst drink 
 The stale of horses, and the gilded puddle. 
 Which beasts would cough at : thy palate then did deign 
 The roughest berry on the rudest hedge ; 
 Yea, like the stag, when snow the pasture sheets. 
 The barks of trees thou browsedst ; on the Alps, 
 It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh. 
 Which some did die to look on : and all this 
 (It wounds mine honour that I speak it now) 
 Was borne so like a soldier, that thy cheek 
 So mudh as lank'd not." 
 
 It is not the cue to linger upon the character of Antony, 
 farther than to link him with the other characters of the 
 drama. 
 
 The next to him in importance, though not in interest, is 
 Octavius Caesar. The ruling passion in the character of 
 Octavius was the paramount lust of dominion ; but even that 
 never seems to have excited him to enthusiasm. His com- 
 mand over others, and his command over himself, were 
 asserted with the calculated precision and determination of a 
 machine. He was the only one whom Cleopatra could not en- 
 snare. His passionless nature enabled him to withstand even 
 her, who had fascinated and nearly destroyed the great Julius, 
 Octavius is a perfect exemplar of a politician and commander. 
 In various features of his character and career, and, which is 
 curious, even in his aspect, he reminds one of the first Napo- 
 leon Buonaparte. He was the man, of all others, fitted to 
 sway and direct the Roman people at the critical juncture of 
 
2 2 2 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 their running into faction upon the assassination of Julius 
 Caesar. Like Napoleon, too, he skilfully released himself from 
 the coalition of the Triumvirate, and made himself perpetual^ 
 dictator, and then emperor. Again, like Napoleon, under the 
 ostentation of liberty, he was a selfish, imperious, and unrelent- 
 ing tyrant, because (like a pattern politician) he had not one 
 spark of feeling unconnected with his own individual and per- 
 sonal ambition and advantage ; no sympathy but for vulgar 
 glory, as centring in, and emanating from himself And 
 lastly, like Napoleon, he knew the value of being beforehand 
 with an enemy. Canidius, one of Antony's officers, say.s, 
 " This speed of Caesar's carries beyond belief;" and a soldier 
 adds — 
 
 "While he was yet in Rome, 
 His power went out in such distractions as 
 Beguil'd all spies." 
 
 He took by surprise even the veteran Antony, who says — 
 
 " Is it not strange, Canidius, 
 That from Tarentum and Brundusium 
 He could so quickly cut the Ionian sea. 
 And take in Toryne .'"' 
 
 Cleopatra answers with a sneer, '.' Celerity is never more 
 admired than by the negligent." The laboured consistency, 
 and the accuracy with which Shakespeare has borne out the 
 historical character of Octavius, might be discussed and con- 
 firmed at considerable length. The cool and artful manner 
 in which he assumes the sole command, is, in itself, as remark- 
 able as it is consistent. To Lepidus, who is his equal in the 
 ' dictatorship, he says — 
 
 " Assemble me immediate council ; Pompey 
 Thrives in our idleness." 
 
 In the celebrated scene, too, of recrimination and exculpa- 
 tion between himself and Antony, his language and manner 
 
Antony and Cleopatra. 223 
 
 are ably contrasted with those of his compeer, which are frank, 
 open, and generous ; Octavius constantly keeping in the fore- 
 ground of the conference that he has been compromised by 
 the others' negligences — not the Triumvirate — not the Com- 
 monwealth, but he, Octavius, dictator in futuro. The scene 
 is the second of the 2d Act. Throughout he shows himself 
 to be the better, because the cooler politician ; but Antony is 
 the man in whom a vanquished enemy would confide. Shake- 
 speare never once loses sight of this calculating spirit in Oc- 
 tavius. In the last Act, when he desires to obtain possession 
 of the person of Cleopatra, (he had created a jealousy and 
 division between her and Antony,) in order that he might 
 make a show of her in his triumphal return to Rome, he 
 says — 
 
 " Come hither, Proculeius. Go and say. 
 We purpose her no shame : give her what comforts 
 The quality of her passion shall require ; 
 Lest in her greatness, by some mortal stroke 
 She do defeat us ; for her life in Rome 
 Would be eternal in our triumph." 
 
 The nearest approach that Octavius makes to a demon- 
 strative enthusiasm is when the news is brought in of Antony's 
 death ; and very grand it is. He says — 
 
 " The breaking of so great a thing should make 
 A greater crack : the round world 
 Should have shook lions into civil streets. 
 And citizens to their dens. The death of Antony 
 Is not a single doom ; in the name lay 
 A moiety of the world." 
 
 There is a prejudice that your cold and calculating men are 
 mainly fortunate in enterprises of chance ; the fact being, 
 that as success is the attendant upon deliberation, with skill 
 and method, we are apt to associate " luck," as it is called, 
 with the prudent man ; because failure with him is the excep- 
 
224 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 tion. Even upon this point, therefore, Shakespeare has given 
 to the career of Octavius the air of a charmed fortune. 
 Antony's soothsayer dissuades him from remaining in the 
 same sphere of action with Octavius, giving his reason for the 
 advice : — 
 
 " Thy demon — that 's thy spirit which keeps thee — is 
 
 Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable. 
 
 Where Caesar's is not ; but, near him, thy angel 
 
 Becomes a fear, as being o'erpower'd : therefore 
 
 Make space enough between you. 
 
 * ***** 
 
 If thou dost play with him at any game. 
 Thou art sure to lose ; and of that natural luck 
 He beats thee 'gainst the odds : thy lustre thickens 
 When he shines by : I say again, thy spirit 
 Is all afraid to govern thee, near him ; 
 But he away, 'tis noble.'' 
 
 Here, the superstition of the Pagan mythology is artfully 
 blended with the experience of this observer of human 
 nature ; — the man of impulse being always at a disadvantage 
 with the passionless man of talent. When the soothsayer has 
 left him, Antony confirms his judgment ; and says — 
 
 " Be it art, or hap, 
 He hath spoken true ; the very dice obey him ; 
 ■ And in our sports, my better cunning faints 
 Under his chance : if we draw lots, he speeds ; 
 His cocks do win the battle still of mine, 
 When it is' all to naught ; and his quails ever 
 Beat mine, inhoop'd, at odds." 
 
 Certain it is, that all men are more or less influenced by 
 luck. The celebrated Edmund Burke lays it down as a 
 sine qud, non, that one qualification to constitute a pros- 
 perous commander is, that he should be lucky, and have the 
 reputation for being so. 
 
Antony and Cleopatra. 225 
 
 There is little to be added to what has been . already said 
 respecting the character of the third triumvir, Lepidus. 
 He is the pottering peace-maker between his coadjutors, 
 Octavius and Antony. Before their meeting, he says to the 
 friend of Antony : — 
 
 " Good Enobarbus, 'tis a worthy deed, 
 And shall become you well, to entreat your captain 
 To soft and gentle speech. 
 
 " Eno. I shall entreat him 
 
 To answer like himself : if Caesar move him, 
 Let Antony look over Caesar's head. 
 And speak as loud as Mars. By Jupiter, 
 Were I the wearer of Antonius' beard 
 I would not shave 't to-day. 
 
 " Lep. 'Tis not a time 
 
 For private stomaching. 
 
 " Eno. Every time 
 
 Serves for the matter that is then born in 't. 
 
 " Lep. The small to greater matters must give way. 
 
 " Eno. Not if the small come first. 
 
 " Lep. Your speech is passion ; 
 
 But, pray you, stir no embers up." 
 
 Lepidus was a peace-botcher from timidity ; moreover, he 
 was stupid, sensual, and swinish. We have these his char- 
 acteristics epitomised in the one scene, where the young 
 Pompey entertains the triumvirate at a feast on board his 
 barge. As Lepidus waxes drunk, Antony hoaxes him. 
 Lepidus asks — 
 
 " What manner of thing is your crocodile ? 
 
 "Ant. It is shaped, sir, like itself; and it is as broad as it 
 hath breadth ; — it is just so high as it is, and moves with its 
 own organ. It lives by that which nourisheth it; and the 
 elements once out of it, it transmigrates. 
 
 "Lep. What colour is it of? 
 
 "Ant Of its own colour, too. 
 
 " Lep. 'Tis a strange serpent. 
 
 p 
 
226 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 "Ant. 'Tis so. And the tears of it are wet. 
 " Ccesar to Ant. Will this description satisfy him "i 
 "Ant. With the health that Pompey gives him, else, he's 
 a very epicure." 
 
 We have no more of Lepidus — he's "down among the 
 dead men ; " for, after, when Pompey pledges him, Antony 
 interferes, saying, " Bear him ashore. I '11 pledge it for him, 
 Pompey." And at the close of the entertainment, Enobarbus, 
 pointing to Lepidus, as he is being carried out on an attend- 
 ant's back, says — 
 
 " There 's a strong fellow, Menas. 
 "Men. Why.? 
 " Eno. He bears the third part of the world, man." 
 
 But the whole of this drin king-scene, with the actors in it, 
 is admirably maintained. Their several characteristics be- 
 come, of course, more apparent as the men are steeped in the 
 wine. Antony would have swamped them all. Octavius 
 backs out : his caution and reserve come to his rescue. 
 " Strike the vessels, ho ! " cries Antony. " Here 's to Ccesar." 
 Octavius replies — 
 
 " I could well forbear 't. 
 It 's monstrous labour, when I wash my brain. 
 And it grows fouler." 
 
 And after they have had the dance of Egyptian Bacchanals, 
 and roared the song, " Come, thou monarch of the vine ! " 
 Octavius is the one to break up the carouse : — 
 
 "What would you more.' — Pompey, good-night. Good 
 brother, 
 
 \To Antony, who had married Octavia. 
 Let me request you off; our graver business 
 Frowns at this levity. Gentle lords, let 's part ; 
 You see we have burnt our cheeks : strong Enobarbe 
 Is weaker than the wine ; and mine own tongue 
 Splits what it speaks." 
 
Antony and Cleopatra. 227 
 
 The scene was evidently a favourite with the poet ; and he 
 gives us over-measure in another touch of nature. At the 
 commencement of the triumvirate's interview with Pompey, 
 the latter has reproached Antony with having possessed him- 
 self of his father's, the elder Pompey' s, house at Rome ; but at 
 the breaking up of the carousal — all in drunken good humour, 
 and shaking hands — Pompey, recurring to a question in the 
 early part of the conference, determines to fight the Trium- 
 virate by land : in taking leave, therefore, of Octavius, he 
 says — 
 
 " I '11 try you on the shore. 
 
 "Ant. And shall, sir. Give us your hand." 
 
 Pompey, who is the weakest-headed of the party, has a 
 touch of the half-maudlin : " O Antony ! You have my 
 father's house. But what .' we ARE FRIENDS ! Come down 
 into the boat." 
 
 Never was drinking-scene conducted with more spirit and 
 less vulgarity. 
 
 Some French critic upon Shakespeare, when discussing 
 this very scene, says, — " It is no doubt sufficiently ridiculous 
 to make valets talk like heroes ; but it is still more ridiculous 
 to make heroes talk in the language of the people'.' The French- 
 man, in his homage to the " classicism " of the Gallo-Greek 
 drama, and in his horror of Anglo-Gothic vulgarity, would in 
 all probability have had the Bacchanalian carouse omitted 
 altogether : nevertheless, as kings and heroes will get drunk, 
 and as, when drunk, their language and behaviour are rarely 
 elevated above those of their butlers, the poet of all human 
 nature has put the best face, on the business, and has, at all 
 events, invested the scene with a poetical, not to say a 
 patrician dignity. 
 
 It were edifying to speculate upon the manner in which 
 this " classic " would have conducted the revel on board of 
 
2 28 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 Pompey's barge. With what metred decorum the triumvirate 
 would have bandied the festal amenities ! Think, too, of the 
 Tuileries etiquette ; the conventionalisms that would have 
 been promulgated ; the powdered and embroidered politesse 
 of the guests, with the discretion and biensmnce of their host. 
 How the velvets would have escaped with uncorrugated pile, 
 and laced ruffles have rejoiced in their wonted starch. This 
 school of writing has still its " latter-day " admirers ; but I 
 confess to a meek preference of the Nature of Shakespeare 
 to the Art of the Petit Trianon. Hazlitt might well call the 
 French " the Cockneys of Europe." I wish he had said the 
 Parisian French. 
 
 In the character of the younger Pompey, it should seem 
 that ■ Shakespeare had purposely represented the soldier of 
 fortune ; a man possessing a bright spark of gratitude and 
 generosity in his composition ; but, at the same time, not 
 united with the most austere sense of justice. Individually, 
 and in their private capacities, Pompey would have offered no 
 personal wrong to Octavius and his coadjutors ; but he would 
 have sanctioned the most barefaced treachery towards them, 
 perpetrated by one of his own officers. While he is feasting 
 the triumvirate on board his own vessel, his confidential 
 friend, Menas, proposes to him, aside, that he should entrap 
 the three, and sail away with them. He says : — 
 
 " These three world-sharers, these competitors, 
 Are in thy vessel ; let me cut the cable ; 
 And, when we are put off, fall to their throats : 
 All there is thine.'' 
 
 With how easy a running-knot Pompey held in his conscience, 
 is a fair sample of political orthodoxy. He answers 
 
 " Ah, this thou shouldst have done, 
 And not have spoke on 't ! In me, 'tis villainy ; 
 In thee, 't had been good service Thou must know 
 'Tis not my profit that does lead mine honour ; 
 
Antony and Cleopatra. 229 
 
 Mine honour, it ! Repent that e'er thy tongue 
 Hath so betray'd thine act : being done unknown, 
 I should have found it afterwards well done ; 
 But must condemn it now." 
 
 The conduct of Pompey is by no means solitary in the 
 political world. A commoner who shall commit murder, and 
 attempt the abduction of an heiress, will become an outcast, 
 and surely be hanged. The man at the head of a nation — 
 the administrator of justice — who may perform the same feat, 
 {py deputy^ will hold himself irresponsible. Thus it is, "robes 
 and furred gowns hide all." Beautifully has it been said by 
 the same master-spirit, " Our life is but a mingled yarn, of 
 good and ill together ; " so, the character of Pompey exhibits 
 features of attractive quality — frank and generous, with all 
 those sanguine aspirations that render the season of youth the 
 most apt for great accomplishments. 
 
 All the soldiers, indeed, in this tragedy, are favourable 
 specimens of their class. In the opening of the 3d Act, the 
 introduction of Ventidius and Silius, returning from a victory 
 over the Parthians, has given Shakespeare an opportunity, of 
 which he has not unfrequently availed himself, of throwing 
 into his military characters a dash of that worldly prudence 
 which, from their intercourse with mankind of every grade, is 
 not inconsistent with their romantic and fortuitous profession. 
 In the flush of triumph, Silius urges his superior officer to 
 follow up his success ; adding — 
 
 " So thy grand captain, Antony, 
 Shall set thee on triumphant chariots, and 
 Put garlands on thy head." 
 
 His companion replies with this unexpected piece of wisdom 
 
 and military diplomacy : — 
 
 " O Silius, Silius, ■ 
 I have done enough. A lower place, note well. 
 May make too great an act ; for learn this, Silius, 
 
230 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 Better to leave undone, than by our deed acquire 
 
 Too high a fame when him we serve 's away. 
 
 Cffisar and Antony have ever won 
 
 More in their officer than person. Sossius, 
 
 One of my place in Syria, his lieutenant. 
 
 For quick accumulation of renown, 
 
 Which he achiev'd by the minute, lost his favour. 
 
 Who does i' the wars more than his captain can. 
 
 Becomes his captain's captain : and ambition, 
 
 The soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss. 
 
 Than gain which darkens him. 
 
 I could do more to do Antonius good. 
 
 But 'twould offend him ; and in his offence 
 
 Should my performance perish." 
 
 Silius rejoins, — 
 
 " Thou hast, Ventidius, that. 
 Without the which a soldier, and his sword, 
 Grants scarce distinction. Thou wilt write to Antony 1 
 
 " Ven. I '11 humbly signify what in his name. 
 That magical word of war, we have effected ; 
 How, with his banners, and his well-paid ranks, 
 The ne'er-yet-beaten horse of Parthia 
 We have jaded out o' the field." 
 
 It is from among the underwood of these stately produc- 
 tions (for these are very subordinate characters in the drama) 
 that we bring to remembrance gems of practical wisdom : as 
 in the great natural world, knowledge is scattered with the 
 prodigality of beneficence for the admiration and improvement 
 of the investigator. 
 
 While upon the character of the soldiers in this play, I will 
 conclude with one or two points in their conduct worthy of 
 revision. The first is the lesson that is read to us against 
 mere obstinacy ; and obstinacy may be distinguished from 
 firmness, as being a persistence in act, in defiance of self- 
 conviction. 
 
 All his companions in arms are opposed to Antony's fight- 
 
Antony and Cleopatra. 231 
 
 ing Caesar by sea ; but Cleopatra was for the sea : nothing, 
 therefore, but a sea-fight would the dotard commander listen 
 to. The debate upon the occasion is a perfect example of 
 what mere dogged self-will is capable, as opposed to whole- 
 some reason. Enobarbus (the close friend of Antony) is the 
 first to object — 
 
 " Why will my lord do so } 
 
 "Ant. For that he dares us to it. 
 
 " Eno. So hath my lord dared him to single fight. 
 
 " Canid. Ay, and to wage this battle at Pharsalia, 
 Where Caesar fought with Pompey : but these offers, 
 Which serve not for his -vantage, he shakes off; 
 And so should you. 
 
 " Eno. Your ships are not well mann'd. 
 
 Your mariners are muleteers, reapers, people 
 Ingross'd by swift impress ; in Caesar's fleet 
 Are those that often have 'gainst Pompey fought : 
 Their ships are yare ; yours heavy : no disgrace 
 Shall fall you for refusing him at sea, 
 Being prepar'd for land. 
 
 "Ant. By sea, by sea." 
 
 To the earnest expostulation, again, and experience of Eno- 
 barbus, his only reply is, " F II fight at sea" Then a private 
 soldier enters, hearing of his general's determination — 
 
 " O noble emperor, do not fight by sea ; 
 Trust not to rotten planks : do you misdoubt 
 This sword, and these my wounds .' Let the Egyptians, 
 And the Phoenicians, ^i? a-dmking: we 
 Have us'd to conquer standing on the earth, 
 And fighting foot to foot." 
 
 He leaves them, resolving on the sea-fight. Then, exclaims 
 the veteran soldier — 
 
 " By Hercules, I think I am i' the right. 
 
 " Can. Soldier, thou art ; but his whole action grows 
 Not in the pow'r on 't : so, our leader 's led. 
 And we are women's men." 
 
232 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 Contempt and insubordination are the natural consequence 
 of mere stubbornness of will in a superior, when opposed by 
 plain sense. These feelings, therefore, become seriously de- 
 monstrative after Antony's shameful defeat and flight. Scarus 
 exclaims — 
 
 " The greater cantle of the world is lost 
 With very ignorance ; we have kiss'd away 
 Kingdoms and provinces.'.' 
 
 Reproach follows upon reproach, and Canidius ends by de- 
 claring his resolution to " render his legions and his horse to 
 Csesar." 
 
 This defection in his officers is one of the most painful cir- 
 cumstances in the story, and Shakespeare has enlisted our 
 sympathies in favour of its hero, by immediately after exhi- 
 biting him as wholly absorbed in his own unworthiness, and, 
 with affecting self-abasement, impeaching the wretched pros- 
 titution of his finer nature. Misery, sorrow, reverse of fortune, 
 treachery, violence, and assassination, are all qualities of high 
 tragic event ; but no circumstance, or emotion of the mind, 
 makes a stronger appeal to our sympathy than the bitterness 
 of self-reproach in a noble and generous nature. The wisest 
 of kings has said, " The spirit of a man can sustain itself; but 
 a wounded spirit who can bear ?" 
 
 Few scenes are more touching than the speech of Marc 
 Antony to his attendants after his defeat, beginning, " Hark ! 
 the land bids me tread no more upon it :" and the chief cause 
 of its pathetic character is, that in the front of all his self- 
 reproaches and disasters, the provision for his followers stands 
 most apparent in his thoughts. 
 
 " Friends, come hither : 
 I am so lated in the world, that I 
 Have lost my way for ever. I have a ship 
 Laden with gold ; take that, divide it ; fly. 
 And make your peace with Caesar." 
 
Antony and Cleopatra. 233 
 
 It is this generosity of disposition, this unselfishness, coming 
 against his grosser animal propensities, that redeem what 
 would otherwise be an undignified subject for the chief char- 
 acter in a heroic drama. 
 
 Scarus alone, of his principal officers, remains attached to 
 him. And it is worthy of notice, that Shakespeare, true to 
 his own happy philosophy, has made Scarus the most ener- 
 getic and the most cheerful of them all. In the last battle, 
 Antony says to him — 
 
 " Thou bleed' st apace." 
 
 He replies — 
 
 " I had a wound here, that was like a T, 
 But now 'tis made an H. . . . 
 We '11 beat them into bench-holes ; I have yet 
 Room for six scotches more." 
 
 Eros enters to announce that the enemy are routed, and 
 
 Scarus answers — 
 
 " Let us score their backs. 
 And snatch 'em up, as we take hares, behind ; 
 'Tis sport to maul a runner." 
 
 Antony says to him — 
 
 " I will reward thee 
 Once for thy sprightly comfort, and tenfold 
 For thy good valour. Come thee on. 
 
 " Scar. I '11 halt after." 
 
 Upon searching into the minutiae of these characters, one 
 would suppose that Shakespeare had passed all his days in a 
 camp, so thoroughly has he imbibed the manner, as well as 
 matter of the men. 
 
 But of all the subordinates in this great drama, none 
 makes so powerful an appeal to the feelings as Enobarbus. 
 Poor, unstable, unhappy Enobarbus ! had you but held fast 
 your integrity to your master, you had been, a guiding star 
 
234 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 for all generations to steer their course by ; as it is, we set thee 
 as a lone beacon on a promontory to warn wayfarers through 
 the sea of life from the shoals and the sunken rocks of incon- 
 stancy, remorse, and self-abandonment. 
 
 Let us, however, tread tenderly upon the memory of poor 
 Enobarbus, for amply did he extenuate his fault ; and all the 
 reproaches we could devise would come far short of the piti- 
 less scorn with which he himself judged his own infirmity. 
 
 Enobarbus stands in the record of those who deserted a 
 kind master in the winter of his fortunes ; but he also num- 
 bers with the few who have expiated to the uttermost the 
 baseness of their ingratitude. Here, again, we perceive that 
 Shakespeare, in the sweetness of his nature, could not bring 
 himself utterly to cast out one who, up to the eleventh hour, 
 had run so fair a course : besides, he knew that it would be 
 oifering an undue violence to humanity to introduce at so 
 momentous a point of the story a moral anomaly, a fellow- 
 being with a Janus-nature, bluntly and sincerely honest up to 
 a certain stage in his career ; and then, with the suddenness 
 of a pantomime trick, convert him into a remorseless, callous 
 self-seeker. Such men are not of this world, and Shakespeare 
 drew men as he found them, and not as they may, perchance, 
 be in the moon, (with the lunatics,) or any other planet. 
 
 In portraying the defection of Enobarbus, he has, with 
 unusual care even for him, and, of course, with accurate truth, 
 represented him as oscillating between inconstancy and steadi- 
 ness, with the gradual and stronger leaning to inconstancy. 
 Upon the first occasion, when Canidius resolves to desert to 
 Caesar, Enobarbus says — 
 
 " I '11 yet follow 
 The wounded chance of Antony, though my reason 
 Sits in the wind against me." 
 
 Here 's the first motive which shakes him : his reason and 
 self-interest begin to oppose his fidelity. We next see him 
 
Antony and Cleopatra. 235 
 
 with Cleopatra after the sea fight, and their disgraceful flight 
 from it. This conversation is finely characteristic of a rough 
 and brave soldier, whose wounded honour has forced him into 
 lukewarmness towards the cause in which he was embarked. 
 In the absence of all plan and purpose, she helplessly inquires 
 of him, "What shall we do, Enobarbus .'" to which his bluff 
 answer is, "Think, and die !" 
 
 " Cleo. Is Antony, or we, in fault for this .' 
 " Eno. Antony only, that would make his will 
 Lord of his reason. 
 [Referring to his obstinate determination against the counsel 
 of his followers.] 
 
 What though you fled 
 From the great face of war, whose several ranges 
 Frighted each other ; why should he follow .' 
 The itch of his affection should not then 
 Have nick'd his captainship ; at such a point, 
 When half to half the world oppos'd, he being 
 The mer'd question : 'twas a shame, no less 
 Than was his loss, to course your flying flags, 
 And leave his navy gazing." 
 
 As another instance of Shakespeare's consistency in pro- 
 priety, we note that Enobarbus, unlike the other officers of 
 Antony, never takes cause against Cleopatra. He was more 
 about her person than they. He has, with them, the same 
 excuse for bitterness, yet he never censures her; he never 
 calls her coarse names, as the others do. He fixes the blame 
 where it ought to rest — upon the stronger party— Antony. 
 All this harmonises with his voluptuous description of her 
 in the barge, (in the 2d scene of the 2d Act,) while it pre- 
 serves his own integrity of character as a brave and generous 
 warrior. 
 
 Immediately after the above conversation with Cleopatra, 
 Antony enters, and thinks to patch up his desperate fortune 
 
236 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 by challenging Octavius to a single combat. When he has 
 left the scene, we note that the respect of Enobarbus is 
 rapidly verging towards contempt ; and he gives utterance to 
 one of those acute reflections upon human action, that keep 
 us in a state of perpetual wonderment as we scrutinise these 
 great compositions. 
 
 For instance, — what art is thrown into the following speech 
 that we may be gradually prepared for the infidelity of Eno- 
 barbus, and- that it may receive some meed of qualification. 
 It is his own reflection upon Antony's resolution to challenge 
 Octavius. He says — 
 
 " Yes, like enough, high-battled Csesar will 
 Unstate his happiness, and be staged to the show 
 Against a sworder ! I see meri s judgments are 
 A parcel of their fortunes ; and things outward 
 Do draw the inward quality after them, 
 To suffer all alike. That he should dream. 
 Knowing all measures, the full Caesar will 
 Answer his emptiness ! Caesar, thou hast subdu'd 
 His judgment too ! " 
 
 Close on the heels of this summary of Antony's position, 
 we find Enobarbus debating his own ; and, with a natural 
 vacillation between honesty - and self-interest, concluding 
 upon adopting the higher and loyal course. I know of 
 nothing in dramatic history surpassing in artistic skill the 
 gradual development of declension, and final secession in 
 the conduct of Enobarbus. It is like one of those subtle 
 physical changes which come over the human structure. His 
 next self-debating is — 
 
 " Mine honesty and I begin to square. 
 The loyalty well held to fools does make 
 Our faith mere folly : yet he that can endure 
 To follow with allegiance a fallen lord, 
 Does conquer him that did his master conquer, 
 And earns a place i' the story." 
 
Antony and Cleopatra. 237 
 
 This counter-resolution in favour of Antony is ingeniously 
 introduced as a foil to the insane proposal of the latter to 
 spend the night in feasting, when his fortunes are drained 
 to their lowest dregs. How the contempt of Enobarbus 
 strengthens even into disgust, at the unsoldier-like (though, 
 under the circumstances, most natural) boasting of his master 
 in his desperate extremity. Antony says — 
 
 " Call to me all my sad [steadfast] captains ; 
 
 to-night I '11 force 
 
 The wine peep through their scars. Come on, my queen ; 
 There 's sap in 't yet. The next time I do fight, 
 I '11 make death love me ; for I will contend 
 Even with his pestilent scythe." 
 
 When they are gone out, Enobarbus says— ■ 
 
 " Now he '11 outstare the lightning ! To be furious 
 Is to be frighted out of fear ; and, in that mood. 
 The dove will peck the estridge ; and I see still, 
 A diminution in our captain's brain 
 Restores his heart ; when valour preys on reason, 
 It eats the sword it fights with. I will seek 
 Some way to leave him." 
 
 Shakespeare makes out the strongest case for Enobarbus 
 — under the circumstances. He leaves his master ; but he 
 takes nothing away with him. The conduct of Antony, too, 
 upon hearing of his desertion, rises into magnanimity : — 
 
 " Go, Eros, send his treasure after ; do it ; 
 Detain no jot, I charge thee ; write to him 
 (I will subscribe) gentle adieus and greetings ; 
 Say, that I wish he never find more cause 
 To change a master. — Oh, my fortunes have 
 Corrupted honest men !— Despatch !— Enobarbus ! " 
 
 Pathetically natural is that ejaculation of Antony,— com- 
 prising a volume of wonderment and sorrow, at the defection 
 
238 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 of his old friend and companion in arms. The celebrated 
 exclamation of Julius Caesar, in the drama — " Et tu Brute ! " 
 — sounds pedantic when compared with that simple sigh of 
 Antony. 
 
 Poor Enobarbus ! his infidelity soon rises up against him ; 
 but the news of all his treasure being sent after him puts the 
 finishing stroke to his remorse. In bitterness of spirit, he 
 exclaims — 
 
 " I am alone the villain of the earth. 
 And feel I am so most. O Antony, 
 Thou mine of bounty, how wouldst thou have paid 
 My better service, when my turpitude 
 Thou dost so crown with gold ! This blows my heart ; 
 If swift thought break it not, a swifter mean 
 Shall outstrike thought ; but thought will do 't, I feel. 
 I fight against thee ! — No ! — I will go seek 
 Some ditch wherein to die ; the foul'st best fits 
 My latter part of life." 
 
 His last speech in the field, at night, before the battle, is 
 perhaps the most affecting ever penned or uttered by man, 
 under similar affliction; for what' affliction can equal a self- 
 reproving heart .■• What yearning, what desolation in the 
 eloquence ! — 
 
 " Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon ! 
 Whemnen revolted shall upon record 
 Bear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did 
 Before thy face repent. 
 O sov'reign mistress of true melancholy ! 
 The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me, 
 That life, a very rebel to my will, 
 May hang no longer on me : throw my heart 
 Against the flint and hardness of my fault ; 
 Which, being dried to grief, will break to powder. 
 And finish all foul thoughts. O Antony ! 
 Nobler than my revolt is infamous. 
 Forgive me in thine own particular ; 
 
Antony and Cleopatra. 239 
 
 But let the world rank me in register 
 A master-leaver, and a fugitive, — 
 O Antony !— O Antony ! " 
 
 His heart breaks. 
 
 The origin of the character is to be seen in Plutarch, occu- 
 pying about six or seven lines. Shakespeare saw at once 
 that it was an occasion for dramatic susceptibility and de- 
 velopment of action ; and, in consequence, he perhaps never 
 more satisfactorily constructed and completed a character 
 than this secondary one of Enobarbus. We can be at no loss 
 to recognise another type from whence the poet mainly drew 
 this portrait of an attendant, remorse-stricken upon abandon- 
 ing a kind master in his adversity. 
 
 Octavia — ^the wife of Antony — ^with her sweet, and very 
 womanly qualities ; with her still and holy meekness ; her 
 dignity, and perfect discretion, was not the character to be 
 brought into the same sphere of action with her meteor-like 
 rival. Universal opinion has therefore applauded the poet's 
 judgment in not bringing them together ; since the result 
 must have been detrimental to one party ; and this, neither 
 the historic nor the dramatic law would have sanctioned, by 
 reason of the pre-eminent, and totally opposite qualities in 
 the two women : the restless, dazzling brilliancy, and over- 
 weening coquetry of the one ; with the calm, sensible, and 
 sensitive deportment of the other. 
 
 The parting scene between Octavius and his sister, upon her 
 marriage to Antony, is very pretty and affectionate ; his gentle 
 speeches to her, and her full heart at the leave-taking, — 
 
 " The swan's down feather. 
 That stands upon the swell at the full of tide, 
 And neither way inclines," — 
 
 furnish a perfect picture of fraternal love, and give us an 
 interest in the first emperor of the world, beyond all his 
 ambition and his conquests. 
 
240 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 The characters of Charmian and Iras, Cleopatra's women, 
 exhibit no prominent marks of character deserving exclusive 
 notice. Their devotion to their mistress is instinctive and 
 Hindoo-like. They know no motive but obedience ; and the 
 superadded kindness excites them to the prodigality of self- 
 sacrifice with her. 
 
 But the most powerful, or rather the most genuine piece of 
 individual portraiture among the insignificant actors in this 
 drama, is that of the country clown who brings Cleopatra the 
 serpent — the asp. The utter indifference and boorish obtuse- 
 ness dawning into an expression of humour, thrown into this 
 character, is excessively happy. There is no human animal 
 more stupidly regardless of death and its consequences than 
 your genuine country lout. He is, indeed, " of the earth, 
 earthy." As he has sprung from the clod, so the soil of his 
 nature adheres to him, and he returns to his primary element 
 with congenial stupidity. Only observe the grinning brutish- 
 ness with which the fellow discusses the merits of the reptile 
 he has provided. And how correctly in keeping with the 
 character his giving the creature its most common generic 
 name — that of " worm." He does not call it snake, serpent, 
 or asp : there would be some hint of knowledge and refine- 
 ment had he done that ; so he has no other idea connected 
 with it than that of " worm." It was, indeed, a consummately 
 artistic and altogether picturesque idea to place that primi- 
 tive lump of humanity in juxtaposition with the gorgeous 
 Eastern magnificence, the rich fancy, the voluptuous beauty, 
 the sensuous languor, the fervid graces, the regal grandeur, 
 and yet greater regality, conscious of feminine charm and 
 sway, which pre-eminently distinguish the royal paramour, 
 that " caught the world's great hands." The Egyptian queen, 
 in her potency of will, choosing to die rather than to swell the 
 triumph of Octavius ; — thereby setting the crowning act to her 
 many subtle subjugations of men's resolves to her own pur- 
 
Antony and Cleopatra. 241 
 
 poses ; — attired in imperial robes and jewels, no less arrayed in 
 majesty of adornment, than in majesty of womanly determina- 
 tion, — stands a picture of striking glowing historic portraiture, 
 still farther heightened by the attendant figure of the loutish 
 countryman. There is something in the contrast of this lump 
 of life's commonest clay with the superb ore of golden Cleo- 
 patra, which wonderfully harmonises the whole scene. It is, 
 indeed, a scene of harmony in contrast throughout. There is 
 the simple basket of figs concealing deadliest venom ; the 
 small dark aspic, and the coiled splendour of the " Serpent of 
 old Nile ;" the obtuse jokings of the boor, and the refined ease, 
 with haughty composure, of the imperial woman, firm in her 
 dread intent. No element could have been introduced so 
 effectively, in enhancement of the impression created by Cleo- 
 patra's death-scene, as the clown's earthy brutality. And 
 what a perfect morsel of a scene it is ! He forms, as it were, 
 an emblem of that common mould to which all worldly splen- 
 dour must come. He enters, and Cleopatra says — 
 
 " Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there. 
 That kills and pains not } 
 
 " Clown. Truly I have him ; but I wouldn't be the party 
 that should desire you to touch him, for his biting is im- 
 mortal : those that do die of it do seldom or never recover. 
 
 " Cleop. Remember' st thou any that have died on 't 1 
 
 " Clown. Very many, men and women too. I heard of one 
 of 'em no longer ago than yesterday ; — a very honest woman, 
 but something given to lie ; as a woman shouldn't do, but in 
 the way of honesty. How she died of it ; what pain she felt : 
 truly, she makes a very good report of the worm. But he 
 that will believe all they say, shall never be saved by half 
 that they do. But this is most fallible ; the worm 's an odd 
 worm. 
 
 " Cleop. Farewell. [Clown sets down the basket.] 
 
 '• Clown. You must think this, look ye, that the worm will 
 do his kind. [That is, will obey its nature.] 
 
 " Cleop. Ay, ay ; farewell. 
 
242 Shakespeare-Characters.. 
 
 " Clown. Look ye, the worm is not to be trusted but in the 
 keeping of wise people ; for, indeed, there 's no goodness in 
 the worm. 
 
 " Cleop. Take thou no care ; it shall be heeded. 
 
 " Clown. Very good. Give it nothing, I pray you, for it 
 isn't worth the feeding. 
 
 " Cleop. Will it eat me } 
 
 " Clown. You mustn't think I am so simple, but I know the 
 devil himself will not eat a woman. I know that a woman is 
 a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her not. But truly, 
 these same whoreson devils do the gods great harm in their 
 women ; for in every ten that they make, the devils mar five. 
 
 " Cleop. Well, get thee gone ; farewell. 
 
 " Clown. Yes, forsooth. / wish you joy of the worm !" 
 
 Constant occasions occur of Shakespeare's natural piety, 
 and of his unaffected reverence for holy rites and observances. 
 During the reign of Augustus Caesar the Messiah came into 
 the world. Historians and poets have signalised that epoch 
 as being divinely accompanied by a universal peace among 
 the civilised nations of the earth. Milton, in his young and 
 noble poem on the " Nativity," says — 
 
 " No war, or battle-sound 
 Was heard the world around : 
 The idle spear and shield were high up-hung ; 
 The hook'd chariot stood 
 Unstain'd with hostile blood : 
 The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ; 
 
 And kings sat still with awful eye. 
 As if they surely knew their sovran Lord were by." 
 
 And Guthrie, in his " Universal History," makes this simply 
 pathetic record of the event — " Peace now reigned over the 
 whole earth, and Jesus Christ came into it." 
 
 Shakespeare, availing himself of the same impressive cir- 
 cumstance, causes Octavius to proclaim, as in an involuntary 
 prophecy, " The time of universal peace is near." 
 
X. 
 
 9111 '0 Witll t|)at enti5 WBtll 
 
X. 
 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 The story or plot of "All 's Well that Ends Well" is one of 
 the most interesting of Shakespeare's comedies. The main 
 incident, which turns upon the circumstance of a young 
 maiden becoming the wooing party, and claiming the royal 
 prerogative to bestow upon her the hand of the man she is in 
 love with, as a reward for the service she has rendered to her 
 sovereign in administering to him a prescription hereditary in 
 her family, and thereby restoring him from a painful dis- 
 temper that the faculty had considered incurable ; the cir- 
 cumstance, again, of the youth to whom she had attached her- 
 self being the son of the lady who had afforded her protec- 
 tion in her orphanhood, and who was her superior in point of 
 rank ; his yielding to the power of the king, and, although he 
 wedded her, resolving never to fulfil the duties of a husband ; 
 his quitting her to follow the Florentine war ; her tracing him 
 in the disguise of a pilgrim, and succeeding in winning the 
 confidence and friendly offices of the young maiden, Diana, 
 whom he has attempted to seduce, and who is the sole means 
 of causing him to render justice to his discarded wife, is all 
 brought about with a force of ingenuity, and delicacy of feel- 
 ing, that are perfectly admirable. 
 
246 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 The character of the heroine, Helena, is one of rare sweet- 
 ness, blended with high romantic fervour. She is placed in 
 the singularly critical position of courting her husband, both 
 as a maiden and a wife ; and the glorious testimony to the 
 transparent beauty of virtue is fully borne out, and a triumph 
 achieved, by her not committing one single violation of the 
 laws of the most scrupulous modesty. 
 
 I must take leave to say a few words in behalf, and, I hope, 
 in justification of Helena, whose principle of action appears 
 to have been wonderfully mistaken, and whose mental struc- 
 ture to have been — I will not say, unappreciated, but not 
 even recognised by the general reader. Of all Shakespeare's 
 heroines, it strikes me that Helena is the one that is most 
 philosopliical, both in temperament and in speech and con- 
 duct. When I say " philosophical in temperament," I do not 
 mean that she is either stoical or resigned. She is the very 
 reverse of either. But she is reflective, she is observant, and 
 she is essentially remedial. An apparently hopeless passion 
 has taught her reflection, introspection, and humility of spirit 
 It has taught her to think conscientiously, to reason justly, 
 to weigh her own and others' claims carefully. She has dis- 
 cernment, and she has warmth of heart : the first teaching 
 her to perceive accurately, the latter impelling her to decide 
 generously. She, therefore, estimates herself and her own 
 value at modest rate, while to Bertram she awards all the 
 superiority that loving worship takes delight in imputing to 
 its chosen idol. But at the same time that Helena's affection 
 prompts her to overrate the man she loves, and to underrate 
 herself, her disposition will not let her sink beneath the sense 
 of disparity. Her own character will not let her do this ; for, 
 besides its difiidence of self, it possesses uncommon self- 
 reliance and moral courage, — a combination less rare than is 
 generally believed. Womanly gentleness and modesty, to- 
 gether with womanly firmness and fortitude, are far from 
 
All's Well that Ends Well 247 
 
 incompatible ; and in Helena of Narbonne they co-exist to a 
 remarkable degree. The kind of gentleness which consists of 
 mere prone and passive yieldingness, oftener degenerates into 
 weakness, ending in obstinacy and slyness, than Helena's 
 kind of gentleness, which is self-modesty without self-distrust. 
 She is conscious, to an acutely-sensitive degree, of her own in- 
 adequate pretensions ; but she is also conscious — involuntarily 
 conscious, as it were — of her own powers to win through 
 patient trial, earnest attempt, and devoted endeavour. It is 
 this that makes Helena's philosophy so "remedial" a one. 
 Ever ready to acknowledge her lack of personal merit, she is 
 inwardly aware of a moral merit, that requires but time and 
 opportunity to obtain for her that which her own simple 
 attractions are unable to command. She does not feel her- 
 self formed to inspire regard, but she knows herself worthy 
 to gain regard ; and this she diligently and faithfully dedi- 
 cates her whole thoughts and energies to achieve. Observe 
 here with what mingled fervour and humility her loving 
 thoughts clothe themselves in thoughtful words : — 
 
 "'Tispity, 
 That wishing well had not a body in 't, 
 Which might be felt ; — that we, the poorer born, 
 Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes. 
 Might with effects of them follow our friends, 
 ^ And show what we alone must think ; which never 
 Returns us thanks." 
 
 Helena, with the true courage born of a practical and reme- 
 dial philosophy, is eager to find resources in her own sense of 
 resolve. She says — 
 
 " Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie 
 Which we ascribe to Heaven : the fated sky 
 Gives us free scope ; only doth backward pull 
 Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull." 
 
248 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 She gathers confidence from inborn consciousness of stead- 
 fastness and ardour of perseverance, exclaiming — 
 
 " Impossible be strange attempts to those 
 That weigh their pains in sense ; and do suppose 
 What hath been cannot be. Who ever strove 
 To show her merit that did miss her love?" 
 
 The same characteristic earnestness, with faith in the phi- 
 losophy of endeavour, marks the whole of her arguments with 
 the king during the interview where she seeks to persuade 
 him of the efficacy of her father's medicine. She thus 
 modestly, yet ardently, urges him to essay its effect — 
 
 " What I can do, can do no hurt to try. 
 Since you set up your rest 'gainst remedy. 
 HE that of greatest works is finisher, 
 Oft does them by the weakest minister. 
 So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown, 
 When judges have been babes. Great floods have flown 
 From simple sources ; and great seas have dried. 
 When miracles have by the greatest been denied. 
 Oft expectation fails ; and most oft there, 
 Where most it promises ; and oft it hits 
 Where hope is coldest, and despair most fits" 
 
 This is perfectly the language of one accustomed to reason 
 hopefully in the midst of discouragement, and to reap fruit 
 for trust out of the most unpromising occurrences. Helena 
 has a spirit of fervent reliance, the offspring of her very meek- 
 ness and innocent humility. When the king waves her 
 proffered help, she thus gently, yet warmly, meets his refusal. 
 Her speech is at once femininely diffident and devoutly 
 earnest : — 
 
 " Inspired merit so by breath is barr'd. 
 It is not so with HIM that all things knows, 
 As 'tis with us that square our guess by shows : 
 But most it is presumption in us, when 
 
All's Well that Ends Well. 249 
 
 The help of Heaven we count the act of men. 
 Dear sir, to my endeavour give consent : 
 Of Heaven, not me, make an experiment. 
 I am not an impostor, that proclaim 
 Myself against the level of mine aim ; 
 But know I think, and think I know most sure, 
 My art is not past power, nor you past cure." 
 
 No wonder such eloquent persuasion succeeds in its desired 
 effect upon her royal listener. He replies, " Art thou so con- 
 fident? Within what space hop'st thou my cure.'" And 
 then Helena answers his words full of her characteristically 
 humble, yet trustful spirit — rising into poetic beauty with her 
 own mounting hope — 
 
 " The greatest grace lending grace. 
 Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring 
 Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring ; 
 Ere twice in murk and occidental damp 
 Moist Hesperus hath quench'd his sleepy lamp, 
 Or four-and-twenty times the pilot's glass 
 Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass ; 
 What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly ; 
 Health shall live free, and sickness freely die." 
 
 The essence of Helena's philosophy, in its practical energy, 
 which prefers deeds to speech, and its hopeful nature, ever 
 looking to the possibility of good, as well as facing the exist- 
 ence of evil, is contained in those few words of hers where she 
 interrupts something she was going to say, thus — 
 
 " But with the word, the time will bring on summer ; 
 When briars shall have leaves as well as thorns, 
 And be as sweet as sharp. We must away. 
 Our waggon is prepar'd, and time revives us : 
 All 's well that ends well. Still the fine 's the crown ; 
 Whate'er the course, the end is the renown." 
 
 Helena's remedial philosophy supplies her with one invalu- 
 
250 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 able resource — unflinching courage against disappointment. 
 When on her journey homewards, hoping to meet the king at 
 Marseilles, and, arriving there, finds him just gone, with what 
 promptitude and cheerfulness she prepares to follow him. 
 No time wasted in weak lamentation and regret, but active 
 resolve and steady perseverance. This is precisely the kind 
 of courage — moral courage — which women of Helena's nature 
 and philosophy possess. It is the noblest, the sublimest 
 courage ; and it is essentially _/^w2?«2«^ courage. Fortitude 
 of spirit against^iscouragement — bravery of heart and mind 
 amidst disappointment, disaster, and defeat — constitute wo- 
 manly valour ; and we see that the gentlest, at the same time 
 the firmest, among women, are those most distinguished by 
 this heroic attribute. So much for Helena's philosophy. 
 
 But Helena has been tacitly impeached, if not openly 
 arraigned, of an unseemly forwardness in the proffer of herself 
 and her affections. She has had high justice done her, it is 
 true, at the hands of several critics : Coleridge calling her 
 upon one occasion, "Shakespeare's lovelie'st character ;" Haz- 
 litt saying, "She is placed in circumstances of the most 
 critical kind, * * * yet the most scrupulous nicety of female 
 modesty is not once violated ; " Charles Lamb ascribing to 
 her "the full lustre of the female character;" and lastly, 
 one of her own sex, Mrs Jameson, in her " Characteristics of 
 Women," having written a noble vindication of her character 
 and conduct. Yet still, there has been a prevailing feeling — 
 an impression — that Helena is guilty of unfeminine want of 
 delicacy and reserve in the manifestation of her passion for 
 Bertram ; and the very zeal of her defenders in pleading her 
 cause, evinces the consciousness that such impression exists. 
 How this impression has arisen, I think I can show. In the 
 first place, Helena, as has been already said, is a remarkable 
 union of moral force and courage, with gentleness and tender- 
 ness of heart ; and there are many men who cannot believe 
 
All's Well that Ends Well. 251 
 
 in — nay, who cannot see — gentleness and softness in a 
 woman's nature, if it be accompanied with strength of 
 character. There is a favourite cant phrase in Noodledom 
 (as Sydney Smith calls the region of numskulls) about 
 " strong-minded women," which seems to preclude the possi- 
 bility of strength in co-existence with gentleness of feeling 
 and softness of manner. As "strong-minded women" are 
 frequently spoken of, one would think a "strong-minded" 
 woman must necessarily have the figure of a horse-guard, 
 the swag of a drayman, and the sensibility of a carcase- 
 butcher. Helena, in her energy of purpose, in her quickness 
 of intelligence to discern a means of fulfilling her object, and 
 in her spirited pursuit of those means, may give the idea of 
 unfeminine will and decision to those who confound passive- 
 ness with gentleness, helplessness with retiring delicacy, 
 and incapacity with modesty ; a confounding of qualities 
 which characterises the opinion of one class of men, about 
 women, of the present day. But to those who know how 
 entirely consistent with unaffected diffidence of self, is the 
 utnjost heroism of self-devotion and self-exertion, in women 
 distinguished by all their sex's grace of person, sentiment, 
 and behaviour, will perceive nothing but truest feminine 
 beauty in all that Helena does. She has that absence of 
 self-conceit, with rehance upon her sense of right, which 
 abates no jot of modest feeling and demeanour, while it leads 
 to the most courageous endeavour. No difficulty daunts her; 
 because she has confidence in the motive which impels her, 
 rather than in her own power to accomplish its ends, — a 
 characteristic distinction deserving of notice. 
 
 The modesty — with force — of her appeal, in the interview 
 with the king, has been discussed : in all that regards her 
 love, not only is she modest, but she is humble — that is, she 
 has the modesty and humility of true passion ; which takes 
 pleasure in debasing its own estimate and pretensions, in exact 
 
252 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 proportion to its eagerness to exalt and deify the merits of 
 the object beloved. Musing upon her passion for Bertram, 
 
 she says — 
 
 " It were all one 
 That I should love a bright particular star, 
 And think to wed it — he is so above me." 
 
 And nothing can surpass in modesty, with ardour of worship, 
 her famous impelled confession to the Countess Roussillon ; it 
 is the very prodigality of loving humility and humble love : — 
 
 " Then I confess 
 Here on my knee, before high Heaven and you. 
 That before you, and next unto high Heaven, 
 I love your son : 
 
 My friends were poor, but honest ; so 's my love. 
 Be not offended ; for it hurts not him 
 That he is lov'd of me : I follow him not 
 By any token of presumptuous suit ; 
 Nor would I have him till I do deserve him, 
 Yet never know how that desert should be. 
 I know I love in vain, strive against hope ; 
 Yet in this captious and intenible sieve 
 I still pour in the waters of my love, 
 And lack not to lose still ; thus, Indian-like, 
 Religious in mine error, I adore 
 The sun, that looks upon his worshipper. 
 But knows of him no more. My dearest madam, 
 Let not your hate encounter with my love. 
 For loving where you do ; but, if yourself. 
 Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth, 
 Did ever, in so true a flame of liking. 
 Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian 
 Was both herself and love ; oh ! then, give pity 
 To her, whose state is such, that cannot choose 
 But lend and give, where she is sure to lose ; 
 That seeks not to find that her search implies ; 
 But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies." 
 
 These last lines are in the perfect spirit of a self-sacrifice that 
 characterises a genuine and modest love. 
 
A II 's Well that Ends Well 253 
 
 Then, at the very moment when she attains the summit at 
 which she has aimed and has the royal privilege to choose 
 her husband — no triumph — no exultation — no welcoming of 
 success marks her manner ; but meekest words, and gentlest 
 deference : — 
 
 " I dare not say, I take you ; but I give 
 Me and my service, ever while I live, 
 Into your yielding power." 
 
 And when this chosen husband bluntly and contemptuously 
 rejects her, she relinquishes her claim ; turning to the king, 
 and saying — 
 
 " That you are well restor'd, my lord, I am glad ; 
 Let the rest go." 
 
 The whole scene of their parting, when Bertram leaves her, 
 (the Sth of the 2d Act,) is exhibited, as ONE writer only could 
 have done, without descending into coarseness and over- 
 painting. And, in the climax of the plot, she is not only 
 justified in the scheme as regards herself personally, but she 
 saves her husband from a dissolute act of profligacy, the 
 almost natural consequence of a constrained wedlock — of a 
 marriage into which the man is forced, against both will and 
 inclination ; and lastly, by its means, she protects the young 
 maiden, Diana, from the lawless suit of a seducer, and pre- 
 serves her virtue from the snare laid for it. And now I hope 
 that I have rescued the severely-judged Helena from the 
 charge of "forwardness" and "immodesty." Certainly, a 
 finer specimen of moral fortitude, with feminine true delicacy 
 of sentiment, I do not think is to be found in all the Shake- 
 speare gallery of heroines. 
 
 But the story of "All's Well that Ends Well" is a specimen 
 of one of the curses of a feudal tyranny, where the dearest 
 privileges, and dearest of earthly blessings— a free choice in 
 
 marriage ^was prostrate to the caprice of the sovereign : and 
 
 Shakespeare has, with his ample and humane philosophy, 
 
254 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 manifested the folly, as well as injustice of that prerogative ; 
 and this may have been the reason why he has created so 
 great a disproportion between the moral qualities of Helena 
 and Bertram. Had they both been estimable persons, there 
 could have been little scope for romance in the plot ; it must 
 per force have taken a commonplace character. Had she 
 not been endowed with the highest qualities of devotion and 
 virtuous principle, — or say, even had she betrayed a question- 
 able purity, — he could at once (being the stronger party) have 
 righted himself by a forcible separation. The incongruity of 
 the law, therefore, was forcibly displayed, by his availing 
 himself of the man's conventional privilege of desertion, see- 
 ing that he could not bring his affections to: respond to the 
 disposing will of his feudal lord. This, therefore, again must 
 be the reason why the poet has so laboured the character of 
 his hero, in order that he might become a foil to the excellent 
 Helena; and, moreover, we again recognise Shakespeare's 
 knowledge of the human heart, inasmuch as every day affords 
 us testimonies of the extraordinary endurance, devotion, and 
 attachment of women in the midst of repugnant qualities, 
 and even of savage treatment ; for Helena is conscious of, 
 and proves the infidelity, with other disreputable propensities, 
 of her husband. But Bertram is, really, a dirty dog — a 
 thoroughly dirty dog : he is an aristocrat, not of the " first 
 water," but of the last — the lowest water — sewer-water. He 
 has the pride of birth, with scarcely a virtue to give dignity 
 to, and warrant that pride. He is weak in judgment ; for he 
 is the last to perceive the scoundrel character of the wretch 
 Parolles. He is imperious and headstrong, treacherous, a liar, 
 and a coward. One of the cpmmentators (Dr Johnson, I 
 think) denies that he is a coward, assuming that he must 
 have distinguished himself in the Florentine war, since he 
 received the favour of the duke ; but I mean that he was a 
 moral coward ; as proof, there is scarcely a scene wherein he 
 
All's Well that Ends Well. 255 
 
 appears, (but more especially in the 3d of the last Act, when 
 he infamously traduces the character of Diana,) that he does 
 not exhibit himself a despicable, and even a loathsome 
 coward. And this, forsooth, is a man for the pure and high- 
 minded Helena to woo, and win, and think to convert into a 
 respectable companion for life! But, indeed, we may find 
 occasion for wonder at the matrimonial alliances concocted in 
 more than one of Shakespeare's dramas ; in which it should 
 seem, that if the woman were but legitimately united with 
 the man, and according to ecclesiastical law, and was provided 
 with an establishment for life, it was expected of her to 
 become profoundly grateful and complacent, whatever may 
 be the character, or have been the previous conduct of the 
 man. In the feudal ages the women were scarcely a grade 
 higher in the scale of creation than the live-stock on the 
 estates : because they administered to the vanity and sensual 
 gratification of their lords, these deigned to make a fuss with 
 them, and talk prodigiously of the imperial dominion of ladies' 
 eyes and ladies' favours; but they possessed no more real 
 power than the selected female in a Mussulman's harem : it 
 remained for Shakespeare to assert in behalf of his sisterhood 
 a claim to the higher endowments of intellectuality,, with the 
 most serenely beautiful of all the active virtues — those of 
 loving-kindness, and steadfastness of heart. 
 
 I judged it allowable to say thus over much, perhaps, of 
 Bertram and Helena, although the principal characters in the 
 play, because it is one not frequently turned to by the casual 
 readers of the poet. To such, therefore, the foregoing 
 remarks have been addressed ; as, indeed, I may say I have 
 done throughout these Dissertations. 
 
 Another fact in this play, and in which Shakespeare marks 
 his estimation of Bertram's false aristocracy, (for nobility of 
 birth and rank, without nobleness of nature, is a melancholy 
 contradiction,) may be recognised in the foil that has been 
 
256 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 given to his character in that of the two young lords in their 
 honest and hearty denunciation of his unchivalrous conduct 
 in his amours. Their conversation about him is not tainted 
 with envy on account of his prowess in the campaign, but it 
 conveys a high-minded disgust at his heartless intrigues. The 
 one young nobleman, after confiding to the other that Bertram 
 hath "perverted a young gentlewoman of a most chaste 
 renown," and hath even given her his " monumental ring," — 
 that is, the family jewel, — follows up his detestation of the act 
 by adding, in a fine spirit of philosophy, " We are merely our 
 own traitors. And, as in the common course of all treasons, 
 we still see them reveal themselves, till they attain to their 
 abhorred ends ; so he, that in this action contrives against his 
 own nobility, in his proper stream o'erflows himself" And 
 immediately after, when it has been noticed that the war was 
 over, and the one inquires whether Bertram will return to 
 France, the other replies, "I perceive, by this deniand, you 
 are not altogether of his counsel." To which the former 
 retorts, " Let it be forbid, sir ! So should I be a great deal of 
 his act." Then, again, when speaking of Bertram's having 
 received intelligence of the death of Helena, his wife, the 
 second young lord sums up his cold-blooded nature in these ten 
 words — " I am heartily sorry that he will be glad of this." And 
 he adds — " How mightily, sometimes, we make us comforts of 
 our losses :" to which the other rejoins, "And how mightily, 
 some other times, we drown our gain in tears. The great dignity 
 that his valour hath here acquired for him, shall, at home, be 
 encountered with a shame as ample." And then comes the 
 well-known golden reflection : " The web of our life is of a 
 mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be 
 proud if our faults whipped them not ; and our crimes would 
 despair if they were not cherished by our virtues." 
 
 It cannot be too often repeated, that some of the very 
 finest of Shakespeare's aphorisms are, as precious seed, scat- 
 
All's Well that Ends Well. 257 
 
 tered on the by-ways of his dramas ; and this circumstance 
 enforces the necessity that none but persons of imagination 
 and quick feeling should presume to impersonate any of his 
 characters ; and yet more, that his plays never will be 
 worthily represented till the theatrical professors are so im- 
 bued with that ambition for its best interests, that they shall 
 consider a strenuous exertion to give the utmost effect to an 
 inferior part allotted to them paramount to all squabbles and 
 intrigues for the more prominent ones. The characters of 
 these young lords, for instance, are capable of much develop- 
 ment, and should be intrusted only to persons of pronounced 
 refinement, both of mind and education. They are not 
 mouthing young men, see-sawing the axioms of a college 
 tutor, (which half our groundling actors would make of them,) 
 but high and gallant spirits, ready to distinguish themselves 
 in the romance of a warrior's life, and incapable of a compro- 
 mise, either of their own honour or that of another. This is 
 the true "aristocracy" of human nature; and this is the lesson 
 that Shakespeare intended for his audience, by placing them 
 as contrasts to the young lord Bertram, who, at the time that 
 he was insisting upon the dignity of his " order," was soiling 
 it by rascal vices and meanness. Who will say that this is 
 not pure morality .' 
 
 Monsieur Lavatch, hereditary household jester to the counts 
 of Rousillon, is a lively and pleasant fellow, with very strong 
 touches of nationality about him. He has French quick- 
 wittedness, French good temper, French good spirits, French 
 light-heartedness ; and, sooth to say, French light-headedness, 
 in many points. He is light-minded, being inconsequent and 
 uncontinuous, which is very French. He is light-mannered, 
 .being somewhat free in his talk, and frolic in his demeanour, 
 very French also. He is light-moraled, loose-conscienced, 
 £ckle, and inconstant ; and if these be not French character- 
 istics, I have made a mistake. He thinks of marrying Isbel, 
 
258 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 the Countess's waiting-woman, before he leaves Rousillon, but 
 the gaieties of Paris, the fineries of the court, dazzle his 
 weathercock fancy, and when he comes home he has "no 
 mind to Isbel," and coolly owns that the " brains of his Cupid 
 are knocked out." The fact is, that his own teetotum brain 
 is upset, for it has no steadiness, no stability in it. He not 
 only makes love to please himself, and he gives up his mistress 
 for the same reason — under the name of " gallantry," (per- 
 fectly French that, they having pretty names for all kinds of 
 unhandsome proceedings !) but he has flippant speeches against 
 the sex ; such as many dissolute gentlemen, who assume the 
 privilege to misuse it, and then abuse it, are in the habit of 
 uttering. Lavatch banteringly replies to his lady the Countess 
 of Rousillon : — 
 
 " One good woman in ten, madam ! Would that Heaven 
 would serve the world so all the year! We'd find no fault 
 with the tithe-woman if I were the parson. One in ten 
 quotha .' An we might have a good woman born at every 
 blazing star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery 
 well : a man may draw his heart out ere he pluck one." 
 
 Among his snip-snap word-catching, he lets fall one or two 
 good things ; as where he says, " Though honesty be no 
 Puritan, yet it will do no hurt ; it will wear the surplice of 
 humility over the black gown of a big heart." The reasons 
 he gives to the Countess why her son (and his master) should 
 be a " melancholy man," are neat, apprehensive, and witty ; 
 but he does not give his mother the real reason of her. son 
 Bertram's "melancholy;" which was, that he was ill at ease 
 with himself, having lost his own self-respect. He was in an 
 exalted station in society, and he possessed a rascal soul ; 
 quite enough to make any man "melancholy," who had a 
 glimpse of self-knowledge and self-respect. The Clown says 
 to the Countess — " By my troth, I take my young lord to be 
 a very melancholy man." 
 
All's Well that Ends Well. 259 
 
 " Count. By what observance, I pray you ? 
 
 " Clown. Why, he will look upon his boot, and sing ; mend 
 the ruff, and sing ; ask questions, and sing ; pick his teeth, 
 and sing. I know a man that had this trick of ' melancholy,' 
 sold a goodly manor for a song." 
 
 His idea of what is requisite to make a presentable appear- 
 ance at court is entertaining from its appreciation of the all- 
 sufficiency of external politeness as a passport into worldly 
 society : — 
 
 " Truly, madam, if Heaven have lent a man any manners, 
 he may easily put it off at court. He that cannot make a 
 leg, put off his cap, kiss his hand, and say nothing, has neither 
 leg, hands, lip, nor cap ; and, indeed, such a fellow, to say pre- 
 cisely, were not for the court: but for me, I have an answer 
 will serve all men." 
 
 And this answer, comprised in three words, "O Lord, sir!" 
 uttered in every variety of the modest, the disclaiming, the 
 ingratiatory, and the simpering tone, forms an agreeable satire 
 upon the efficiency of a meaningless sentence in the mouth of 
 an effete man of the world. 
 
 Lavatch's retort upon the wordy braggadocio Parolles 
 (whom he thoroughly appreciates, and, consequently, as 
 thoroughly despises) is one of his best speeches. Upon the 
 fellow's exclaiming, " Why, I say nothing" the Clown replies, 
 " Marry, you are the wiser man ; for many a man's tongue 
 shakes out his master's undoing. To say nothing, to do no- 
 thing, to know nothing, and to have nothing, is to be a great 
 part of your title, which is within very little of nothing." 
 
 Even the Steward in this play, although a part containing 
 not more than half-a-dozen speeches, is a character so nicely 
 discriminated, that no ordinary-minded player could suffi- 
 ciently appreciate it, to give full effect to that deference of 
 behaviour due from him to the Countess, his mistress, com- 
 bined with his own consciousness of the dignity of his 
 
26o Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 situation, from its responsibility ; and none but a man of nice 
 sentiment, with tasteful associations, could rehearse the so- 
 liloquy of Helena upon her love for Bertram, which he had 
 overheard. It is in the 3d scene of the ist Act. And the 
 allusion to this circumstance introduces an exquisite passage, 
 in the same scene, between her adopted orphan, Helena, 
 where she is proving the report of the steward, and testing 
 her own suspicions : — 
 
 " You know, Helen, 
 I am a mother to you. 
 
 " Hel. Mine honourable mistress. 
 
 " Count. Nay, a mother : 
 
 Why not a mother .' When I said, a mother, 
 Methought you saw a serpent : what 's in mother, 
 That you start at it .' I say, I am your mother ; 
 And put you in the catalogue of those 
 That were enwombed mine : 'tis often seen, 
 Adoption strives with nature ; and choice breeds 
 A native slip to us from foreign seeds : 
 You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan. 
 Yet I express to you a mother's care ; — 
 God's mercy, maiden ! does it curd thy blood 
 To say. Lam thy mother? What's the matter, 
 That this distemper'd messenger of wet. 
 The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye .■' 
 Why } — that you are my daughter } 
 
 " Hel. That I am not!' 
 
 Then follows the fine confession' of her love, already quoted : 
 but the delicacy and ingenuity of the above equivoque are 
 couched in the purest and most refined sense of womanly 
 modesty, conscious of not possessing a requited love ; for 
 she has already confessed to herself the hopelessness of her 
 passion, in that felicitous image of despondency — 
 
 " It were all one 
 That I should love a bright particular star, 
 And think to wed it — he is so above me." 
 
All's Well that Ends Well. 261 
 
 There is one feature in this play as regards the female por- 
 tion of the dramatis personm, which may be said to form an 
 exception to Shakespeare's usual custom of contrasting his 
 characters. Every one of these women is exemplary, every 
 one good ; and yet we recognise no monotony, no satiety, in 
 the progress of the plot. The development of character pro- 
 ceeds with an ease and naturalness of manner that are en- 
 chanting. They are all in league to befool the traitor, 
 Bertram, in his immoralities, and they carry their point 
 triumphantly. The man who thinks to outwit three women> 
 who are aware of his purpose, must indeed be a stupendous 
 ass ; and had not Bertram been that ass, and knave to boot, 
 he must have seen that Diana intended to throw him over. 
 In the scene where she defends herself from his illicit suit, (the 
 2d of the 4th Act,) she affords an instance of how well Shake- 
 speare's women know how to vindicate their own good sense 
 by sensible argument, and without becoming mere dogged 
 debaters. There is always in the reasoning of his women a 
 certain modest dignity, which preserves the feminine pro- 
 priety, while it enhances the impressive effect of what they 
 adduce in support of their own opinion. Notwithstand- 
 ing the unmistakable tone of Diana's appreciation of Ber- 
 tram's honour and moral integrity, he persists ; and, at 
 length, during the torrent of his protestations, she asks him 
 for the ring on his finger, which he declines, giving as his 
 reason — 
 
 " It is an honour 'longing to our house. 
 Bequeathed down from many ancestors ; 
 Which were the greatest obloquy i' the world 
 In me to lose." 
 
 Her reply to this is a clincher : — 
 
 " Mine honour 's such a ring : 
 My chastity's the jewel of our house. 
 
262 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 Bequeathed down from many ancestors, 
 Which were the greatest obloquy i' the world 
 In me to lose." 
 
 Well, he scatters " the honour of his house," the bequest of 
 his ancestors, and the " greatest obloquy in the world " to all 
 the winds, and parts with the ring to her ; and she, in return, 
 makes an assignation with him ; and, like a true-hearted 
 woman, contrives that his own wife shall keep the appoint- 
 ment. When he has gone, she gives us a touch of womanly 
 insight into character : — 
 
 " My mother told me just how he would woo ; 
 As if she had sat in his heart." 
 
 But all the subordinate characters in this play are so well 
 conceived and carefully developed, that they are interesting 
 in and for themselves, and independently of the general 
 story. The common soldiers, for instance, who entrap and 
 hoodwink Monsieur ParoUes, are complete specimens of their 
 class ; and, indeed, we shall have occasion to notice in other 
 of Shakespeare's plays, where he has introduced the private 
 soldier, in how accurate a manner he has varied the features 
 of the individual, maintaining all the while the integral iden- 
 tity of the species. Under whatever aspect he introduces the 
 soldier, he uniformly makes him a man of the world, bearing 
 about him an atmosphere of manner belonging to those who 
 have quartered in various countries, and among varieties of 
 customs. He never gives a homely, or home-loving character 
 to his soldier. He appears to be, and he is, as happy any- 
 where as at home. His quarters and his rations are all his 
 care ; and where he fares best, that place is his home. He 
 is always prepared for hard service ; and is not more careless 
 and light-hearted when he is joining his comrades in a "lark." 
 He will head a forlorn hope, or entrap and badger a poltroon 
 with the like sedateness and determination of purpose. To 
 
All's Well that Ends Well 263 
 
 unmask a battery — or a braggart, he will set about in the 
 same business-like style. Both are duties c5f honour, and 
 both he fulfils to the utmost of his faculties. Nothing can be 
 more complete than the conduct of the soldiers in this play. 
 They know ParoUes to' be a coward ; but as he is a man 
 holding rank above them in the army, they do not proffer 
 their opinion, or forget their station. He is their captain, yet 
 t;hey join heart and hand in the plot with his brother-officers, 
 who keep no terms with his reputation. Be it repeated again 
 and again, — the fninutice in character that Shakespeare has 
 left to be inferred — that he has not expressed, as well as 
 those that he has directly suggested, supply ample material, 
 alone, and in themselves, for admiration at his intuitive per- 
 ception of propriety. 
 
 Schlegel has an agreeable as well as just remark upon one 
 of the prevailing characteristics of this play. He says : — " In 
 it age is exhibited to singular advantage ; the plain honesty 
 of the king, the good-natured impetuosity of old Lafeu, the 
 maternal indulgence of the Countess Rousillon to Helena's 
 love of her son, seem all, as it were, to vie with each other in 
 endeavours to conquer the arrogance of the young count." 
 
 The character of the old king is indeed one of a graceful 
 placidity and sweet gravity, seasoned, moreover, with a high 
 tone of severity against the least manifestation of baseness or 
 duplicity. His dismissal of the young lords, who are depart- 
 ing for the war, is delivered in the purest spirit of chivalry : — 
 
 " Farewell, young lords ; 
 Whether I live or die, be you the sons 
 Of worthy Frenchmen ; let higher Italy 
 (Those 'bated, that inherit but the fall 
 Of the last monarchy) see that you come 
 Not to woo honour, but to wed it ; when 
 The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek. 
 That Fame may cry you loud. I say, farewell ! " 
 
264 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 But the finest point in the old king's conduct lies in his 
 rebuke of Bertram, who objects to the union with Helena, 
 solely on the score of her being a "poor physician's daughter." 
 This is at once distinguished by its dignity, and by its noble 
 distinction between the two qualities of true and false honour. 
 Moreover, the calm and fine tone of reasoning is brought in 
 with admirable relief against the irrational pride of the youth, 
 who is neither touched by the argument, nor by the condescen- 
 sion of an old man and a king reasoning with his subject. He 
 says — 
 
 " 'Tis only title thou disdain'st in her, the which 
 I can build up. Strange is it, that our bloods. 
 Of colour, weight, and heat, pour'd all together. 
 Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off 
 In differences so mighty. If she be 
 All that is virtuous, (save what thou dislik'st, 
 A poor physician's daughter,) thou dislik'st 
 Of virtue for the name ; but do not so : 
 From lowest place when virtuous things proceed, 
 The place is dignified by the doer's deed : 
 Where great additions swell, and virtue none. 
 It is a dropsied honour : good alone 
 Is good, without a name ; vileness is so : 
 The property by what it is, should go, 
 Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair ; 
 In these to Nature she 's immediate heir ; 
 And these breed honour : that is honour's scorn. 
 Which challenges itself as honour's born. 
 And is not like the sire : honours thrive, 
 When rather from our acts we them derive. 
 Than our foregoers : the mere word 's a slave, 
 Debosh'd on every tomb ; on every grave 
 A lying trophy ; and as oft is dumb. 
 Where dust and damn'd oblivion is the tomb 
 Of honour'd bones indeed. What should be said .' 
 If thou canst like this creature as a maid, 
 I can create the rest : virtue and she 
 Is her own dower ; honour and wealth from me." 
 
All's Well ikat Ends Well. 265 
 
 A finer reproof to arrogant assumption, from the mere 
 accident of birth, it would take some trouble to quote. The 
 old king combines in his character the greatest, indeed, the 
 only qualities that constitute an honourable man : an incom- 
 petence to commit a base action, a placable and even mag- 
 nanimous temper, (refer to his conduct in the last Act,) with a 
 lively sense of gratitude for benefits received, — for he never 
 for one moment compromises his debt of health to Helena. 
 
 Of the Countess Rousillon, little more need be said, than 
 that she is a specimen of a gentle and motherly, and even a 
 grand woman. Her farewell speech to her son, Bertram, on 
 his quitting home for the court, is scarcely inferior in wisdom 
 of counsel to the one which Polonius addresses to his son, 
 Laertes ; it has, too, precisely that characteristic difference 
 which the dramatist so well knew how to present — being a 
 mother's, instead of a father's parting advice. It is the 
 maternal exhortation of a noble-minded woman and high- 
 souled lady — 
 
 " Be thou blest, Bertram ! and succeed thy father 
 In manners as in shape ! thy blood and virtue 
 Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness 
 Share with thy birthright ! Love all, trust a few. 
 Do wrong to none : Be able for thine enemy 
 Rather in power than use ; and keep thy friend 
 Under thy own life's key : — be check'd for silence. 
 But never tax'd for speech. What Heaven more will. 
 That thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck down. 
 Fall on thy head !— Farewell ! " 
 
 Then, turning to the old lord, Lafeu, we have a natural touch 
 of the mother's solicitude : — 
 
 " My lord, 
 'Tis an unseason'd courtier ; good, my lord. 
 Advise him." 
 
 In those few words,—" Love all, trust a few, do wrong to 
 
266 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 none," is condensed the whole code of social duty from man 
 to man, in one golden rule. 
 
 But the Lord Lafeu is the greatest character in the play. 
 He is the very model of an aristocratic soldier : " quick in 
 honour, sudden in quarrel ; " acute in appreciating character 
 — a quality remarkable in military men, from their habit of 
 command, and of watching the dispositions of their subalterns. 
 He is a steady friend, impenetrably brave, greatly magnani- 
 mous, and possessing a vein of scornful humour admirably in 
 keeping with his profession, as well as his impetuosity of 
 character. He is the type of his countryman. Bayard, the 
 knight sans peur et sans reproche. 
 
 It is Lafeu who first smokes the real character of the pol- 
 troon-scoundrel ParoUes ; and the moment he has made up 
 his mind to it, he worries him as a mastiff would a mongrel. 
 He sums up his character in one line — 
 
 " That fellow's soul is his clothes." 
 
 The art of the poet is here noteworthy in preparing 
 the reader for Lafeu's disgust at Parolles. It is their 
 first interview, and Lafeu is addressing his conversation 
 to Bertram respecting the sudden recovery of the king 
 from his dangerous malady. Although not one word is 
 addressed (in the first instance) by Lafeu to Parolles 
 through the whole scene, yet the fellow, with the uneasy 
 impudence and restless vulgarity of a swaggering depen- 
 dant and fortune-hunter, struggling to bring himself upon 
 a level with his company, contrives to take the word) and 
 interrupt every observation made by the old nobleman. Un- 
 invited, he persists in taking his share in the talk, and Lafeu 
 as steadily cuts him, finishing his own sentences to Bertram. 
 The scene is a curious one, corroborating, among hundreds of 
 others, how, by inferences from the conduct of other characters 
 'n his plots, Shakespeare contrives to insinuate his own design 
 
Airs Well that Ends Well 267 
 
 and intention. This is one feature of what I mean by the 
 "harmony" and "just proportion" of his mental faculty. 
 
 Immediately after this scene, upon their second interview, 
 when Parolles has been gasconading prodigiously, and Lafeu 
 has had a gird at him, the Captain signifies that the veteran 
 has the " privilege of antiquity,", and, but for that, he might — 
 " Oh, ho ! [bounces Lafeu] do not plunge thyself too far in 
 anger, lest thou hasten thy trial — ^which if — Lord have mercy 
 on thee for a hen ! So, my good window of lattice, fare thee 
 well ; thy casement I need not open, for I look through 
 thee ! " He afterwards promises, for Bertram's sake, to be 
 friends with him ; but the instant he enters, his disgust returns, 
 and he again insults him. Bertram attempts an extenuation — 
 
 " It may be you have mistaken him, my lord. 
 
 " Laf. And shall do so, even though / took him at Ms 
 prayers ! Fare you well, my lord Bertram ; and believe this 
 of me, there can be no kernel in this light nut. Trust him 
 not in matter of heavy consequence. I have kept of them 
 tame, and know their natures. Farewell, Monsieur ! I have 
 spoken better of you than you have, or will deserve at my 
 hand ; but we must do good against evil." 
 
 Lafeu was a true prophet. Parolles betrays his master; 
 and afterwards, in the abjectness of poverty, the old noble- 
 man is the only one to whom he applies for relief He knows, 
 • by instinct, that Lafeu, being a man of honour and true 
 courage, is superior to the common motion of a low resent- 
 ment. In reply, therefore, to his petition, he says, "Sirrah ! 
 inquire farther after me. I had talk of you last night. 
 Though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat!' Uncon- 
 sciously we speak of these persons in conversations as though 
 they had been characters in history ; and they, have existed, 
 and they will exist, through all time ; the privilege of every 
 master-spirit who draws his resources from that deep well, 
 the human heart. We identify his creations, and give them a 
 
268 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 "local habitation" in our memory and experience. One 
 beautiful circumstance stands forth in the composition of 
 Lafeu's character ; and that is, that with the goodness of his 
 nature, he possesses the youngest heart in the company; 
 Moreover, he brings enthusiasm enough for them all ; and 
 enthusiasm will keep the heart young even though it over- 
 tax the rest of the body. Read the ist scene of the 2d Act, 
 where he comes in to apprise the king of the arrival of his fair 
 young physician, Helena. His delight at the approaching 
 relief to his master's malady causes him to run on in such a 
 strain of boyish rhapsody that he is compelled to check him- 
 self, in order (as he says) that he may " seriously convey his 
 thoughts in that light deliverance." 
 
 If Lafeu is the finest character in the play, Parolles is the 
 most complete and original. Parolles is the type of all the 
 cowards that have been introduced on the stage since his 
 time. Doctor Johnson, again, in comparing him with Falstaff, 
 manifested that he could have had but little perception of 
 even the broadest distinctions in human character. There is 
 as strong and as marked a distinction between Falstaff and 
 Parolles, as between an impudent witty cheat — a fellow who 
 will joke and laugh the money out of your pocket — and a 
 dull, hard, sordid, and vulgar swindler. The cowardice of 
 Falstaff arose quite as much from his constitutional love of 
 ease, sociality, and self-enjoyment, as from an inherent want 
 of principle and self-respect ; it was the cowardice of fat and 
 luxuriousness. Falstaff possessed qualities which attached 
 to him friends of each sex. We all know the speech uttered 
 by Bardolph after the fat knight's death, " Would I were with 
 him, wherever he is, in heaven or in hell." A more genuine 
 apotheosis to the social qualities of a man never was uttered. 
 Even the women hated Parolles ; and, upon my life, that man 
 has little enough to recommend him whom women dislike. 
 The Countess Rousillon speaks of him as a "very tainted 
 
All's Well that Ends Well 269 
 
 fellow, full of wickedness ;" and that her son " corrupts a well- 
 derived nature with his inducement." He held the respect- 
 able office of toad-eater, and something worse, to the weak 
 young lord. Mariana, too, whom he had addressed in love- 
 terms, says of hi«i, " I know the knave ! — ^hang him ! — a filthy 
 officer he is in those suggestions for the ypung earl." And 
 lastly, Helena describes him as a "notorious liar, a great 
 way fool, and solely a coward." She, too, although of 
 a gentle nature, cannot forbear girding at him for being a 
 palpable and transparent poltroon. In taking leave of her,- to 
 go to the court with his master, he says, with the insolence 
 natural to a braggart, " Little Helen, farewell. If I can re- 
 member thee, I will think of thee at court." She answers 
 with the sarcasm of a well-bred female — 
 
 " Monsieur ParoUes, you were born under a charitabk star. 
 
 " Par. Under Mars, I. 
 
 " Hel. I especially think, under Mars. 
 
 " Par. Why under Mars .■" 
 
 "Hel. The wars have so kept you under that you must 
 needs be born under Mars. 
 
 " Par. When he was predominant. 
 
 " Hel. When he was retrograde, I think, rather. 
 
 " Par. Why think you so } 
 
 " Hel. You go so much backward when you fight. 
 
 " Par. That 's for advantage. 
 
 " Hel So is running away when fear proposes the safety. 
 But the composition that your valour and fear make in you, 
 is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well. 
 
 "Par. I am so full of businesses I cannot answer thee 
 acutely." 
 
 If ParoUes had not been a fool as well as knave, he would 
 not have answered Helena's first reply. He did not know 
 ■when to drop the dialogue, and at last does so like a fool. 
 
 It was a pleasant thought in the poet, when the troops 
 were re^turning victorious, and content with their triumph, to 
 
270 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 make Parolles, the boaster, the only one who is dissatisfied : 
 and what a cause for his displeasure ; because they had lost 
 a drum ! the only thing in a battle " full of sound and fury," 
 without result ; the emblem of ^is precious self — empty, 
 noisy, and urging on others to the fight. For the loss of this 
 drum, therefore, he swells and fumes with infinite humour. 
 While he is marching in procession, and the women inquire 
 of each other why that " French jackanapes, with the scarfs, 
 is so melancholy ;" we hear him ejaculate, " Lose our drum ! 
 Well ! " — and we find afterwards how he has been blowing 
 and storming about this drum ; for the young lords, when 
 they are resolved that Bertram shall open his eyes to his pur- 
 blind confidence in the knave, lay the plot to surprise him, one 
 of them advises, " Oh, for the love of laughter, let him fetch 
 his drum ; he says he has a stratagem for it." And the other 
 echoes, " For the love of laughter, hinder not the humour of 
 his design ; let him fetch off his drum in any hand." Bertram 
 assents to the plot for the hoax ; and Parolles coming in, he 
 calls out to him — 
 
 " How now, Monsieur ; this drum sticks sorely in your 
 disposition. 
 
 " 2 Lord. Oh, the deuce take it ; let it go ; 'tis but a drum. 
 " Par. But a drum ! Is 't but a drum .' A drum so lost !" 
 
 The parley ends by Bertram promising, that if he will under- 
 take the recovery of the drum, the whole merit of the enter- 
 prise shall be awarded to him. " Then, by the hand of a 
 soldier," answers Parolles, "I will undertake it ;" adding, "I 
 love not many words." 
 
 The scene of the plot which ensues (the opening of the 4th 
 Act) is long, and, perhaps, the most humorous of its class 
 ever penned ; not untainted, however, with painfulness, as we 
 contemplate the shocking self-prostration and debasement of 
 a fellow-mortal. It opens with his famous soliloquy ; which. 
 
A U 's Well thai Ends Well. 2 7 1 
 
 for self-knowledge, with baseness, has never been surpassed, 
 not even, perhaps, equalled : — 
 
 "Par. Ten o'clock: within three hours 'twill be time 
 enough to go home. What shall I say I have done ? It 
 must be a very plausive invention that carries it. They begin 
 to smoke me ; and disgraces have of late knocked too often 
 at my door. I find my tongue is too foolhardy ; but my 
 heart hath the fear of Mars before it, and of his creatures, not 
 
 daring the report of my tongue What the^ devil 
 
 should move me to undertake the recovery of this drum, 
 being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had 
 no such purpose ? 
 
 " I must give myself some hurts, and say I got them in the 
 exploit. Yet, slight ones will not carry it ; they will say, 
 'Came you off with so little?' and great ones I dare not 
 give." .... 
 
 Then follows one of those profound reflections that give one 
 pause in studying these fine pictures of human nature. One 
 of the young lords says, aside, " Is it possible he should know 
 what he is, and be that he is ?" Well, the whole party sally 
 from their ambush, seize, and blindfold him, jabbering all 
 the while to each other in gibberish. One of the soldiers 
 volunteers the office of interpreter between them ; and to him, 
 through fear of present death, he betrays the secrets of his 
 party, and even traduces his friend and benefactor ; the only 
 one, by the way, of whom he speaks the truth. At this junc- 
 ture, when he has blown himself up, and is left, the last of the 
 party, the common soldier, reviles him in a farewell speech — 
 " If you could find out a country where but women were, 
 that had received so much shame, you might begin an im- 
 pudent nation." And when all are gone, and he is alone, he 
 gives utterance to another remarkable prompting of self- 
 knowledge : — 
 
 " Yet am I thankful. If my heart were great, 
 'Twould burst at this. Captain I '11 be no more ; 
 
272 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 But I will eat, and drink, and sleep as soft 
 As captain shall : simply the thing I am 
 Shall make me live." 
 
 In the sequel, however, we find the poor wretch paying the 
 extreme penalty of misery and starvation. He introduces 
 himself to the Clown, whom he formerly had insulted, and 
 now calls "Sir;" another instance of propriety in the poet's 
 characters, into whatever position they may be thrown — 
 
 " Good Monsieur Lavatch, give my Lord Lafeu this letter. 
 I have, ere now, sir, been better known to you, when I have 
 held familiarity with fresher clothes ; but I am now, sir, 
 muddied in fortune's mood, and smell somewhat strong of 
 her strong displeasure. 
 
 " Clown. Truly, fortune's displeasure is but sluttish if it 
 smell so strongly as thou speak'st of I will henceforth eat 
 no fish of fortune's buttering. Prithee, allow tJte wind. 
 
 " Par. Nay, you need not stop your nose, sir. I spake buf 
 by a metaphor. 
 
 " Clown. Indeed, sir ; if your metaphor stink, I will stop 
 vay nose ; or against any man's metaphor. Prithee, get thee 
 farther'.' 
 
 Old Lafeu comes in, inquires after his drum, and crowns 
 his contempt of the reptile by telling him, that " though both 
 fool and knave, he shall eat." 
 
 Two conclusions, among others, we must come to in read- 
 ing this delightful play ; one — that nobility of birth, without 
 nobleness of character, is naught ; and the other — that virtue 
 and self-respect bring their own reward of peace and satisfac- 
 tion within, with esteem and benevolence from all who are 
 worthy to bestow them. 
 
XL 
 
a. 
 
 
XI. 
 TEMPEST. 
 
 In the play of the " Tempest " Shakespeare has combined 
 all the resources of his wonderful imagination ; and in it 
 has with consummate skill displayed the vast variety of his 
 powers. In this latter quality — that of his variety — the play 
 may be pronounced the most original, as well as the most 
 complete of his productions. It is at once instinct with grace 
 and beauty, grandeur and sublimity, mirth, cheerfulness, and 
 broad humour. It is not more natural in its human passion 
 than it is in its spiritual emotion and affection ; and such is 
 the power of the poet's " so potent art," that his ideal beiftgs, 
 however wild and fantastic, possess as complete an individu- 
 ality and identity, with show of verisimilitude, (or, in plainer 
 words, they are as natural^ as his most ordinary and every- 
 day characters. Such, too, is his skill in exciting our sym- 
 pathies with them all, that we take no more interest in the 
 crowning of Miranda's happiness with her lover, than we dp 
 in the emancipation and unchartered liberty of the delicate. 
 Ariel; nay, so consociated have we the "gentle spiritings" 
 of that sweet little angel with his master's missions, — they 
 have been so long together, ruler and ministrant, that I know 
 not whether their final separation does not ensue with a feel- 
 
276 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 ing of regret on our part. Well may Prospero say, at leave- 
 taking, " I shall miss thee, my delicate Ariel ! " To be sure 
 he would,— and why should they have parted ? Who would 
 not rather have remained lord of that enchanted island, with 
 its " sounds and sweet airs, that delight, and hurt not," than 
 have returned common-place Duke of Milan ? Ferdinand 
 and Miranda might have instituted a very pretty patriarchal 
 government ; and what an heirloom to the estate would they 
 have possessed in the faithful Ariel as their prime minister — 
 in perpetiio ! But it was necessary to dissolve that lovely 
 vision, and resign its aerial creatures to their primitive ele- 
 ments. 
 
 It has just been said that the "Tempest" is the most 
 " varied," as well as the most " original, of Shakespeare's pro- 
 ductions." In it, and it alone, he has brought together, in 
 their several stages of progression, human beings, and beings 
 possessing human impulses, affections, and aspirations ; from 
 the earthly Caliban — part clod, part witch-born, an imper- 
 sonation of the grosser and lower propensities of the human 
 animal, up to the most attenuated form, that has no more 
 substance than the fleeting air or the tinted rainbow. 
 
 The subject of Shakespeare and his power of invention are 
 never, or rarely, alluded to, without an instancing of his 
 creative power in producing such contrasted perfections of 
 character as Lear and Falstaff, Hamlet and Aguecheek, 
 Othello and Malvolio, — and so we may go on with the 
 enumeration, heaping wonderment on wonderment, till we 
 are exhausted ; for his mind intellectual plumb hath never 
 yet sounded. In the play now under consideration, what 
 exquisite discrimination and consistency are evinced in the 
 two creations alone, of Ariel and Caliban ! Caliban, the 
 essence of primitive grossness, — redeemed, however, as Haz- 
 litt has excellently observed, from every particle of "vul- 
 -garity " in his composition ; adding, with his own fine talent 
 
Tempest. 277 
 
 at definition, " Vulgarity is not natural coarseness, but con- 
 ventional coarseness, learned from others, contrary to, or 
 without an entire conformity of, natural power and disposi- 
 tion ; as fashion is the common-place affectation of what 
 is elegant and refined, without any feeling of the essence of 
 it." In no one point, indeed, does Shakespeare more signally 
 manifest his power, than in the approximating shades and 
 minute discriminations in those of his characters that are con- 
 genial in complexion — whatever may be said of his skill in 
 contrast — and which, after all, is not so high in quality, if it 
 be of more startling achievement. Great, therefore, as is the 
 contrasted effect between the refined and the imaginative, 
 and the gross and the sensual persons in this play, that effect 
 does not appear to exhibit so elevated a design in invention 
 and detail, as in the manner in which he has discriminated 
 between, and, indeed, has brought into relief, the common 
 working-day coarseness of Trinculo and Stephano, against 
 the wild and romantic brutishness of Caliban. What a gusto 
 there is in the latter's remembrance of " water with berries in 
 it ;" and what a dash, too, of poetry in it, compared with the 
 riotous bawlings of the others' wine-songs. Again, his re- 
 monstrance to Trinculo, — " Thou dost me yet but little hurt ; 
 thou wilt anon, I know it by thy trembling," compared with 
 that of Stephano, in his drunkenness, — " Prithee, do not turn 
 me about, my stomach is not constant." Again, Caliban 
 says : — 
 
 " I pr'ythee, let me bring thee where crabs grow ; 
 And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts. 
 Show thee a jay's nest, and instruct thee how 
 To snare the nimble marmoset : I '11 bring thee 
 To clust'ring filberds, and sometimes I '11 get thee 
 Young sea-mells from the rock. Wilt thou go with me V 
 
 Stephano says,—" He shall taste of my bottle." The drunk- 
 ard butler has no higher notion of earthlj' bliss than the wine- 
 
278 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 cask. Caliban, it is true, upon tasting it, calls it " celestial 
 liquor," which only proves that Stephano has aggravated the 
 poor monster's brutality. Even his gloating exclamations, 
 revolting as they are, by reason of his bestial conformation, 
 are higher, and more true to the natural animal, than the 
 vulgar worldliness of the city-bred one. His exultation to 
 Prospero, who reviles him with ingratitude in attempting the 
 violation of his daughter — 
 
 " Oho ! Oho ! — ^would it had been done ! 
 Thou didst prevent me ; I had peopled else 
 This isle with Calibans." 
 
 And afterwards, to Stephano, when proposing to him the 
 murder of the father, and seizure of the daughter, he says : — 
 
 " She will become thy bed, I warrant. 
 And bring thee forth brave brood." 
 
 The other, in the true spirit of " vulgarity," and consequently 
 of inferiority to the monster, replies, — " His daughter and I 
 will be king and queen, (save our graces !) and Trinculo and 
 thyself shall be viceroys." And lastly, Stephano's obtuse, 
 worldly comment upon the aerial symphony which they hear ; 
 he says, — " This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I 
 shall have my music for nothing ; " in answer to Caliban's 
 exquisitely poetical description of those wandering sounds in 
 the air : — 
 
 " The isle is full of noises — 
 Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. 
 Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments 
 Will hum about mine ears ; and sometimes voices, 
 That, if I then had wak'd after long sleep, 
 Will make me sleep again ; and then, in dreaming. 
 The clouds, methought, would open, and show riches 
 Ready to drop upon me ; that, when I wak'd, 
 I cried to dream again." 
 
Tempest. 2 79 
 
 To which beautiful piece of iinagination, one of the other two 
 merely replies,—" The sound is gone away ; let 's follow it, 
 and after do our work" — that is, commit the murder of 
 Prospero. 
 
 Caliban says,—" I pray you, tread softly, that the blind 
 mole may not hear a foot-fall." At the cave of Prospero, 
 Caliban shows himself to be the superior being. They are 
 grumbling for the loss of their wine-bottles, and are captivated 
 by the gaudy dresses hung up to lure them: he rejects all 
 they offer him, — " I will have none on 't ; we shall lose our 
 time ; and all be turned to barnacles, or to apes with fore- 
 heads villainous low." In short, the poet has made out a 
 glowing case for the hybrid monster ; and, in the comparison, 
 the natural animal, whether considered poetically or morally, 
 assumes a dignity in our minds over the artificial and conven- 
 tional animal, — " The vulgar knaves of the civilised world," 
 as Schlegel well calls them ; adding, " The whole delineation 
 of this monster is inconceivably consistent and profound ; 
 and, notwithstanding its hatefulness, by no means hurtful to 
 our feelings, since the honour of human nature is left un- 
 touched." 
 
 In one of his early lectures, Coleridge drew a humorous 
 comparison between Caliban and a modern Radical. This 
 was subsequent to that period in his career when Mr Cole- 
 ridge was a private soldier, and preached Jacobinism to his 
 brethren militant. He would then, in all probability, have 
 done full justice to Caliban, by acknowledging him proprietor 
 of the land inherited from Sycorax, his mother; and Prospero, 
 then, would have been pronounced an aristocrat — probably a 
 Tory. But, really so to speak, with all. our admiration of 
 and sympathy with the illustrious magician, we perforce must 
 acknowledge Prospero to be of a revengeful nature. He has 
 not the true social wisdom; and he only learns Christian wis- 
 dom from his servant Ariel. By nature he is a selfish aristo- 
 
28o Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 crat. When he was Duke of Milan he gave himself up to his 
 favourite indulgence of study and retired leisure, yet expected 
 to preserve his state and authority. When master of the 
 Magic Island, he is stern and domineering, lording it over his 
 sprite-subjects, and ruling them with a wand of rigour. He 
 comes there, and takes possession of the territory with all the 
 coolness of a usurper ; he assumes despotic sway, and stops 
 only short of absolute unmitigated tyranny. His only point 
 of tender human feeling is his daughter; and his only point 
 of genial sympathy is with the dainty being Ariel. And yet 
 withal, beneath Prospero's sedate experience, we find there lie 
 real kindness and affection for the little embodied Zephyr ; 
 for when, with a sportive question and child-like, Ariel says, 
 " Do you love me, master ? No;" the master replies, "Dearly, 
 my delicate Ariel." And again, afterwards, " I shall miss 
 thee ; but yet thou shalt have thy freedom," showing that he 
 has a heart to comprehend the eagerness of the airy sprite to 
 be at liberty amidst the boundless elements of which he is the 
 creature. The best of Prospero's social philosophy is, that it 
 consists not in so obstinate an adherence to its tenets, but- 
 that it suffers itself to be won over to a kindlier and more 
 tolerant course when convinced that it has hitherto held too 
 strict a one. His purpose of revenge gives way to mercy 
 when assured that his injurers repent. 
 
 Ariel is the extreme opposite of Caliban. Ariel is the 
 ethereal personification of will and accomplishment, with the 
 lightning's speed. When despatched on an errand by Prospero, 
 and desired to make good speed, he answers; " I drink the air 
 before me!" What an idea do those six words convey of 
 compassing time and space ! With a refinement of his art, 
 Shakespeare has contrived to secure our interests in and 
 sympathies with this exquisite being, by imbuing it with the 
 frolicsome and wayward fancies of a petted child. We incline 
 to take part with Ariel in his little fretfulnesses and longings 
 
Tempest. ,281 
 
 to be as unfettered as the winged winds. His desires to be 
 set free, (for freedom is his nature,) and his pretty fi-oward- 
 ness under the constraint of the mighty magician, who, 
 although his liberator, is still his master, even his tyrant, is 
 more excusable than the latter's tetchy reproaches : — 
 
 "Is there more toil? [says the little libertine.] Since thou 
 dost give me pains, 
 Let me remember thee what thou hast promis'd, 
 Which is not yet perform'd me. 
 
 " Pro. How now ! , moody } 
 
 What is 't thou canst demand .' 
 
 <■' Ari. My liberty. 
 
 " Pro. Before the time be out ? no more ! 
 
 "Ari. I prithee. 
 
 Remember, I have done thee worthy servtce ; 
 Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, serv'd 
 Without or grudge or grumblings ; thou didst promise 
 To bate me a full year. 
 
 " Pro. Dost thou forget 
 
 From what a torment I did free thee .' 
 
 " A ri. No. 
 
 " Pro. Thou dost ; and think' st it much to tread the ooze 
 of the salt deep, 
 To run upon the sharp wind of the north. 
 To do me business in the veins o' th' earth 
 
 When it is bak'd with frost. 
 
 ***** * 
 
 If thou more murmur* st, I will rend an oak, 
 And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till 
 Thou hast howl'd away twelve winters." 
 
 All this enlists our sympathy with the little " featureless 
 angel," as he has been happily called ; but Shakespeare has 
 gone yet farther upon this point, by giving to Ariel a feeling 
 of tender commiseration for the interests of those whom he 
 is commanded to punish and torment. Here the poet's own 
 sweet nature steps in, and he makes the being with feelings 
 
282 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 and notions foreign to the human, read his master a lesson 
 upon forbearance and forgiveness. Is not the following little 
 dialogue between them a practical homily upon the first great 
 principle of social humanity ? — 
 
 " Your charm so strongly works them, 
 That if you now beheld them, your affections 
 Would become tender. 
 
 " Pro. Dost thou think so, Ariel t 
 
 "Ari. Mine would, sir, were I human. 
 
 "Pro. And mine shall. 
 
 Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling 
 Of their afflictions ; and shall not myself. 
 One of their kind, that relish all as sharply. 
 Passion as they, be kindlier mov'd than thou art } 
 Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick, 
 Yet, with my nobler reason 'gainst my fury 
 Do I take part. The rarer action is 
 In virtue than in vengeance ; they being penitent, 
 The sole drift" of my purpose doth extend 
 Not a frown farther. Go, release them, Ariel." 
 
 Whenever and wherever Shakespeare speaks from the 
 movement of his own mind, and not from traditional autho- 
 rity, we invariably find him swayed by the highest and most 
 refined principle of magnanimity ; the common and heathen- 
 ish notion of revenge seems to have been utterly foreign to 
 his nature. Magnanimity, in its most extended sense, was 
 the characteristic of his mind. 
 
 I believe that we may search through the fields of fancy 
 and discover no imaginative being equalling, in beauty of 
 conception, the creation of Ariel in the " Tempest," 
 
 The " Ideal" may indeed be said to constitute the main 
 feature of this matchless composition. In addition to the 
 imaginary beings that have just been alluded to, the young 
 Prince Ferdinand, upon his first introduction to Miranda, 
 " Most sure, the goddess on whom these airs attend !" not only 
 
Tempest. 283 
 
 is prepared, but is eager to receive her as a supernatural 
 creation ; and also, in alluding to the aerial music, he says, 
 "This is no mortal business, nor no sound that the earth 
 owes;" but he, moreover, discovers that he had always pre- 
 viously held a faith in the unknown, which led him to be 
 fastidious with regard to the persons moving around him : — 
 
 " Full many a lady 
 I have ey'd with best regard ; and many a time 
 The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage 
 Brought my too diligent ear : 'for several virtues 
 Have I liked several women ; never any 
 With so full soul, but some defect in her 
 Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow'd, 
 And put it to the foil ; but you, O you ! 
 So perfect and so peerless, are created 
 Of every creature's best." 
 
 His abrupt and eager belief in her worth, in the third speech 
 only that he makes to her — 
 
 " Oh, if a virgin. 
 And your affection not gone forth, I '11 make 
 Thee queen of Naples ;" 
 
 and again, his prodigal acquiescence in any plan which may 
 lead to their union — even to the abandonment of all his 
 worldly advantages, and to live with her in the island : — 
 
 " Let me live here ever. 
 So rare a wonder'd father, and a wife, 
 Make this place paradise ;" 
 
 all proclaim his ardent imagination and thorough faith in 
 goodness :/^nly the good know the full truth of goodness ; 
 this very faith forms a feature of the " Ideal," and it is the 
 characteristic of all the worthy ' persons in this play. All 
 this, be it observed, harmonises with the first grand out- 
 line of the story — being in itself an idealised conception 
 
284 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 and construction. Here again appears the dominant feature 
 in the poet's mind — that of " keeping," and consistency. 
 
 The full and entire confidence of these two young creatures 
 (Ferdinand and Miranda) in each other's integrity of love is 
 an absolute type of the primitive innocence and bliss of Para- 
 dise. Her answer to his question, "Wherefore weep you .'" 
 and which is the result of her happiness upon hearing his 
 love-protestation, is one of the most perfect specimens that 
 can be produced of womanly trustingness, with innocence of 
 motive. She says, I weep 
 
 " At mine own unworthiness, that dare not offer 
 What I desire to give ; and much less take 
 What I, shall die to want. But this is trifling ; 
 And all the more it seeks to hide itself, 
 The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning ! 
 And prompt me plain and holy innocence ! 
 I am your wife, if you will marry me ; 
 If not, I '11 die your maid ; to be your fellow 
 You may deny me ; but I '11 be your servant. 
 Whether you will or no." 
 
 Here we have an epitome of what alone can sublimate and 
 consolidate the social compact between the sexes, — ^viz., the 
 non-conceit in our own power to please : the promptness to 
 receive, and the gratification in receiving and imparting 
 pleasure, constitute the true cement of a pure and passion- 
 ate love ; a cement that hardens rather than crumbles with 
 use. 
 
 The good old lord, Gonzalo, in his disposition, also carries 
 out the "Ideal" principle insisted upon in this play. He, 
 too, partakes of the faculty of imagination, and it may be 
 remembered how tenderly he employs it to amuse and cheer 
 his sorrowing master, the King Alonzo. His Utopian scheme 
 for a commonwealth, if he were master of the island, is quite 
 in character with a merry and crotchety old man. He 
 says : — 
 
Tempest. 285 
 
 " r the commonwealth, I would by contraries 
 Execute all things; for no kind of traffic 
 Would I admit ; no name of magistrate ; 
 Letters should not be known ; riches, poverty, 
 . And use of service, none ; contract, succession. 
 Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none ; 
 No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil ; 
 No occupation ; all men idle, all ; 
 And women, too, but innocent and pure ; 
 No sovereignty." 
 
 The worthy old nobleman had been reading Florio's trans- 
 lation of Montaigne's essay "Of the Cannibals ;" for this, his 
 scheme to construct a commonwealth, he had adopted, almost 
 literally, from the delightful and most merry old Frenchman. 
 Gonzalo is a most sweet and gentle character. How placidly 
 he bears the hard quizzing of the other lords ; with a woi-Idly 
 wisdom of indifference, as befits a counsellor and courtier, 
 but full of a chirping spirit and happy feeling, springing out 
 of a pure conscience, that causes him to turn to the sunny 
 side of things in misfortune. With the true generosity of 
 genuine goodness, too, he rebukes the reproaches which the 
 others, in their selfishness, heap upon the king for bringing 
 them into trouble : — 
 
 " My Lord Sebastian, 
 The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness. 
 And time to speak it in. You rub the sore 
 When you should bring the plaster." 
 
 And then he turns to divert the king from his grief at the 
 supposed death of his son Ferdinand. He does this, too, in 
 the full knowledge of Alonzo's former guilt ; for, after the 
 thunder and lightning, with the dreadful forms raised by 
 Ariel to terrify them, and they rush out distracted, Gonzalo 
 says : — 
 
 " All three of them are desperate : their great guilt, 
 Like poison given to work a great time after, 
 
286 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 Now 'gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you, 
 That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly, 
 And hinder them from what this ecstasy 
 May now provoke them to." 
 
 It is in this scene that the conscience-struck Alonzo makes 
 confession of his crime in those grand lines : — 
 
 " Oh, it is monstrous ! monstrous ! 
 Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it : 
 The winds did sing it to me ; and the thunder, 
 That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc'd 
 The name of Prosper : it did bass my trespass." 
 
 We note also the pious gratitude in the conduct of Gonzalo. 
 He is the only one whose speech assumes that tone upon the 
 happy reconciliation of the families. With gentle pathos, 
 upon contemplating the scene, he says : — 
 
 " I have inly wept. 
 Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you gods, 
 And on this couple drop a blessed crown ! 
 For it is you that have chalk'd forth the way 
 Which brought us hither." 
 
 It is to be observed that the good people, old Gonzalo and 
 the two lords, Adrian and Francisco, maintain throughout an 
 unaffected cheerfulness, and evince a gay desire to discover 
 all that is pleasant and agreeable in their wanderings through 
 the island. Their principle is to make the best account of 
 everything they encounter. And here, again, we note the 
 uniform tendency of Shakespeare's moral philosophy, while 
 Antonio and Sebastian, the two bad ambitious brothers, 
 indulge in hollow jests and flippant sneers at the others, and 
 are, moreover, querulous and unhappy. Coleridge has truly 
 said — " Shakespeare has shown the tendency in bad men to 
 indulge in scorn and contemptuous expressions as a mode of 
 getting rid of their own uneasy feelings of inferiority to the 
 good, and also of rendering the transition to wickedness easy. 
 
Tempest. 287 
 
 by making the good ridiculous. Shakespeare never puts 
 habitual scorn into the mouths of other than bad men." So 
 with Antonio and Sebastian ; and he must be a superficial 
 reader who does not perceive in their hollow jests and bully- 
 ing deportment a sense of unreality. Moreover, they lose 
 their presence of mind in the storm, and betray their fear in 
 abusing the captain of the vessel. They abuse him as though, 
 he had raised the tempest ; and they reproach the king of 
 Naples for being the cause of their leaving home. How true 
 to nature all this selfishness ! Whereas, on the other hand, 
 and all through, the worthy characters busy themselves to 
 turn every casualty into a grace and a benefit. Adrian says, 
 " Though this island seem to be desert, the air breathes upon 
 us here most sweetly.'' And Gonzalo follows him up with, 
 " How lush and lusty the grass looks ! how green !" And it 
 is Francisco who consoles the king in those justly-celebrated 
 lines, descriptive of the young Prince Ferdinand swimming to. 
 shore : — 
 
 " Sir, he may live. 
 I saw him beat the surges under him. 
 And ride upon their backs : he trod the water. 
 Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted 
 The surge most swoln that met him : his bold head, 
 'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd 
 Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke 
 To the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bow'd 
 As stooping to relieve him. / not doubt 
 He came alive to land'.' 
 
 Let no one say that all this contrast in character-painting 
 of the foregone individuals is not true to nature in her course 
 of action. We cannot tell the deepest thoughts of men from 
 their betrayals of feature-expression ; but we may be sure 
 that bad men are not happy. The celebrated "Junius," who 
 certainly knew something of mankind, makes the following 
 
2 88 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 affirmation : — " After long experience of the world, I affirm 
 before God, I never knew a rogue who was not unhappy." 
 
 The manly and dreadnought character of the seafaring 
 man — at all events, of the English sailor — is admirably hit off 
 in the conduct of the boatswain in the midst of the terror 
 and confusion of the sea-storm. His perfect manifestation of 
 true courage — fully appreciating the danger they were threat- 
 ened with, (and it is no " courage," but stupidity, that does 
 not "appreciate" the danger which is imminent,) and yet 
 maintaining an animated and encouraging tone : — " Heigh, 
 my hearts ! — cheerly, cheerly, my hearts ! yare, yare ; take in 
 the topsail ; 'tend to the master's whistle. Blow till thou 
 burst thy wind, if room enough!" The perfect ejaculation of a 
 seaman, — " Blow till thou burst, so long as we are off shore'.' 
 And then the rough and contemptuous check he gives the 
 king and his courtiers, who endeavour to assume authority 
 over him : — 
 
 " I pray you now keep below. 
 
 " Gonz. Nay, good, be patient. 
 
 " Boats. ^\ien the sea is. — Hence! — What care these 
 roarers for the name of king .' To cabin — silence ; and 
 trouble us not. 
 
 " Gonz. Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard. 
 
 "Boats. None that I more love than myself. You are 
 a counsellor ; if you can command these elements to silence, 
 and work the peace of the present, we will not hand a rope 
 more : use your authority. If you cannot, give thanks you 
 have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin 
 for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap." 
 
 Gonzalo's reflection upon this blunt fellow harmonises with 
 his own lively temper and honest life : — 
 
 " I have great comfort from this fellow ; methinks he hath 
 no drowning mark upon him, — his complexion is perfect 
 gallows. Stand fast, good fate, to his hanging. MaTce the 
 rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth little advan- 
 
Tempest. • 289 
 
 tage ! If he be not born to be hanged, our case is miser- 
 able." 
 
 And true to his character, when they are all in extremity, 
 and the ship is going down, he maintains his humour to the 
 last — 
 
 " Now would I give a liiousand furlongs of sea for an acre 
 of barren ground. — Long heath, brown furze, anything. The 
 wills above be done ! but I would fain die a dry death." 
 
 The Boatswain's rough and straightforward speech at the 
 end of the play comes in the midst of the poetical winding- 
 up like a well-contrasted colour in a picture. He is asked, 
 " What news ? " 
 
 " The best news is, that we have safely found 
 Our king and company ; the next, our ship. 
 Which but three glasses since we gave out split. 
 Is tight, and yare, and bravely rigg'd, as when 
 We first put out to sea." 
 
 Upon the technical orders and manceuvrings of the vessel 
 during the storm. Lord Mulgrave, Captain Glascock, and Sir 
 Henry Mainwaring — all eminent naval tacticians— have borne 
 testimony to Shakespeare's accuracy. Lord Mulgrave says 
 that the poet " must have drawn his knowledge of seaman- 
 ship from accurate personal observation, or have had a re- 
 markable power of applying the information of others." And 
 Captain Glascock says, " The Boatswain in the ' Tempest ' 
 delivers himself in the true vernacular style of the forecastle." 
 Doctor Johnson — ^preferring pickthanking to approbation — 
 says, " The scene of the shipwreck exhibits some inaccuracies 
 and contradictory orders." Whom does the critic show to be 
 at fault ? 
 
 There is still the " Mask " to speak of in this enchanting 
 
 drama. As if he had not heaped beauty on beauty, rapture- 
 
 hfgh, the poet yet " throws a tint upon the rose, and adds a 
 
 T 
 
290 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 perfume to the violet." Only observe how, in a mere show — 
 a casual and fleeting pageant — Shakespeare, with a prodigal 
 hand, scatters some of his most sparkling gems ! Here, too, 
 where there is more simple description, and where other poets 
 can with better chance compete with him, than in his tran- 
 scendent power of dramatic passion, yet, even here, see how 
 he surpasses them all — all the professors of Mask composition. 
 Shall we in any of them find more pure rythmical harmony, 
 or poetic diction to compare in chaste adherence to rustic 
 nature, with Iris's invocation to Ceres ? — 
 
 " Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas 
 Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and peas ; 
 Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep, 
 And flat meads thatch'd with stover, them to keep ; 
 Thy banks with peonied and lilied brims, 
 Which spongy April at thy hest betrims. 
 To make cold nymphs chaste crowns ; and thy broom-groves. 
 Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, 
 Being lass-lorn ; thy pole-clipp'd vineyard ; 
 And thy sea-marge, sterile, and rocky-hard. 
 Where thou thyself dost air : the queen o' the sky. 
 Whose wat'ry arch and messenger am I, 
 Bids thee leave these ; and with her sov' reign grace. 
 Here on this grass-plot, in this very place. 
 To come and sport. Her peacocks fly amain : 
 Approach rich Ceres, her to entertain." 
 
 And what poetry, in its class, is more fanciful and elegant 
 than the reply of Ceres to this invocation of Iris .? — 
 
 " Hail, many-colour'd messenger, that ne'er 
 Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter ; 
 Who, with thy saffron wings, upon my flowers 
 Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers ; 
 And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown 
 My bosky acres, and my unshrubb'd down, 
 Rich scarf to my proud earth ; why hath thy queen 
 Summon'd me hither, to this short-grass'd green > " 
 
Tempest. 291 
 
 Rich and gorgeous as Spenser is in his mythological dis- 
 plays, h^ has nothing finer or more true than this pageant. 
 
 " Highest queen of state, 
 Great Juno comes ; I know her by her gait," 
 
 is like Homer; or, as the commentators would say — after try- 
 ing to prove that he had no classical learning — " this phrase 
 Shakespeare found in Homer.'' And what poet but the poet 
 of poets would have thought of that lovely epithet — " ever- 
 harmless looks," as applied to those gentle imaginary beings, 
 the Naiads .' and how gracefully elegant is the manner of 
 their summoning ! — 
 
 " You nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the winding brooks, 
 ^With your sedg'd crowns, and ever-harmless looks. 
 Leave your crisp channels, and on this green land 
 Answer your summons : Juno does command. 
 Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate 
 A contract of true love : be not too late. 
 You sun-burnt sicklemen, of August weary. 
 Come hither from the furrow and be merry : 
 Make holyday : your rye-straw hats put on, 
 And these fresh nymphs encounter every one 
 In country footing." 
 
 They who can turn aside from the hard and macadamised 
 road of dry duty and daily labour, to wander amid the glades 
 and flowery knolls of the imaginary world of never-dying 
 poetry, are privileged beings ; for they have a sense and a 
 sensation superadded to the ordinary dispensation of their 
 fellows. They are, for the time, lifted " above the smoke and 
 stir of this dim spot called earth ; " they are in another 
 world, and they revel in unworldly thoughts and unworldly 
 associations; they become denizens of the golden sphere 
 of romance ; and romance is the salt in the ocean of life, 
 keeping its waters sweet and fresh amidst the turmoiling and 
 common-places of every -day action. 
 
XII. 
 
XII. 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 I NEVER knew any one object to the nature and conduct of 
 Beatrice in " Much Ado About Nothing," who was not either 
 dull in faculty, ill-tempered, or an overweening assertor of 
 the exclusive privileges of the male sex. 
 
 The late Thomas Campbell, in an edition of the poet, 
 denounces her as " an odious woman." I never saw Mr 
 Campbell, and knew nothing of him personally ; I can say 
 nothing, therefore, of his temper, or of his jealousy as regards 
 the privileges claimed by the stronger party in the human 
 world ; and most certain am I that he was not a man of 
 " dull faculty," for I do know his intellectual character. But 
 I should be inclined to draw a conclusion from the epithet 
 used by that elegant poet and cultivated scholar, that he was 
 a man subject to strong impulses, and to a high degree of 
 nervous irritability ; and that he had risen from his task of 
 editing this enchanting play, annoyed and excited by the 
 sparring between Beatrice and Benedick, in which word- 
 encounters she certainly is no "light weight" to him; but 
 to call her "odious" was an injudicious comment, and only 
 true as regards his own individual temperament and feelings. 
 In the general estimation of the world, Beatrice is one of 
 
296 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 those who wear their characters inside out. They have no 
 reserves with society, for they require none. They may, 
 perhaps, presume upon, or rather forget that they possess a 
 mercurial temperament, which, when unreined, is apt to start 
 from its course and inconvenience their fellow-travellers ; but 
 such a propensity is not an "odious" one — it is not hateful ; 
 and this is the only feature in the character of Beatrice that 
 Mr Campbell could object to. She is warm-hearted, gener- 
 ous ; has a noble contempt of baseness of every kind ; is 
 wholly untinctured with jealousy ; is the first to break out into 
 invective when her cousin Hero is treated in that scoundrel 
 manner by her affianced husband at the very altar, and even 
 makes it a sine qua non with Benedick to prove his love for 
 herself by challenging the traducer of her cousin. 
 
 This last fact, by the way, leads to a natural digression 
 when speaking of the career of Beatrice ; and that is, that 
 the very circumstance of her embroiling her lover in a duel 
 for another person is of itself a proof that the sensual passion 
 of love had no predominant share in her choice of Benedick 
 for a husband ; and in this insignificant — apparently insignfi- 
 cant — but momentous point of conduct, we again, and for the 
 thousandth time, recognise Shakespeare's unsleeping sense of 
 propriety in character. A woman, personally and passion- 
 ately in love, has been known to involve her lover where 
 her own self-love has been compromised ; and even then I 
 should question the quality of the passion ; that, however 
 strong it might be, it was weaker than her own self-worship ; 
 for the sterling passion of love, by the law of nature, is all- 
 absorbing, all-engrossing, and admits no equal near the 
 throne. But no woman, so enamoured, would place her 
 lover's life in jeopardy for a third party ; and this leads me 
 to retrace my position and observe, that the union of Beatrice 
 and Benedick was only a " counterfeit presentment" of ninety- 
 nine hundredths of the marriages that take place in society. 
 
Much Ado About Nothing. 297 
 
 and which are the result of friendly concoction. There was 
 no " love," no sexual love, between Benedick and Beatrice ; 
 but the self-love of each being fanned into a flame from 
 hearing, through the plot of their friends, that they were 
 mutually, though unknowingly, an object of attachment to 
 each other, — ^this " self-love," with an emotion of gratitude, 
 exalted their reciprocal respect into the conventional love of 
 every-day society ; but there was not a spark of passion in 
 the whole affair. The very discovery that each is an object 
 of supposed interest with the other produces not one word 
 in avowal of passion ; and here again Shakespeare is on his 
 guard ; and in how masterly a manner has he sustained the 
 several characteristic peculiarities of the two individuals upon 
 that discovery. Beatrice, with her lively demonstrativeness 
 of nature, rushes from the arbour after hearing the conversa- 
 tion of Hero and Ursula respecting her being the object of 
 Benedick's affection. She has fallen into the trap they have 
 laid for her, and she exclaims : — 
 
 " What fire is in mine ears "i Can this be true .' 
 Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so much ? 
 Contempt, farewell ; and maiden pride, adieu ! 
 No glory lives behind the back of such. 
 And, Benedick, love on : I will requite thee ; 
 Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand. 
 If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee 
 To bind our loves up in a holy band." 
 
 There is no avowal of passion, methinks, in that speech. It 
 is merely an acquiescent one, — " If thou dost love, my kind- 
 ness shall incite thee" to tie the knot. On the other hand, 
 Benedick, being a man of the world, a soldier, too, and not 
 wholly a child to stratagems, comes forward sedately question- 
 ing the dialogue respecting himself and Beatrice, between 
 Don Pedro, Claudio, and old Leonato. To give full force to 
 the doubt and caution of Benedick, and at the same time to 
 
298 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 enrich the plausibility of the plot against him, he would have 
 suspected his young companions, but old Leonato being of 
 the party staggers him. He says to himself, " I should think 
 this a gull, but that the whitcrbearded fellow speaks it ; 
 knavery cannot sure hide himself in such reverence." And 
 never was soliloquy more naturally penned than his com- 
 muning with himself upon the dialogue he had just heard: — 
 
 " This can be no trick ; the conference was sadly borne. 
 [That is, sedately, seriously borne.] They have the truth of 
 this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady. It seems her 
 affections have the full bent. Love me! why, it must be 
 requited. I hear how I am censured ; they say I will bear 
 myself proudly if I perceive the love come from her. They 
 say, too, that she will rather die than give any sign of affec- 
 tion. / did never think to marry. I mustn't seem proud. 
 Happy are they that can hear their detractions and put them 
 to mending. They say the lady is fair : 'tis a truth, I can 
 bear them witness ; — and virtuous ; 'tis so, I cannot reprove 
 it : and wise, but for loving me ! by my troth, 'tis no addition 
 to her wit ; nor no great argument of her folly ; for I will be 
 horribly in love with her. I may chance to have some odd 
 quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have 
 railed so long against marriage ; but doth not the appetite 
 alter ? A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot 
 endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences, and these 
 paper bullets of the brain, awe a man from the career of his 
 humour .? No ! The world must be peopled. When I said 
 I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I 
 were married." 
 
 Will any one say that there is any expression of love in its 
 exclusiveness in that speech .' 
 
 I would devote a few more words upon the two characters 
 of Benedick and Beatrice, and principally upon the latter, 
 who is one of our favourites among the heroines in Shake- 
 speare. 
 
 Beatrice is not without consciousness of her power of wit ; 
 
Much Ado About Nothing. -299 
 
 but it is rather the delight that she takes in something that 
 is an effluence of her own glad nature, than for any pride of 
 display. She enjoys its exercise, too, as a means of playful 
 despotism over one whom she secretly admires, while openly 
 tormenting. Her first inquiries after Benedick show the sort 
 of interest she takes in him ; and it is none the less for its 
 being veiled by a scoffing style ; while what she says of their 
 mutual wit-encounters proves the glory she has in out- 
 taunting him. When her uncle observes to the Messenger, 
 in reply to one of her sarcasms^ " There is a kind of merry 
 war betwixt Signior Benedick and her ; they never meet, but 
 there is a skirmish of wit between them ; " she replies — 
 
 " Alas ! he gets nothing by that. In our last conflict four 
 of his five wits went halting off, and now the whole man is 
 governed by one ; so that if he have wit enough to keep 
 himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself 
 and his horse ; for it is all the wealth he hath left to be 
 known for a reasonable creature." 
 
 She is suspiciously anxious to point her disdain of him ; for 
 when the Messenger remarks, — " I see, lady, the gentleman 
 is not in your books ;" she retorts, *'No ; an he were, I would 
 burn my study." Her native hilarity of heart is evidenced 
 constantly, and in the most attractive manner ; for it serves 
 to make the blaze of her intellect show itself as originating 
 in a secret blitheness of temperament. The prince, Don 
 Pedro, says, — " In faith, lady, you have a merry heart ; " to 
 which she replies, — " Yea, my lord, I thank it, poor fool, it 
 keeps on the windy side of care." And when, following this 
 up by some smart banter, she gracefully checks herself, — 
 " But I beseech your grace, pardon me ; I was born to speak 
 all mirth and no matter:" he rejoins— "Your silence most 
 offends me ; and to be merry best becomes you ; for out of 
 question you were born in a merry hour." Whereto she 
 answers, "No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then 
 
300 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 there was a star danced, and under that was I born." Well 
 may the prince remark after she has gone out, " By my 
 troth, a pleasant-spirited lady!" To which her uncle, 
 Leonato, replies : — 
 
 "There's little of the melancholy element in her, my 
 lord ; she is never sad but when she sleeps ; and not ever 
 sad then ; for I have heard my daughter say she hath 
 often dreamed of unhappiness, and waked herself with laugh- 
 ing." 
 
 The fact, is, like many high-spirited women, Beatrice pos- 
 sesses a fund of hidden tenderness beneath her exterior gaiety 
 and sarcasm, — none the less profound from being withheld 
 from casual view, and very seldom allowed to bewray itself. 
 As proofs of this, witness her affection for her uncle, Leonato, 
 and his strong esteem and love for her, — her passionate 
 attachment to her cousin Hero, and the occasional, but ex- 
 tremely significant, betrayals of her partiality for Benedick ; 
 her very seeking out opportunities to torment him being one 
 proof (especially in a woman of her disposition and breeding) 
 of her preference ; for women do not banter a man they dis- 
 like, — they mentally send him to Coventry, and do not lift 
 him into importance by offering an objection, still less a 
 repartee, or a sarcasm. The only time we see Beatrice alone, 
 and giving utterance to the thoughts of her heart, — that is, in 
 soliloquy, which is the dramatic medium of representing self- 
 communion — (already quoted) — her words are full of warm 
 and feminine tenderness, — words that probably would not 
 seem so pregnant of love-import, coming from another 
 woman, more prone to express such feeling ; but, from 
 Beatrice, meaning much. It is the very transcript of an 
 honest and candid heart. Then the poet has given her so 
 potent an antagonist in her wit-fencing, that her skill is saved 
 from being thought unbefitting. Benedick's wit is so polished, 
 so manly, so competent, that her womanhood is spared the 
 
Much Ado A bout Nothing. 301 
 
 disgrace of bearing away the palm in their keen encounters. 
 
 He always remains victor ; for we feel that he voluntarily 
 
 refrains from claiming the conquest he achieves ; and he is 
 
 ever master of the field, though his chivalrous gallantry 
 
 chooses to leave her in possession of the ground — that 
 
 " ground " so dear to female heart, " the last word." Bene- 
 
 c 
 dick is a perfect gentleman, and his wit partakes of his 
 
 nature ; it is forbearing in proportion to its excellence. One 
 of the causes which render Benedick's wit more delightful 
 than that of Beatrice, is, that it knows when to cease. Like a 
 true woman, (don't " condemn me to everlasting redemption," 
 ladies !) Beatrice is apt to pursue her advantage, when she 
 feels she has one, to the very utmost. She does not give her 
 antagonist a chance ; and if she could upset him, she would 
 pink him when he was down : now. Benedick, with the gener- 
 osity of superior strength, gives way first. His mode at the 
 last of checking her mettlesome wit, when he finds it again 
 about to curvet unseasonably against him, is worthy of Bene- 
 dick's manly spirit. It is a gallant rebuke ; at once gentle 
 and conclusive, it is the most effectual, as it is the most fit, 
 close that he could put to the lady's arch pertinacity. At the 
 close of the drama, when they all come in masked, and the 
 scene of Claudio's second betrothal takes place, Benedick 
 comes forward, saying — 
 
 " Soft and fair. Friar. — ^Which is Beatrice .' 
 
 "Beat. ^Unmasking^ I answer to that name. What is your 
 will.' 
 
 " Bene. Do not you love me ? 
 
 " Beat. No ; no more than reason. 
 
 " Bene. Why, then, your uncle, and the prince, and Claudio, 
 have been deceived ; for they swore you did. 
 
 "Beat. Do not you love me 1 
 
 " Bene. No ; no more than reason. 
 
 " Beat Why, then, my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula, are 
 much deceived ; for they did swear you did. 
 
302 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 " Bene. They swore that you were almost sick for me. 
 
 " Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me. 
 
 " Bene. 'Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me .' 
 
 " Beat. No, truly ; but in friendly recompence. 
 
 " Leonato. Come, cousin ; I am sure you love the gentle- 
 man. 
 
 " Claud. And I '11 be sworn upon it he loves her; for here's 
 a paper written in his hand, — a halting sonnet of his own 
 pure brain, fashioned to Beatrice. 
 
 " Hero. And here 's another, writ in my cousin's hand, stolen 
 from her pocket, containing her affection unto Benedick. 
 
 " Bene. A miracle ! here 's our own hands against our hearts ! 
 Come, I will have thee ; but, by this light, I take thee for 
 pity. 
 
 " Beat I would not marry you ; but, by this good day, I 
 yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life; 
 for I was told you were in a consumption. 
 
 " Bene. Peace ! I will stop your mouth." — [Which he does, 
 with a kiss.J 
 
 One of Beatrice's best pieces of wit is her reply to her 
 uncle's wish : — 
 
 " Well, niece ; I hope to see you one day fitted with a 
 husband. 
 
 " Beat. Not till God make men of some other metal than 
 earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered with 
 a piece of valiant dust .' To make an account of her life to a 
 clod of wayward marie } No, uncle, I '11 none : Adam's sons 
 are my brethren ; and truly I hold it a sin to match in my 
 kindred." 
 
 One of Benedick's pleasantest as well as wittiest speeches 
 is that wherein he complains of Beatrice's maltreatment at 
 the masquerade. It is the only time when he seems to be 
 earnestly irritated with her ; and no wonder. He says of her 
 behaviour — 
 
 " Oh ! she misused me past the endurance of a block ; an 
 oak, with but one green leaf upon it, would have answered 
 
Much Ado About Nothing. 303 
 
 her. My very vizor began to assume life, and scold with her. 
 She told me (not thinking I had been myself) that I was the 
 prince's jester, that I was duller than a great thaw, huddling 
 jest upon jest, with such impossible conveyance upon me, 
 that I stood like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting 
 at me." . ..." I would not marry her though she were 
 endowed with all that Adam had left before he transgressed." 
 
 Benedick, being a man of acknowledged wit, as well as of 
 a blithe temperament, has no fancy to be considered a jester, 
 — a professed "jester." His brilliant faculties render him a 
 favourite associate of the prince ; but his various higher 
 qualities, as a gentleman and a scholar, give him better 
 claims to liking than those of a gay companion only. It is 
 this that makes Beatrice's calling him the "prince's jester" 
 so intolerable a gibe. She knew it, the hussy ! with her 
 woman's shrewdness in finding out precisely what will most 
 gall the man she prefers ; and he shows that it touches him 
 to the quick, by reverting to it in soliloquy, and repeating it 
 again to his friends when they come in. A man of lively 
 humour who is excited by his native gaiety of heart to enter- 
 tain his friends by his pleasantry, at the same time feeling 
 within himself that he possesses yet stronger and worthier 
 grounds for their partiality, has a peculiarly sensitive dread 
 of being taken for a mere jester or buffoon. Benedick's 
 buoyancy of spirit is no effect of levity or frivolity. His 
 humour has depth of feeling as well as mirth in it. His wit 
 has force and geniality, no less than intellectual vivacity. 
 That little sentence, with all its sportive ease, is instinct with 
 moral sound sense — " Happy are they that hear their detrac- 
 tions and can put them to mending." Benedick's wit has 
 penetration and discernment in it. With all his mercurial 
 temperament, too, yet in a grave question this fine character 
 can deliver himself with gravity and a noble sedateness ; as 
 where he says, " In a false quarrel there is no true valour." 
 
304 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 And throughout the challenge-scene he expresses himself 
 with gentlemanly dignity and manly feeling ; while we find, 
 from the remarks of the prince upon his change of colour, 
 that he is as deeply hurt as he has temperately spoken. He 
 characterises his own wit, in its gentleness and gallantry 
 towards women, when he says to Beatrice's attendant, "A 
 most manly wit, Margaret ; it will not hurt a woman." There 
 is heart in Benedick's playfulness. His love-making, when 
 he is love-taken, is as earnest as it is animated. That is a 
 fine and fervent bit of his wooing-scene with Beatrice, where 
 she asks hiin if he will go with her to her uncle Leonato's 
 to hear the news, he answers, " I will live in thy heart, die in 
 thy lap, and be buried in thine eyes ; and moreover, I will 
 go with thee to thy uncle's." Shakespeare has, with lustrous 
 perfection, vindicated the sound sense and sweet heart that 
 may accompany wit, in the character of Benedick. And 
 after having discussed the mental sparrings and fit-fayings of 
 the two creatures, turn to their first wooing, and see them 
 each displayed to the best advantage — Beatrice, certainly; 
 who in the course of it shows one of those genuine touches of 
 womanly feeling that have been alluded to as redeeming her 
 character from the unfounded as well as ungracious charge 
 of unfeminine hardness. Here is the pith of the scene. When 
 she and Benedick are left alone in the chapel,- — the rest of the 
 company having quitted it, after the public shame and scandal 
 heaped upon poor Hero by the mean-spirited Claudio, — 
 Benedick approaches his lady, saying : — 
 
 " Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while .' 
 " Beat. Yea, and shall weep a while longer. 
 " Bene. I will not desire that. 
 " Beat. You have no reason ; I do it freely. 
 " Bene. Surely, I do believe your fair cousin is wronged. 
 " Beat Ah, how much that man might deserve of me that 
 would right her ! 
 
 " Bene. Is there any way to show such friendship } 
 
Much Ado About Nothing. 305 
 
 " Beat. A very even way, but no such friend. 
 
 " Bene. May a man do it ? 
 
 " Beat. It is a man's office ; but not yours. 
 
 " Bene. I do love nothing in the world so^well as you ; is 
 not that strange ? 
 
 " Beat. As strange as the thing I know not. It were as 
 possible for me to say, _ I loved nothing so well as you ; but 
 believe me not, — and yet I lie not ; I confess nothing, nor I 
 deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin. 
 
 '.' Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me. 
 
 " Beat. Do not swear by it, and eat it. 
 
 " Bene. I wiH swear by it that you love me ; and I will 
 make him eat it that says I love not you. 
 
 " Beat. Will you not eat your word .'' 
 
 " Bene. With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest 
 I love thee. 
 
 " Beat. Why, then, — God forgive me ! 
 
 " Bei^e. What offence, sweet Beatrice .' 
 
 " Beat. You have staid me in a happy hour ; I was about 
 to protest I loved you. 
 
 " Bene. And do it with all thy heart. 
 
 " Beat. I love you with so much of my heart, that none is 
 left to protest." 
 
 I am mistaken in my taste of true wit and of true feel- 
 ing if there be not a charming display of both in this very 
 natural, very easy, and very graceful little scene. I wished 
 to urge some extenuation in behalf of Beatrice, because it is 
 not unusual to designate her (as well as Portia) as a " mascu- 
 line woman." I can only say that every man who expresses 
 this opinion commits a piece of egoism, for both women are 
 endowed with qualities, moral and intellectual, that any man 
 might be proud to inherit. And here again, it is impos- 
 sible to forego a passing remark upon the generous, indeed, 
 the chivalrous conduct of Shakespeare in portraying his 
 heroines. Of all the writers that ever existed, no one ought 
 to stand so high in the love and gratitude of women as he. 
 He has indeed been their champion, their laureate, their 
 
o 
 
 06 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 brother, their friend. He has been the man to lift them from 
 a state of vassalage and degradation, wherein they were the 
 mere toys, when not the she-serfs, of a sensual tyranny ; and 
 he has asserted their prerogative, as intellectual creatures, to 
 be the companions, (in the best sense,) the advisers, the 
 friends, the equals of men." He has endowed them with the 
 true spirit of Christianity and brotherly love, "enduring all 
 things, forgiving all things, hoping all things ;" and it is no 
 less remarkable, that with a prodigality of generosity, he has 
 not unfrequently placed the heroes in his stories at a disad- 
 vantage with them. Observe, for instance, the two characters 
 of Hero and Claudio in this very play. She is the absolute 
 perfection of sweetness and generosity, quenching in forgive- 
 ness all the injuries she has received, and bestowing her heart 
 and confidence where she had every reason to be mistrustful. 
 Claudio, on the other hand, is a selfish manceuvrer. He tells 
 the prince that he is in love with Hero, but he opens the 
 conversation about her by inquiring of him whether Signer 
 Leonato has a son ; he had an eye to the cash first, and then 
 the girl, and the circumstance of her being an only child con- 
 firms him in his suit. Claudio is a fellow of no nobleness of 
 character, for instead of being the last, he is the first to believe 
 his mistress guilty of infidelity towards him, and he then 
 adopts the basest and the most brutal mode of punishment 
 by casting her off at the very altar. Genuine love is incapable 
 of revenge of any sort, that I assume to be a truism, still less 
 of a concocted and refined revenge. Claudio is a scoundrel 
 in grain. This question is too ample to be discussed upon 
 this occasion ; but I would merely quote in confirmation of 
 my remark, the characters of. Bertram in " All's Well that 
 Ends Well," of Posthumus Leonatus in "Cymbeline," of 
 Leontes in " The Winter's Tale," of Othello, (who, indeed, 
 advances much claim upon our extenuation, and even com- 
 miseration, for he was of a noble nature,) and, lastly, of 
 
Much Ado About Nothing. 307 
 
 Proteus in "The Two Gentlemen of Verona." All these 
 characters appear not only at a disadvantage by, but they 
 are unworthy of the women with whom they are con- 
 sorted. Shakespeare has himself put into the mouth of a 
 man this honest confession. The Duke in " Twelfth Night " 
 says — 
 
 " However we do praise ourselves, 
 Our fancies are more giddy and infirm, 
 More longing, wav'ring, sooner lost and worn 
 Than women's are." 
 
 Again, therefore, Shakespeare is the writer of all others 
 whom the women should most take to their hearts ; for 
 I believe it to be mainly through his intellectual influence 
 that their claims in the scale of society were acknowledged 
 in England, when, throughout what is denominated the 
 civilised world, their position was not greatly elevated above 
 that of the drudges in modern low life. And have not both 
 parties been gainers by the reformation i' — not but that much 
 yet remains to be modified — nevertheless, the moral philo- 
 sophy of Shakespeare, anticipated by another code, which I 
 am perfectly sure he would have been the first to recognise 
 and avow, has exalted our social system beyond that of the 
 rest of the world. 
 
 Plotters, malignants, slanderers, among others, may derive 
 advantage and instruction from the study of the play ; most 
 important advantage to them, seeing that it touches the vital 
 principle of their vocation — that of working mischief during 
 the night of men's senses, when observation and watchfulness 
 are off their guard — of sowing tares among the corn of a 
 man's peace and comfort while he sleeps in apparent security. 
 If liars need long memories, slanderers, manceuvrers, and 
 workers in mystery require the watchfulness of Cerberus, and 
 the hands of Briareus to keep all the strings, and springs, and 
 wheels of their plot in full play ; and be they wary as they 
 
3o8 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 may, some small unanticipated obstacle will intrude among 
 the works, and blow up the plotter with all his mischief. 
 That gratuitous villain, Don John, was triumphantly carrying 
 on his scheme of treachery against the peace and happiness 
 of poor Hero ; she was driven from society ; her whole family 
 and friends were thrown into grief and dismay, and all were 
 wretched, except Don John. Neither the prince, the father, 
 nor the uncle, not even the quick-witted Beatrice, (and you 
 may trust a woman to unearth a plot, if she set seriously to 
 work,) could discern -the mover in it. Benedick is the only 
 one who casually hints at Don John. It was left to the 
 drunken Borachio and his comrade to blab it by night in the 
 hearing of the foolish watchmen. Dogberry was the man 
 who " comprehended those arrant knaves," and committed 
 them upon the charge of "flat burglary." Borachio, in his 
 confession to the prince, says : " I have deceived even your 
 own eyes ; what your wisdoms could not discover, these 
 shallow fools have brought to light." The ease, yet ingenuity 
 and agreeable surprise in the development of this plot, with 
 the variety of characters engaged in it, have made the comedy 
 one of the greatest favourites on the stage. 
 
 The character of the father, Leonato, has no prominent 
 feature in it deserving particular consideration, unless it be 
 to notice the consistency of the poet in tracing the ebbs and 
 flows of a temper that yields to every wind of passion sweep- 
 ing over it. Leonato is a re-fusion of old Capulet, but with- 
 out his fussiness and dollying. In the first blush of the 
 charge against his daughter, he rashly casts her off, and is 
 only brought to reason by the friendly and sagacious old friar, 
 and his own brother, Antonio ; and then he becomes equally 
 furious against Claudio, denouncing him as the slanderer of 
 his child ; and, like a true specimen of a man of strong pas- 
 sions and weak judgment, he sinks into a mere negation 
 before the consistency and equanimity of the Friar and 
 
Much Ado About Nothing. 309 
 
 Benedick. He says, in reply to their reasoning with him, 
 " Being that I flow in grief, the smallest twine may lead me." 
 How true to nature all this ! and how apt, as well as choice, 
 that metaphor ! 
 
 The quarrel of these old men with the young ones, stung 
 by the injury inflicted on their family reputation, is emi- 
 nently fine. Leonato says to Claudio : — 
 
 " Tush, tush, man, never fleer and jest at me ; 
 I speak not like a dotard nor a fool. 
 As under privilege of age to brag 
 What I have done being young, or what would do 
 Were I not old. Know, Glaudio, to thy head. 
 Thou hast so wrong'd mine innocent child and me, 
 That I am forced to lay my reverence by. 
 And with gray hairs and bruise of many days. 
 Do challenge thee to trial of a man. 
 I say, thou hast belied mine innocent child ; 
 Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart, ■ 
 And she lies buried with her ancestors ; 
 Oh! in a tomb where nev&r scandal slept. 
 Save this of hers fram'd by thy villainy," 
 
 At the close of this scene, Shakespeare has again taken up 
 the hard nature of Claudio. The prince, who is only an 
 acquaintance of the father, Leonato, and his brother, Antonio, 
 nevertheless manifests a gentlemanly consideration, and even 
 tenderness in their family disaster ; but Claudio is wholly un- 
 touched by the anguish of the old men at the loss of their 
 child (she his own mistress too !) and at the stain upon 
 their house. He has no word of sympathy or commiseration ; 
 but wraps himself up in contempt of their aged and feeble 
 defiance : and immediately after they have gone out, upon 
 Benedick's entering, he jests upon the danger that he and the 
 prince have escaped of having "their noses snapped off by 
 two old men without teeth." Thus Shakespeare carries out 
 a principle. He does not talk or parade it about, he pays 
 
3 1 o Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 you the compliment of allowing you to perceive his intention. 
 Unlike many play-writers, he does not bring in his characters 
 as choruses to themselves : " Now, I am going to turn out a 
 villain or a hypocrite ;" but we find out that they are those 
 characters. So, in this of Claudio, we have no prologue to 
 his nature, but, as events convene, he gradually develops 
 into an unfeeling and selfish man of the world. It is ob- 
 servable that he utters no speech of regret, no speech at all, 
 unless it be upon what he has lost, when he is informed that 
 Hero has died broken-hearted. Now, is not all this in keep- 
 ing with the man who commences his suit by inquiring about 
 his chance of having money with her "i 
 
 It may not be irrelevant here to notice, that in both the 
 plays of " Romeo and Juliet," and " Much Ado About 
 Nothing," the plots being of Italian origin, a main point in 
 the conducting of them consists in the assumed death and 
 interment of the heroines ; a deception perfectly feasible, and 
 not very improbable in Italy, where it has always been the 
 custom not only to dispose of the corpse within a few hours 
 after death, but to convey it openly on a bier, richly dressed 
 with flowers, as for a festival, and even the flesh coloured to 
 counterfeit life. Death is awful enough, take what shape he 
 may, but so fruitless a mockery of vitality is -hideous when 
 thrust forth in impotent defiance of the mighty abstraction ; 
 and after all, nature, in her truth, and under any form, when 
 contemplated in a spirit of resignation and submissiveness, 
 will read us homilies upon peace, and happiness, and eternity, 
 beyond all the contrivances and subterfuges of art and illusion. 
 As Leigh Hunt has somewhere grandly said, " The face of 
 a dead man appears as if it had suddenly arrived at the 
 knowledge of all truth, and was, in consequence, profoundly 
 at rest." 
 
 Shakespeare has, I think, never introduced a friar in any 
 of his plays but he has made him an agent to administer 
 
Much Ado About Nothing. 3 1 1 
 
 consolation and provide the means for securing domestic 
 peace. All his friars are characters implicitly commanding 
 love and respect. Now, living as he did, in the early period 
 of our rupture with the Church of Rome ; and when, to lend 
 a helping hand towards pulling down and bringing into dis- 
 repute that hierarchy, was considered an act of duty in every 
 proselyte to the Reformed Church, it is not a little remarkable 
 that he should have uniformly abstained from identifying 
 himself with the image-breakers. To this may be retorted, 
 that in the plays where he has introduced the friar, the scene 
 was laid in Catholic countries, and where that religion was 
 paramount ; that he was a painter of nature and character, 
 not a sectarian, civil or ecclesiastical ; and lastly, that it was 
 not his cue to be controversial, either actively or implied. 
 But as the mental bias in every writer will casually bewray 
 itself ; so we find, that when Shakespeare has introduced a 
 member of the Zozc-Church party — such as the Oliver Mar- 
 texts, the Sir Hughs, the Sir Nathaniels, and the Sir Topazes 
 — he has usually thrown him into a ludicrous position : for, 
 like his brother poet, Spenser, and other master-intellects of 
 the day, he was disgusted with the unimaginative interfering 
 spirit, and gross intolerance of Puritanism, which had then 
 come in, and, indeed, was prevailing. In the play of " King 
 John" he has, it is true, with sufficient explicitness denounced 
 the intolerance of the Papal dominion ; but there (like the 
 majority of his countrymen) he was but testifying a long- 
 existing opprobrium ; and could he now return to us, doubt- 
 less he would sanction those ten thousand priestly signatures 
 praying for the remission of the Papal temporalities — in order 
 that the spiritual supremacy may be preserved ; for if those be 
 not yielded, assuredly both will go together. 
 
 But there is every appearance that Shakespeare was essen- 
 tially a " Quietist." He would remove no land-mark^ of 
 precedent or existing faith ; and this .spirit pervades his 
 
212 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 writings. He would have allowed formulas that had suited 
 the temperament of society to continue in their integrity. 
 He has put into the mouth of Imogen that piece of social 
 wisdom — " Breach of custom is breach of all ; " the axiom of 
 a bland nature and native gentleman, and apparently the 
 master-key to his own rule of moral conduct. His morality 
 of principle and action appears to have been a practical fulfil- 
 ment — so far as an imperfect being can fulfil it — of the 
 " Sermon on the Mount." He not only inculcates the doc- 
 trine, " Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, 
 do ye also unto them ;" but he as frequently illustrates the 
 still grander principle of returning unkindness with gentle 
 deeds and forbearance. 
 
 Upon the question of his non-avowal of any point of faith 
 or doctrine, Thomas Carlyle, in his " Hero-worship," says, — 
 " That was the fruit of his greatness withal ; his whole heart 
 was in his own grand sphere of worship— we may call it 
 such ; these other controversies, vitally important to other 
 men, were not vital to him." 
 
 Returning to my former notion of his perfect gentility and 
 tolerance of spirit, — and, from that even tenor of spirit, I rest 
 upon one of the following conclusions : either he had a latent 
 respect and preference for the old-established form of reli- 
 gion, or (and this should raise him in our esteem) he was too 
 magnanimous to join in the common cry of hounding out 
 doctrines and opinions which, in their primitive spirit, at all 
 events, had afforded consolation to millions of his fellow- 
 mortals. 
 
 The Friar in this play is as amiable and intellectual a char- 
 acter as the one in " Romeo and Juliet " — quiet, observant, 
 " patiently biding his time to speak, until his silent comment 
 shall have enabled him to deliver judgment upon the case 
 before him. His close noting of the belied Hero's demeanour 
 having convinced him of her innocence, he advises the plan of 
 
Much Ado About Nothing. ■ 313 
 
 reporting her sudden death, and thus sagely explains his 
 motive : — 
 
 " It so falls out. 
 That what we have, we prize not to the worth 
 Whiles we enjoy it ; but being lack'd and lost, 
 Why then we rack the value ; then we find 
 The virtue that possession would not show us 
 Whiles it was ours : so will it fare with Claudio ; 
 When he shall hear she died upon his words. 
 The idea of her life shall sweetly creep 
 Into his study of imagination ; 
 And every lovely organ of her life 
 Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit, 
 More moving-delicate, and full of life. 
 Into the eye and prospect of his soul. 
 Than when she liv'd indeed. Then shall he mourn, 
 (If ever love had interest in his liver,) 
 And wish he had not so accused her ; 
 No, though he thought his accusation true!' 
 
 A line instinct with touching knowledge of human charity. 
 Pity attends the faults of the dead ; and survivors visit even 
 sin with regret rather than reproach. 
 
 The characters of Conrad and Borachio are such as may be 
 met with in all populous communities, — fellows who are pur- 
 veyors of moral filth to those who have wherewith to pay 
 them for such hire. Men who generally end their career 
 under a rug in the corner of a loft or garret, unless chance 
 have given them a very high commission indeed for scoun- 
 drelism, and then they are perchance destined to close their 
 revered existence ip a " cottage orn^e." 
 
 Margaret and Ursula may come under the denomination of 
 "pattern waiting-women," — that is, the patterns somewhat 
 surpassing the order of the women. Margaret has perhaps 
 too accomplished a tongue for one of her class ; she, however, 
 evidently apes the manner of Beatrice, and, like all imitators 
 of inferior mind, with a coarse and exaggerated character. 
 
3 1 4 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 She forms an excellent foil to her mistress from this very 
 circumstance ; and both domestics are samples of that menial 
 equality that exists between mistress and dependant still 
 common in Italy. 
 
 But what shall we say to you, O Dogberry and Verges, 
 Hugh Oatcake and George Seacoal ? Why, that among his 
 other crystallisations of animated nature, — there you are, you 
 " most ancient and quiet watchmen," in all your integral con- 
 ceit and imbecility of character, physical, mental, and moral ; 
 full-fledged specimens of your order, preserved for all time in 
 the imperishable amber of his genius, when your race and 
 calling have passed away from the earth. Civil government 
 and social order in constant progress, protection and security 
 have succeeded to inefficiency and fatuity. 
 
 " The bellman's drowsy charm. 
 To guard our doors from nightly harm," 
 
 has become silent for ever, or lives only in the echo of the 
 poet's line. The thin ghost of the departed watchman flits 
 by us in the streets unconscious, his querulous wail inaudible 
 to ears of flesh and blood. Now the policemen are in the 
 ascendant, and the " Charlies " are fading even from the 
 memory of man. Sergeant A of the B division stalks forth 
 in the zenith of suburban dominion, and the lantern of Good- 
 man Verges has " paled its ineffectual fire." Troes fuimtis — 
 Troja fuit. Let no one speak of Dogberry and his tribe as 
 being caricatures of their class. As Macbeth says, " There is 
 no such thing ! " 
 
 Have any of you, my very respected readers, ever been 
 " pulled up " before a constable of the night .' Neither have 
 I ; we cannot " own that soft impeachment." Nevertheless, 
 he must be a minim of a historian who confines himself to 
 those facts only which he has seen and can testify. The daily 
 police reports of the first half of the present century bear 
 
Much Ado About Nothing. 3 1 5 
 
 record that no invention of the most ludicrously-florid fancy- 
 can surpass in incongruous ideality the real, and substantial, 
 and solidly-stupid old watchman : caricature " toils after him 
 in vain." Nothing but himself could be his own parallel. 
 With him caricature merges into fidelity, and inevitably com- 
 mits an anticlimax. Dogberry, in himself, is not so much a 
 caricature as he is a satire upon all who are intrusted with 
 duties for which neither nature nor art ever destined them. 
 The public instructor who cannot conceal his jealousy at the 
 increase of knowledge among the commonalty, is a Dogberry 
 in his vocation. The civil functionary who declaims upon 
 the omnipotence and impartiality of statute law, ybt swerves 
 in his decision when the rich and powerful become amenable 
 to its penalties, is no more or less than a Dogberry among 
 magistrates. Every jackanapes with more sail than ballast 
 is a Dogberry full blown. Every public officer who can com- 
 mand no more respect than attaches to his two gowns, whose 
 " soul," as my Lord Lafeu says, " is his clothes," is a Dog- 
 berry in grain. Asses — conceited and stolid, pragmatists, 
 sneaks, bullies, and grovellers, are but " the varied Dogberry." 
 "Sweet are the uses" of old Dogberry! "he weareth a 
 precious jewel in his head : " for he readeth a homely lecture 
 to all of us : — viz., to elevate ourselves by moral worth in the 
 station to which God has called us ; and constantly to bear 
 in mind that the office only adds lustre to the man, when he 
 conscientiously and efficiently discharges the duties of it. It 
 has been prudently recommended that no man should be 
 without a corkscrew in his pocket ; he had better always 
 have a Dogberry. Should he be blest with one grain of self- 
 knowledge, it will assist in drawing off his ignorance and 
 conceit. 
 
 In one sentence, in conclusion, I would draw attention to 
 another amiable quality in our poet's disposition, and that is 
 his magnanimity in revenge. This item in his philosophy 
 
3 1 6 Shakespeare - Characters. 
 
 frequently crosses us in our progress through his dramas. 
 Upon the present occasion it is accompanied with his own 
 innate love of cheerfulness. In the last sentence of the 5th 
 Act, a messenger comes to say that the contriver of all their 
 late sorrow, the malignant Don John, is taken in flight, and 
 brought with armed men back to Messina. " Oh ! think not 
 of him till to-morrow, [says the happy Benedick ;] I '11 devise 
 thee brave punishments for him ! Strike up, pipers ! " 
 
 In rising from the perusal of this enchanting play, we are 
 impressed with three axioms : That people truly and deeply 
 enamoured, are not only not suspicious, but are the last to be 
 convinced of their lovers' transgressions, and the first to 
 receive atonement for them. Secondly, That the union of 
 two such beings as Beatrice and Benedick, although an 
 amiably fraudulent one, in which there exists no more than 
 a mutual esteem, offers an infinitely happier prospect to the 
 woman, than the cold-blooded, hard conduct of Claudio can 
 ever promise to her whom he so cruelly punished. And, 
 lastly. That almost all the poison of unhappiness in this life 
 is the result of our own want of judgment, or of faith in 
 goodness, and that sooner or later it will engender its own 
 antidote. 
 
XIII. 
 
XIII. 
 KING JOHN. 
 
 In what I have said upon the tragedy of " Lear," the master- 
 movement of that composition was designated as being a 
 " practical example of the calamities resulting from unbridled, 
 unguided self-will; that 'will,' independent of and irresponsible 
 to justice and rationality, is the pivot upon which turn all the 
 disasters that befall its leading characters." It is no unusual 
 circumstance with Shakespeare to take some master-passion, 
 as for a text to those dramatic sermons of his, many of them 
 being (without the ostentatious denotement) really dramas of 
 some individual passion ; and having so takea the text, or 
 thesis of his discourse, he will work out his case in detail, and 
 relieve, and heighten, -and strengthen his argument by the 
 grandest and most superb contrasts. 
 
 The prevailing characteristic both of the plot and of the 
 chief personages in the play of " King John " is that of 
 "craft." The poet, it is true, has taken — as he found it in 
 the monkish record — the historical character of the king ; 
 but he has, with his own supreme genius, worked it out from 
 the first scene to the last with undeviating consistency, and a 
 revolting determination of purpose. He has shown him to us, 
 seizing with unscrupulous hand the birthright and throne 
 
320 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 belonging to another, and that other his own orphan nephew. 
 He has shown him to us preparing to pour forth the blood, 
 and peril the lives of his subjects in support of this bad, un- 
 just cause, in a war with France, when it disputes his usurp- 
 ing claim. He has shown him to us revolving in his selfish 
 expediency how extortion and oppression at home shall 
 supply the expenses thus incurred abroad. " Our abbeys and 
 priories shall pay this expedition's charge," he mutters to 
 himself, on the departure of the ambassadors. 
 
 We next see him paltering and sophisticating with the 
 truth in the matter of Robert Falconbridge's heritage, pre- 
 paring to wrest the estate from the legitimate son, and to 
 bestow it on the illegitimate one — contrary to the will of the 
 bequeather — on a plea false in spirit, though plausible in 
 letter. 
 
 His next appearance is on the shores of France, making 
 wheedling speeches to his nephew, Arthur, specious ones to 
 the citizens of Anglers, patching up hollow compacts with 
 the French king, followed by sudden breach of faith, and 
 reckless plunge into the carnage of the battle-field. 
 
 Then comes his dark purpose against his young kinsman 
 distilled into Hubert's ear: and then his return to his own 
 kingdom, where we find him employed in warily seeking 
 to ingratiate himself with his nobles, in striving to avert their 
 but too-well-founded suspicions of his blood-guiltiness, and in 
 sneakingly proffering them all sorts of rotten promises and 
 lying declarations. 
 
 Next, we behold him shrinking with craven, selfish fore- 
 bodings from the consequences of his own craft and cruelty, 
 watching with coward eye the increasing disaffection at home 
 and approaching danger from abroad, and studying how, by 
 new guile, he may ward off the inevitable issue of old un- 
 truths and misdeeds. The picture of his base and dastard 
 soul trembling in all the alarm of awakened, conscious guilt, 
 
Kingyohn. 321 
 
 with its. dreaded results, is a revelation terrible in its bare 
 and naked deformity. We turn, as from a hideous reptile- 
 thing, from the spectacle of this despicable royal murderer, 
 liar, and villain, alone with his own conscience and its fears ; 
 and we find him next trying, with loathsomest subterfuge, to 
 fasten upon the factor of his monster-crime its responsibility 
 and retribution. The shuffling sophistry and meanness of 
 reproach with which he turns upon Hubert in this scene, 
 throwing upon him the whole blame of a deed which he him- 
 self originally conceived, and had instigated Hubert to per- 
 petrate, is the very flagrance and crassitude of baseness. It 
 is scoundrelism — not dreading to be scoundrel, but to be 
 proved scoundrel, and to meet scoundrel's due. The scene is 
 the 2nd of the 4th Act, and commences with this remarkable 
 sentence — 
 
 " Why seek' St thou to possess me with \h&se. fears ? 
 Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death ? 
 Tky hand hath murder' d him : I had a mighty cause 
 To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him'.' 
 
 And he goes on, in fine scoundrel-keeping, — 
 
 " Hadst not thou been by, 
 A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd, 
 Quoted, and sign'd to do a deed of shame. 
 This murder had not come into my mind ; 
 But taking note of thy abhorr'd aspect. 
 Finding thee fit for bloody villainy. 
 Apt, liable to be employ'd in danger, 
 I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death \ 
 And THOU, to be endearld to a king. 
 Mad' St it no conscience to destroy a prince'.' 
 
 This surely is the " ultima thule " of base wickedness. And 
 
 yet, in this "lowest deep," there is still a "lower deep" in 
 
 the character and conduct of this pitiful king ; most of all 
 
 does he appear vile and ignoble in the act of truckling and 
 
 X 
 
32 2 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 stooping to priestly tyranny. Here he not only degrades 
 himself, but his whole people in his own person. By servilely 
 seeking to fawn and cringe into the good graces of the 
 Vatican, he compromises the honour of his throne and na- 
 tion ; and in lifting the golden symbol of sovereignty froni 
 his own head, he shamefully places the crown of England 
 beneath the foot of Rome, to be spurned or forborne by 
 Papal toe. But, to sum the conduct of this hateful king, he 
 is hideous in his crimes, hideous in his hypocrisy, and hideous 
 even in his remorse, because that arises from fear, and not 
 from repentance of his foul deeds. A bold bad man, like 
 Richard III., rises into an object of absolute admiration, 
 compared with the crawling, abject wickedness of such a 
 being as John. 
 
 Throughout the play every step that John makes is a step 
 of guile — his every action is a manoeuvre. His very first 
 speech betrays his wary and cat-like circumspection. He 
 watches the counsel of others before he enters into a resolu- 
 tion — " Silence, good mother; hear the embassy" — and almost 
 the last speech he makes, cunningly and sneakingly involves 
 the interests of those whom he is addressing. 
 
 " I do not ask you much, 
 I beg cold comfort ; and you are so strait 
 And so ingrateful, you deny me that." 
 
 The same principle of " craft" also distinguishes the con- 
 duct of his mother, Elinor, who puts the leading question to 
 the illegitimate Falconbridge in his dispute with his brother 
 Robert upon the question of heritage She says — 
 
 " Whether hadst thou rather be a Falconbridge, 
 And like thy brother, to enjoy thy land. 
 Or the reputed son of Coeur-de-Lion, 
 Lord of thy presence, [that is, taking priority of 
 rank,] and no land beside .'" 
 
 Betraying by this artful suggestion that she herself has at 
 
King jfohn. 323 
 
 once recognised the value of so brave an adherent to the 
 cause of her son John, and thus linking him to it by fostering 
 his own ambitious designs. 
 
 Again, in the ist scene of the 2d Act, in the contest with 
 Constance upon the question of her son Arthur's inheritance 
 to the crown, by reason of his being issue of John's elder 
 brother, Geffrey, — Constance, indignant at Elinor's slander, 
 that her son is base-born, retorts — 
 
 " By my soul, I think 
 His father never was so true begot : 
 It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother." 
 
 With the sly spite of a low-minded and crafty woman, Elinor 
 says to the boy Arthur, " There 's a good mother, boy, that 
 blots thy father," meaning by this comment to throw the 
 brand of discord between mother and child. And shortly 
 after, with the true art of a politician, she insinuates that she 
 can " produce a will that bars the title of her son," Arthur. 
 And again, in the same crafty spirit of manoeuvring, she 
 astutely points out to her son, John, the advantages to be 
 reaped from the union between the Dauphin, Lewis, and his 
 own niece, Blanche of Castile. Her reason for urging this 
 measure is a master-piece of diplomacy. She says — 
 
 " Son, list to this conjunction, make this match. 
 Give with our niece a dowry large enough ; 
 For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie 
 Thy now unsur'd assurance to the crown. 
 That yond' green boy shall have no sun to ripe 
 The bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit." 
 
 It will be recollected that the French king had recognised 
 Arthur's claim to the English crown. She continues — 
 
 " I see a yielding in the looks of France, 
 Mark how they whisper ; urge them while their souls 
 Are capable of this ambition. 
 Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath 
 
324 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 Of soft petitions, pity, and remorse, 
 Cool and congeal again to what it was." 
 
 This is counsel not unworthy of a Richelieu or a Mazarin. 
 Mrs Montague's was a felicitous illustration of the genius of 
 Shakespeare when she compared him to that dervis who 
 possessed the power of trajecting his soul into the body of 
 any individual that suited his purpose* The mind that 
 conceived the spirit of Ariel, and the spotless innocence of 
 Miranda, is here equally at home in describing the crooked 
 and thorny policy of a court-intriguer. 
 
 The same ruling principle of " craft " is to be recognised — 
 although with a difference and variety — in the weak, vacil- 
 lating, and would-be policy of the French king, Philip, who 
 ostentatiously would adhere to the letter, while he gives the 
 spirit of his promises to the winds. 
 
 Then we have the prudent, compromising suggestions of 
 the wary citizens of Anglers, whose " words, in the emergency, 
 buffet better than a fist of France." And, lastly, there is the 
 bold, open, asserting policy of the Legate, Pandulph, the 
 •representative of the assumed right to sway all things — even 
 government itself How finely does all this serpent-like 
 tortuous policy contrast with the whirlwind passion of Con- 
 stance, whose deep sense of wrong and unflinching spirit 
 cause her to spurn all caution, all concealment of feeling ; 
 who vehemently urges her fancied friends and adherents to 
 assist her in vengeance on her enemies, heaping unreserved 
 and unmeasured contumely, and invoking loud curses on the 
 heads of those' who inj ure her. 
 
 'Con.'jtance is a sublime personification of the maternal 
 character, lashed into frenzy by the potency of will, but 
 
 * "Essay on the Writings and Genius of Shakespeare," p. 37. " Shakespeare 
 seems to have had the art of the dervis in the Arabian Tales, who could throw 
 his soul into the body of another man, and be at once possessed of his sentiments, 
 adopt his passions, and rise to all the junctions and feelings of his situation. " 
 
' King yohn. 3^5 
 
 impotence of power to right hersetf of the injustice with which 
 she is surrounded. She is a lioness at bay, her resources 
 failed, and Her retreat cut off. In the blind desire to secure 
 her child's birthright, and in her wrath at his oppression, she 
 fatally loses sight of the great privilege of his existence. 
 How true to nature all this, and how accurately do we trace 
 the gradual subsiding of her spirit of fury and resentment 
 into an outpouring of tenderness and deprecation, as all her 
 hopes and prospects of success fade away. What majesty 
 in her reply to the French king when she refuses to attend 
 his summons and accompany his messenger : — 
 
 " Salisbury. Pardon me, madam, 
 
 I may not go without you to the kings. 
 
 " Comt. Thou may'st, thou shalt ; I will not go with 
 thee ; 
 I will instruct my sorows to be proud ; 
 For grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop. 
 To me, and to the state of my great grief, 
 - Let kings assemble ; for my grief's so great, 
 That no supporter but the huge firm earth 
 Can hold it up ; here I and sorrows sit ; 
 Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it." 
 
 Magnificent as this is, it is even surpassed in beauty by the 
 tearful passion of tenderness in that passage where she ad- 
 dresses the cardinal, when the little prince is taken from her : — 
 
 " O father cardinal, I have heard you say 
 That we shall see and know our friends in heav'n. 
 If that be true, I shall see my boy again ; 
 For since the birth of Cain, the first male child. 
 To him that did but yesterday suspire. 
 There was not such a gracious creature born. 
 But now will canker sorrow eat my bud, 
 And chase the native beauty from his cheek. 
 And he will look as hollow as a ghost, 
 As dim and meagre as an ague's fit ; 
 And so he'll die ; and rising so again, 
 
326 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 When I shall meet him in the court of heav'n 
 I shall not know him ; therefore, never, never 
 Must I behold my pretty Arthur more. 
 
 " K. Philip. You are as fond of grief as of your child. 
 
 " Con. Grief fills the room up of my absent child. 
 Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, 
 Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, 
 Remembers me of all his gracious parts. 
 Stuffs out his vacant garment with his form ; 
 Then have I reason to be fond of grief." 
 
 And she concludes with those affecting ejaculations of mater- 
 nal anguish — 
 
 " O Lord ! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son ! 
 My life, my joy, my food, my all the world ! 
 My widow's comfort and my sorrow's cure !" 
 
 I know of nothing in dramatic contrast surpassing in 
 grandeur that of Constance with the other characters in 
 this tragedy — open, direct, vehement action, with bravery, 
 but without judgment ; opposed to cunning, treachery, and 
 cruelty, without courage — moral or physical. 
 
 Again, while upon the subject of "contrast," we find the 
 obtuse ranting and vulgar bravadoes of the bully, Austria, 
 brought in to relieve the craft of King John ; and still more 
 finely, the noble, unsuspicious nature of the young Dauphin, 
 whose heart sickens at discovering the wickedness that meets 
 him at every turn, and who is rebuked by the wary and cold- 
 blooded politician, Pandulph. The young prince says : — 
 
 " There's nothing in this world can make me joy ; 
 Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale. 
 Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man ; 
 And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste, 
 That it yields naught but shame and bitterness." 
 
 And now observe the practical wisdom that the poet has 
 put into the mouth of the old embassador. Here is a maxim 
 
Kingyohn. 327 
 
 to encourage all those who undertake the cure of prevailing 
 abuses and crying wrongs in a state. Pandulph replies by 
 an illustration in an axiom. He says : — 
 
 " Before the curing of a strong disease, 
 Even in the instant of repair and health, 
 The fit is strongest. Evils that take leave, 
 On their departure most of all show evil." 
 
 And then, after explaining to the Dauphin how John's 
 cause will be injured through his having obtained the posses- 
 sion of young Arthur's person, he winds up with this com- 
 miseration of the Dauphin's inexperience : — 
 
 " How green you are and fresh in this old world ! 
 John hath seiz'd Arthur ; and it cannot be 
 That whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins 
 The misplaced John should entertain an hour, 
 One minute — nay, one quiet breath of rest. 
 A sceptre snatch'd with an unruly hand, 
 Must be as boisterously maintain'd as gain'd ; 
 And he that stands upon a slippery place 
 Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up. 
 That John may stand, then Arthur needs must fall : 
 So be it, for it cannot be but so." 
 
 Thus, like a thorough-bred politician, he calculates the 
 chances and changes of government by violence and murder, 
 as though the objects of them were no more than chess- 
 men. This is all true to the very letter ; and I think the 
 position has been established — that "craft," with its usual 
 companion, unkindness, forms the ruling passion of this play. 
 
 There are few of Shakespeare's or of any other poet's 
 dramas -that exhibit more strikingly the philosophy of war, 
 than this of King John. What can be more palpable and 
 more touching than the comment upon the utter worthless- 
 ness even the folly of all strife and contention, than is com- 
 prised in that one affecting appeal of the little Arthur to his 
 
328 Shakespeare- Char'acters. 
 
 mother, Constance, in the midst of the tumult of the bad 
 passions ? Could anything tend more effectually to rebuke 
 the worldly ambition of the mother, the aged spite of Elinor, 
 the wily villainy of John, the interested vacillation of France, 
 " whose armour conscience buckled on — whom zeal and 
 charity brought to the field as God's own soldier," than this 
 morsel of instinctive wisdom from the mouth of an innocent 
 child ? " Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast Thou 
 ordained praise ; " and here is a babe preaching, in spirit, the 
 gospel of Christianity to the callous and case-hardened of 
 the old world — the professing vicegerent of that Being 
 who pronounced that "All they that use the sword shall 
 perish by the sword ; " the intriguing and strife-fomenting car- 
 'dinal shows foully by the Christian humility of the royal 
 child. 
 
 " Good, my mother, peace ! 
 I would that I were low laid in my grave ; 
 I am not worth this coil that 's made for me." 
 
 Do we not feel deeply in our hearts, too, the instinctive 
 yearning for sympathy and affection — a blessing so priceless, 
 so far above worldly honour and conventional rank and dis- 
 tinction — which prompts the little prince to say to Hubert^ 
 
 " Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son 1 
 No, indeed, is 't not ; and I would to Heav'n 
 I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert." 
 
 The childlike sweetness and simple beauty of that appeal 
 surely never were exceeded. The gentle nature and innate 
 perception of the folly of ambition— the " low ambition," as 
 Pope finely calls it — of dominion, again appears in that 
 simple speech — 
 
 " Mercy on me ! 
 Methinks nobody should be sad but I : 
 Yet, I remember, when I was in France, 
 
King John. 329 
 
 Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, 
 Only for wantonness. By my Christendom, 
 So I were out of prison, and kept sheep, 
 I should be as merry as the day is long." 
 
 Afterwards, he uses his rank as a plea, when reminding 
 Hubert of his tender care of him, when he (Hubert) had an 
 illness : — 
 
 " Many a poor man's son would have lain still, 
 And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you ; 
 But you at your sick service had a prince. 
 Nay, you may think my love was crafty love. 
 And call it cunning : do, an if you will : 
 If Heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill, 
 Why then, you must." 
 
 This honest disclaiming of cunning, as being the basest of 
 injurious imputations, comes with, artistical contrast and re- 
 lief to the main spirit of the play — the spirit of " craft " and 
 treachery. 
 
 But the grandest carrying out of the author's intention in 
 displaying the "philosophy of war," is to be found in the 
 character of Falconbridge. It forms throughout, as it were, 
 a moral chorus to the tragedy, embodying Shakespeare's own 
 sentiments as to the worthlessness of strife and contention, 
 and proving the medium of forcing this conviction upon his 
 audience. The way in which the character is first introduced 
 is in correct costume and keeping throughout. We behold a 
 young and fiery spirit grasping at the earliest chance of what 
 he deems honour, even at the expense of the honour of his 
 mother, wherein he eagerly seeks to derive his descent from 
 Cceur-de-Lion — not so much as being King Richard, but as 
 the ze/«y-like monarch, the renowned military leader, the by- 
 word and terror of the East, the plume in the helmet of 
 Christian chivalry. He pants for distinction, come it how it 
 may; and perceiving the cant of "craft" to be the court- 
 
330 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 fashion, he immediately announces his intention of adopting 
 that course ; adding — 
 
 " For he is but a bastard to the time, 
 That doth not smack of observation. 
 And so am I, whether I smack or no ; 
 And not alone in habit and device, 
 Exterior form, outward accoutrement, 
 But from the inward motion to deliver 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age's tooth : 
 Which, though I will not practise to deceive. 
 Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn ', 
 For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising." 
 
 And this lesson he instantly puts in practice by his sophis- 
 tical speech to his mother, in allusion to her amour with 
 Cceur-de-Lion, whereby he himself was descended : — 
 
 " Some sins do bear their privilege on earth. 
 And so doth yours. Your fault was not your folly : 
 Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose. 
 Subjected tribute to commanding love. 
 Against whose fury and unmatched force 
 The awless lion could not wage the fight. 
 Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand. 
 He that perforce robs lions of their hearts. 
 May easily win a woman's." 
 
 On his first battle-field his tornado spirit hurries him at 
 once into a quarrel with the Duke of Austria, against whom 
 (with the instinctive dislike that men of courage entertain 
 towards a' blusterer and a bully) he at first sight conceives 
 an antipathy. His disgust, moreover, is hereditary ; for in 
 Austria he hates the traitor to his own father, Coeur-de-Lion, 
 whom he had kidnapped and imprisoned. No sooner, there- 
 fore, does the Duke utter one word commanding silence, than 
 in bursts the jeering Falconbridge with, "Hear the crier!" 
 " What the devil art thou } " rejoins the Duke. 
 
 " One that will play the devil, sir, with you. 
 An a' may catch your hide and you alone. 
 
King John. 331 
 
 You are the hare of whom the proverb goes, 
 Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard. 
 I '11 smoke your skin-coat, an I catch you right : 
 Sirrah, look to't ; i' faith, I will, i' faith ! " 
 
 Throughout this scene, — nay, through the whole part, his 
 warlike enthusiasm flares like a meteor. He whoops on the 
 kings with a " View-holla ! " to the battle : — 
 
 " Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus .' 
 Cry havoc, kings ! back to the stainfed field. 
 You equal potents, fiery-kindled spirits ! 
 Then let confusion of one part confirm 
 The other's peace ; till then, blows, blood, and death." 
 
 His aristocratic spirit and soldierly contempt of the artisan 
 citizens could not fail to be registered among his other char- 
 acteristics by the poet — 
 
 " By Heav'n, these scroyles of Anglers flout you, kings : 
 And stand securely on their battlements, 
 As in a theatre, whence they gape and point 
 At your industrious scenes and acts of death." 
 
 Even his leaning to the temporising system of policy which 
 he had proposed to himself, by recommending to the kings 
 the scheme of uniting their forces against Angiers, knowing 
 it will win him their favour ; and then his quick perception 
 of the advantages to be reaped to his. own party by the 
 choice of situation made by France and Austria ; chuckling 
 to himself contemptuously, he says : — 
 
 " O prudent discipline ! From north to south, 
 Austria and France shoot in each other's mouth. 
 I '11 stir them to it ; "— 
 
 all these points bespeak him the young and eager soldier, 
 whose sole thought is glory and military ambition ; and all, 
 too, display the master-mind that conceived and perfected 
 the character with so undeviating a truth and consistency. 
 
332 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 But then comes the soliloquy on "commodity," ("inter- 
 estedness,") and how finely the better nature of the man 
 revolts against the hollowness and want of good faith which 
 he detects in the French king ; yet Shakespeare, ever watch- 
 ful, ever consistent, causes his eyes to open only by degrees ; 
 and Falconbridge concludes this very speech with adhering 
 to his former resolution of pursuing his fortunes, keeping 
 " commodity " as his lode-star. The soliloquy is remarkable 
 for its vigorous worldly sense, as well as for the felicity with 
 which the poet sustains his metaphor, in comparing self-in- 
 terest, or " commodity," to the bias in the ball used by the 
 player at bowls. When the assembly have gone out, having 
 patched up the hollow compact between the French and 
 English sovereigns, Falconbridge being left alone, he breaks 
 forth :— 
 
 " Mad world ! mad kings ! mad composition ! 
 John, to stop Arthur's title in the whole. 
 Hath willingly departed with a part ; 
 And France (whose armour conscience buckled on. 
 Whom zeal and charity brought to the field 
 As God's own soldier,) rounded in the ear 
 With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil ; 
 That broker, that still breaks the pate of faith ; 
 That daily break-vow ; he that wins of all, 
 Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids, 
 Who having no external thing to lose 
 But the word maid, cheats the poor maid of that ; 
 That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling commodity, — 
 Commodity, the bias of the world ; 
 The world, who of itself is peised well. 
 Made to run even upon even ground, 
 Till this advantage, this vile drawing bias, 
 This sway of motion, this commodity. 
 Makes it take heed from all indifferency. 
 From all direction, purpose, course, intent ; 
 And this same bias, this commodity. 
 This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word 
 
Kingyohn. 333 
 
 Clapp'd on the outward eye of fickle France, 
 Hath drawn him from his own determin'd aid, 
 From a resolv'd and honourable war. 
 To a most base and vile-concluded peace. 
 And why rail I on this commodity ? 
 But for because he hath not woo'd me yet : 
 Not that I have the power to clutch my hand. 
 When his fair angels would salute my palm ; 
 But for my hand, as unattempted yet, 
 Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich. 
 Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail. 
 And say, ' There is no sin, but to be rich ; ' 
 And being rich, my virtue then shall be. 
 To say, ' There is no vice but beggary.' 
 Since kings break faith upon commodity, 
 Gain be my lord ; for I will worship thee." 
 
 But the important and decided change that takes place in 
 the character of Falconbridge is when he first hears of the 
 death of little Arthur, and at the same time hears it ascribed 
 to John, to whom he himself is deeply indebted. His speeches 
 after this event are still those of the courageous, high-spirited 
 man, but they are distinctly those of the man of moral cour- 
 age as contrasted with his previous physical courage. Like 
 one of truly noble nature, he scorns to fall off from the patron 
 to whom he owes so much ; but the discovery of that patron's 
 baseness and treachery acts like a talisman to unseal his eyes 
 to the vain-glory and wickedness of "vaulting ambition" and 
 ' low cupidity. He still cleaves to the cause of the king, and 
 endeavours to screen him from the indignation of his revolt- 
 ing nobles ; but he now discourses with a calm dignity totally 
 unlike the rash impetuosity of Falconbridge in the opening 
 of the play. And when Pembroke says, in justification of 
 their revolt from King John, " Sir, sir, impatience hath his 
 privilege," Falconbridge sedately and finely answers, "'Tis 
 true : to hurt his master, no man else." And to Salisbury, 
 
334 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 who openly proclaims the blood-guiltiness of the king, he 
 calmly replies, "Whate'er you think, good words, I think, 
 ■were best." And Salisbury's rejoinder to this dignified rebuke 
 does not quicken his pulse — " Our griefs, and not our manners, 
 reason now ; " he retorts, " But there is little reason in your 
 grief; therefore 'twere reason you had manners now." All 
 this is very different from his former bearing ; and how the 
 genius of the poet is displayed in quelling the fiery spirit of 
 the man only by the chilling mist of suspicion and misplaced 
 confidence. This is a beautiful tribute to the character of 
 Falconbridge. The only time after this that his old impetu- 
 osity returns is when Salisbury threatens him — " Stand by, or 
 I shall gall you, Falconbridge!" Then he flares out : — 
 
 " Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury ; 
 If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot. 
 Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame, 
 I '11 strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime. 
 Or I '11 so maul you and your toasting-iron. 
 That you shall think the devil is come from hell." 
 
 The staring fact of the death of the little Prince Arthur is 
 before him, he cannot blink that ; he is pushed to a corner 
 and hedged in, and yet he evades the charge, with the object 
 pointed at. How natural all this ; and how like a thorough 
 and determined partisan. He is compelled to acknowledge 
 thus much ; he does confess — 
 
 " It is a damned and a bloody work ; 
 The graceless action of a heavy hand, 
 If that it be the work of any hand." 
 
 He makes no farther concession to the rebel lords. When, 
 however, they have left the scene, and he is alone with 
 Hubert, he turns round upon him in a strain of sublime 
 vituperation — 
 
 " Knew you of this fair work ? 
 Beyond the infinite and boundless reach 
 
King John. 335 
 
 Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death, 
 Art thou damn'd, Hubert. 
 
 " Hub. Do but hear me, sir. 
 
 "Falc. Hey ! I'll tell thee what : 
 Thou art damn'd as black — nay, nothing is so black ; 
 Thou art more deep damn'd than Prince Lucifer : 
 There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell 
 As thou shalt be if thou didst kill this child. 
 
 •^ tK- qp ■'P 'V 'F 
 
 I do suspect thee very grievously." 
 
 With the exception of the explosion with the nobles, (and 
 this arose only from his valour being chafed,) throughout the 
 whole scene, (the last of the 4th Act,) we discover working in 
 him that divine maturer insight into the rottenness of con- 
 test and strife, which gradually takes the place of his young 
 ambition, and which finds words at length in that grand and 
 solemn soliloquy — closing the scene — where he bids Hubert 
 bear away the little dead prince : — 
 
 " I am amaz'd, methinks, and lose my way 
 Among the thorns and dangers of this world. 
 How easy dost thou take all England up ! 
 From forth this morsel of dead royalty. 
 The life, the right, and truth of all this realm 
 Is fled to heav'n, and England now is left 
 To tug and scamble, and to part by the teeth 
 The unow'd interest to proud-swelling state. 
 Now, for the bare-pick'd bone of majesty 
 Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest. 
 And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace. 
 Now powers from home, and discontents at home, 
 Meet in one line ; and vast confusion waits, 
 As doth a raven on a sick-fall 'n beast, 
 The imminent decay of wrested pomp." 
 
 After this scene we find him bravely fighting for John, 
 showing a valiant front to his enemies, and supporting him 
 
336 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 in his death-agony ; but the moral perfectioning of his own 
 character is wound to a climax in the closing words of the 
 play :— 
 
 " This England never did, nor never shall 
 Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, 
 But when it first did help to wound itself. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Come the three corners of the world in arms. 
 
 And we shall shock them. Naught shall make us rue. 
 
 If England to itself do rest but true." 
 
 Was I not correct in saying that the character of Falcon- 
 bridge forms a " moral chorus " to the play to reveal to us 
 the hidden skeleton beneath the veil and roses of war and 
 ambition .' 
 
 I have frequently recurred to Shakespeare's ingenuity in 
 contrasting his characters in his dramas ; great as this is, 
 however, both this talent and effect are surpassed by the 
 wonderful skill and ease with which he cofttrasts characters 
 with themselves, as in this one of Falconbridge. The graduated 
 manner in which he contrives to make one master-passion 
 supersede another, and each in turn to become the domi- 
 nant, still retaining the integrity, and even plausibility of the 
 original construction, is in itself a profound metaphysical 
 study. 
 
 One more remark upon this grand personation. Upon the 
 question that the reign of King John was deficient in charac- 
 ters fully answering the demand for the dramatic interest in 
 the play, and that in consequence the instinct of our poet 
 perceiving the necessity for a supply of representative char- 
 acters to meet that demand, the fine character just dis- 
 missed, — certainly one of the very finest in the whole gallery of 
 Shakesperian inventive portraits, — is precisely the "repre- 
 sentative " character required. Thoroughly Gothic in features 
 
King John, 337 
 
 and proportions, and as thoroughly English in temper and 
 spirit, his presence rays life and manliness into every part of 
 the drama, where they would else be wanting. " Is it strange," 
 says well the Boston editor of our poet, " that a nation which 
 could grow such originals, should have surpassed the rest of 
 the world in all that is vigorous, and useful, and great ? " 
 
 Beautifully conceived, too, is the career of Hubert. It 
 would seem that no circumstance in his deportment, up to the 
 period of his temptation by the king, could harmonise with 
 his fulfilling the horrid misgion he had undertaken ; never- 
 theless, his being a court-retainer, and a pliant and assidu- 
 ous one, justifies his being selected by John as the tool 
 for his cruel purpose. In the last Act, Hubert nobly clears 
 himself from suspicion of having murdered the child ; and his 
 scene in the prison, with the little prince pleading for his 
 eyes, can barely receive the due estimation of its tenderness 
 and genuine pathos. The opening of the 4th Act. 
 
 As an instance of the caution with which Shakespeare con- 
 ducts and fills up the design in his dramas, and contrives to 
 make even the most subordinate parts accord with the main 
 outline, and constitute a portion and necessary adjunct to the 
 consummated plot, may be noticed the introduction on the 
 scene of the dying French lord, Melun, — with the sublime 
 lesson put into the mouth of a man, " right in whose eyes are 
 seen the cruel pangs of death." At that solemnest moment 
 of all the junctures in a man's life, it was especially fine in the 
 poet to place truth, and honour, and fidelity in contrast with 
 dissimulation, fraud, and treachery, The revolted English 
 nobles have gone over to the French king, and Melun warns 
 them to fly ; for that his sovereign, if victorious, means to 
 fecojnpense their services to him by cutting off their heads. 
 Well might Salisbury exclaim, "I'm stifled with this smell of 
 sin!" .The dyiiig spefech of this French lord— one of the 
 
 least important agents,^ te it observed, in the history— is 
 
 Y 
 
33? Shakespeare^Characters. 
 
 scarcely to be exceeded in effect by any other in the play. 
 He says : — 
 
 " Have Inot hideous death within my view, 
 Retaining but a quantity of life, 
 Which bleeds away, ev'n as a form of wax 
 Resolveth from his figure 'gainst the fire ? 
 What in the world should make me now deceive. 
 Since I must lose the use of all deceit ? 
 Why should I then be false ; since it is true 
 That I must die here, and live hence by truth ? 
 I say again, if Lewis, do win the day, 
 He is, forsworn if e'er those eyes of yours 
 Behold another day break in the east. 
 But even this night, whose black contagious breath 
 Already smokes about the burning crest 
 Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun, 
 Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire, 
 Paying the fine of rated treachery 
 Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives, 
 If Lewis, by your assistance, win the day." 
 
 These revolted nobles, too, are sketched with the same 
 propriety and distinctness that mark all the poet's characters, 
 however slight the portion of words they have to deliver. 
 Thus, we have the Lord Salisbury, generous and, gentle, 
 sympathising with the Lady Constance in her sorrows, — ^the 
 text to his character being traceable in her words, as is fre- 
 quently the case in Shakespeare : thus, it is imperative upon 
 all actors studying their parts, to study likewise all the other 
 characters in the piece, for hints as to their own characters 
 and by-play; so artfully, and, withal, so naturally do they 
 dove-tail, and carry out and explain each other. Thus Con- 
 stance, in her address to Salisbury, upon hearing that her 
 professing ally, the French king, had joined issue with John 
 against the claim of her son Arthur : — 
 
 " What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head ? 
 ^ Why dost -thpu look so sadly on my son ? 
 
King John. 339 
 
 What means that hand upon that breast of thine ? 
 Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum, 
 Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds ? 
 Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words ? " 
 
 And again, in the scene with the Dauphin, (the 26. of the 5th 
 Act,) we find him bewailing his own disloyalty in a beautiful 
 strain of regret and self-reproach. 
 
 ; In the scenes at the court of King John, he is distinguished 
 by a graceful flow of courtier-like eloquence ; for his is the 
 oft-quoted speech that he utters upon the second coronation 
 of the king, which he says is, — 
 
 " To gild refined gold, to paint the lily. 
 To throw a perfume on the violet, 
 To smooth the ice, or add another hue 
 Unto the rainbow ; or with taper light 
 To seek the eye of heaven to garnish." 
 
 This eloquence is ingeniously contrasted with Pembroke's 
 more blunt and straightforward uttierance ; and the character- 
 istic diversity between these two lords is consistently main- 
 tained throughout the play.. 
 
 In Pembroke's mouth is appropriately put one of those sly, 
 side-wind girds at the French that, as an Englishman, Shake- 
 speare could not restrain. In one of the skirmishes, Pem- 
 broke says, — 
 
 " Up, once again ; put spirit in the French ; 
 If they miscarry, we miscarry too.'' 
 
 He and Salisbury having gone over to the French party. In 
 concluding my remarks upon the characters in this play of 
 King John, I would subjoin a few upon the style of its repro- 
 duction at Drury Lane Theatre in 1842, under the manage- 
 ment of Mr Macready. 
 
 In the first place, the difficulty of representing the skir- 
 mishes and alarms of battle on the stage— till then historically 
 
340 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 and proverbially ludicrous — ^was on that occasion triumph- 
 antly overcome. The siege of Anglers was a serious event. 
 Also, the whole department which is technically styled the 
 " getting-up," the scenery, and the costume, were absolutely 
 perfect : it was a gorgeous pictorial illustration of a great 
 dramatic poem. But what I would principally distinguish as 
 the crowning talent displayed in that very fine revival, was 
 the conception of the character of King John himself. It was 
 the more artistical, inasmuch as the peculiar moral features 
 of that bad king are rather to be suggested to the imagina- 
 tion than palpably and broadly developed. The stealthy 
 watchfulness, the crafty caution, and the want of faith in 
 human goodness, are all features that demand acute discrimi- 
 nation to perceive, and refined and delicate touches to em- 
 body. 
 
 It requires subdued deportment, self-mistrust, or rather the 
 want of self-confidence — nice points of character to study, 
 and all which few actors dare to personate with fidelity, 
 because, unless they be understood and appreciated by an 
 audience, it is frequently thought to be tame or under 
 acting. 
 
 The whole character and bearing of John, in the version of 
 Shakespeare, form a striking contrast to those of Henry V.* 
 The one is ardent, brave, confident in the love, and support 
 of his people — the true English king ; the other, wily, artful, 
 making every movement by a stratagem, and feeling that he 
 holds his subjects by no other tenure than the right of might, 
 and an appeal to the baser passions of their nature. 
 , They who call to mind those two brilliant and impetuous 
 speeches— those rousing appeals to the zeal of his people in 
 Henry V. — beginning, "Once more unto the breach, dear 
 friends," in the 3d Act; and, "What's he that wishes so ? my 
 
 * Mr Macready had previously revived the play of " Henry V." at Covent Gar- 
 den Theatre, with prodigal magnificence and splendour. 
 
' King yohn. 341 
 
 cousin Westmoreland ? " the celebrated speech upon the eve 
 of the Agincourt fight ; and then draw a parallel between 
 them and the speech that King John makes to the citizens of 
 Anglers, in the 2d Act, — 
 
 " These flags of France that are advanced here, 
 Before the eye and prospect of your town," 
 
 sneaking his way, as it were, and feeling the pulse, as he pro- 
 ceeds, of those whom he is addressing,— they, I repeat, who 
 institute a comparison between these speeches in the two 
 plays, will perceive my meaning. These words may be 
 taken as keys to the two characters. In John we have no 
 confiding appeals, no " dear friends ; " but the extortionate 
 tyrant to his people appears in such phrases as — 
 
 " Ere our coming, see thou shake the bags 
 Of hoarding abbots ; imprison'd angels . 
 Set at liberty : the fat ribs of peace 
 Must by the hungry now be fed upon : 
 Use our commission in its utmost force." 
 
 Compare this with Harry Monmouth's courageous and 
 magnanimous reflection : — 
 
 " There is some soul of goodness in things evil, 
 Would men observingly distil it out ; 
 For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers, 
 Which is both healthful and good husbandry : 
 Besides, they are our outward consciences, 
 And preachers to us all ; admonishing. 
 That we should dress us fairly for our end. 
 Thus may we gather" honey from the weed, 
 And make a moral of the devil himself," 
 
 And then note his playful intercourse with his soldiers, and 
 those sprightly exclamations to his faithful old adherent, Sir 
 Thomas Erpingham, " God 'a mercy, old heart, thou speakest 
 cheerfully." Compare his confident reliance on his English 
 
342 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 bosoms, with John's misgivings and doubts, as of a man con- 
 scious and feeling that he has no right to the love ofhis sub- 
 jects in the scene of his recoronation : "And looked upon, 
 I hope, with cheerful eyes." And again, " I have a way to 
 win their loves again ; " as well as his storm of reproach and 
 remorse, and base endeavour to shift the ponderous load of 
 his guilt on to the shoulders of his instrument, Hubert. 
 
 After this comparison, they who fortunately witnessed the 
 two performances, will not forget the manner in which Mr 
 Macready impersonated the two kings, and the artistical way 
 in which he demonstrated the unhappiness of wickedness 
 throughout his King John ; the gradual and constant declen- 
 sion of his spirit, its tide being always at the ebb ; his small 
 amount of confidence, his suggested consciousness of mean- 
 ness, guilt, and the loss of all respect ; his bearing latterly 
 as that of a man who felt that indignant eyes were flashing 
 on him, and his gait as if surrounded by pitfalls ; in short, 
 the general substratum of wretchedness which pervades the 
 whole character, and yet is only known and felt, not blaz- 
 oned 5 all this unprotruded demeanour, and which the million 
 do not appreciate, greatly surpassed in merit the conception, 
 even ofhis dying scene, terrifically real as that was. 
 
 Alexander placed the poems of Homer in a jewelled casket 
 of inestimable price, the shrine being an emblem only of the 
 ofifering ; and the late theatrical regenerator presented the 
 public with illuminated editions of the world's poet ; superb, 
 indeed, and wholly worthy of the text, were it only by 
 reason of the zeal with which they were executed. 
 
XIV, 
 
 Cf)e Wiinttxs Cale. 
 
XIV. 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 The general plot and incidental circumstances of "The 
 Winter's Tale" are more varied; exciting, and sensuously- 
 appealing than perhaps any other of Shakespeare's plays. 
 
 The jealousy of Leontes, which occasions the distressful 
 portion of the story, is hot, like the jealousy of Othello, 
 cautiously and gradually introduced, artfully developed, 
 fanned, heightened, and exasperated to its awful climax 
 of assassination and suicidal punishment ; but it bursts forth 
 at once with a sudden explosion, it partakes more of the 
 character of a paroxysm of disease ; and it as quickly sub- 
 sides into the humility of self-reproach, and the very aban- 
 donment to "a meek and pliant repentance. The character of 
 Leontes is essentially that of a weak man ; his contrition is 
 not more extreme and pitiable than his rage ; and no one 
 knew better than Shakespeare that the one is almost in- 
 variably the consequent of the other. In these contrasted 
 impulses, nothing can be more opposed than the two natures 
 of Leontes and Othello. Both are jealous men, both pursue 
 the same cruel course, both are touched with remorse ; yet, 
 from their several intellectual conformations, as the one 
 (Othello) never wholly loses our sympathy, not to say even 
 our respect ; the other (Leontes) never cogimands them. 
 
346 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 In the laying forth of this character, some writers have 
 objected that the jealous change brought forth in his disposi- 
 tion and conduct is too sudden and too extreme, and that 
 there appears no previous mdication to render plausible so 
 complete a subversion of his ostensible ordinary nature. 
 
 It is, no doubt, an unusual course with Shakespeare to 
 introduce abrupt, as well as violent antagonisms in character ; 
 he more commonly, nay, indeed, he almost constantly allows 
 a dormant passion to germ and sprout forth, and effloresce by 
 slow degrees, so that we recognise and accompany the altera- 
 tion from its first development to its conclusion. Nature 
 herself, however, has her anomalies, her freaks, her caprices ; 
 and that person's observation and knowledge of character 
 have made no great strides in acquirement, that cannot verify 
 the most remarkable as well as sudden transformations in the 
 conduct of certain individuals, and which, not unusually, have 
 arisen from some casual and slight inducement. Such mental 
 transfigurations almost uniformly take place in highly ex- 
 citable and impulsive natures ; and it is to be observed that 
 this was precisely the component of the mind of Leontes, 
 whose every action betrays the weak and unstable man. As, 
 therefore, there was not the time allowed in the progress of 
 the drama for his passion of jealousy to be gradually pre- 
 indicated, we may fairly give the poet the advantage of its 
 extempore explosion. We are to bear in mind that the 
 passion of Othello forms the great master-feature of that 
 tragedy, and there is no episode to sever its interest; it is one 
 integral history. The episode in " The Winter's Tale "—the 
 history of Perdita and her Florizel— bears almost equal sway 
 of importance with the serious and pathetic portion; the 
 original cause of it, the jealousy of Leontes, could not there- 
 fore have been brought to occupy a larger space in the com- 
 bined plot. 
 
 Upon the causeg and consequences of Leontes's passion, 
 
The Wintev's Tale.. 347 
 
 Schlegel makes the following remark. He says : — " It is a 
 passion with whose effects the spectator is more concerned 
 than with its origin, and which does not produce thie catas- 
 trophe," but merely ties the knot of the piece. In fact, the 
 poet might perhaps have wished to indicate slightly that 
 Hermione, though virtuous, was too active in her efforts to 
 please Polixenes, and it appears as if this germ of an inclina- 
 tion first attained its proper maturity in their children." But 
 the German critic should have perceived that Hermione'5 
 " efforts to please Polixenes " were all made at the immediate 
 instigation of her husband, and that it was, in fact, to please 
 Leontes, that she endeavoured to please Polixenes, and induce 
 him to prolong his stay. Any one carefully perusing that 
 opening scene, will discern, from Hermione's words and bear- 
 ing — playful, gracefully winning, the lady-hostess persuading 
 a guest to remain — that she is merely acting in consonance 
 with her husband's expressed wish. The very constancy of 
 her reference to him through all her speech to their visitor, 
 bears testimony to the pure singleness of his noble wife. 
 
 The character of Hermione is that of the truly classical 
 heroine of a tragic drama ; she is worthy of the Greek Muse, 
 a perfectly regal woman, who claims our homage, respect, 
 and esteem by reason of her station, conduct, and social 
 virtues, and, of course, our sympathy on account of the per- 
 secution she endured, and her unmerited sufferings. I know 
 not, however, whether this feeling be not enhanced by the one 
 indication she manifests of being a really feminine creature — 
 that of forgetting her own individual affliction, and falling 
 senseless at the news of the death of her son, Mamillius. But 
 the pervading and substantive quality in Hermione's char- 
 acter is that of a grand and unqualified magnanimity, taking 
 the course of invincible firmness and constancy. Wronged 
 by her husband's hideous suspicions, outraged by a public 
 attainder, mock trial, and imprisonment, wounded through 
 
348 Shdkes'peare-Characiers. 
 
 the persons of her children by his inhuman decrees, she con- 
 signs herself to a living grave. Finding remonstrance worse 
 than fruitless, seeing that it exasperates him, she takes refuge 
 in a proud, indignant silence, sternly willing it to be eternal. 
 Her conduct throughout is consistent in lofty courage and 
 self-respect. Her first emotion, upon finding herself the 
 object of her husband's wild accusations, is sheer surprise 
 and incredulity. "What, is this sport ?" she exclaims. Her 
 second is honest, indignant refutation of the groundless 
 charge, and reliance upon her husband's belief in her word : — • 
 
 " But I 'd say he had not, 
 And I '11 be sworn you would believe my saying, 
 Howe'er you lean to the nayward." 
 
 Her third a burning denial of the calumny, checked by a 
 remembrance of what is due to him who is her accuser: — 
 
 " Should a villain say so. 
 The most replenish'd villain in the world. 
 He were as much more villain : you, my lord, 
 Do but mistake." 
 
 Her next speech is a mingling of implied conscious innocence 
 and resolute patience — a patience which can afford pity for 
 its mistaken impugner : — 
 
 " How will this grieve you, 
 When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that 
 You thus have publish'd me ! Gentle my lord, 
 You scarce can right me throughly then, to say 
 You did mistake," 
 
 And her concluding words, as she withdraws, are full of the 
 most lofty self-assertion, with magnanimity of quiet rebuke :-^ 
 
 " Beseech your highness. 
 My women may be with me ; for you see 
 My plight requires it. [To tkeml] Do not weep, good fools. 
 There is no cause ; when you shall know your mistress 
 
The Winter's Tale, 349 
 
 Has deserv'd prison, then abound in tears 
 
 As I come out. This action I now go on 
 
 Is for my better grace. \To Aim.] Adieu, my lord, 
 
 I never wish'd to see you sorry ; now, 
 
 I trust I shall." 
 
 This is accurately the utterance of a woman with whom 
 the usual feminine resource of tears and lamentings forms no 
 part of her character. Hermione is peculiarly self-concen- 
 trated, self-reliant, and uncomplaining. She says of her^- 
 self:— 
 
 " Good, my lords, 
 I am not prone to weeping, as our sex 
 Commonly are — the want of which vain dew 
 Perchance shall dry your pities ; but I have 
 That honourable grief lodg'd here, which burns 
 Worse than tears drown." 
 
 A weeping woman would not have fallen senseless on hear- 
 ing of the death of her child ; but Hermione is exactly and 
 entirely the woman to make that grand speech of self-justifi- 
 cation which she does upon her trial, pleading her own cause, 
 courageously maintaining her innocence, calmly and confi- 
 dently appealing to her husband's own conscience for her 
 honourable acquittal : and, when all is useless, bowing to the 
 full tide of- her misfortunes, and shrouding herself beneath 
 self-imposed death-in-life as the sole reprisal upon his in- 
 jurious, his heinous tfeatiment. 
 
 As an extraordinary piece of consistency in character- 
 'painting, it were well noted that in the concluding scene of 
 the play, when Hermione is restored to her husband Leontes, 
 .her reconciliation with him is marked by silent action, not by 
 •words. We learn from the bystanders that she "embraces 
 Jiim," and " hangs about his neck," on coming down from the 
 .pedestal where she has enacted her own statue — but she utters 
 -no syllable. Words of. tenderness and fond sentences were 
 
350 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 not for the mouth of a woman who had shown her enduring 
 consciousness of the injuries she had sustained, by a sixteen 
 years' sequestration of herself from his side. For Hermione 
 there was nothing but a demeanour that should speak for 
 itself; and she accordingly throws herself mutely into his 
 arms, that his heart may comprehend all that hers would say 
 to it. This is the eloquence of magnanimity in tacit evidence, 
 perfectly befitting the majesty and self-respective dignity of 
 Hermione's character. 
 
 The slight and fleeting sketch of the little prince, Mamillius, 
 is remarkably beautiful both in character and treatment. 
 His conversation with his father, whose jealous ravings he 
 cannot comprehend, is conceived in the perfection of dramatic 
 incident ; and what a touch of art, and of nature too, at the 
 . moment when the king, his father, is writhing with suspicion 
 of his queen's dishonesty, to put those words into his little, 
 unconscious mouth, " I am like you, they say." In that simple 
 scene, too, (the 1st in the 2d Act,) with his mother and her 
 ladies, Shakespeare seems to have got at the very heart of 
 childhood-nature — as he did of all other nature. The child 
 says to one of the ladies who invites him to come and be her 
 playfellow — 
 
 " No, I '11 none of you ; 
 You '11 kiss me hard, and speak to me as if 
 I were a baby still." 
 
 As a set-ofi against the pathetic incidents in the play, we 
 have the bright creation of the enchanting Perdita, than 
 whose love with her Florizel (the young prince, and son of 
 Polixenes) we shall scarcely find anything more fresh and 
 youthful, and nothing more pasteral, yet princely and refined. 
 The grouped scene at the sheep-shearing is like a Grecian 
 bass-relief; and her speeches to the guests are finer than 
 anything of the kind, either in the old or the new world 
 of poetry. Such is the address to her lover, accompanying 
 
The Winter's Tale. 351 
 
 the presentation of a coronal of flowers, and which, though 
 familiar as household words, should never be alluded to 
 without reviving : — 
 
 " Now, my fairest friend, 
 I would I had some flowers o' the spring that might 
 Become your time of day. * * * * 
 
 ***** O Proserpina, 
 For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'st fall 
 From Dis's waggon ! daffodils, 
 That come before the swallow dares, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim, 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes. 
 Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses. 
 That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
 Bright Phoebus in his strength — a malady 
 Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips, and 
 The crown-imperial ; lilies of all kinds. 
 The flower-de-luce being one. Oh, these I lack 
 To make you garlands of ; and, my sweet friend. 
 To strew him o'er and o'er ! 
 
 " Flo. What ! like a corse ? 
 
 " Per. No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on ; 
 Not like a corse ; or if, — not to be buried, 
 But quick, and in mine arms." 
 
 Well might the enraptured Florizel exclaim, "What you 
 do still betters what is done !" He has already told her — 
 
 " I bless the time 
 When my good falcon made her flight across 
 Thy father's ground." 
 
 In the same scene with these two young princely creatures, 
 (the 3d of the 4th Act,) there is another touch of loveliness 
 and natural emotion. The old lord, Camillo, and Polixenes, 
 Florizel's father, have attended the sheep-shearing, disguised, 
 and are watching the love-making of the young couple. 
 Camillo says : — 
 
352 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 " He tells her something 
 That makes her blood look out." 
 
 With his usual thought and consistency in the classifica- 
 tion of character, it is to be observed that in that of Perdita, 
 Shakespeare never compromises — he never even loses sight 
 of her royal descent ; and the manner in which he has indi- 
 cated that self-assertion and wilfulness of nature (the usual 
 concomitants of royalty) are as remarkable as they are 
 amusing. Polixenes makes the observation — 
 
 " This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
 Ran on the greensward ; nothing she does or seems 
 But smacks of something greater than herself, 
 Too noble for this place'' 
 
 Her first self-betrayal occurs at the sheep-shearing feast, 
 where, like a true scion of the class administered to, and the 
 «^/-administering class, she neglects the guests, and receives 
 the rebuke from her old foster-father, the Shepherd : — 
 
 " Fie, daughter ! when my old wife liv'd. 
 Upon this day she was both pantler, butler, cook ; 
 Both dame and servant ; welcom'd all, serv'd all ; 
 Would sing her song, dance her turn ; now here. 
 At upper end o' the table ; now i' the middle ; 
 On his shoulder, and on his — her face o' fire 
 With labour ; and the thing she took to quench it, 
 She would to each one sip. You are retir'd 
 As if you were a feasted one, ahd not 
 The hostess of the meeting." 
 
 Here we have the royal instinct of dignity in " exclusiveness." 
 Again, in the conversation with Polixenes upon the culture of 
 the " streaked gillyflowers, ' of which she cares not to " get 
 slips for her garden;" when he asks, "Wherefore, gentle 
 maiden, do you neglect them .' " She answers, — 
 
 " For that I have heard it said. 
 There is an art that, in their piedness, shares 
 
The Winter's Tale. 353 
 
 With great creating Nature. 
 
 " Polix. Say there be, 
 
 Yet Nature is made better by no mean, 
 But Nature makes that mean : so, over that Art, 
 Which you say adds to Nature, is an Art 
 That Nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry 
 A gentler scion to the wildest stock ; 
 And make conceive a bark of baser kind 
 By bud of nobler race. This is an art 
 Which does mend Nature, — change it rather : but 
 The art itself is Nature. 
 
 " Per. So it is. 
 
 "Polix. Then make your garden rich in gillyflow'rs. 
 And do not call them bastards. 
 
 " Per. Pll not put 
 
 The dibble in earth to set one slip of them!' 
 
 Here we have a specimen of royal and — with the meekest 
 deference be it suggested — of womanly obstinacy. She has 
 not an argument to face the king's ; but having once said 
 she cared not to grow them, she sticks to her text : — 
 
 " I '11 not put 
 The dibble in earth to set one slip of them." 
 
 Very regal, too, — the giving no reason for her resolution. 
 
 Lastly, for the royal instinct as conveyed in her self-asser- 
 tion of equality — and this the most remarkable example. 
 When King Polixenes has forbidden their union, and then 
 threatens her with death if she " open their rural latch to her 
 lover's entrance ; " after the king has gone, she says : — 
 
 " I was not much afear'd ; for once or twice 
 I was about to speak, and tell him plainly. 
 The self-same sun that shines upon his court, 
 Hides not his visage from our cottage, but 
 Looks on alike." 
 
 Shakespeare never would have put that speech into the 
 mouth of a commoner. Scan him and sift him as we may. 
 
354 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 we always detect a " foregone conclusion " in his most evanes- 
 cent shades of character. 
 
 The finest indication that Perdita gives of her greatness 
 and constancy of heart, is in the quiet answer she makes to 
 the old lord, Camillo, who is setting before the two young 
 lovers the trials of adversity they must encounter in their 
 projected flight from Bohemia. The old friend concludes his 
 dissuasion with these words : — 
 
 ." Prosperity 's the very bond of love ; 
 Whose fresh complexion, and whose heart together. 
 Affliction alters." 
 
 Perdita simply replies : — 
 
 " One of these is true : 
 I think affliction may subdue the cheek, 
 But not take in the mind." 
 
 That is true heroism ; and it is the heroism of a young 
 heart. But not only the queen-mother's steadfastness of tem- 
 per with repose of manner are renewed in Perdita's speech 
 and conduct, but the personal* likeness to Hermione is denoted 
 by an exquisite touch that Shakespeare could not fail to add 
 upon a favourable occasion. In the ist scene of the Sth Act, 
 where Leontes is looking upon his daughter, unconscious that 
 she is such, and standing there in maiden youth and loveli- 
 ness, the faithful Paulina recalls him to himself, with the half 
 rebuke : — 
 
 " Sir, my liege, 
 Your eye hath too much youth in 't : not a month 
 'Fore your queen died, she was more worth such gazes 
 Than what you look on now. 
 
 " Leon. I thought of her, 
 
 Even in these looks I made" 
 
 There is a parallel scene in the 1st scene of the Sth Act of 
 " Pericles," even more touching in its eloquence, where the 
 
The Winters Tale. 355 
 
 kiflg, staring upon his daughter, Marina, has his belief in her 
 worth confirmed by the living picture she presents to his 
 soul of his dead wife, Thaisa. 
 
 The glorious old poet Chaucer — and it is delightful to 
 bring two such natures in unison — ^has a passage, in his own 
 simple beauty of style, indicating the like creed of native 
 sympathy in resemblance. 
 
 It is where Constance's little son is brought into his father, 
 King Alla's presence ; and we have the vivid sketch of the 
 incident in two lines : — 
 
 " Before All^, during the meatfe's space. 
 The child stood, looking in the kingSs face!' 
 
 The father is struck by the child's look ; and we all know the 
 pertinacious gaze of a child ; and he inquires :^r- 
 
 " Whose is that faire child that standeth yonder ? " 
 
 Obtaining no satisfactory answer to his question, the story 
 goes on to say : — 
 
 " Now was this child as like unto Constance 
 As possible is a creature to be : 
 This Alia hath the face in remembrance 
 Of Dame Constance, and thereon musfed he, 
 If that the childfe's mother were aught she 
 That is his wife ; and privily he sight, [sighed,] 
 And sped him from the table that he might'.' 
 
 That touch of his sighing, and hurrying from the room to 
 hide his emotion, is in the true dramatic feeling of nature and 
 passion. 
 
 Paulina, the attendant and companion of the Queen Her- 
 mione, is an example of what might be adduced as an " end- 
 on" partisan. An American would call her a "go-ahead" 
 friend. She never for one moment has a misgiving with 
 respect to the conduct of her injured queen and mistress ; 
 neither does she pause to consider the critical nature of her 
 
356 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 own position in the court, or to swerve one jot from her' pur- 
 pose, when denouncing to the king his purblind jealousy and 
 barbarous persecution of his consort. Paulina is a specimen of 
 those headstrong women who, taking up the broad principle of 
 a question or a cause, allow no minor point to sway or inter- 
 fere with their course of action. It is this wedge-like char- 
 acter in women which makes them such perplexing opponents 
 in a party-question. Shakespeare knew this quite as well as 
 we do ; and he had witnessed some remarkable examples of 
 its truth in the party-feuds that arose out of the bloated in- 
 justice visited upon the worthy Katherine of Aragon, and 
 the heart-burning triumph of Anne Boleyn, with the Protes- 
 tant succession, to say nothing of the kidnapping and execu- 
 tion of the Scottish queen. There were " end-on " partisans 
 enough in his time ; and Margaret Lamburn, who in open 
 court aimed a dagger at the heart of Queen Elizabeth, was a 
 specimen of the Paulina species. 
 
 There is another point in the female character that Shake- 
 speare has exemplified with his usual felicity, in the conduct 
 of Paulina. When a woman has once got the right end of 
 the staff in a contest with a man, and has quelled her oppo- 
 nent, she does play the tattoo upon his skull with an amazing 
 vivacity — and after he is down, too. When Leontes has 
 come to a sense of his barbarity towards his queen, and is 
 wallowing in the very slough of mean despondency, Paulina 
 cannot forego the gratification of punching him in his maun- 
 dering distress. He says : — 
 
 "Whilst I remember 
 Her and her virtues, I cannot forget 
 My blemishes in them : and so still think of 
 The wrong I did myself, which was so much. 
 That heirless it hath made my kingdom, and 
 Destroy'd the sweet'st companion that e'er man 
 Bred his hopes out of." 
 
The Winters Tale. 357 
 
 Paulina answers : — 
 
 " True, too true, my lord : 
 If one by one you wedded all the world, 
 Or, from the all that are, took something good 
 To make a perfect woman, she you kill'd 
 Would be unparallell'd." 
 
 His reply displays the very prostration of self-abasement : — 
 
 - " I think so. Kill'd ! 
 She I kill'd ! I did so ; but tJtou strik'st me 
 Sorely to say I did ; it is as bitter 
 Upon thy tongue as in my thought ; now, good now, 
 Say so but seldom!' 
 
 It is observable that the only person in the play who 
 encounters the severity of retributive justice is the lord 
 Antigonus; and we scarcely regret his fate since he lent 
 himself to the king's cruelty (however unwillingly and by 
 oath) to leave the infant Perdita on the desert sea-shore of a, 
 strange country ; a savage hire, — and the wages he receives 
 are as dispiteous, for he is devoured by a beast. This scene, 
 which first introduces the old shepherd and his son, is dis- 
 tinguished by that mixture of the horrible and the ludicrous 
 which no one ventures upon but Dame Nature and Shake- 
 speare. The old man, who has been wandering about the 
 sea-shore in the storm, searching for a stray sheep, stumbles 
 upon the babe, and in his astonishment at the circumstance, 
 calls out to his son, who -immediately echoes his summons v — 
 
 " What, art so near } [says the old shepherd.] If thou 'It 
 see a thing to talk on when thou art dead and rotten, come 
 hither. What ailest thou, man } 
 
 " Clown. I have seen two such sights by sea and by land ! 
 but I am not to say it is a sea, for it is now the sky ; betwixt 
 the firmament and it you cannot thrust a bodkin's point." 
 
 It will be remembered how this same effect of a storm is 
 described in Othello, where the persons talking are gentle- 
 men and scholars. One speaks of the "wind-shak'd surge 
 
358 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 with high and monstrous mane;" and the other speaks of 
 
 the " main and the aerial blue becoming an indistinct regard'.' 
 
 The clown, with his rustic imagination, has none but 
 
 homely comparisons, and afterwards he talks of the " yeast 
 
 . and froth as you'd thrust a cork into a hogshead'.' These are 
 
 minutiae of consistency that have been often alluded to. 
 
 The Clown goes on : — 
 
 " Oh, the most piteous cry of the poor souls ! Sometimes to 
 see 'em, and not to see 'em : now the ship boring the moon with 
 her main-mast. * * * And then for the land-service, — ^to 
 see how the bear tore out his shoulder-bone — and how he cried 
 to me for help, and said he was Antigonus — a nobleman !" 
 
 "What care these roarers for the name of king ?" says the 
 Boatswain in the "Tempest ;" but how horribly natural is this 
 scene ! The fact which was uppermost in the Clown's mind 
 — the tearing up of the man's shoulder-blade — ^he speaks of 
 * first, and without any preface, and afterwards describes his 
 name and quality. Then he goes on : — 
 
 " But to make an end of the ship, to see how the sea flap- 
 dragoned it ; but first, how the poor souls roared, and the sea 
 mocked them, and how the poor gentleman roared, and the 
 bear mocked him, both roaring louder than the sea or weather. 
 " Shep. Name of mercy, when was this, boy .■' 
 " Clown. Now, now ! I haven't winked since I saw these 
 sights ; the men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear 
 half dined on the gentleman ; he's at it now !" 
 
 Well, they turn to the infant Perdita, and lifting up their 
 hands and eyes at the golden treasure that Antigonus has 
 left with her, the old man proposes to his son to take the 
 " next way home ; " and here Shakespeare cannot close the 
 scene without a parting touch of rustic humanity, which he 
 puts into the mouth of the Clown : — 
 
 " Go you the next way with your findings ; I '11 go see 
 if the bear be gone from the gentleman, and how much 
 
The Winter's Tale. 359 
 
 he liath eaten. They are never curst [mischievous] but 
 when they are hungry. If there be any of him left I will 
 hury it." 
 
 This, in itself, is a trifling incident to notice, but a natural 
 one, for the common people have a reverence, even to super- 
 stition, for the decencies of sepulture. 
 
 Among the subordinate characters in " The Winter's Tale," 
 the noblemen about the court of Leontes do not offer any 
 distinguishing characteristic worth dwelling upon, unless it 
 be the unparallelled one of their all taking side with their 
 brother-courtier, and against the king ! Camillo is a fine 
 honest fellow, who mainly assists to bring the estranged 
 parties to a union ; and there is a naturally and artistically- 
 contrived conversation among some " Gentlemen " in the 2d 
 scene of the 5th Act, who are describing to each other the 
 meeting of the two kings, the discovery of Perdita to be the 
 daughter of Leontes, and, in short, the hurrying of the plot 
 to its climax of efflorescence. The whole dialogue is per- 
 fectly graphic ; and immediately upon the heels of it we have 
 the introduction of the old shepherd and his son, who have 
 received honourable preferment for their faithful nurture of 
 the little princess — a capital specimen of low comedy. The 
 bumpkins absolutely reel under their promotion and fine 
 clothes. The son talks of the " kings and princes — our kin- 
 dred" — and, like a true lout, he does not see that they have 
 condescended to him, but he instantly rushes on to their 
 level, and so, with delightful humour, he rattles away : — 
 
 " I was a gentleman born before my father, for the king's 
 son took me by the hand and called me brother, and the two 
 kings called my father brother, and then the prince my 
 brother called my father father, and so we wept, and there 
 was the first gentleman-like tears that ever we shed." 
 
 Mopsa, one of the country wenches — and she and Dorcas 
 are sisters of a class — is a type of that fraternity of women — 
 
360 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 both high and low — who have just sufficient brains to see 
 their own mercenary interest in all they do, and not one jot 
 else; who are just so acute as to turn to gain, to profit, all 
 that they possess, while to their truest and most real ad- 
 vantages and privileges they are as obtusely blind as earth- 
 worms. A trinket, a bauble, engrosses such a woman's soul 
 to the exclusion of aught beside. She will go through any 
 amount of meanness to wheedle a man into purchasing it for 
 her, while, with it, he may beguile her of any amount of un- 
 worthy submission. The pedlar's knacks and gaudy trash 
 absorb Mopsa's whole gloating vision ; she never ceases pes- 
 tering her swain to " buy " for her ; she even gives up the 
 darling delight of bickering and squabbling with Dorcas for 
 the dearer delight of coaxing all she cgn out of her soft- 
 skulled gallant. That he finds his account in " treating " her 
 we gather from her own obtuse betrayals. In Mopsa's eager- 
 ness for the pedlar's tawdry laces and ribbons, with the fool's 
 price she blindly pays for them, believing that she: gets 
 them for "nothing" — that eternal pitfall of the fool-bijyer! — 
 "Getting a bargain for nothing!" — in Mopsa's cupidity we 
 have a symbol of those of her sex who, for a shawl, a bracelet; 
 or a silk dress, sacrifice their dignity of spirit, their honesty 
 of truth, their self-respect. They calculate that it costs them 
 only a few fawning words — " only !" when in these are com- 
 prised the abandonment of women's just claims to be the. 
 friend and " equal " of man, which they are everlastingly 
 talking about, and using such miserable means to accomplish. 
 And now talk we of that prince of quicksilver rogues 
 —Master Autolycus. O thou type of all the nimble- 
 fingered race that have plied in their vocation since the 
 gallies and the gallows were instituted to teach men the 
 principles of equitable adjustment, and accurately to know 
 the distinction between " meum and tuum," and not to con- 
 found and misapply the " golden rule of proportion." 
 
The Winters Tale. 361 
 
 Master Autolycus ! — that rogue of rogues ! that arch- 
 rogue ! that knave of knaves ! that inexhaustible wag of a 
 pedlar ! that scampering rip of a wayfaring huckster ! With 
 what a light hand he disposes of momentous considerations ! 
 with what an easy style he settles questions of conscience ! 
 " Beating and hanging [he says] are terrors to me ; — for the 
 life to come, / sleep out the thought of it!' How skimmingly 
 he relates that, " having flown over many knavish professions, 
 he settled down in rogue ; " and he is an adept in the profes- 
 sion he has settled down in, having made its principles his 
 earnest study, and having taken his degree, F.F.D., (" Pro- 
 fessor and Doctor of Thieving,") thus he delivers to them 
 " ex cathedra " — " To have an open ear, a quick eye, and a 
 nimble hand is necessary for a cutpurse ; a good nose is 
 requisite also to smell out work for the other senses." 
 
 His ineffable disinterestedness in refusing donations is on 
 a par with his dexterity- in "raising the supplies;" for, upon 
 having helped himself to what he wanted from the country 
 fellow's pocket, what ludicrous earnestness, and what sincerity, 
 too, in declining the proffered bounty : — " Offer me no money, 
 I pray you ; that kills my heart." What a zest, what intense 
 relish he has in trickery! and what solemn horror of recti- 
 tude! when he has filched the shepherd's purse, exclaiming 
 after him: — " I '11 be with you at your sheep-shearing, too. If 
 I make not this cheat bring out another, and the shearers 
 prove sheep, let me be unrolled, and my name put in the book 
 of virtue!' And then, at the prospect of mischief, he falls into 
 a merry song, for very jollity of heart; the fun of the mis- 
 chief being his "primum mobile" — his main principle of 
 action. 
 
 ■ He has a positive and unmitigated contempt for right and 
 justice, as being indeed poor and very shallow affairs — and 
 dull ; — so, with what a twinkle of the eye, and irrepressible 
 drollery beneath all, he shows that the humour of the thing is 
 
362 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 to him the main point. Laughing, he shouts, " What a fool 
 Honesty is ! — and Trust, his sworn brother, a very simple 
 gentleman." He plumes himself upon his high-bred rascality 
 in a strain of devout thankfulness, as he contemplates the 
 simpleton-innocence of the two shepherds : — " How blest are 
 we that are not simple men ! Yet Nature might have made 
 me as these are; — therefore I'll not disdain!" What deli- 
 cious gusto and relish ! and what wit ! Again — defending 
 himself from the charge of rectitude — except by accident~- 
 " Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes dy 
 chance'.' And when he quits his pedlar clothes, and pedlar 
 deportment, and has been promoted, with what magnificence 
 of rebuke he charges the others not to misbehave them- 
 selves: — "And let me have no lying; it becomes none but 
 tradesmen!" (O my beloved Willie! what a cordial philo- 
 sopher wast thou !) 
 
 Gines de Passamonte was a callous and vulgar prig com- 
 pared with thee, my Autolycus ; for, of a surety, thou wouldst 
 have respected the romantic benevolence of La Mancha's 
 knight ; — never wouldst thou, with a rascal ingratitude, have 
 pashed that venerable face with the rude flint-stones, after he 
 had delivered thee out of the hands of the ruthless alguazil. 
 Compared, too, with thee, the renowned and much-belauded 
 Du Val was a coxcomb and a dandy. He was a dancing-mas- 
 ter plunged into an ungenial element — the younger brother, 
 mayhap, of some sleek do-nothing; and so he inherited the 
 instinct of living by faith upon his species, — "taking no 
 more thought than lilies" for the morrow, — sufficient for the 
 day being the plunder thereof That such a kiddy should 
 have made his public exit from the Tyburn stage in an 
 embroidered dress, bag-wig, ruffles, and fringed gloves, was 
 befitting his "exquisite" nature. He walked his minuet in 
 life, and he danced out of it with a caper and a " galop h, la 
 corde." 
 
The Wintef's Tale. 363 
 
 Happy for thee, my merry Autolycus, that thou wast not 
 merely a natural rogue — a rogue in grain, thoroughbred from 
 a long and legitimate ancestry ; but that, with all thy small 
 filchings — thy "quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles" — the 
 serene villainy of thy face — the solemnity of thy adjurations, 
 and the glib-earnestness of thy protestations — thy romantic 
 cheats — thy florid lies — ^thou hadst therewithal a lurking grain 
 of good nature in thy composition; — that "salt preserved 
 thee." Thou wast, it is true, a confirmed and a solid thief; 
 but then thou wast born as well as bred to that branch of the 
 "conveyancing" profession; and couldst thou have changed 
 the Ethiop skin of thy nature, thou mightst have become a 
 distrainer for rent, or a surcharger of taxes — possibly, an 
 informer ; and then we should have missed all thy merriment. 
 
 I am glad thou wast not hanged, my Autolycus ! Such a 
 destiny would have been a sorry climax to thy uncruel mis- 
 demeanours. Who but a churl could stop that throat, of 
 which the shepherd's hind, who comes running in, says, in an 
 ecstasy of delight : — 
 
 " O master ! if you did but hear the pedlar at the door, 
 you would never dance again after a tabor and pipe; — no, the 
 bagpipe couldn't move you. He sings several tunes faster 
 than you '11 tell money. He utters them as though he had 
 eaten ballads, and all men's ears grew to his tunes. He hath 
 songs for man or woman, of all sizes : no milliner can so fit 
 his customers with gloves. He hath the prettiest love-songs 
 for maids; * * * with such delicate burdens of " dildos" 
 and "fadings," "jump her" and "thump her," [burdens of 
 song-writers of the time.] And he hath ribands of all the 
 colours i' the rainbow; points, more than all the lawyers in 
 Bohemia can handle, though they come to him by the gross; 
 inkles, caddises, cambrics, lawns: — why, he sings them over 
 as they were gods or goddesses. You would think a smock 
 were a she-angel, he so chants to the sleeve-hand, and the 
 work about the square on 't." 
 
 Perdita, the lady innate, says :—" Forewarn him that he 
 
364 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 use no scurrilous words in his tunes." Then in he comes 
 singing:— 
 
 " Lawn as white as driven snow ; 
 Cyprus black as e'er was crow ; 
 Gloves as sweet as damask roses; 
 Masks for faces and for noses ; 
 Bugle bracelet, necklace amber, 
 Perfume for a lady's chamber ; 
 Golden quoifs and stomachers. 
 For my lads to give their dears ; 
 Pins and poking-sticks of steel, 
 What maids lack from head to heel ; 
 Come, buy of me, come ; come buy, come buy ; 
 Buy lads, or else your lasses cry : 
 Come buy." 
 
 Go thy ways, thou merriest of vagabonds ! I could better 
 spare a much , better man than thou, Autolycus, my pet 
 thief. 
 
 The probabilities and the possibilities, the imputed an- 
 achronisms, and the geographical blunders in " The Winter's 
 Tale," have, I confess, never disturbed my rest — they never 
 kept me awake at night. I leave the technical prudery of 
 such objections to those dilettanti coxcombs in criticism, 
 who, when they are contemplating Raphael's cartoon of the 
 Miraculous Draught of Fishes, pass over the/^c^ of the Mes- 
 siah, and proceed to measure the proportions of the boat in 
 which He is seated ; and then triumphantly tell us, that to be 
 able to sit in that boat were a miracle equal to the one that 
 had just been performed. The delineations of character and 
 passion in this play ; the decoration of the poetry, consorting 
 in tender beauty with the rural simplicity of the subject, 
 always transport me back to that golden age when the 
 imagination ran loose amid the odorous glades of poetry, 
 unfretted and unjaded by the burrs and briers of low- 
 thoughted cares and carking anxieties. He who takes us 
 
The Winter's Tale. 365 
 
 from the smoke and stir of everyday toil, and laps us in the 
 Elysium of our boyish days — blood-stirring and hopeful — is a 
 benefactor to his species ; and to no mortal do I more owe 
 this reminiscence, and gratitude for it, than to 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
XV. 
 
XV. 
 RICHARD 11. 
 
 The dramatic poet could scarcely have desired two finer sub- 
 jects to fulfil all the requisites of contrasted character than 
 are to be found in the historical play of "Richard II." It 
 would be difficult to describe two natures more opposed to 
 each other at all points than those which really existed in the 
 unhappy son of the Black Prince, and of his crafty cousin and 
 deposer, the offspring of " Old Gaunt." Richardj.whose-fedtg 
 almost wholly arose from defect of judgment — the elements 
 of which, notwithstanding) were estimable, and whose affec- 
 tions were active and overflowing ; — who, if he did lavish his 
 favours upon unworthy creatur£s,. could nevertheless appre- 
 ciate the virtues and the, love of his first consort — the " Good 
 Queen Anne," as she was called ; and who, while she lived, 
 exercised an angelic influence over his conduct ; and when 
 she died, such was the transport — not to say the insanity — of 
 his grief, that he destroyed the palace where they had lived 
 in happiness together ; — ^who in his single person, and during his 
 nonage, quelled a formidable insurrection ; and yet, in his last 
 struggle for his crown, abandoned the contest with a facility — 
 even an imbecility — ^wholly irreconcilable with his 'early char- 
 acter and deportment ; — who was himself a singular contradic- 
 
 2 A 
 
370 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 tion— weak and irresolute, when he should have been stable 
 and firm, and consistently heroic— even to a Spartan endurance 
 — where universal humanity dictates a surrender ; — who aban- 
 doned, and then mourned over, the loss of his patrimony; 
 and yet, in his adversity, (if one plausible tradition of the 
 mode of his death speak correctly,) he had the strength 
 stubbornly to die of starvation. In short, Richard was a 
 creature of impulse, unhappily for himself, misdirected in 
 after life ; but who, for various qualities that he inherited, 
 claims and receives our sympathy, even to the holding of our 
 sterner judgments in abeyance. The natural emotions of his 
 nature were kind, and noble, and generous, even to a childish 
 profuseness ; his acts of injustice and oppression were the 
 result of flattery, weakness of judgment, and the misuse of 
 irresponsible power, — an anomaly in civil government not 
 likely to occur again in the history of the world, at all events, 
 in our world of Britain. 
 
 Of a totally reverse character to Richard's was that of 
 Bolingbroke : cold, crafty, determined, persevering, designing, 
 and treacherous ; politically plausible, and insolently unjust ; 
 an oppressor with a heart of ice, — and there is no tyrant 
 like that ; — a demagogue, a traitor, and a violator of his oath. 
 He swore by the tomb of his grandfather, Edward III., (an 
 impressive and solemn oath in that age,) that he had no design 
 upon the crown ; yet, as it were, in the same breath, he as- 
 sumed the prerogative of royalty, condemning to death the 
 favourites of Richard ; and in a few weeks after he deposed 
 and imprisoned his relation and sovereign. 
 
 Bolingbroke had doubtless strong ground of complaint 
 against Richard, who had banished him, and had seized, and 
 converted to his own use the personal estate of the Duke of 
 Lancaster, Bohngbroke's father, and who had died during the 
 exile of his son. 
 
 If the dramatic history, however, of the period, as recorded 
 
Richard II. 371 
 
 by Shakespeare, be received for any authority, it should seem 
 clear that the sentence of banishment passed upon Boling- 
 broke and Mowbray was an act of political expediency ; more 
 especially as regards Bolingbroke, and only was made to 
 refer ostensibly to their mutual impeachment of treason and 
 subsequent trial by battle. Richard, in one of his speeches, 
 supplies us with the key to his sudden and arbitrary course 
 of punishment ; the fact being that his wily relative and near 
 pretender to the crown had begun to take advantage of his 
 cousin's unpopularity with the nobles as well as the common- 
 alty, by acting the demagogue and courting their favour. 
 Richard here supplies us with the motive for his course of 
 action : — 
 
 " Ourself and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green 
 Observ'd his courtship to the common people ; 
 How he did seem to dive into their hearts 
 With humble and familiar courtesy ; 
 What reverence he did throw away on slaves ; 
 Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles 
 And patient underbearing of his fortune. 
 As 'twere to banish their affects with him. 
 Off goes his bonnet to an oyster wench ; 
 A brace of draymen bid God speed him well, 
 And had the tribute of his supple knee. 
 With, '-Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends ; ' 
 As were our England in reversion his. 
 And he our subjects' next degree in hope." 
 
 In every movement, every act of Bolingbroke, throughout 
 his career, both in this play and the subsequent one of 
 " Henry IV.," Shakespeare has detailed the man with perfect 
 consiste^icy. Here, as hereafter, he is the aspiring and mount- 
 ing politician ; the thorough enthusiast — at the same time the 
 imperturbable, self-composed, and unfailing ruler; and this 
 self-possession — with sagacity,- promptitude, and energy of 
 fulfilment brought every obstacle to. the footstool of his 
 
372 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 will. The leading features in the character of this consummate 
 dictator have been thus condensed by Hazlitt with his usual 
 apprehensiveness of faculty and charm of diction : — " Patient 
 for occasion, and then steadily availing himself of it ; seeing 
 his advantage afar off, but only seizing on it when he has it 
 within his reach ; humble, crafty, bold, and aspiring, en- 
 croaching by regular but slow degrees, building power on 
 opinion, and cementing opinion by power." 
 
 These are ,the two chief personages in the drama ; and 
 having thus briefly introduced them, I proceed to the less 
 exalted characters. 
 
 After the king, the next in historical, though not in the pre- 
 sent instance of dramatic consequence, is the eminent John 
 of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, who was also King of Castile, by 
 virtue of his marriage with the daughter of Peter the Cruel. 
 Godwin, in his masterly history of the life and times of Chaucer, 
 has gone into considerable detail in recording the progress 
 of events as connected with the personal career of John of 
 Gaunt, who was evidently a pet character with him ; for he 
 has exerted his patient and logical talent in exculpating his 
 hero from . all the charges brought against his political con- 
 duct ; and, indeed, he may be said to have composed a eulo- 
 gium on his career, rather than an impartial history of it, — as 
 Middleton also did in his celebrated life of Cicero. The 
 balance of opinion, however, is, I believe, opposed to God- 
 win in his barrister-like defence of the Duke of Lancaster : 
 who, notwithstanding, appears to have been an intriguing, 
 in addition to his being an inordinately-ambitiou? man ; nor 
 do I find that he is wholly cleared from the charge of an 
 attempt to divert the succession of the monarchy into his 
 own line. That he was a temporising character, is unequi- 
 vocal, from his having taken the popular, not to say the fac- 
 tious, side in the great religious Wickliffe-controversy ; en- 
 couraging the first seceder from the Roman Catholic dogmas 
 
Richard II. 373 
 
 by his countenance and promise of support ; and even at the 
 celebrated convocation at St Paul's, in a fierce personal con- 
 test with the Bishop of London, swearing that he would drag 
 that prelate out of the church by his beard ; yet, when the 
 hierarchical party proved too strong for Wickliffe, Gaunt sud- 
 denly fell away from him, like the latter snow, and quitting 
 the kingdom, left him naked to the tender mercies of his 
 priestly enemies. 
 
 It is not the object here to enter into a history of the 
 period, but by this introduction to the character of " Old 
 Gaunt" to show that this is precisely the light in which it was 
 viewed by Shakespeare. With more excitability of nature 
 than his son Bolingbroke, he displays the same compromising 
 tendency : — -as witness the dialogue between him and the 
 Duchess of Gloucester, in the 2d scene of the ist Act, where 
 she is endeavouring to engage him to be of her party to 
 revenge Richard's execution of her husbcind, who was his 
 own brother. The scene is too long to quote, but concludes 
 by commending her quarrel to Heaven; adding: — 
 
 " For Heaven's substitute, 
 His deputy anointed in his sight 
 Hath caused his death : the which, if wrongfully, 
 Let Heaven revenge ; for I may never lift 
 An angry arm against his minister." 
 
 Again, his after encouragement of his son, reconciling him 
 to the sentence of banishment passed upon him, is of the 
 same complexion : — the advice also - combines the merit of 
 exhibiting the phlegm and indifference of cold-blooded old 
 age. He thus calmly argues with his own son, whose face he 
 is never more likely to see, and indeed never did see again : — 
 
 "All places that the eye of Heaven visits, 
 Are to a wise man ports and happy havens. 
 Teach thy necessity to reason thus; 
 There is no virtue like necessity. 
 
374 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 Think not the king did banish thee, 
 
 But thon the king : woe doth the heavier sit, 
 
 Where it perceives it is but faintly borne. 
 
 Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour, 
 
 And not the king exil'd thee; or suppose 
 
 Devouring pestilence hangs in our air, 
 
 And thou art flying to a fresher clime : 
 
 Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it 
 
 To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou com'st : 
 
 Suppose the singing birds musicians, 
 
 The grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strew' d, 
 
 The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more 
 
 Than a delightful measure or a dance ; 
 
 For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite 
 
 The man that mocks at it and sets it light." 
 
 The answer which Bolingbroke makes to his father's argu- 
 ment has been transferred to the first scene of " Richard III.," 
 as it is now represented on the stage, in the contemptible 
 alteration of Colley Gibber : — 
 
 " Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand 
 By thinking on the frosty Caucasus } 
 Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite 
 By bare imagination of a feast } 
 Or wallow naked in December snow 
 By thinking on fantastic summer's heat "i 
 Oh, no ! the apprehension of the good 
 Gives but the greater feeling to the worse : 
 Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more 
 Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore." 
 
 Notwithstanding the unfavourable quality here alluded to 
 and instanced, there is much stateliness and classic grandeur 
 in Shakespeare's portraiture of John of Gaunt ; and his dying 
 scene is as sublime as the heavenward flight of some old 
 prophet in sacred history. The tattered and dishevelled 
 condition of his native country, under the misrule of an im- 
 becile and luxurious monarch and his worthless minions, 
 
Richard II. 375 
 
 suggested to the poet a noble opportunity to compliment the 
 land of his birth, by sounding its praise in the deathless hymn 
 of the dying son of the conqueror of France : and in the 
 whole range of poetic diction it stands forth, distinct and 
 alone, for sincerity and lustrous imagery, with glowing, pa- 
 triotism. Happy the land to be so eulogised ; happy the 
 land to deserve the eulogy ; and still more happy in possess- 
 ing such a laureate to hymn its fame. The passage is in the 
 opening of the 2d Act. Speaking of his nephew Richard's 
 wanton and reckless conduct, the dying seer breaks forth: — 
 " Methinks I am a prophet new inspired," &c. 
 
 If Gaunt is one of the most picturesque characters in this 
 play, the Duke of York, his brother, and also uncle of 
 Richard, is the most estimable. He is a perfect exemplar 
 of a loyal man and upright friend — of one who has the 
 honesty to rebuke the faults in his sovereign, and, at the 
 same time, to maintain without compromise the prerogative 
 of his crown, in the teeth of those very faults which have 
 caused it to totter on his brow. He, in his erect and steady 
 attachment to his king, forms a striking contrast to the self- 
 seeking adherence of those sunshine courtiers and flatterers, 
 who shroud themselves from the first flaw of adversity 
 that rocks the structure which their rapacity has endan- 
 gered. 
 
 In the character of the Duke of York is to be noticed the 
 distinction that the poet has preserved between the prevailing 
 qualities of the two brothers— ^both being bold, open-speaking 
 men. Gaunt's open-speaking betrays the bitterness of a man 
 who has suffered personal wrong : at the same time he is too 
 proud to manifest his sense of the injury offered to his indi- 
 vidual self through his son's banishment. With a plausible 
 show of magnanimity, therefore, he makes no allusion to this, 
 circumstance, which nevertheless is evidently rankling in his 
 bosom ; but, with the licence of a dying man, he vehemently ' 
 
376 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 upbraids the king upon the general maladministration of his 
 power : — 
 
 " A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown, 
 Whose compass is no bigger than thy head. 
 And yet, encagfed in so small a verge, 
 The waste is no whit lesser than thy land. 
 Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world, 
 It were a shame to let this land by lease : 
 But, for thy world, enjoying but this land. 
 Is it not more than shame to shame it so.' 
 Landlord of England art thou, and not king : 
 Thy state of law is bond-slave to the law." 
 
 York, no less honest, has not the same motive for bitterness 
 in his reproof: he therefore only deprecates his nephew's 
 headlong injustice. How finely has the poet preserved the 
 distinctive shades of demeanour in the two men ! Before 
 Richard enters, (who is coming to visit his dying uncle,) York 
 endeavours to mitigate the virulence of his brother Gaunt, 
 and says : — 
 
 " The king is come ; deal mildly with his youth ; 
 For young hot colts being rag'd, do rage the more." 
 
 And upon the death of Gaunt, when Richard commands 
 the seizure of all his "plate, coin, revenues, and movables," 
 to the detriment of Bolingbroke, his son and heir, York only 
 appeals to him ; he does not denounce ; he pleads to Richard 
 for Richard — he protects him against himself His eloquence 
 is the eloquence of a sincere heart, and no eloquence reaches 
 the heart but that which comes from it. This noble expostu- 
 lation, commencing, " How long shall I be patient .'" is in the 
 1st scene of the 2d Act. It is the language of a purely loyal 
 and honest man ; and when the weakly unjust king will not 
 be counselled to his own honour and interest, but repeats the 
 order for the confiscation of his kindred's wealth, York takes 
 his leave, declaring he " will not be by the while." 
 
Richard II. 377 
 
 True, however, to his character, when Bolingbroke returns 
 from banishment, and commences apen rebellion against the 
 crown, the first to denounce the act and attest his allegiance 
 is honest old York. Having been appointed regent during 
 the king's absence on his Irish expedition, he despatches Lord 
 Berkley to know Bolingbroke's intention in coming back with 
 an armed retinue : and, like an impetuous man, before Berk- 
 ley can have fulfilled his mission, he has himself come up 
 with the invader, and personally puts the question he had 
 despatched. Agreeably do these by-plays of action carry 
 out the summary of the whole character. Excellently, too, 
 his reply to the plausible Bolingbroke fills it up ; who kneels 
 to his uncle. Here, again, is one of Shakespeare's hints of 
 character and conduct. Bolingbroke, like a wily fox, is ever 
 fawning and kneeling — kneeling to draymen, kneeling to any 
 body that "has aught to give." He kneels to his sovereign 
 when in the very act of dethroning him, and receives that 
 tremendous rebuke: — 
 
 "Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee. 
 To make the base' earth proud with kissing it. 
 Me rather had, my heart might feel your love, 
 
 • Than my unpleas'd eye see your courtesy. 
 Up, cousin, up ;. your heart is up, I know, 
 Thus high, at least." [Touching his. head.'] 
 
 And he takes little more by kneeling to his uncle York; — 
 but that man is a mere apprentice in treason who hath not 
 bronzed both face and heart for his work ; and Bolingbroke 
 was a pattern usurper. 
 
 The most dramatic point in the conduct of the Duke of 
 York is the scene in which he is taken by surprise with the 
 news of Bolingbroke's invasion ; and the most beautiful and 
 pathetic is his description to the Duchess of the famous entry 
 into London of the two nio.narchs. The former scene is a 
 vivid picture of a flustered pan, who has lost his self-posses- 
 
378 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 sion from consciousness of the responsibility attaching to his 
 office of regent. A noticeable peculiarity, too, in the scene 
 is, that the manner of York reveals the old man in a nonplus 
 and perturbation. [Enter a servant^ 
 
 " My lord, your son was gone before I came. 
 
 "York. He was 1 — Why, so! go all which way it will. 
 The nobles they are fled ; the commons they are cold, 
 And will I fear revolt on Hereford's side. — 
 Sirrah, get thee to Flashy, to my sister Gloucester; 
 Bid her send me presently a thousand pound. 
 Hold, take my ring. 
 
 " Serv. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship : 
 To-day, as I came by I called there; 
 But I shall grieve you to report the rest. 
 
 " York. What is it, knave .'' 
 
 "Serv. An hour before I came, the duchess died. 
 
 "York. Heaven for his mercy! what a tide of woes 
 Comes rushing on this woful land at once! 
 T know not what to do. I would to Heaven 
 (So my untruth had not provok'd him to it) 
 The king had cut off my head with my brother's. — 
 What ! are there no posts despatch'd for Ireland ">. — 
 How shall we do for money for these wars i" — 
 \To the qtceen.'\ Come, sister, — cousin, I would say.^Pray 
 
 pardon me. — 
 [To the servant^ Go, fellow, get thee home; provide 
 
 some carts. 
 And bring away the armour that is there. — \Exit serv.\ 
 Gentlemen, will you go muster men } — 
 If I know how, or which way, to order these affairs, 
 Thus disorderly thrust into my hands. 
 Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen : 
 The one is my sov' reign, whom both my oath 
 And duty bids defend ; the other, again, 
 Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong' d, 
 Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right. 
 Well, somewhat we must do. — Come, cousin, 
 I '11 dispose of you. — Gentlemen, go muster up your men, 
 
Richard II. 379 
 
 And meet me presently at Berkley castle. 
 I should to Flashy too ; 
 But time will not permit : — all is uneven. 
 And everything is left at six and seven." 
 
 The other scene — the pathetic one alluded to — is old 
 York's description to his duchess of the two kings' (Richard 
 and Bolingbroke) procession into London. It is the 2d of 
 the 5th Act, commencing : — 
 
 " My lord, you told me you would tell the rest, 
 When weeping made you break the story off, 
 Of our two cousins' coming into London." 
 
 Unscrupulous loyalty (as a mere principle) forms the para- 
 mount quality in the character of the Duke of York ; for, 
 when Richard resigns, or rather is deprived of his crown, and 
 Bolingbroke becomes the accepted king, York freely transfers 
 his allegiance ; and in his zeal of fidelity he even becomes the 
 accuser of his own son, Aumerle, whom he has detected in a 
 conspiracy against the usurper. 
 
 The foresight of Shakespeare in developing his characters 
 is noticeable in the instance of the renowned Harry Percy. 
 He is introduced with his restless, counterplotting father, the 
 Duke of Northumberland, in this play; but, being a mere 
 youth, and only commencing his career of public life, he be- 
 trays no token of the "gunpowder Percy," as we afterwards 
 behold him in the play of "Henry IV.," when the sinews of his 
 nature had attained the hardness and vigour of manhood. 
 This is remarkable as indicating the poet's comprehension of 
 the whole champaign, as it were, of a character ; — in t-his play 
 of "Richard 11." preparing ns only for Percy's after-development 
 in " Henry IV. ;" for this latter play had, most probably, not 
 been written, and it was not acted for, I believe, two or three 
 years after that of " Richard II." There is one slight indication 
 — and but a slight one — of Percy's after-explosive character. 
 
380 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 in the 1st scene of the 4th Act, wherein he justifies the con- 
 duct of Fitzwater against the impeachment of Aumerle — not, 
 however, worth the quoting. 
 
 The character also of Northumberland is consistently main- 
 tained throughout this and the two succeeding plays of " Henry 
 IV.," — proud, fierce, restless, restive, exacting, captious, and 
 unrelenting. What magnificent lessons does the poet read us 
 in the retributions which, soon or late, revealed or suggested; 
 always succeed a career of injustice, — "sowing the wind, and 
 reaping the whirlwind." His moral upon this point is a per- 
 sonation of, and running comment upon the sacred text, that 
 "wrath pursueth the unjust man, and his violent dealings fall 
 upon his own head." The way in which Shakespeare has 
 carried out this principle with all the turbulent characters in 
 his dramas is as satisfactory as it is complete. The after- 
 career of Northumberland is comprised in Richard's short 
 dismissal of him, the last three lines of which are golden 
 truths. In the anguish and bitterness of resentment at his 
 turbulent disloyalty, he exclaims: — 
 
 "Northumberland, thou ladder, wherewithal 
 The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne. 
 The time shall not be many hours of age 
 More than it is, ere foul sin gathering head 
 Shall break into corruption : thou shalt think. 
 Though he divide the realm, and give thee half. 
 It is too little, helping him to all : 
 He shall think that thou, which know'st the way 
 To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again. 
 Being ne'er so little urged, another way 
 To pluck him headlong from th' usurped throne. 
 The love of wicked friends converts to fear; 
 That fear to hate; and hate turns one, or both, 
 To worthy danger and deserved death." 
 
 There are two short episodes in this play which gently 
 relieve the oppressive routine of mistakes and misdeeds — of 
 
Richard II. 381 
 
 violence and injustice — of disaster and sorrow, remorse and 
 despair, that follow us at every step. The first is the scene 
 at Langley, where the gardener is moralising, in the hearing 
 of the queen, upon the reverses that have befallen her lord. 
 The application of his craft to the policy of government is 
 simple and unpretending. He says to his fellow-labourer: — 
 
 " Oh what pity is it 
 That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd his land 
 As we this garden ! We, at time of year, 
 Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees,- 
 Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood, 
 With too much riches it confound itself: 
 Had he done so to great and growing men, 
 They might have liv'd to bear, and he to taste. 
 Their fruits of duty. Superfluous branches 
 We lop away, that bearing boughs may live. 
 Had he done so, himself had borne the crown. 
 Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down." 
 
 The scene closes with the queen discovering herself to him, 
 and with a characteristic and touching little sentiment from 
 the successor of our old father Adam. When she has gone, 
 he says ; — 
 
 " Poor queen ! 
 
 ****** 
 
 Here did she fall a tear. Here in this place 
 I '11 set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace ; 
 Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen. 
 In the remembrance of a weeping queen." 
 
 The other slight episode, and a more beautiful one, is where 
 the groom comes to visit his royal master in prison. The 
 gentle nature of Shakespeare has here made the humblest 
 dependants on the king the most worthy-hearted and con- 
 stant. He was deserted by his " velvet friends," and commiser- 
 ated by the lowly denizens of serge and woollen. " Misery," 
 says Trinculo, " makes a man acquainted with strange bed- 
 
382 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 fellows ; " and, indeed, calamity does reduce the high and the 
 low to one common level. Then it is that the real gentility 
 of our nature displays itself ; for true gentility, the gentility 
 of the heart, knows no grades in society — clothes do ; and 
 hence the confusion which arises in vulgar minds in this 
 thoroughly aristocratic nation of ours as to the distinction 
 between the gentleman and the vulgar man ; the covering — 
 the husk, is all in all with them, not the quality of the sweet 
 and oily nut within. In this world of ours, a man to be a 
 conventional gentleman, need have no heart, no oily nut of 
 kindness ; better none, perhaps ; (for it is vulgar to possess 
 feelings ;) but if he have a fashionable husk, good clothes 
 and unexceptionable gloves, he takes precedence of him with 
 the homely exterior : as the qualification for a " respectable 
 man" is, that he should "keep a gig." The poor groom was 
 the only true gentleman at heart of all Richard's retainers, 
 and very natural and pretty is their interview : — 
 
 Pomfret Castle. \Enter groom^ 
 
 " Hail, royal prince ! 
 
 " K. R. Thanks, noble peer ; 
 
 The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear. 
 What art thou .' And how com'st thou hither. 
 Where no man ever comes, but that sad dog 
 That brings me food, to make misfortune live. 
 
 " Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, king. 
 When thou wert king ; who, travelling towards York, 
 With much ado, at length have gotten leave 
 To look upon my sometime royal master's face. 
 Oh, how it yearn'd my heart when I beheld. 
 In London streets, that coronation day, 
 When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary ! 
 That horse that thou so often hast bestrid. 
 That horse that I so carefully have dress'd ! 
 
 " K. R. Rode he on Barbary .? Tell me, gentle friend, 
 How went he under him } 
 
 " Groom. So proudly, as if he disdain'd the ground. 
 
Richard II. 383 
 
 " K. R. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back ! 
 That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand ; 
 This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. 
 Would he not stumble ? Would he not fall down, 
 (Since pride must have a fall,) and break the neck 
 Of that proud man that did usurp his back ? 
 Forgiveness, horse ! why do I rail on thee, 
 Since thou, created to be aw'd by man. 
 Wast born to bear ? I was not made a horse ; 
 And yet I bear a burden like an ass, 
 Spur-gall'd and tir'd by jauncing Bolingbroke." 
 
 I scarcely know any scene of the like slight pretension that 
 makes a more touching appeal to one's feelings of humanity 
 than this simple recognition of kindness and gratitude be- 
 tween the poor groom and his fallen, unhappy master. 
 Stevens calls this scene " a silly one ! " From what has 
 transpired of Stevens's moral and social character, we may 
 accurately conclude that he possessed just so little feeling 
 and good taste as to make such a comment. 
 
 This play of " Richard II." has been denominated a " heavy 
 one," which means that it is not distinguished by various and 
 rapid action, or abrupt and startling incident. It opens with 
 misrule and injustice ; it continues with intrigue, dissimula- 
 tion, and treason ; and ends in sorrow, remorse, and a das- 
 tardly murder. The principal character, it is true, never 
 commands our admiration or esteem ; at the same time, he 
 never loses our sympathy, and this undoubtedly rises with 
 his reverse of fortune and his calamity. It is in the last acts 
 of his career that the poet has rescued him from inevitable 
 contempt. The dignity of the tragic drama is vindicated in 
 his person, the moment the tide has turned against him : — in 
 the last three acts, therefore, from his first setting foot in 
 England, after the Irish rebellion, through all his heart- 
 burnings with his stony usurper ; the vulgar revilings of the 
 populace, 
 
384 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 " His face still combating with tears and smiles, 
 The badges of his grief and patience ;" 
 
 and the jjet more vulgar insolence of Northumberland ; up to 
 the climax of his assassination, our sympathies accompany 
 him, and we feel that he was a misdirected and an unhappy 
 man, who, under other circumstances, (had the "good Queen 
 Anne" lived, for instance,) would have been good and estim- 
 able : he had a heart, if not in the strict sense a " great 
 man;" for he had strength of purpose upon occasion, and 
 displayed it. 
 
 But if Shakespeare had conferred no other benefit upon his 
 species by his amazing genius, the practical lessons he has 
 read to the highest and the lowest in every grade of society 
 in these, his domestic histories, are alone inestimable. Apd 
 not only are they poems glowing with the sunlight of his 
 imagination, but they are profound essays in moral phil- 
 osophy, preaching to us all the beauty of rectitude and self- 
 respect under the most trying fortunes ; and how dreary a 
 mistake, even in the midst of a dazzling prosperity, is the 
 heart that is not sustained by the consciousness of a worthy 
 purpose. Moreover, he is the most honest of chroniclers; 
 for, with all his reverence for the " divinity," (in the abstract,) 
 " that doth hedge a king," he never for one moment, either 
 expressed or implied, compromises in a king's misdeeds the 
 great principle of truth and justice. Living in an age when 
 the " divine right " was assumed as a state axiom, and when 
 the monarch was pronounced to be literally the vicegerent of 
 God on earth, and, like the head of the Roman Church, " in- 
 fallible," yet Shakespeare never hesitates to reason with that 
 monarch upon " righteousness, and temperance, and of the 
 judgment to come." No herald more eloquently blazons the 
 kingly attributes and virtues, and no monitor more clearly 
 and openly denounces the royal assumption of irresponsible 
 
Richard II. 385 
 
 power to commit injustice. No man was less of a flatterer — 
 less of a sycophant, than Shakespeare. He was a member 
 of a profession, and Joint-proprietor of a theatre, that, till of 
 late years, have derived their chief source of emolument from 
 the patronage of royalty and the aristocracy. The taste of 
 the age has undergone a change as regards the classes just 
 named ; that is an affair of preference. I confess, however, 
 that I am jealous for the glory of the world's brightest gem ; 
 and would not have the most insignificant Briton, still less 
 the most illustrious, lukewarm, towards him, when I consider 
 how much he has done for universal humanity, and for women 
 in particular. 
 
 Shakespeare lived, too, in an age when adulation formed 
 part and parcel of every writer's stock-in-trade ; the poet of 
 the "Faery Queen" was an immense capitalist of the article; 
 and some flattery was especially looked for from an author 
 in our dramatist's peculiar position with regard to his sove- 
 reign, as well as the most influential nobles of her court ; and 
 yet, throughout his thirty-seven plays, will be found but one 
 direct compliment and one implied one to Elizabeth. The 
 former is in " Henry VHI.," and put into the mouth of 
 Cranmer upon the birth of Anne Boleyn's child ; an occa- 
 sion which, to have avoided, would have been ungracious' 
 and churlish, not to say ungrateful : the other is in the 
 "Midsummer Night's Dream ;" and there the compliment^ 
 a truly fanciful and elegant one — is so veiled, that in all 
 probability, scarcely any one at the time immediately recog- 
 nised the poet's allusion ; the queen would do so, for she had 
 a hawk's eye for that quarry. Oh, those were indeed golden 
 days for poetry and dramatic literature ! We, with our steam- 
 presses and millions of books, can have little conception what 
 must have been the excitement when it was announced that 
 the greatest genius of his own age; or of any other, had com- 
 posed a new pla-y! presenting events that the million had 
 
 2 B 
 
386 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 learned in parcels only, and by tradition ; for the majority, 
 very few, indeed, could read them : histories of their own 
 country and kindred ; the characters personated by men of 
 rare talent. Those were, indeed, days for the drama ! when 
 the bulk of society did not assemble to carp and to cavil, to 
 question, and object to everything — ^which in modern idiom 
 is called " criticism " — to sneer and to damn ; but with the 
 implicit reverence of childhood, to be instructed as to what 
 had been done in the world before them ; and to believe and 
 feel that such language as they heard could have come only 
 from one divinely-instructed in the great lesson of benevo- 
 lence and loving-kindness towards the whole brotherhood of 
 humanity, and of belief and confidence in goodness working 
 out its own " exceeding great reward ; " and this was the 
 lesson that Shakespeare learned ; and this was the lesson he 
 taught. 
 
XVI. 
 
 Mtxtlimt of Venice* 
 
XVI. 
 MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 If I were required to adduce a signal proof of the question 
 that Shakespeare lived beyond his age as a moral and social 
 philosopher, I should not hesitate to ground my proof upon 
 the way in which he has worked out the story of the " Mer- 
 chant of Venice," as regards the character, behaviour, and 
 treatment of the most important person in the drama — the 
 Jew. 
 
 Shakespeare lived in an age when the general feeling 
 towards the sect in which Shylock was born and educated 
 could scarcely be called a prejudice^ — ^"tis too mild a term 
 — it was a rancour, a horror, venting itself in injustice and 
 violence, pillage, expulsion, and, if possible, extermination of 
 the race. I cannot suppose that he was wholly untainted 
 with the antipathy that had been fostered for centuries be- 
 fore him, for he was familiar with the legends of revenge and 
 cruelty that had, at various periods, been perpetrated by 
 Jews, when individual opportunities of gratifying their own 
 ■natural lust of retaliation had presented themselves. He 
 was familiar with the story of Hugh of Lincoln, and with the 
 murder of the Christian babe in Chaucer's story of the Nun's 
 Tale; and he felt that here was atrocity for atrocity com- 
 
390 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 mitted, — a course that never yet produced, and never will 
 produce, the redress of an original wrong. He belonged to 
 that faith, and throughout his writings he has urged its grand 
 tenet, which inculcates the wickedness as well as the folly of 
 revenge. But -Shakespeare, in becoming the social and moral 
 reformer of his species, possessed that point of wisdom in 
 knowing, as it were by instinct, that he who desires to change 
 a master-section in an age's code, whether it be civil or social, 
 will not accomplish his end half so readily and effectually by 
 an unconditional and wholesale opposition, as by a partial 
 and rational extenuation. They who aim at reforming the 
 masses, — ^who desire to lead, must at all events make a show 
 of following. Nothing does the common mind resent more 
 vehemently than the presumption of a single individual pro- 
 fessing to be wiser than, and to dictate to, his whole race — 
 the experience of all ages and of every day proves this. It 
 was not for Shakespeare, whose profession it was to provide 
 for the intellectual entertainment of his nation, to perk in 
 their faces his individual opinions : it was much that he did 
 not foster their prejudices, that he did not pander to their 
 vices and inflate their self-love, — and he has not done this. 
 He himself has laid down the principle upon which the drama 
 should be constructed and sustained, and upon no other will 
 it survive. 
 
 Upon this, his grand principle, therefore, it appears that 
 the poet, in delineating the character and conduct of Shylock, 
 as well as of his Christian opponents, has, with his large 
 wisdom, preached a homily upon injustice to each sect and 
 denomination of religionists, with a force and perspicuity of 
 argument, as well as knowledge of human nature in its 
 melancholy prejudices, that, to me, as I reflect upon his im- 
 partiality, his honest dispensation of justice, as displayed in 
 this drama, place him centuries in advance of his age, and 
 the production itself among the greatest efforts of human 
 
Merchant of Venice. 39 1 
 
 genius. If any reader have a doubt of the poet's, sense of 
 justice towards that most ill-used tribe, let him read the 
 works of other writers of the period where the character of 
 the Jew has been introduced. It is true, Shylock has been 
 punished for his motive of revenge, — and justly ; for it was 
 an atrocious refinenient 0/ the passion, claimed and substan- 
 tiated upon the worst of all unjust grounds — the right of 
 legal justice ; — no tyranny being equal to the wrenching of law 
 for penal purposes. It is also true that the injuring party, in 
 the first instance — the Christian — is brought off triumphantly ; 
 but in that age, or indeed in any age, the multitude could 
 never have sympathised in a rigid fulfilment of such a com- 
 pact, or of any compact that should sacrifice the one partj/ 
 for the benefit of the other. 
 
 But, after all, who does not sympathise with Shylock .' 
 Who, with the most ordinary notions of right and wrong, 
 derives any gratification from the merchant Antonio's being 
 brought off by a quirk of law, and that law an unjust one, 
 which decreed the demolition of the Jew's whole wealth and 
 estate ? Shakespeare has made out a strong case for Shy- 
 lock, — startling, indeed, it must have been to the commonalty 
 in his time. Shylock says the finest things in the play, and 
 he . has the advantage in the argument throughout. If the 
 motion of revenge be justifiable, (and his own moral code, 
 " An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth," bear him out,) 
 he has all the odds against his adversaries : — 
 
 "Hath not a Jew eyes.' hath not a Jew hands, organs, 
 dimensions, senses, affections, passions.? fed with the same 
 food, hurt with the same weapons, subj ect to the same dis- 
 eases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the 
 same winter and summer as a Christian is } If you prick us, 
 do we not bleed 1 if you tickle us, do we not laugh .' if you 
 poison us, do we not die .' and if you wrong us, shall we not 
 revenge .' If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble 
 you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility > 
 
392 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 revenge: if a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his suffer- 
 ance be by Christian example? why, revenge. The. villainy 
 you teach me I will execute ; and it shall go hard but I will 
 better the instruction." 
 
 This is strong " lex talionis," or tooth-for-tooth argument ; 
 and strong extenuation for that age ; ay, and even for our 
 own very Christian age. 
 
 But who shall say that this very play has not been instru- 
 mental in breaking down the barriers and mounds of intoler- 
 ance and persecution for faith's sake } This noble produce 
 tion has, I believe, among other philosophical appeals, tended 
 to assuage the fury of class and party prejudice, and persecu- 
 tion. Its course through those deep and savage ravines, 
 ■wherein the stream of class-opinion was confined, and amid 
 which it brawled and raved, tearing and wasting all before it, 
 is gradually becoming diverted ; and if it still exist, (which, 
 alas ! we all can sadly answer,) it has, nevertheless, mainly 
 expended its force, and is slowly spreading in an inert ooze 
 over the social champaign. The age of Diabolism is passing 
 away ; and a spirit of bearing and forbearing — the "doing unto 
 others as we would be done by " — is becoming recognised and 
 largely debated ; and only let a question be brought to the 
 debating point, its settleihent is at no very remote distance. 
 It is now the few only who hold fast by the integrity of the 
 "right of might;" and the "might" is changing with the 
 many into a calm principle of equitable adjustment. 
 
 So much is the leading principle of Christianity doing for 
 us ; gradually, but as surely as the progress of matter : and 
 so much, in the pure spirit of its principle, did our Shakespeare 
 anticipate and provide nearly three centuries ago. 
 
 It gives me pleasure to find that my feeling of the ethical 
 working of this play is confirmed in a pamphlet lately brought 
 out by Victor Hugo. The eloquent French writer has a beau- 
 tiful passage in illustration ; he says : — " Shylock has gained 
 
Merchant of Venice. 393 
 
 \vhat is better than his cause — he has gained the cause of an 
 entire people. He has caused the unknown rights of his race 
 to be recognised, and enabled them to prevail by the exem- 
 plary condemnation of that exterminatory code which hitherto 
 had kept them in abeyance. * * * Shakespeare has been 
 the judge of peace in this great litigation; he has reconciled 
 the parties by a compromise, which imposes on them recip- 
 rocal concessions. In exacting that Shylock should be con- 
 verted to Christianity, he did not intend to violate the prin- 
 ciple, unknown in his day, of liberty of conscience, he has 
 solely desired that Jew and Christian should alike practise 
 that ideal religion which preaches forgiveness of injuries." 
 
 Having thus briefly introduced the subject of the play, and 
 alluded to its most important character ; before turning to 
 those of second and third rank, I would say a few words in 
 behalf of Portia ; and because she has been strangely accusecf 
 of "pedantry," the conceit of learning, the antipodes of 
 modesty ; and because I think I can prove that there is 
 hardly one of the poet's female impersonations more richly 
 endowed with the crowning feminine attribute, "modesty," 
 than this very lovely specimen of a womanly woman. 
 
 It was Hazlitt, one of the acutest of critics, who passed 
 that sentence upon the heroine of this play. His words are — 
 " Portia is not a very great favourite with us ;" and he adds, 
 " She has a certain degree of affectation and pedantry about 
 her." I have always regretted that Hazlitt set down that 
 passage. It has often been quoted ; and, as his staid opinion, 
 it has awakened a natural opposition to him on the part of 
 those critics who could better perceive the true beauties of 
 Portia's character, than they knew of, or could discern, the 
 variable moods of Hazlitt's temperament. Every one who 
 knew him would feel convinced that he penned those words 
 under some temporary fit of spleen, some wayward, moment- 
 ary feeling of petulance against high-bred women. Hazlitt 
 
394 Shakespeare^Characters. 
 
 was very sensitive — personally sensitive — on the score of 
 women's liking toward himself; and he occasionally made 
 some curious mistakes, such as many men who are at once 
 self-diffident and self-confident, intellectually proud, and con- 
 stitutionally shy (for all the qualities are perfectly compatible) 
 often do make about women, and women's preferences. Even 
 in his writings these peculiarities are plainly perceptible. 
 Turn to his essay " On Great and Little Things," where he 
 professes his admiration for " humble beauties, servant-maids 
 and shepherd-girls;" his own words, declaring, too, that he 
 " admires the Clementinas and Clarissas at a distance," while 
 the " Pamelas and Fannys of Richardson and Fielding make 
 the blood tingled But at the very time that he tries to exalt 
 the ignorant charmers, he permits the reader to perceive that 
 they provoke him with their inapprehensiveness. And in 
 cmother essay, entitled, "On the Disadvantages of Intellectual 
 Superiority," he, with much bitterness, takes up the opposite 
 side of the question, saying, where he is speaking of the 
 wooing of men of letters, " Women of education may have a 
 glimpse of their meaning, may get a -clue to their characters ; 
 but to all others they are thick darkness. If the mistress 
 smile at their ideal advances, the maid will laugh outright." 
 
 Here we find that the pretty ignorants had lost their fasci- 
 nation for him ; that he saw through their insufficiency to 
 form the solid and permanent delight of a man of intelligence ; 
 whereas, when he wrote that line, " Portia is not a very great 
 favourite with us," the Fannys and the Pamelas chanced to 
 be in the ascendant. His imagination was beguiling him 
 with some image of captivating simpletonism ; frequently 
 and oddly confounded with simplicity, when he asserted that 
 Portia "has a certain degree of affectation and pedantry 
 about her." 
 
 The Rev. Sydney Smith, in his admirable paper on 
 " Female Education," accurately defines pedantry to be " an 
 
Merchant of Venice. 395 
 
 ostentatious obtrusion of knowledge, in which those who hear 
 us cannot sympathise." Now, the only approach to a display 
 of knowledge which Portia makes, is in the accurate exposi- 
 tion she gives of the Venetian law, when, dressed as a doctor 
 of laws, she sets forth, in open court, the state of the case 
 between Shylock and the merchant Antonio. She is abso- 
 lutely compelled, by the part she has assumed, to make this 
 exposition ; and so far from addressing it to " unsympathis- 
 ing" or incomprehensive hearers, she addresses it to those 
 who are actually awaiting from her lips the clear statement 
 of the pending cause, with its facts, circumstances, and con- 
 tingencies. That she is competent to fulfil the task she has 
 undertaken, we know ; and this is confirmed on the spot by 
 the words which are addressed to her in reply—" You know 
 the law ; your exposition hath been most sound." 
 
 How the lady of Belmont comes to be thus versed in a 
 subject not usual for women to study, the dramatist has 
 accounted for by her connexion and consociation with her 
 kinsman the "learned Doctor Bellario." Thus, so far from 
 Portia's erudition having bred in her either pedantry or affec- 
 tation, it has, in fact, produced that which Sydney Smith 
 avers a n^-^/^-educated woman's learning must always pro- 
 duce, where he finely says, " The great use of her knowledge 
 will be that it contributes to her private happiness." And 
 Portia's knowledge not only makes her own happiness, for she 
 is one of the very happiest, the cheerfuUest, the most pleasant- 
 spirited of all Shakespeare's women, but it helps to form the 
 happiness of her friends. .By her knowledge of law, by her 
 courage in using that knowledge at the right moment, by her 
 intelligence, by her ready wit and presence of mind, she is 
 enabled to save the life of her husband's dearest friend. 
 
 In that same paper of Sydney Smith's, already quoted as 
 bearing so aptly on the present subject, he speaks of these 
 two phrases as being current coin in society. "The true 
 
396 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 theatre for a woman is the sick-chamber." And, ," Nothing- 
 so honourable to a woman as not to be spoken of at all." 
 These phrases, he says, are " the delight of Noodledom." 
 What a happy term ! Ay, and they are the delight, too, 
 of selfdom ; they are the cuckoo-cry of this modern school 
 of ours, — the hard school of mis-styled " social philosophy," — 
 the school which has no other education for women than a 
 serf-like obedience and saying their prayers ; and no higher 
 recognition of their " obedience " than the lordly epithet of 
 " fond creatures," — a title which the " creatures " enjoy in 
 common with the spaniels, — the word " fond," in old dialect, 
 meaning " foolish ; " and fools assuredly such women must 
 be who squander any higher emotion than the merest 
 human sympathy upon the disciples of such a school of 
 selfishness. 
 
 Had Portia of Belmont known only how to " shine in a 
 sick-room," and to shrink from being talked of, she would 
 never have been able to preserve a human life by her know- 
 ledge and eloquence, or to use these qualifications when the 
 emergency needed their public' display. Shakespeare knew 
 that women might be made available for greater ornament 
 and utility than mixing effervescent draughts in a sick-room, 
 and sitting in company as dumb as the candelabra on the 
 sideboard. Behold, in his mind, how modest is Portia's be- 
 haviour in her own domestic circle. She is the well-bred 
 lady, — accustomed to command, to rank and station, and to 
 dispose of her household, her wealth, her time, herself, as best 
 seems to her ; but she bears her faculties meekly, and is dig- 
 nified, without pride or haughtiness. Her habit of speech is 
 perceptibly un-vain, even in her casual words of course. She 
 says to one of her suitors, while she states the condition of 
 the casket-test : — 
 
 " To these injunctions every one doth swear 
 That comes to hazard for my worthless self." 
 
Merchant of Venice. 397 
 
 And aftenvards she playfully says, in reply to Lorenzo's ex- 
 clamation, recognising her tones as she approaches :— 
 
 " He knows me, as the blind man knows the cuckoo, 
 By the bad voice." 
 
 Her greeting to her husband's friend, Antonio, is instinct 
 with lady-like grace and modesty : — 
 
 " Sir, you are very welcome to our house : 
 It must appear in other ways than words ; 
 Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy." 
 
 How delicate that little touch of generosity and modesty, 
 " welcome to our house : " she has just endowed her husband 
 with her property. 
 
 For still more pointed examples of the perfectly womanly 
 modesty of Portia, note the speech she makes to Bassanio, 
 when he is about to make the trial of the caskets : — 
 
 " I pray you tarry ; pause a day or two 
 Before you hazard ; for, in choosing wrong, 
 I lose your company ; therefore forbear a while. 
 There 's something tells me — but it is not love — 
 I would not lose you : and you know yourself. 
 Hate counsels not in such a quality. 
 But lest you should not understand me well, 
 (And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,) 
 I would detain you here some month or two. 
 Before you venture for me. I could teach you 
 How to choose right ; but then I am forsworn ; 
 So will I never be : so may you miss me ; 
 But if you do, you '11 make me wish a sin. 
 That I had been forsworn." 
 
 This is the bashfulness of a new-born passion, struggling 
 equally to express itself and to restrain the too-bold betrayal 
 of its strength. And the speech she makes to him, when he 
 has rightly chosen the casket, modestly tendering herself to 
 his acceptance, is surely the very poetry of prodigality in 
 diffidence : — ■ 
 
398 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 " You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I starid, 
 Such as I am : though, for myself alone, 
 I would not be ambitious in my wish, 
 To wish myself much better ; yet, for you 
 I would be trebled twenty times myself; 
 A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more 
 
 rich ; 
 That only to stand high in your account, 
 I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends. 
 Exceed account ; but the full sum of me 
 Is sum of nothing ; which, to term in gross. 
 Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd ; 
 Happy in this, she is not so old 
 ■ But she may learn ; happier than this, 
 She is not bred so dull, but she can learn ; 
 Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit 
 Commits itself to yours to be directed. 
 As from her lord, her governor, her king." 
 
 Is there either "affectation" or "pedantry" in that speech? 
 Is it not rather the exaggerated timidity and self-doubt that 
 spring from the heart's dread of being less than worthy of its 
 chosen object ; and which, in its eagerness to become so, 
 commits itself and its conscious imperfections to the loving 
 guidance of the superiority it sincerely acknowledges ? Is it 
 like either a vain or a selfish woman, (and " pedantry " and 
 " affectation " imply both vanity and egoism,) Portia's readi- 
 ness to part with her husband, and to yield his society — even 
 in their bridal hour — at the demand of friendship ? When 
 Antonio's letter is read aloud, announcing his disastrous for- 
 tune, and intimating how true a comfort the presence of his 
 friend, Bassanio, would afford, she exclaims warmly, and 
 without a moment's debating, " Oh ! love, despatch all busi- 
 ness and begone ! " When she sees him turn pale, on the 
 first perusal of the letter, her words prove her affectionate 
 observance, — all unlike the self-contemplativeness and per- 
 petual self-absorption which confirm the pedantic or the 
 
Merchant of Venice. , 399 
 
 affected woman ; but rather the modesty of wifely affection, 
 which claims to share at least the griefs in the lot of him she 
 loves. 
 
 One more noble example must in full justice be quoted. 
 It is where Lorenzo applauds her for bearing the absence of 
 her newly-wedded lord for the sake of the friend to whom he 
 has hastened. She replies : — 
 
 " I never did repent for doing good, 
 Nor shall not now : for in companions 
 That do converse and waste the time together, 
 Whose souls do bear. an equal yoke of love. 
 There must be needs a like proportion 
 Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit ; 
 Which makes me think that this Antonio, 
 Being the bosom lover of my lord, 
 Must needs be like my lord. If it be so, 
 How little is the cost I have bestow'd. 
 In purchasing the semblance of my soul 
 From out the state of hellish cruelty ! — 
 This comes too near the praising of myself ; 
 Therefore no more of it" 
 There is exquisite subtlety and refinement of modesty in 
 this passage. There is the delicacy of a mind that dreads 
 even to disclaim merit lest it seem to imply that there exists 
 merit to be disclaimed ; and there is the sensitiveness of a 
 profound love, which feels it a kind of egoism to laud that 
 being who is but another self. The fact that this speech is 
 put into the mouth of a new-married bride, a yet maiden 
 wife, enhances tenfold its loveliness of modesty. 
 
 But Hazlitt, as if to award some merit to Portia, magnani- , 
 mously acknowledges that " the speech about Mercy is very 
 well." Upon my life it is, indeed ! " But," he then adds, 
 " there are a thousand finer in Shakespeare/' I can only say, 
 I rejoice va. such a confirmation of our poet's intellectual 
 supremacy from such a judge ! Only think of there being a 
 "thousand finer speeches" than this from one brain : — 
 
400 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 " Portia. Then must the Jew be merciful. 
 
 " Sky. On what compulsion must I ? tell me that. 
 
 " Por. The quality of mercy is not strain' d ; 
 It droppeth as the gentle rain from heav'n 
 Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd ; 
 It blesseth him that gives and him that takes ; 
 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 
 The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
 His sceptre shows the force of temporal pow'r, 
 The attribute to awe and majesty, 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
 But Mercy is above this- scepter'd sway ; 
 It is enthroned in the hearts of kings ; 
 It is an attribute to God himself ; 
 And earthly power doth then show likest God's, 
 When Mercy seasons justice." 
 
 Cervantes, Shakespeare's contemporary, and worthy to 
 enter with him (which he did, and on the same day) upon an 
 immortal eternity, has a passage written in the like lofty 
 spirit. It is put into the mouth of the high-souled Don 
 Quixote, when he is delivering those wise injunctions to 
 Sancho as guides for his governorship of the island : — " For 
 the delinquent that is under thy jurisdiction, consider that 
 the miserable man is subject to the temptations of our de- 
 praved nature, and as much as thou canst, without grievance 
 to the contrary party, show thyself mild and gentle ; for, 
 although God's attributes are equal, yet to our sight His 
 mercy is more precious, more eminent than His justice," 
 
 The nearest approach, perhaps, that asceticism might make 
 in charge of pedantry and affectation upon the speech of 
 Portia, is when she returns home to Belmont, after she has 
 conducted the Shylock trial, and moralises upon the several 
 objects that first present themselves to her imagination, — as, 
 for instance, she says : — 
 
 " That light we see is burning in my hall. 
 
Merchant of Venice. 401 
 
 How far that little candle throws its beams ! 
 So shines a good deed in a naughty world." 
 
 If here be a tinge of affectation, be it remembered that she 
 has come back with her heart full of pleasant reflections from 
 having done a deed of mercy and kindness, and which will 
 most especially gratify him whom she most wishes to please. 
 So far from being affected, it is rather a stroke of art in the 
 poet to put into her mouth, at such a juncture, those little 
 scraps of sentiment and morality, — allowable fees which well- 
 doing pays to self-love. Who could deny the whole of this 
 scene to be purely exquisite .■' 
 
 There is a class of my own sex who never fail to manifest 
 an uneasiness, if not a jealousy, when they perceive a woman 
 verging towards the manly prerogative ; and with such, the 
 part that Shakespeare has assigned to Portia in the trial- 
 scene would induce this prejudice against her. All that we 
 can say is, the poet himself appears not to have apprehended 
 female usurpation where love and esteem constitute the prin- 
 ciple of either party ; and that he intended these to be the 
 rule of Portia's conduct seems unequivocal. To sum up her 
 mental and moral accomplishments, the scrutiniser into her 
 course of conduct will allow that she is at once grave, sedate, 
 witty, social, humorous, cheerful, (and consequently, of course, 
 amiable in every sense;) that she is modest, mentally and 
 socially, bounteous to prodigality ; and, to crown all, that she 
 is a dutiful and ardently affectionate wife. All and every of 
 these qualities adorn the character of Portia, and these go 
 to accomplish a perfect woman ; and these qualities being 
 acknowledged, it is hoped that she is absolved from the 
 charge of either "affectation" or " pedantry." 
 
 Nerissa is a fitting attendant-gentlewoman to Portia. She 
 is lively, intelligent, and ever prompt to enter into the spirit 
 of a plot, a disguise, or a playful equivoque, with her bride- 
 groom-husband. Her first speech is one of those pleasant 
 
 2 c 
 
40 2 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 jests that nestle a gentle philosophy beneath their light word- 
 ing. When her mistress (in the pretended pouting of one of 
 prosperity's darlings) exclaims—" By my troth, Nerissa, my 
 little body is a- weary of this great world!" she replies: — 
 
 " You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the 
 same abundance as your good fortunes are ; and yet, for 
 aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much, as 
 they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness, 
 therefore, to be seated in the mean [or, medium] : superfluity 
 comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer." 
 
 Of Madam Nerissa, however, be it rather more than sur- 
 mised from indications given, that she is one of that clan who 
 will keep her husband trotting, partly from legitimate and 
 sex-honoured exaction, and partly, perhaps, from liveliness of 
 disposition ; and, also, because that he, being a good-natured 
 fellow, will evidently spoil her : and then let us hope he may 
 not have his head tattooed. 
 
 That husband, Gratiano, is a most delightful and most 
 natural character. He is one of those useful men in society 
 who will keep up the ball of mirth and good-humour, simply 
 by his own mercurial temperament and agreeable rattle ; for 
 he is like a babbling woodside brook, seen through at once, 
 and presenting every ripple of its surface to the sunbeams of 
 good-fellowship. If a pic-nic were proposed, Gratiano would 
 be the man for the commissariat department : and the wines 
 shall be unimpeachable in quantity as well as quality ; the 
 ladies shall lack no squire of dames, and the men no stimulus 
 to keep their gallantry from rusting. And, what is better 
 than all, if a friend be in adversity, Gratiano will champion 
 him with good words and deeds, if not with the most saga- 
 cious counsel. He would, no doubt, talk a man off his legs ; 
 and, therefore, Shakespeare has brought him as a relief 
 against the two grave men, Antonio and Bassanio, who, being 
 
Merchant of Venice. 403 
 
 both anxious on account of worldly cares, resent his vivacity, 
 and they are at all events as peevish as he is flippant and 
 inconsiderate. Bassanio says of Gratiano that he " speaks an 
 infinite deal of nothing ;" that " his reasons are as two grains 
 of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff ; you shall seek all day 
 long ere you shall find them, and when you have them, they 
 are not worth the search," The best of all this is, that Bas- 
 sanio himself advances no claim to be the censor of his lively 
 companion, for in comparison with him he is dull in capacity, 
 and the very observation just quoted follows one of the most 
 agreeable and sensible speeches in the play — made by " the 
 infinite-deal-of-nothing" Gratiano. Shakespeare has made 
 the best apology for the Merchant and his friend; but his 
 own love of cheerfulness with good temper could not fail to 
 throw liberally into Gratiano's scale, and he has nowhere pro- 
 duced a better defence of natural vivacity. Moreover, he has 
 not made Gratiano selfishly boisterous — indulging his own 
 feelings only: he first manifests a solicitude for Antonio's 
 lowness of spirits, and then he rallies him. These are the 
 small and delicate lights thrown into his characters that ren- 
 der them exhaustless as studies, and give us that indefinable, 
 rather, perhaps, that unrecognised and unconscious interest 
 in all they say and do, and which, to the same extent, ap- 
 pears to be the almost undivided prerogative of Shakespeare 
 alone. 
 
 Here is the natural introduction to the conversation alluded 
 to. Gratiano says : — 
 
 " You look not well, Signior Antonio ; 
 You have too much respect upon the world : 
 They lose it that do buy it with much care. 
 Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd. 
 
 "Ant. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano ; 
 A stage, where every man must play a part, 
 And mine a sad one. 
 
404 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 " Gra. Let me play the fool : 
 
 With mirth and laughter let' old wrinkles come ; 
 And let my liver rather heat with wine, 
 Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. 
 Why should a man, whose blood is warm within. 
 Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster ? 
 Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice 
 By being peevish ? I tell thee what, Antonio, — 
 I love thee, and it is my love that speaks, — 
 There are a sort of men whose visages 
 Do cream and mantle like a standing pond. 
 And do a wilful stillness entertain. 
 With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion 
 Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit; 
 As who should say, ' I am Sir Oracle, 
 And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark !' 
 Oh, my Antonio, I do know of these 
 That therefore only are reputed wise 
 For saying nothing ; when, I am very sure. 
 If they should speak, would almost damn those ears. 
 Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. 
 I '11 tell thee more of this another time ; 
 But fish not, with this melancholy bait. 
 For this fool-gudgeon, this opinion." 
 
 It is after this friendly rally that the grave Merchant (and 
 when Gratiano has departed) turns to Bassanio, and with a 
 half-wondering disdain says, '' Is that anything now } " But 
 if, as has been surmised, Shakespeare entertained a posi- 
 tive antipathy to the quality of melancholy in the mental 
 constitution of man, he has, with his usual instinct of justice, 
 greatly redeemed the character of the Venetian Merchant 
 from objection on that ground. Antonio's gravity is no mere 
 assumption to gain men's suffrages, but one which he would 
 fain remove, while he encourages a motive of cheerfulness in 
 others, as shown in the description of his parting with Bas- 
 sanio, by a mutual friend — Act II., sc. 8. But his whole 
 bearing is that of a greatly noble, brave, and generous friend. 
 
Merchant of Venice: 405 
 
 His final speech, when he is preparing to pay the forfeit of 
 his bond, is a strong attempt to speak and bear himself 
 courageously and consolingly to his friend. It concludes 
 with the sort of grave smile and attempted jest with which, 
 at such a moment, a serious and sincere-hearted man would 
 make an effort to cheer those he loves. When Portia, as the 
 young doctor of laws, says, " Come, merchant, have you any- 
 thing to say >. " Antonio answers : — 
 
 - " But little ; I am arm'd, and well prepar'd. 
 
 Give me your hand, Bassanio. Fare you well ! 
 
 Grieve not that I am fall'n to this for you ; 
 
 For herein Fortune shows herself more kind 
 
 Than is her custom. It is still her use 
 
 To let the wretched man outlive his wealth, 
 
 To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow, 
 
 An age of poverty ; from which ling' ring penance 
 
 Of such misery doth she cut me off. 
 
 Commend me to your honourable wife ! 
 
 Tell her the process of Antonio's end ; 
 
 Say how I lov'd you : speak me fair in death ; 
 
 And when the tale is told, bid her be judge. 
 
 Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 
 
 Repent not you that you shall lose your friend ; 
 
 And he repents not that he pays your debt : 
 
 For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough, * 
 
 I '11 pay it instantly with all my heart." 
 
 Upon due occasion, Antonio should always be cited as the 
 foremark and exemplar of a commercial nobleman ; and the 
 Venetians were a nobility of merchants. In his conduct, too, 
 Antonio has manifested that the most romantic prodigality 
 of friendship is perfectly compatible with, nay, it imparts a 
 lustre to the caution and gravity of the trading character. 
 
 Launcelot, the clown, tells Jessica that she " cannot be the 
 Jew's daughter :" but, I fear me, Jessica has a worse taint in 
 her blood than Launcelot's imputation would infer ; for she 
 robbed her own kindred to enrich the stranger ; the directly 
 
4o6 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 reverse action, and the natural action, too, of all her tribe ; 
 and which, I confess, gives the pretty little Jewess no more 
 than a skin-deep interest with me. To her personal liberty 
 Jessica possessed the chartered right of all nature; to the 
 appropriation of her father's wealth — for Christian behoof- 
 she had not even an ancestral excuse, for the Jews "borrowed" 
 of the Egyptians. Her conduct and tone of speech, too, at 
 the time she is purloining the jewels — "Here, catch this 
 casket, it is worth the pains," and " I will gild myself with 
 some more ducats, and be with you straight" — all tallies with 
 her. general want of sentiment and delicate feeling. More- 
 over, Shakespeare has not redeemed her character by putting 
 into her mouth even one little word of regret at leaving her 
 old and forlorn parent, — an unusual thing with him, — but 
 which is so pointed as to appear a provision on his part to 
 preserve the consistency of her character. The Christians 
 have stripped him bare to the pitiless world ; they have taken 
 from him "the prop that did sustain his house ;" and to the 
 bitter trial of his child's desertion, is added the intelligence, 
 that ^& gave her mother's ring for a monkey ! He exclaims 
 at the news, " Thou torturest me. Tubal ; it was my tur- 
 quoise ; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor; '' adding,, 
 with a fine Hebraism, "I would not have given it for a 
 wilderness of monkeys!" O consistent Shakespeare! this 
 was not the girl to be touched- with remorse at her unfilial 
 conduct. Squanderers and gamblers have no sense of justice; 
 (for she was a gambler, too ;) they are always selfish. Truly, 
 the poor Jew's punishment, like Cain's, was " greater than he 
 could bear.'' I have no desire to hypercriticise, or to see 
 more in our poet than he himself intended ; but the very cir- 
 cumstance of Jessica's trifling with the Clown upon her con- 
 version from the faith of her fathers, strikingly harmonises 
 with her general tone of character. She would have turned 
 Mohammedan, or Buddist, or Spinning Dervis, or Spinning 
 
Merchant of Venice. 407 
 
 Jenny, or spinning anything, and danced a polka at her new 
 faith ;■ flimsy, thoughtless, and unstable. The scene, alluded 
 to with Launcelot is the Sth of the 3d Act. They enter in 
 the midst of their conversation, and he says : — 
 
 " Yes, truly ; for, look you, the sins of the father are to .be 
 laid upon the children ; therefore, I promise you, I fear you. 
 I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agita- 
 tion of the matter ; therefore, be of good cheer, for truly I 
 think you are damned. 
 
 " Jes. I shall be saved by my husband ; he hath made me 
 a Christian. 
 
 " Laun. Truly, the more to blame he ; we were Christians 
 enow before ; e'en as many as could well live, one by another. 
 This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs : if we 
 grow all to be pork-eaters, ,we shall not shortly have a rasher 
 on the coals for money." 
 
 It is Jessica who, in that delicious garden-scene with her 
 lover, makes the well-known deep-thoughted remark, " I am 
 never merry when I hear sweet music." And Lorenzo gives 
 the equally fine solution of the sentiment, followed by the 
 most superb eulogy upon the " concord of sweet sounds " 
 that ever mortal penned. He says : — 
 
 " The reason is, your spirits are attentive : 
 For do but note a wild and wanton herd, 
 Or race of youthful and unhandled colts. 
 Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud. 
 Which is the hot condition of their blood : 
 If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound. 
 Or any air of music touch their ears. 
 You shall perceive them make a mutual stand. 
 Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze, 
 By the sweet power of music : therefore, the poet 
 Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ; 
 Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage. 
 But music for the tipie doth change his nature. 
 The man that hath no music in himself. 
 Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds. 
 
4o8 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; 
 The motions of his spirit are as dull as night, 
 And his affections dark as Erebus. 
 Let no such man be trusted." 
 
 The love-scenes in " Romeo and Juliet " are grand, by 
 reason of the tumult and ferment of the affections turning up 
 the heart's root of passion, devotion, and self-prostration to 
 the soul's idol ; but for the calm and full contentment of 
 luxurious ease in the enjoyment of a blissful consummation, 
 there is no scene like this between little Jessica and her 
 Lorenzo. By the way, he is surely quite as amenable to the 
 charge of " pedantry " as the ill-praised Portia ; for he talks 
 sentiment and philosophy to his little wife like a professor in 
 a college ; whereas in the hands of an inferior poet, he would 
 have talked the common platitudes of the love-maker. Lor- 
 enzo can, and very gracefully does, dally and sport with her 
 in a contest of similes to their marriage-night, and very classi- 
 cal and pretty they are. Afterwards, turning upon the full 
 glory of the Italian moonlight, he breaks into that angelic 
 rapture : — 
 
 " How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
 Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
 Creep in our ears : soft stillness and the night 
 Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
 Sit, Jessica : look how the floor of heaven 
 Is thick inlaid with patines * of bright gold ; 
 There 's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st. 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins : 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
 But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it." 
 
 Query — somewhat " pedantic " that, for a lover to discuss 
 
 * Patine, from the Latin, patitia ; the gold plate with which the priest covers 
 the chalice at high mass. Poetically applied to the stars. 
 
Merchant of Venice. 409 
 
 the Platonic theory of the spheral motion to his mistress. 
 Lorenzo is a specimen of an elegant-minded, happy young 
 bridegroom ; and that is one of the most enviable beings 
 under God's heaven. 
 
 The " Merchant of Venice " opens with introducing the two 
 subordinate characters, Solanio and Salarino, in conversation 
 with the Merchant himself, upon the subject of the incon- 
 stancy of the sea, and the anxiety of mind incurred by having 
 commercial ventures abroad on that element ; thus preparing 
 the mind of the reader for the loss of Antonio's argosies as a 
 natural event. As characters in the drama, they offer little 
 worthy of notice, unless it be of disgust at their ridiculing the 
 Jew in his distress upon losing his daughter and his jewels ; 
 and yet it must be confessed that in the ist scene of the play 
 some beautiful poetical imagery is put into the mouths of 
 these two insignificant persons when conversing with Antonio 
 upon the anxiety attending commercial speculation. One 
 says — 
 
 " My wind, cooling my broth, 
 Would blow me to an ague when I thought 
 What harm a wind too great might do at sea. 
 I should not see the sandy hour-glass run, 
 But I should think of shallows and of flats, 
 And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand. 
 Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs, 
 To kiss her burial. Should I go to church, 
 And see the holy edifice of stone, 
 And not bethink me straight of dang'rous rocks, 
 Which touching but my gentle vessel's side. 
 Would scatter all her spices on the stream, 
 Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks, 
 And, in a word, but even now worth this, 
 And now worth nothing .'" 
 
 That portion of the plot in this great drama which turns 
 upon the destiny of the caskets, is like the grafting of an 
 
4IO Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 Arabian tale upon a common stock of civic adventure. It 
 certainly forms a fanciful and interesting contrast to the 
 stern and painful realities that preserve a simultaneous move- 
 ment with it. The critic, Schlegel, says that "this love- 
 intrigue, as associated with the trial-scene between Shylock 
 and Antonio, being not less extraordinary, becomes natural 
 and probable by means of the other." This is ingeniously 
 said ; and the enthusiastic eulogist of our poet has said some 
 delightful things upon this play ; but I would submit that he 
 has not precisely hit the mark of Shylock's character, when he 
 says that " his morality is founded on the disbelief in good- 
 ness and magnanimity," and that "his hate is naturally 
 directed against those Christians who possess truly Christian 
 sentiments ; the example of disinterested love of our neigh- 
 bour seems to him the most unrelenting persecution of the 
 Jews." 
 
 Shylock's " morality " appears to me founded on the great 
 law of wild nature, ratified by his own national code ; and all 
 his arguments and all his actions are the offspring of the 
 horrible injustice burnt into his own feelings and those of all 
 his tribe : hence his scorpion-like hatred of the Christians ; 
 and not merely because one man lent out money without 
 interest, bating the rate of usance in the money-market, — that 
 is an apology, and a natural one for such a man to urge to 
 himself No ; Shakespeare, with his consistent love of justice, 
 has punished him for his cruelty ; but, in the persecution 
 exercised towards him by the professors of a sect who are 
 enjoined to "do justice and love mercy," he has read a lesson 
 which ought, if it do not, to last through all time. 
 
 And now, for a pleasant wind-up, "talk we of Master 
 Launcelot; or, Master Launcelot Gobbo; or, good Gobbo; 
 or, good Master Launcelot Gobbo;" who is a foster-brother, 
 if not of the same family with Master Launce, in "The Two 
 Gentlemen of Verona." In the old editions, Gobbo is called 
 
Merchant of Venice. 411 
 
 a clown, and in character he is a sort of mongrel between the 
 thoroughbred jester-clown and the cur errand-boy. The vein 
 of humour that distinguishes this class of persons must have 
 been popular in Shakespeare's time, since he has repeated the 
 character on various occasions; and although it has passed 
 away from us, yet it still possesses more than an obsolete 
 interest by reason of its quaint idiosyncrasy. Launcelot is a 
 sort of "arabesque" character in the order of humanity; ex- 
 hibiting the prevalent feature of likeness, with a portentous 
 flourish of half-meaning, and which passes for embellishment. 
 He is a fellow who will scramble through the world with a 
 "light heart and a thin pair of inexpressibles." His spare 
 diet at the Jew's does not waste his humour, and conscience 
 will scarcely sit heavily on him in the night-watches, since 
 the gravest misdemeanour that can be laid to his charge is 
 that he runs away from a master in whose service he swears 
 he is " famished : " — ^his master's character of him being — 
 
 " The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder'.' 
 
 Nevertheless he says — " You may tell every finger I have 
 with my ribs." And yet, with all this inducement, he sedately 
 balances the question between his conscience to remain, and 
 the temptation of Old Scratch to run away ; and Old Scratch 
 being right — for once — carries the debate : — 
 
 " Certainly, my conscience will serve me to run from this 
 Jew, my master. The fiend is at my elbow, and tempts me, 
 saying to me, ' Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot, or 
 good Gobbo, or good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take 
 the start, run away.' My conscience says, ' No ; take heed, 
 honest Launcelot; take heed, honest Gobbo;' or, as aforesaid, 
 'honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running with thy 
 heels.' Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack: — 
 'Via!' says the fiend; 'Away!' says the fiend; 'for the 
 heavens, rouse up a brave mind,' says the fiend, 'and run.' 
 Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, 
 
4 1 2 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 says very wisely to me, ' My honest friend, Launcelot, being 
 an honest man's son/ — or rather an honest woman's son ; for, 
 indeed, my father did something smack, something grow to, 
 he had a kind of taste ; — well, my conscience says, ' Launce- 
 lot, budge not.' ' Budge,' says the fiend. ' Budge not,' says 
 my conscience. Conscience, say I, you counsel well; fiend, 
 say I, you counsel well : — to be ruled by my conscience, I 
 should stay with the Jew, my master, who (Heaven bless the 
 mark !) is a kind of devil ; and to run away from the Jew, I 
 should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence, is 
 the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarna- 
 tion ; and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of 
 hard conscience to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. 
 The fiend gives the more friendly counsel : — I will run, fiend ; 
 my heels are at your commandment. I will run." 
 
XVII. 
 
■35^ 
 
 
 ^ ii.i 
 
XVII. 
 HENRY IV. 
 
 That astute founder of the dynasty of the house of Lan- 
 caster (Henry IV.) is a practical and memorable example of 
 the axiom, that the wrencher of a civil institution to his own 
 individual aggrandisement had need look out for squalls and 
 tempests ; for, as he " soweth the wind, eo shall he reap the 
 whirlwind." Henry Bolingbroke had doubtless received egre- 
 gious injustice at the hands of his cousin, the headlong and 
 headwrong Richard H. ;'but he himself was as clear a pirate 
 of the crown as if no drop of his grandfather's blood had 
 flowed in his veins. He dethroned his relation, and, perhaps, 
 accomplished — at all events, he has the credit of having con- 
 nived at — his assassination. But from that moment to the 
 day of his death, Henry lived in a perpetual storm with his 
 turbulent barons, — with those who upon principle opposed 
 his usurping the crown, but most especially with the party 
 that helped him to his "bad eminence;" for no sacrifices of 
 grants and endowments that he could have made would have 
 assuaged their craving of reward for the services they had 
 rendered him. At the close of the tragedy of Richard II., 
 Shakespeare prepares us for the coming discontent and in- 
 surrection on the part of the powerful Percy family, by 
 
4 1 6 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 putting into the mouth of the unfortunate king that pro- 
 phetical warning to Bolingbroke of the bitter fruit that would 
 ensue from such an alliance ; and the opening of the present 
 drama (for the two parts form one drama) reveals to us the 
 usurper in sharp collision with this same Northumberland 
 and his son. 
 
 This division of the play — the heroical — is conceived 
 in the very highest spirit of chivalry and martial daring. 
 The terrible valour of Percy, and the flaunting heroism of 
 Prince Harry, are drawn with a fervour and dramatic fit- 
 ness and art, and contrasted with wonderful brilliancy of 
 effect. This power that Shakespeare possessed was in itself 
 almost miraculous, carried, as he carried it, to such a point of 
 perfection ; but when we come to the detail in the characters, 
 to the casual development of remote and subsidiary thoughts, 
 feelings, and actions, it really seems as if he were indued with 
 all the peculiarities of each individual character, or that he 
 had imparted to them all his genius, that they might deliver 
 themselves perfectly. 
 
 The two most important, if not the chief actors in the 
 serious scenes of this drama, are Prince Harry and Harry 
 Percy, of whom a remarkable list of references might be 
 made confirmatory of the "individuality" sustained in the 
 portraiture of the two men, from the outset to the close of 
 their career. The former will hereafter come under exami- 
 nation ; here, therefore, it were sufficient simply to remark, 
 that as Hal the roysterer, as Prince Harry, and afterwards, 
 in isolated royalty, as Henry V., he appears accurately and 
 consistently, one and the same man. 
 
 The other extraordinary character — the tornado of the 
 north — Harry Percy, most commonly surnamed " Hotspur," 
 is of the same order and genus with the illustrious " repre- 
 sentative" character in " King John," the brave, the steadily- 
 loyal, and the grateful Falconbridge. And yet, withal, there 
 
Henry IV'. 417 
 
 is a palpable distinction to be drawn between the two charac- 
 ters ; of the same genus, but of distinct individuality. Both 
 are fiery and impetuous men ; both perilously brave ; both 
 of noble and generous natures ; and here, it should seem, the 
 class-likeness ceases. In the midst of his greatest excitations, 
 Falconbridge always displays presence of mind and delibera- 
 tion. Hotspur evinces no deficiency in the one quality, but 
 he has neither the deliberation nor the judgment of Falcon- 
 bridge. Indeed, Hotspur has little judgment, and less de- 
 liberation. The soliloquies of Falconbridge are pregnant 
 with sound sense and a flaunting sort of mess-room humour. 
 Hotspur has no reflectiveness ; he acts, he does not soliloquise. 
 The only time that he discourses in soliloquy he is comment- 
 ing upon the letter he has received from the party whom he 
 had endeavoured to enlist in the rebellion ; and most charac- 
 teristic of the man are his ejaculations as he comes upon the 
 writer's phlegmatic doubts of the success of their enterprise. 
 It commences in the 3d scene of the 2d Act. The manner 
 as well as the language of Percy are sustained with wonderful 
 consistency of individuality. One of the most prominent 
 features of his personal character is that of perpetual restless- 
 ness, to which may be added abundant determination, always 
 combined with rashness and indiscretion. There is one pecu- 
 liarity in the personal individuality of Hotspur which is quite 
 as carefully detailed as that of any character that Shakespeare 
 has drawn. In the identity of Falconbridge we have no other 
 distinction, no other personal association with him than the 
 general one, of his athletic frame. He is a man of thews and 
 sinews. Speaking of his mother's husband, he says — "Sir 
 Robert never holp to make this leg." In Hotspur, on the 
 other hand, we have constant allusion to some peculiarity or 
 other, which makes us feel as though we had known him. 
 First, there is the total lack of repose, already alluded to : he 
 
 is like a wild beast newly confined. Then, his impetuosity of 
 
 2D 
 
4 1 8 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 disposition nat'rally shows itself in perpetual interruptions 
 during consultations, the most celebrated of which occurs in 
 the 3d scene of the ist Act. It is the one in which the king 
 orders him to send in his prisoners unransomed. The re- 
 mainder of the scene (when the king has quitted it) is passed 
 in a series of explosions and interruptions, till the patience of 
 his uncle Worcester begins to fail, and he expostulates with 
 him — " Good cousin, give me audience for a while'.' Hotspur 
 apologises — "I cry you mercy!" and again bursts in upon 
 Worcester's first words. At length the uncle concludes — 
 " Farewell, kinsman ! I will talk to you when you are better 
 tempered to attend." 
 
 Then his father, Northumberland, irritated with his unrea- 
 sonable interruptions, takes him to task — 
 
 " Why, what a wasp-tongue and impatient fool 
 Art thou to break into this woman's mood. 
 Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own." 
 
 They try again, and again Worcester concludes—" We '11 stay 
 your leisure." 
 
 It is interesting to trace throughout the career of Percy 
 the total absence of all repose in the character. Not only is 
 he never quiet himself, but he resents inaction in others. He 
 resents his father being in ill health. " Zounds ! how has he 
 leisure to be sick in such a justling time .■'" 
 
 Again, in a subsequent scene, a messenger enters — 
 
 " My lord, here are letters for you. 
 " Hot. I cannot read them now." 
 
 Prince Henry bears testimony to his hurry-skurry life where 
 he says : — 
 
 " I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North ; 
 he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a break- 
 fast, washes his hands, and says to his wife — ' Fie upon this 
 
Henry IV. 419 
 
 quiet life ! I want work.' ' O my sweet Harry,' says she, 
 ' how many hast thou killed to-day?' 'Give my roan horse 
 a drench,' says he ; and answers, ' Some fourteen,' an hour 
 after—' A trifle, a trifle.' " 
 
 It is worth observing here, that the poet has made a marked 
 point of this " roan horse" of Percy's. He has used it as a 
 means of drawing attention to a point of individuality in 
 Hotspur, who manifests a true soldierly interest and judg- 
 ment concerning his horse. He asks his servant whether 
 "those horses have been brought from the sheriff?" The 
 man answers, " One horse, my lord, he brought even now." 
 And Hotspur instantly shows that he has noted its points — 
 
 " What horse ? A roan, a crop-ear, is it not ? 
 
 " Serv. It is, my lord. 
 
 "Hot. That roan shall be my throne." 
 
 In this same scene (the 3d of the 2d Act) there is ample 
 proof of his restlessness. When the Lady Percy makes him 
 a remonstrance, and with it a vivid picture of his altered 
 manner and perturbed sleep, gently demanding the cause, he 
 does not rest to answer her, but shouts to his servant, ask- 
 ing some questions about the despatch of a packet. And 
 when his wife persists in affectionate expostulation, he breaks 
 from her, bidding her " come and see him ride," knowing that 
 when once on horseback he shall be beyond reach of her 
 catechising. 
 
 His soldierly bluffness and restless nature are again con- 
 firmed in his indifference to music. 
 
 Percy is no man of business — in his own profession. He is 
 for everything being done extempore, and without calculat- 
 ing the supply. At the first council with Glendower, Mor- 
 timer, and the others, met to plan the campaign, after sum- 
 moning them to sit down, he says, "A plague upon'tl I 
 have forgot the map,"— the thing of all others upon such an 
 
420 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 occasion to be remembered. How pleasantly all this dove- 
 tails with the impetuous and restless man. 
 
 Wh-en his uncle, Worcester, and Sir Richard Vernon return 
 from the parley in the royal camp, and Worcester says, 
 " There is no seeming mercy in the king," Hotspur darts out 
 his answer, "Did you beg any? God forbid!" Not only is 
 he perpetual motion personified, and irascible to boot, but he 
 displays every feature of unmisgiving bravery. So sanguine 
 is he, that the word " failure " is not to be found in his no- 
 menclature. He even turns the disappointment of his father 
 Northumberland's not bringing up his forces into a probable 
 advantage. Worcester says : — 
 
 " Your father's sickness is a maim to us. 
 
 "Hot. A perilous gash, a very limb lopp'd oiif: — 
 And yet, in faith, 'tis not ; his present want 
 Seems more than we shall find it : — were it good 
 To set the exact wealth of all our states 
 All at one cast? to set so rich a main 
 On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour } 
 It were not good; for therein should we read 
 The very bottom and the soul of hope. 
 The very list, the very utmost bound 
 Of all our fortunes." 
 
 This piece of sophistry is the transcript of a sanguine man. 
 Douglas, who possesses the same proportion of judgment 
 with Percy, and is equally rash and sanguine, coincides at 
 once in this remarkable opinion. 
 
 Whether in council, whether in the field, even whether he 
 is in the society of ladies, Percy is the same restless, untiring 
 individual. Another striking personal characteristic in the 
 man (and which is referred to several times) is his thick and 
 inarticulate utterance, — a blemish which Lady Percy says of 
 him was turned into a grace. Glendower fleers at him for 
 this defect, and he himself twice alludes to it in the space of 
 half a page. First : — 
 
Henry IV. 421 
 
 "Arm, arm with speed: and fellows, soldiers, friends, 
 Better consider what you have to do, 
 Than I, that have not well the gift of tongue, 
 Can lift your blood up with persuasion." 
 
 Again: — 
 
 \Enter a Messenger. 
 " My lord, prepare, the king comes on apace. 
 "Hot. I thank him that he cuts me from my tale, 
 For /profess not talking." 
 
 The last characteristic, and which is ever the concomitant 
 of true greatness in every sphere, — Percy is no flatterer, and 
 he rejects flattery from others. He makes an awkward sort 
 of apology to Douglas for having praised him. In short, he 
 is the perfect exemplar of a man of mere, forlorn-hope bravery; 
 and his apotheosis is finely uttered by Prince Hal over his 
 dead body in the battlefield: — "Fare thee well, great heart!" 
 &c.. — ^4th scene of the Sth Act. 
 
 The fathers also of the young heroes are portrayed with 
 undiminished fidelity. Henry, the king, advanced in years, 
 is the same man as young BoHngbroke, — cool-headed, pru- 
 dent, keen, and steadily clutching all he had raped ; jealous 
 of his son, whom he drove into riotous and profligate courses. 
 
 Northumberland, equally grasping, fails through excess of 
 his own overreaching and dilatory policy. Fierce, and even 
 brutal in party-spirit — demoniacal in revenge. His speech 
 upon hearing the news of his son Hotspur's death assumes 
 even a Satanic dignity from its ferocious spirit of retribution : — 
 
 " Let one spirit of the first-born Cain 
 Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set 
 On bloody courses, the rude scene may end, 
 And darkness be the burier of the dead!" 
 
 Among the second and third rate members of the drama 
 may be instanced, first, that rancorous and uncompromising 
 partisan, the Earl of Worcester, whose hatred of Henry,, 
 
422 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 seated by himself and Northumberland on the throne of 
 Richard, induces him even to betray his trust as messenger 
 between the king and the rebel party on the eve of the 
 Shrewsbury battle. Worcester's object being to keep open 
 the wound of discontent in his party, refuses to report to 
 Hotspur the pacific overtures of the king. It may indeed be 
 urged in his extenuation, that Worcester knew by experience 
 the cold, unrelenting, and grasping disposition of Henry. 
 With some show of prudence, therefore, he will not risk the 
 chance of Percy's demonstrative and generous nature being 
 touched by his sovereign's offer of reconciliation. Conse- 
 quently, when he and Sir Richard Vernon return from the 
 parley in the royal camp, he at once decides : — 
 
 " Oh, no ! my nephew must not know. Sir Richard, 
 The liberal, kind offer of the king." 
 
 He then details his reasons for this course of procedure ; 
 but Vernon, in the true spirit of an honourable man, main- 
 tains that Percy ought to be made acquainted with the whole 
 interview. In Worcester's conduct upon this occasion we 
 have an example of the fatal effects of the bitterness of party- 
 spirit. Had he then fulfilled his duty, the rebellion might 
 have been cancelled, and many worthy spirits spared a 
 violent extinction. But Worcester was a coarse-minded and 
 rasping politician, — if the term politician be fitly applied to 
 the mere turbulent deposer of one monarch, and rebel to 
 another, simply for the gratification of his own selfish pur- 
 poses. But how distinctly manifest, in these great historical 
 dramas, is the fact, that from the era of John downwards, the 
 monarchy in this country has almost always been, more or 
 less, in abeyance to the aristocracy, and has indeed been sus- 
 tained by the antagonism of parties in their own order ; and 
 these instinctively nourished and fostered by royalty itself, to 
 preserve its own individuality, and even its " local habitation 
 and name." ' 
 
Henry IV. 423. 
 
 Vernon is by much the noblest of all the "subordinates" 
 in the play. His constancy to the rebel party does not pre- 
 vent his bearing honourable testimony to the merits of their 
 opponents. His admiration of the gallant bearing of Prince 
 Harry is in the purest spirit of chivalry, and true chivalry 
 always carried honour — which is justice — to the verge of 
 romance in generous dealing. It is Vernon who gives that 
 superb description of the prince and his comrades, whom he 
 had seen preparing for the campaign, in the ist scene of the 
 4th Act, Part I. Vernon is the moderator in the party : he 
 is the only one impressed Vith the dignity of impartiality ; 
 and therefore he would be the man — for steadiness of prin- 
 ciple — to be intrusted beyond a whole council of such men as 
 Worcester. He was constant to his cause; and although we 
 regret that such a character should have paid the rebel's 
 penalty with one like Worcester, yet the moral conveyed in 
 the sacrifice to loyalty and quiet government is a valuable 
 one. 
 
 In direct contrast to the character of Vernon, may be cited 
 that notable instance of treachery and meanness. Prince John 
 of Lancaster, younger son of the king. Here is the phylac- 
 tery of his vices — ^wily, wary, cold, calculating, indirect, faith- 
 less. In act, treacherous and cruel. No wonder Falstaff 
 hates him ; he hates him personally and socially, and no 
 wonder, with his own quicksilver nature ; because, as he says, 
 " A man cannot make him laugh" Beyond this playful reason, 
 however, (containing a profound instinct beneath its apparent 
 superficiality and lightness,) the acute perception and shrewd 
 wit of Falstaff discerned the heartless nature of the young 
 fellow, and he loathed him accordingly, with all the genuine 
 disgust of a genial and cordial spirit. 
 
 It is worthy of remark (as noting that strict principle of 
 consistency in Shakespeare's mind) that John of Lancaster 
 inherits from his father, Bolingbroke, many of his qualities. 
 
424 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 His smooth speech, his politic reserve, his artful manner, his 
 lavish promise, and his breach of pledge, are all to be traced 
 as characteristics by descent. It will be remembered how 
 the father receives Richard II.'s murderer, Exton, when he 
 had done the deed, in pursuance of a hint dropped by the 
 usurper, who would so largely benefit by that king's death ; 
 not with expected commendation and reward, but with rebuke, 
 opprobrium, and sentence of perpetual banishment. (See the 
 closing sentences of "Richard II.") In the same way does the 
 son deal by the rebel leaders who trust to his princely word. 
 The scene (the 2d of the 4th Act, Part II.) is an edifying 
 example of the cool unblushingness with which princes can 
 {occasionally) dispense with that strict adherence to their 
 plighted honour which should of right distinguish them above 
 all men. It is a remarkable and curious combination of hy- 
 jjocrisy, cant, pretence, false-seeming, false-protesting appeal 
 to holiest things, as guarantees to truth in dealing, and used 
 as blinds to the vilest treachery ; causing us to marvel that it 
 can be a prince who thus acts and speaks, until we call to 
 mind a parallel instance nmck nearer to our own times. 
 
 At the convocation of the Archbishop of York, Mowbray, 
 and Hastings, the prince pledges to them the redress of all 
 those grievances which have rent the kingdom and raised the 
 rebellion. He says to the Archbishop : — 
 
 " My lord, these griefs shall be with speed redress'd ; 
 'Upon my soul they shall. If this may please you. 
 Discharge your powers unto their sev'ral counties. 
 As we will ours!' 
 
 The rebels (evidently not knowing their man) trust to his 
 honour and his soul, disband their forces, and are immedi- 
 ately sent off to execution. The concluding answer of 
 Prince Joha to the amazed Archbishop's expostulation, is in 
 true keeping : — 
 
Henry TV. 425 
 
 ''Arch. Will you thus break your faith ? 
 
 " P. John. I pawn' d thee none. 
 
 I promis'd you redress of these same grievances 
 Whereof you did complain ; which, by mine honour, 
 I will perform with a most Christian care. 
 But for you, rebels, — look to taste the due 
 Meet for rebellion, and such acts as yours. 
 Most shallowly did you these arms commence. 
 Fondly brought here, and foolishly sent hence. 
 Strike up our drums, pursue the scatter'd stray ; 
 Heaven, and not we, hath safely fought to-day. 
 Some guard these traitors to the block of death, 
 Treason's true bed, and yielder up of breath." 
 
 This might be deemed an act of treachery, but modern 
 courtesy would style it merely a " COUP D'ETAT ! " the one 
 fully worthy of the other. 
 
 Among the subordinate characters, not one is drawn with 
 more replete originality than that of Owen Glendower. His 
 whole deportment and manner are not only national, (which 
 was to be expected,) but the tone of conversation in the man 
 is that of a provincial-bred one. He delights in recording 
 the local traditions and manners connected with his own per- 
 sonal identity. His credulity is provincial and active ; his 
 temper is that of his nation, sudden, and inflammable as 
 straw, and as quickly extinct. With all his faith in the mys- 
 terious and the miraculous, however, Glendower is a grave, 
 precise, and unimaginative character. These peculiarities are 
 amusingly and most naturally illustrated in the scene where 
 Hotspur hoaxes and irritates him. Like a truly matter-of- 
 fact and circumscribed man, too, he does not at once perceive 
 Hotspur's intention, but doggedly and obtusely repeats his 
 own assertion in answer to the other's ridicule. Now, this is 
 the very transcript of a hide-bound imagination. Having 
 once revealed the stupendous fact, that when he was born 
 " the frame and huge foundation of the earth shaked like a 
 
426 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 coward;" and Hotspur provokingly replying, that it would 
 have done the same thing "had his mother's cat kittened, 
 though he himself had never been born ; " yet he contents 
 himself with repeating the same words ; for many minds — 
 bores especially, fancy that repetition is confirmation, and that 
 it carries with it conviction. "I say, the earth did shake 
 when I was born." ."And I say," again retorts Hotspur, 
 " the earth was not of my mind, if you suppose, as fearing 
 you, it shook." Curiously enough, Shakespeare has made 
 him repeat the words even again, that there may be no doubt 
 as to his own intention in developing the manner of the man ; 
 and, as contrasted with the fiery nature of Percy, the effect of 
 the scene is very masterly. And not the least remarkable 
 feature in it is the perfect consistency, as well as distinction, 
 that the poet has maintained in the character of the two 
 irascibilities. Both are consistent in themselves, and both 
 are preserved with admirable breadth of colouring. After 
 running on with a tissue of his amazing endowments, chal- 
 lenging the admiration of the company, Hotspur, instead of 
 answering him any more, says, with inimitable raillery, "I 
 think there is no man speaks better Welsh ; I '11 to dinner." 
 When Glendower leaves the scene, the irritable temper of 
 Hotspur is also excellently displayed in his reply to Morti- 
 mer ; who has been protesting against his worrying the 
 old man, " Peace, cousin Percy ; you will make him mad." 
 And, on Glendower going out, Mortimer again expostulates 
 most naturally ; the whole scene is like an actual occurrence. 
 " Fie, cousin Percy ! how you cross my father!" Then Hot- 
 spur bursts forth : — 
 
 " I cannot choose ; sometimes he angers me 
 With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant. 
 Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies, 
 And of a dragon, and a finless fish, 
 A clip-wing'd griffin, and a moulten raven. 
 
Henry IV. 427 
 
 A couching lion, and a ramping cat, 
 And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff 
 As puts me from my faith. I tell you what, 
 He held me last night, at least nine hours, 
 In reckoning up the several devils' names 
 That were his lackeys. I cried, 'H'm,' and 'Well,' 'Go to,' 
 But mark'd him not a word. Oh, he 's as tedious 
 As a tired horse, a railing wife ; 
 Worse than a smoky house. I had rather live 
 With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far. 
 Than feed on cates, and have him talk to me 
 In any summer-house in Christendom." 
 The part occupied by Owen Glendower is insignificant as 
 to the quantity of words to be spoken, but it is a choicely 
 good one as regards the character to be displayed, and which 
 should be intrusted only to an actor of intelligence and quick 
 feeling. His social and kind nature is inferred from his 
 cavaliering the ladies Percy and Mortimer, and introducing 
 them, before their husbands depart for the war. And in that 
 little scene, which, by the way, is one of the most agreeable 
 in the whole play, by reason of its familiar domestic unpre- 
 tendingness, the several characteristics of the men are set 
 forth to the very life : — Mortimer, the newly-married one, with 
 his head in his pretty wife's lap, regretting only that she can 
 speak no English and he no Welsh ; but then he says, with 
 bridegroom devotion: — 
 
 " I understand thy looks : that pretty Welsh 
 Which thou pour'st down from these swelling heavens 
 I am too perfect in ; and, but for shame. 
 In such a parley would I answer thee. 
 I understand thy kisses, and thou mine. 
 And that 's a feeling disputation : 
 But I will never be a truant, love. 
 Till I have learn'd thy language; for thy tongue 
 Ma-^kes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd. 
 Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower, 
 With ravishing division to her lute." 
 
428 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 She sings to them a favourite national ballad. Hotspur, 
 who must have everything done extempore, bids Lady Percy 
 sit down, that he may dispose himself in the same manner: — 
 " Come, Kate, quick, quick, quick ; that I may lay my head 
 in thy\2.-^:" and he instantly begins some impudent tricks; 
 for one moment she requests to be informed if he "wish to 
 have his head broken," and immediately before rates him with 
 " Lie still, ye thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh." Hot- 
 spur is no chamberer; and he has a supreme contempt for 
 music, for he says, (of course for the sake of teasing,) " I had 
 rather hear, lady, my brach [his hound] howl in Irish." A 
 lovely touch of nature, however, here occurs — where the poet 
 pays a compliment to the sweet power of music, even upon 
 the rough nature of Hotspur; at the same time exhibiting 
 him the man of society and gentle breeding. Lady Percy is 
 still talking on to him, when he interrupts her with — " Peace ! 
 the lady sings ! " 
 
 Poor Lady Percy ! the sequel of her story is a sad one, and 
 we sympathise with her in its truth. When the honour and 
 fame of her husband are to be chronicled, she speaks greatly, 
 though she is quite subordinate till then ; and then the fac- 
 tious rebel her father-in-law stands a cipher before her. Her 
 reproof to him is tremendous, at the same time most womanly ; 
 and her tribute to the memory of her lord is the heart-full 
 eloquence of a worthy wife. The scene is the 3d in the 2d 
 Act of Part H., where she is dissuading old Northumberland 
 from engaging in the new insurrection after the fatal event 
 at Shrewsbury. He talks of his "pledged honour" to the 
 enterprise, — an argument which she turns upon him with 
 stinging rebuke, enough to shrivel the man up like scorched 
 parchment : — 
 
 " Oh, yet, for God's sake, go not to these wars ! 
 The time was, father, that you broke your word 
 When you were more endear' d to it than now; 
 
Henry IV. 429 
 
 When your own Percy, when my heart-dear Harry, 
 
 Threw many a northward look, to see his father 
 
 Bring up his powers ; but he did long in vain. 
 
 Who then persuaded you to stay at home? 
 
 There were two honours lost, — yours and your son's. 
 
 For yours,— rmay heavenly glory brighten it ! 
 
 For his, — it stttck upon him, as the sun 
 
 In the gray vault of heav'n; and by his light 
 
 Did all the chivalry of England move 
 
 To do brave acts : he was indeed the glass 
 
 Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves. 
 
 He had no legs that practis'd not his gait ; 
 
 And speaking thick* which nature made his blemish, 
 
 Became the accents of the valiant; 
 
 For those that could speak low and tardily. 
 
 Would turn their own perfection to abuse, 
 
 To seem like him ; so that, in speech, in gait, 
 
 In diet, in affections of delight. 
 
 In military rules, humours of blood, 
 
 He was the mark and glass, copy and book. 
 
 That fashioned others. And him, — O wondrous him ! 
 
 O miracle of men ! — him did you leave 
 
 (Second to none, unseconded by you) 
 
 To look upon the hideous god of war 
 
 In disadvantage; to abide a field 
 
 Where nothing but the sound of Hotspur's name 
 
 Did seem defensible : — so you left him. 
 
 Never, oh, never do his ghost the wrong 
 
 To hold your honour more precise and nice 
 
 With others than with him ! let them alone : 
 
 The marshal and the archbishop are strong : 
 
 Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers, 
 
 To-day might I, hanging on Hotspur's neck, 
 
 Have talk'd of Monmouth's grave." 
 
 Sir Walter Blunt is the last of the serious characters, among 
 the subordinate ones, to whom especial notice may be dis- 
 pensed ; and he would have passed with the others but for the 
 * Rapidly and inarticulately. 
 
430 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 purpose of simply referring to his unimpeachable loyalty. 
 At the battle of Shrewsbury, he, with several others, accoutre 
 themselves in the royal insignia, in order that the attention 
 of the enemy may be distracted from the real sovereign. 
 This is said to be an historical fact, and a remarkable one, 
 as connected with such a motive and such an event. The 
 self-devotion and bravery of the man are illustrious ; — scarcely 
 so the conduct of the king, who could even listen to, and still 
 more sanction such prodigality of service from personal con- 
 sideration. There is food for thought in Falstaff's apostrophe 
 upon noticing the dead body of the noble partisan : — " Soft ! 
 who art thou .■• Sir Walter Blunt ! — there 's 'honour' for you — 
 here's no vanity!" 
 
 In proceeding to notice the comic characters in the two 
 parts of " Henry IV.," can it be conceded that Falstafif was a 
 " subordinate .' " A subordinate ! — is he not almost the sole 
 preoccupier of the mind whenever it recurs to these plays .' 
 Why, Sir John is principal and paramount in all places, and 
 on all occasions. He makes his entry, and the scene is filled ; 
 he makes his exit, and our " eyes are idly bent on him who 
 enters next." He played second to no one. Prince Hal 
 understood him as well as any of them ; but the whole synod 
 could never take the lead when Sir John was present. He 
 was no subsidiary, — no attendant planet of any orb ; he was 
 himself a constellation, — a system ! His path was eccentric, 
 and comet-like ; I will therefore (" by particular desire," — of 
 myself) depart from the general plan of the work, and devote 
 a few words to this immortal and unequalled character. And 
 first of all, truly speaking, Falstaff is a secondary person in 
 these dramas, — he w a " subordinate ; " the main plot of the 
 play could proceed without him. It was the circumstance of 
 Shakespeare's having introduced upon so many occasions per- 
 sons unessential to the plot, equal, if not superior, to his chief 
 characters, that suggested the plan of these Essays. 
 
Henry IV. 431 
 
 The character of Sir John Falstafif is, I should think, the 
 most witty and humorous combined that ever was portrayed. 
 So palpably is the person presented to the mind's eye, that 
 not only do we give him a veritable location in history ; but 
 the others, the real characters in the period, compared with 
 him, appear to be the idealised people, and invented to be 
 his foils and contrasts. As there is no romance like the 
 romance of real life, so no real-life character comes home to 
 our apprehensions and credulities like the romance of Sir 
 John Falstaff. He is one grand identity. His body is fitted 
 for his mind, — bountiful, exuberant, and luxurious ; and his 
 mind was well appointed for his body, — being rich, ample, 
 sensual, sensuous, and imaginative. The very fatness of his 
 person is the most felicitous correspondent to the unlimited 
 opulence' of his imagination ; and but for this conjunction, the 
 character would have been out of keeping and incomplete. 
 Fancy a human thread-paper with Sir John's amount of 
 roguish accomplishment ! No power of reasoning could in- 
 duce a motion of sympathy with such a compound. In most 
 men, wit is the waste-pipe of their spleen in contemplating 
 the happiness of others ; in Falstaff it is the main supply of 
 a robust structure, and is the surcharge of fun and good tem- 
 per. His wit is the offspring and heir to his love of laughter, 
 the overflowing of his satisfaction with himself, and his good 
 terms with all men. He keeps both body and mind in one 
 perpetual gaudy-day ; his is the saturnalia, the carnival of 
 the intellect, and his body he rejoices with sack-posset, and 
 his mind with jokes and roars of laughter; and with him 
 each acts upon and with the other, — the true sign of a strong 
 constitution. Falstaff's is not a " clay that gets muddy with 
 drink;" his sensuality does not sodden and brutify his 
 faculties, but it quickens their temper and edge. It gives 
 wings to his imagination, and— to use his own words — fills it 
 with " nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes." He is amenable 
 
432 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 to the charge of a host of vices, any one of which would 
 strand and shipwreck an ordinary character. He is an in- 
 dicted coward, a braggadocio, a cheat, a peculator, a swind- 
 ler, and a liar, &c., &c., and yet, withal, so far are we from 
 voting him to Coventry for all his delinquencies, there are 
 few of us who would refuse to "march through Coventry" 
 with him, at the head of his scarecrows ; and one reason for 
 this tolerance — not to say this sleeve-laughing encourage- 
 ment of his villainous courses on the part of all ranks and 
 classes — is, that he himself appears to have adopted and in- 
 dulged in them from an irrepressible love of humour and mad 
 waggery. He is no hypocrite ; and men, from instinct, and 
 especially your men of the world, can extenuate many vices, 
 rather than that of hypocrisy.. What bold impudence in that 
 speech ! " If my wind were but long enough to say my 
 prayers, I would repent." He also tells the Lord Chief- 
 Justice — who he knows well enough knows him — that he " lost 
 his voice with holloing and singing of anthems." His impu- 
 dence is sublime; and that very impudence forms no insig- 
 nificant item in his humour : for the grand secret of Falstaff's 
 wit, and humour too, consists in an impenetrable and imper- 
 turbable self-possession. He proposes Bardolph — one of his 
 rogues, as known as the church-steeple — to the silk-mercer as 
 security for his payment. He is never thrown off his guard ; 
 or, if so, he is never foiled : he recovers himself like a rope- 
 dancer. In the famous eleven buckram-men scene, when the 
 tables are turned upon him, and his scouring-ofT laid bare, 
 his resource is — " Do you think I did not know ye .' By the 
 Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye." When his 
 men. Pistol, Nym, and the rest, are accused before Justice 
 Shallow of robbing Master .Slender, while he is drunk, Sir 
 John takes upon himself to dismiss, the charge against them, 
 with those remarkable words : — " You hear all these matters 
 denied, gentlemen : — ^you hear — the men deny it." 
 
Henry IV. 433 
 
 His lying, which proceeds quite as much from an impulse 
 of humour as from a desire to deceive, is so florid and 
 romantic that no mortal is taken in by it, except his hostess, 
 Quickly, and she lends him ten pounds after having him 
 arrested for a debt. The broadest and most commonly- 
 known example of his lying is when he pretends he knew the 
 prince all the while that he is relating the encounter with the 
 eleven men in buckram ; but the richest specimen of his 
 varied talent at impudent cheating, lying, and roguery; surely 
 is the one just referred to — of the arrest by his landlady. It 
 is in the ist scene of the 2d Act, in the 2d Part of the play. 
 His explanation to the Chief-Justice of the cause of his 
 hostess's indictment is an epitome of his. whole conduct. He 
 says, " My lord, this is a poar mad soul, and she says, up and 
 down the town, that her eldest son is like you. She hath been 
 in good case, and the truth is, poverty hath distracted her.'' 
 The judge, not deceived by him for one moment, orders that 
 he shall pay her demand ; and while he is conversing with 
 Master Gower about the news of the rebellion, we hear Fal- 
 staff saying to his poor gull of a hostess — " As I am a gentle- 
 man !" "Ah! 'faith, you said so before." "As I am a 
 gentleman ! Come, no more words of it." 
 
 " Hostess. By this heavenly ground I tread on, I must be 
 fain to pawn both my plate and the tapestry of my dining- 
 chambers." 
 
 This move of hers has lost her the game. He takes advan- 
 tage of her parley, and answers her objection : — 
 
 " Glasses, glasses, is the only drinking : and for thy walls. 
 a pretty slight drollery, or the story of the Prodigal, or the 
 German hunting in water-work, is worth a thousand of these 
 bed-hangings and these fly-bitten tapestries. Let it be ten 
 pound if thou canst. Come, an' it were not for thy humours, 
 there is not a better wench in England. Go, wash thy face 
 and draw thy action. [We see that she has been blubbering 
 
 2 E 
 
434 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 and fretting.] Come, thou must not be in this humour 
 with ME. Dost not know me } Come, come ; I know thou 
 wast set on to-this. 
 
 "Host. Pray thee. Sir John, let it be but twenty nobles ; i' 
 faith, I am loath to pawn my plate ; in good earnest, la. 
 
 " Fal. Let it alone. I'll make other shift; you 'II be a fool 
 still. 
 
 " Host. Well, you shall have it, though I pawn my gown. 
 I hope you '11 come to supper. You 'II pay me altogether f 
 
 "Fal. Will I live r 
 
 He has won the day ; and then, turning to Bardolph as she 
 is going out, he says, " Go with her, with her ; hook on, hook 
 on." Is not this real life .■' 
 
 Falstafif is equal to any exigence ; he is never foiled, but 
 usually comes off with flying colours by means of his as- 
 tounding, and always laughable, effrontery. When this is 
 recognised and resisted, he still saves himself with a flash of 
 humour or a quirk. No one but Shakespeare could have 
 brought such a character in competition with the Lord Chief- 
 Justice of England, and yet have maintained the supremacy 
 of each party. At the close of the scene just quoted, as soon 
 as his hostess is dismissed, he turns with all the coolness of a 
 privy counsellor to the judge and Master Gower, and endea- 
 vours to join in their conversation respecting the news of the 
 rebellion. His lordship, however, gives him the cut direct, 
 by steadily addressing himself to Gower, and attending to 
 none of the knight's questions ; but Sir John is wide awake 
 to that "dodge," so he drives in between them and plays 
 upon the judge with his own guns. The Chief-Justice says 
 to Gower, " I have heard better news. 
 
 " Fal. What 's the news, my good lord .' 
 " Ch. J. Where lay the king last night ? 
 " Gow. At Basingstoke, my lord. 
 
 " Fal. I hope, my lord, all 's well ; what is the news, my 
 lord.? 
 
Henry IV. 435 
 
 " Ch. y. Come all his forces back ? 
 
 " Gow. No ; fifteen hundred foot and five hundred horse 
 are marched up to my lord of Lancaster against Northumber- 
 land and the archbishop. 
 
 " Fal. Comes the king back from Wales, my noble lord ? 
 
 " Ch. y. You shall have letters of me presently ; come, go 
 along with me, good Master Gower. 
 
 "Fal. My lord! 
 
 " Ch. y. What 's the matter ? 
 
 "Fal. Master Gower, shall I entreat you with me to 
 dinner ? 
 
 " Gow. I must wait upon my good lord here ; I thank you, 
 good Sir John. 
 
 " Ch. y. Sir John, you loiter here too long, being you are 
 to take soldiers up in the counties as you go. 
 
 " Fal. Will you sup with me. Master Gower .' 
 
 " Ch. y. What foolish master taught you these manners, 
 Sir John ? 
 
 " Fal Master Gower, if they become me not, he was a fool 
 that taught them me. This is the right fencing grace, my 
 lord, tap for tap, and so part fair. 
 
 " Ch. y. Now the Lord lighten thee ! Thou art a great 
 fool." 
 
 The effect of that little scene,— the impassible coolness of 
 effrontery of the one, and the irritation of the other, is man- 
 aged with pure dramatic art. It is also in accordance with 
 human action and passion, that the person (particularly one 
 in authority) who has been outwitted in a brain encounter 
 should be fidgeting for an occasion to redeem his faded dig- 
 nity. Old Gascoigne, therefore, watches the knight like a 
 rat-dog. This is the second check he has received at his 
 hands. He perceived him in the street; and knowing he had 
 been concerned in the Gadshill robbery, sends his attendant 
 to summon the knight before him. He, however, is quite 
 alive to the movement, and says to his little page—" Boy, tell 
 him I am deaf:" and with admirable humour he maintains 
 
436 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 his delusion. The scene, which is long, and ludicrous as long, 
 is the 2d of the ist Act, Part II. 
 
 Hazlitt says the best way to answer the impugners of 
 Milton is to " take down the book and read to them." Of a 
 surety, the best, and infinitely the pleasantest, way of deliver- 
 ing a summary upon the genius of Falstaff, is to select a scene 
 bearing upon each phase of his character, and allow it to pass 
 for both comment and illustration. But, then, may not this 
 be the case with all the characters in these plays, and of 
 course most especially with those that exhibit such broad 
 and varied marks of individuality upon them as this, the most 
 extraordinary creation of all his or any other writer's comic 
 personifications .■• 
 
 With the genial spirit in which his sweet nature was con- 
 ceived, Shakespeare contrives to throw in some dash of 
 feeling — a motion of our common humanity — some extenua- 
 tion, even in his worst characters; for, whatever they were 
 besides, they were also men, and unmitigated evil belongs 
 only to the origin of all evil — not to human nature. With 
 the accurate perception, however, of true morality, he has 
 not imparted to the character of Falstaff — attractive as it 
 is for its sociality, wit, humour, and imagination — any of 
 those intrinsic qualities which would set him up as an object 
 of imitation, — of course in his convivialities, his roystering, 
 and other laxities ; but he has associated them with the 
 meaner vices of profligacy, turning these to the fullest ac- 
 count in completing the character. Gross as the knight is, 
 and wonderfully as the poet has relieved that grossness by 
 the most brilliant flashes of wit and drollery, no mortal, it is 
 to be presumed, ever arose from reading the plays in which 
 he shines with a less firm appreciation of the wealth of virtue 
 in all its senses ; still less could any one desire to mimic his 
 propensities. This cannot be said of some modern creations 
 that might be instanced, which, from their sneers at sym- 
 
Henry IV. 437 
 
 pathy and mutual confidence — their constant depreciation of 
 the most generous feelings of our nature, inducing suspicion 
 and distrust of all human profession, would go to sap the 
 foundations of what alone can support the social fabric. 
 
 It was requisite to our poet that the dissolute young prince 
 should, in his scenes of extravagance, have immediately about 
 his person companions endowed with accomplishments suffi- 
 ciently eminent to induce him to " daff the world aside, and 
 bid it pass." He has, therefore, enriched Falstafif with infinite 
 wit and humour, combined, moreover, with uncommon saga- 
 city and acuteness in appreciating the characters and disposi- 
 tions of men ; but to these great qualities there is the set-off 
 of degrading and even rascal propensities. With talents less 
 brilliant, Falstaff would not have attracted Henry, who, his* 
 torically, was himself a man of talent and quick discriminar 
 "tion : with less bloated profligacy he would have attached 
 him too much, and by so doing have compromised the laws 
 of civilised society ; which, with well-regulated minds, form 
 also the dramatic law, — to show vice her own scorn, virtue 
 her own feature. 
 
 Pages upon pages have been written concerning this re- 
 markable character; and indeed the subject seems all but 
 inexhaustible, notwithstanding what has been said of his 
 being*the best commentator on himself One eminent writer, 
 several years ago, (Mr Barnes, editor of the Times,) contri- 
 buted some ingenious papers which appeared in the Examiner, 
 their object being to prove that Falstaff was not a coward. 
 What to say to this, decidedly, is questionable. "Decidedly" 
 he ran away at Gadshill ; he counterfeited death at the 
 Shrewsbury fight when Douglas attacked him ; and he 
 stabbed the dead Percy in the thigh, which act, with the lie 
 crowning it, villainous as it w;as, may rather come under the 
 denomination of knavery than non-bravery, because he turned 
 it to sordid advantage. And, lastly, when the sheriff's offi- 
 
43^ Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 cers are proceeding to arrest him, he bids Bardolph " cut off 
 the villain's head;" he offers no personal resistance himself. 
 Nevertheless, and notwithstanding all these and more "counts" 
 that might be adduced against him, the imputed cowardice of 
 Falstaff does not arise so much from a principle of fear — 
 downright, pallid horror — as from a constitutional love of 
 ease, a sense of enjoyment, and repugnance — from inability — 
 to disagreeable exertion. He does engage, it is true, in the 
 brawl with Pistol at Hostess Quickly's ; but even here he 
 first tells Bardolph to " quoit him down ; " and knowing the 
 amount of Pistol's mettle, he himself at last drives him out; 
 but, upon his return, he vapours about it sufficiently, as 
 though it had been his maiden fight. He says to Doll — 
 " The rogue fled from me like quicksilver." And she answers 
 — "And thou followed'st him like a church." He also in 
 the last battle took Sir John Coleville prisoner, who offered 
 no hint of resistance; for which courtesy he says — "Thou, 
 like a kind fellow, gavest thyself away gratis ; and I thank 
 thee for thee:" and, in speaking of his prowess to Prince 
 John, he says — " He saw me, and yielded: that I may justly 
 say with the hooknosed fellow of Rome, ' I came, saw, and 
 overcame.'" All this is but the cowardice of ease — and 
 fat. Now, Pistol is a blusterer and an unadulterated coward. 
 Parolles, too, is a fanatic in poltroonery — a devout coward. 
 The sense of fear, and its results, are totally different in the 
 two men, Parolles and Falstaff: how Dr Johnson should have 
 compared them for one moment is wonderful! Parolles is 
 dull, and mean, and bad-natured, as well as a coward. Fal- 
 staff cheated at every turn ; he kept out of hann's way, and 
 laughed immoderately at his economy of exertion and escape 
 from danger. In the fight, he " leads his ragamuffins where 
 they are peppered." He proves (as if in joke) the estimate 
 he gave of them to the prince, who says — " Tell me, Jack, 
 whose fellows are these that come after.'" 
 
Henry IV. 439 
 
 "Fal. Mine, Hal, mine. 
 
 "P- Hal- I did never see such pitiful rascals. 
 
 "Fal. Tut, tut! good enough to toss: food for powder, 
 food for powder; they'll fill a pit as well as better: — tush, 
 man ; mortal men, mortal men. 
 
 " Westmoreland. Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are ex- 
 ceeding poor and bare, — too beggarly. 
 
 "Fal. Faith, for their poverty, I know not where they had 
 that; and for their bareness, I am sure they never learned 
 that of me!" 
 
 By the way, his description of these scarecrows, and of his 
 manoeuvre in impressing them — to the misuse of the king's 
 exchequer — is one of the famous points in the character, and 
 a superb one it is, (Henry IV., Act 4, Scene 2., Part I.) " If 
 I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I 'm a soused gurnet," &c. 
 After having read it, the conclusion one must come to is, 
 that it is more the manner of one who has the courage to 
 laugh down strife and running into danger, than it i§ the con- 
 duct of a coward in grain. What can be a finer hoax than 
 his pulling out his bottle of sack during the fight, when the 
 prince desires him to lend him his sword } In short, I think 
 with Mackenzie, in his essay upon the character, that " his 
 cowardice may be placed to his sagacity, and that he has a 
 lively sense of danger, but not the want of self-possession 
 which arises from fear." But the finest dissertation upon the 
 character of FalstafF is decidedly the essay by Mr Morgann. 
 As a specimen of neat and elegant writing, with ingenious 
 special-pleading, it stands distinguished in our literature ; at 
 the same time it must be acknowledged that the author is so 
 bent upon proving Shakespeare to have intended the fat 
 knight to be considered a man of courage — absolute " cour- 
 age "—that the essay has more the air of a barrister's defence 
 than a calm dispassionate inquiry after truth. 
 
 The finest point in this wonderful character for vivacity 
 and brilliancy, I cannot but think, appears in those displays 
 
440 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 of fancy that now and then burst from him in a clatter of 
 images and similes, like the sudden explosion of complicated 
 pieces of firework. When he runs upon this vein his imagina- 
 tion seems inexhaustible, and that it could run on, and at 
 that rate, for ever. One of the most ludicrous of these exhi- 
 bitions of intellectual pyrotechnics occurs in the well-known 
 scene where Bardolph ventures his small talent at ridicule of 
 his master's corpulence, and is received with that tremendous 
 broadside of retaliation upon his own flaming proboscis : — 
 
 " Do thou amend thy face, and I will amend my life. Thou 
 art our admiral — thou bearest the lantern in the poop ; but 'tis 
 the nose of thee. Thou art the knight of the burning lamp. 
 
 " Bard. Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm. 
 
 " Fal. No ; I '11 be sworn I make as good use of it as many 
 a man doth of a death's head, or a memento mori. I never 
 see thy face, but I think upon hell-fire and Dives that lived in 
 purple ; for there he is in his robes, burning, — burning. If 
 thou wert any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy 
 face ; my oath should be, ' By this fire, that 's God's angel ! ' 
 But thou art altogether given over ; and wert indeed, but for 
 the light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou 
 ran'st up Gadshill in the night to catch my horse, if I did 
 not think thou hadst been an ignis fatuus, or a ball of wild- 
 fire, there 's no purchase in money. Oh ! thou art a perpetual 
 triumph, — an everlasting bonfire light. Thou hast saved me 
 a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in 
 the night betwixt tavern and tavern ; but the sack thou hast 
 drunk me, would have bought me lights as good cheap, at the 
 dearest chandler's in Europe. I have maintained that sala- 
 mander of yours with fire any time this two-and-thirty years, 
 - — Heaven reward me for it ! 
 
 " Bard. S' Blood, I would my face were in your belly. 
 
 " Fal. Gad a mercy ! so should I be sure to be heart- 
 burned." 
 
 This is perhaps the finest specimen of his " humour," with 
 imagination ; — the finest quotation of his " wit " — pure 
 wit, as regards thought and language — is surely the cele- 
 
Henry IV. 441 
 
 brated eulogy of Sherris sack ; — in the 3d scene of the 4th 
 Act ; — it follows, in the most natural way, after his parley with 
 that cold-blooded trickster, the young Prince John of Lan- 
 caster, who, in taking leave, says, " I shall speak better of 
 you, Falstaff, than you deserve ;" and the fine old self-appre- 
 ciater replies after him, "I would you had but the wit; 
 'twere better than your dukedom. — Good faith, this same young 
 sober-blooded boy doth not love me ; nor a man cannot 
 make him laugh ; but that 's no marvel, he drinks no wine!' 
 
 The last scene that we have with the fat old mountain of 
 flesh and iniquity is a somewhat affecting one ; and it should 
 seem, by common consent, that the poet has visited his sins 
 upon him with a degree of harshness. Moreover, it is not un- 
 usual with the critics to impute to cold-heartedness Henry V.'s 
 peremptory and sudden dismissal of all his old co-rioters. 
 It may be asked, however, what other course he could pur- 
 sue, upon taking the reins of government .' and, at all events, 
 to Falstaff he promised " competence of life, that lack of 
 means enforce him not to evil ;" and he concludes with en- 
 joining the Lord Chief-Justice " to see performed the tenor of 
 his word'.' That the knight and all his companions are, im- 
 mediately after the king's exit, packed off to the Fleet prison 
 by the judge's order, looks very like revenge for the old 
 offences that had passed between them. Nathan Drake say3 
 (quoting no authority) that the imprisonment of Falstaff was 
 the ultimate cause of his death ; and Mrs Quickly, in the 
 subsequent play of " Henry V.,'' before describing the death- 
 bed scene of the knight, says, "The king has killed his 
 heart." Stowe gives the following record of the circumstance : 
 — "After his coronation. King Henry called unto him all 
 those young lords and gentlemen who were the followers of 
 his young acts, to every one of whom he gave rich gifts, and 
 then commanded, that as many as would change their man^ 
 ners, as he intended to do, should abide with him in his court; 
 and to all that would persevere in their formerlike conver- 
 
442 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 sation, he gave express commandment, upon pain of their 
 heads, never after that day to come into his presence." 
 
 Certain it is, that we are accustomed to consider the thieves 
 and outlaws of the early periods in the same light and of the 
 same standing with the common highwaymen of the last 
 century ; and, morally, there was no difference between them ; 
 but, as a class, they were as distinct as the ancient minstrel 
 and the modern street ballad-singer. The great marauders 
 of former days were usually men sprung from the upper classes 
 in society; " younger sons of younger brothers" of the gentry, 
 who possessing no inheritance, having no useful accomplish- 
 ment, not being able either to read or write, and being despe- 
 rate in fortune, when there were no wars toward, and no 
 foreign pillage rife, turned their craft upon their fellow- 
 countrymen. The lively author of " Microcosmography," 
 (Earle, Bishop of Salisbury,) in his "Character," "The Younger 
 Brother," describes him precisely as here mentioned. He 
 says, " When he can get no employment as a soldier, he takes 
 to the road;" that is, turns highwayman. Bishop Earle lived 
 during the reign of the revered Charles II. The gentry have 
 contrived matters better for their younger incumbrances with- 
 in the last one hundred and fifty years, and the profession 
 of thieving gradually declined to the rank of the Du Vals ; 
 (who was a gentleman ;) thence still lower, to the Turpins, 
 and ending with the Jack Shepherds and the Abershaws. 
 Robin Hood, Earl of Huntingdon, was nothing more nor less 
 than a titled thief In the more civilised era of the nineteenth 
 century we steal the property of foreigners. 
 
 Shakespeare, of course, was as intimately acquainted with 
 Stowe's history as we; we may therefore conclude that he 
 had a motive in deepening the retribution visited upon the 
 profligate old knight, whose accomplishments had made him 
 an object of peculiar attraction and even of sympathy in his 
 reverses. 
 
Henry IV. 443 
 
 In the concourse and train of kings and princes, knights 
 and highwaymen, it is pleasant to come upon that little scene 
 in the inn-yard at Rochester, and listen to the natural talk of 
 those carriers, puddering about with their lanterns, telling the 
 hour of the night by the constellation " Charles's wain over 
 the new chimney," and grumbling at the new ostler's corn. 
 " The peas and beans are as dank as a dog,'\ and they " give 
 the poor jades the bots." All things have gone wrong "since 
 Robin ostler died ; he never joyed after the price of oats 
 rose." The whole scene, with all its still-life accompani- 
 ments, is like a picture by Teniers, or a rival chiaro-scuro by 
 Rembrandt. 
 
 The character of Ned Poins requires but slight mention. 
 He, by the way, was a "younger brother;" he says so ; he, 
 therefore, is a gentlemanly link between the royal thief- 
 general and his plebeian subalterns. Poins is Prince Hal's 
 shadow, and though not witty himself, is the cause of wit in 
 others ; witness Falstaff 's banter, " That Poins has no more 
 valour than a wild duck;" and "The prince favours him 
 because their legs are both of a bigness." 
 
 After Falstaff, the most perfect characters in the play are 
 Shallow and Silence, the Gloucestershire justices. Here again 
 we have Shakespeare's astonishing power in individuality- 
 portraiture. It is impossible to conceive a stronger contrast, 
 a more direct antipodes in mental structure than he has 
 achieved between Falstaff and Shallow ; the one all intellect, 
 all acuteness of perception and fancy, and the other, the 
 justice, a mere compound of fatuity, a caput mortuum of 
 understanding. Not only is Shallow distinguished by his 
 eternal babble, talking " infinite nothings," but with the flabby 
 vivacity, the idiotic restlessness that not unfrequently accom- 
 pany this class of mind ; (if such a being may be said to 
 possess mind at all ;) he not only tattles on — " whirr, whirr, 
 whirr," like a ventilator, but he fills up the chinks in his 
 
2^44 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 sentences with repetitions, as blacksmiths continue to tap the 
 anvil in the intervals of turning the iron upon it. But Shake- 
 speare has presented us with a still stronger quality of asso- 
 ciation in minds of Shallow's calibre, that of asking questions 
 everlastingly, and instantly giving evidence that the replies 
 have not sunk even skin deep with them, rushing on from 
 subject to subject, and returning again to those that have 
 been dismissed. For instance : — 
 
 " Shal. Oh, the mad days that I have spent ! and to see 
 how many of mine old acquaintance are dead ! 
 
 "Silence. We shall all follow, cousin! 
 
 "Shal. Certain, 'tis certain; very sure, very sure; death, as 
 the Psalmist saith, is certain to all ; all shall die. How a 
 good yoke of bullocks at Stamford fair .? 
 
 " SiL Truly, cousin, I wasn't there. 
 . " Shal Death is certain. Is old Double of your town liv- 
 ing yet.' 
 
 " Sil Dead, sir. 
 
 "Shal. Dead ! see, see ! He drew a good bow; and dead! 
 He shot a fine shoot. John of Gaunt loved him well, and 
 betted much money on his head. Dead! He would have 
 clapped i' the clout at twelve score ; and carried you a fore- 
 hand shaft a fourteen, and fourteen and a half, that it would 
 have done a man's heart good to see. — How a score of ewes 
 now.' 
 
 " Sil. Thereafter as they be ; a score of good ewes may be 
 worth ten pounds. 
 
 "Shal. And is old Double dead V 
 
 Again, for his repetitions. When he is preparing to enlist 
 the men for Falstafif: — "Where's the roll? where 's the roll.' 
 where 's the roll? Let me see, let me see, let me see. So, 
 so, so, so ; yea, marry, sir. Ralph Mouldy I Let them appear 
 as I call ; let them do so, let them do so. Let me see : 
 Where's Mouldy?" 
 
 His provincial habit of life is also indicated by his constant 
 recurrence to his metropolitan days, — the " m^d days that he 
 
Henry IV. 445 
 
 had spent at Clement's Inn." The idea of Shallow having 
 been a roysterer at any period of his life ! the very constitu- 
 tion of the man's mind confutes his boast, without the testi- 
 mony of Falstaff ; and that is the finest burlesque portrait 
 that ever was drawn : — 
 
 "This same starved justice hath done nothing but prate of 
 the wildness of his youth, and the feats he hath done about 
 Turnbull Street, and every third word a lie, duer paid to the 
 hearer than the Turk's tribute. I do remember him at Cle- 
 ment's Inn, like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring. 
 When he was naked, he was for all the world like a forked 
 radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife. 
 .He was so forlorn that his dimensions to any thick sight 
 were invisible : he was the very genius of famine ; you might 
 have thrust him and all his apparel into an eel-skin : — the 
 case of a treble hautboy was a niansion for him — a court !" 
 
 There is no point in which Falstafif's wit glows more bril- 
 liantly than in that remarkable power of exaggeration, and 
 the above (a portion only of the entire portrait) is a confirma- 
 tory specimen. 
 
 As if it were not sufficient triumph for the poet to have 
 achieved such a contrast as the two intellects of Falstaff and 
 Shallow, — in the consciousness and the opulence of unlimited 
 genius, he stretches the line of his invention, and produces a 
 - foil even to Shallow — a climax to nothing — in the person of 
 his cousin. Silence. 
 
 Silence is an embryo of a man, — a molecule, — a gradua- 
 tion from nonentity towards intellectual being, — a man dwell- 
 ing in the suburbs of sense, groping about in the twilight of 
 apprehension and understanding. He is the second stage in 
 the "Vestiges;" he has just emerged from the tadpole state. 
 Here again a distinction is preserved between these two 
 characters. Shallow gabbles on from mere emptiness ; while 
 Silence, from the same incompetence, rarely gets beyond the 
 shortest replies. The firmament of his wonder and adoration 
 
446 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 are the sayings and doings of his cousin and brother-justice 
 at Clement's Inn, and which he has been in the constant habit 
 of hearing, without satiety and nausea, for half-a-century. 
 With one of those side-wind indications for which Shakespeare 
 is remarkable, we are informed through Silence that Shallow 
 has ever been repeating the stories of his London days : — 
 
 " Ha ! cousin Silence, that thou hadst seen that that this 
 knight and I have seen ! Hey, Sir John, said I well ? 
 
 "Sil. That' sffty-five years ago" 
 
 ***** 
 
 At another time he says, as though Silence had been now 
 first introduced to him, " I was once of Clement's Inn, where 
 I think they will talk of 'mad Shallow' yet." 
 
 "Sil. You were called 'lusty Shallow' then, cousin'.' 
 Like a provincial-bred man, also. Silence thinks no heroes 
 can be so great as those of his own neighbourhood. When, 
 therefore. Pistol, in announcing the death of the old king, 
 says to Falstaff, " Sweet knight, thou art one of the greatest 
 men in the realm," Silence assents from politeness, but with a 
 reservation — "By'r Lady, I think he be; but Goodman Puff 
 
 of Barspn ." Again, when they are all at dinner, and 
 
 Silence waxes drunk, he suddenly falls to singing, so that 
 Falstaff says, " I didn't think Master Silence had been a man 
 of this mettle." 
 
 " Sil. Who, I .' I have been merry twic? and once, ere 
 now." 
 
 It is noticeable, too, that even this scene of conviviality 
 does not draw him out to the achievement of an entire song; 
 but he trolls out odds and ends, which he associates with the 
 last words he hears in the conversation. Shallow says, "^e 
 merry, Master Bardolph : [and to Falstaff's page,] my little 
 soldier there, be merry." 
 
 " Sil \Sings^ Be merry, be merry, my wife has all." 
 
Henry IV. 447 
 
 Again, when Davy pledges Bardolph— "A cup of wine, 
 sir!" Silence chimes in with, "A cup of wine that 's brisk and 
 fine." But the capstone to his revelry is when he accepts 
 Falstaff's pledge to a bumper, and the knight, patronising 
 him, says, "Why, now, you have done me right!" Silence's 
 reply is worth a whole mint : — 
 
 " Do me right. 
 And dub me knight, Samingo! 
 Is 'f not so ? 
 "Fal. 'Tis so. 
 " Sil. Is 't so f Why, then, say an old man can do somewhat" 
 
 So real is this extraordinary scene, that even his scraps 
 become shorter and shorter, at length ending in two or three 
 words; and when the party breaks up, Falstaff says, " Carry 
 Master Silence to bed !" 
 
 There is one speech by the " knight of the burning lamp," 
 the immortal Bardolph, which will answer the purpose of 
 comment and illustration of his character. It is when Shallow 
 asks him if his master. Sir John, be married .' and he replies, 
 "Your pardon, sir, a soldier is better accommodated than 
 with a wife." Shallow rejoins : — 
 
 " It is well said, in faith, sir ; and it is well said, indeed, 
 too. ' Better accommodated ! ' it is good ; yea, indeed is it. 
 Good phrases are surely, and ever were, very commendable. 
 ' Accommodated,' it comes of accommodo ; very good ; a good 
 phrase." 
 
 Bardolph thinks he is quizzing him for his use of the word, 
 and defends himself : — 
 
 " Pardon me, sir, I have heard the word. Phrase call you 
 it.' By this good day, I know not ^'s. phrase; but I will main- 
 tain the word with my sword to be a soldier-like word, and a 
 word of exceeding good command, by Heaven ! ' Accommo- 
 dated,' that is, when a man is, as they say, ' accommodated ;' 
 or when a man is — being— whereby — he maybe thought to 
 be — 'accommodated,' which is an excellent thing!" 
 
448 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 Not content with filling his scene with three such worthies 
 as Falstaff, Shallow, and Silence, the poet stretches on the 
 career of his imagination, and introduces that whiskered cat- 
 a-mountain, Ancient Pistol ; a character quite as grotesque 
 and amusing in his walk as the half-witted justices. Pistol, 
 however, is not an original invention of Shakespeare's ; but he 
 was intended to be a satire upon some euphuistic and bom- 
 bastious characters that are to be found in other plays of his 
 time ; and Mackenzie says that he has even taken identical 
 passages, in all their " robustious periwig-pated" absurdity, 
 and putting them into Pistol's mouth, they become the natural 
 effusions of a braggart and a poltroon. 
 
 If Shakespeare really intended to represent Falstaff .as a 
 coward, a white-livered fellow, although very questionable 
 that such was his design, he has produced a complete distinc- 
 tion in the effects of the passion in the two men. In Falstaff 
 it was policy ; in Pistol it was negation, an incompetence of 
 the principle of self-respect, as in Parolles. 
 
 Pistol is introduced to bring the news of Henry IV.'s death, 
 and he does it like a showman. This scene, with its variety 
 of character and richness of humour, will form a choice volun- 
 tary as conclusion to our homily. There -is Pistol with his 
 fustian ; Falstaff humouring him in his bombast, and spout- 
 ing blank verse, too ; Shallow bewildered and obfuscated, and 
 Master Silence whiffling his scraps of ballads. " What wind 
 blew you hither, Pistol ? " says Falstaff : — 
 
 " Pist. Not the ill wind which blows no man to good. 
 Sweet knight, thou art now. one of the greatest men in the 
 realm. * * * 
 Sir John, I am thy Pistol, and thy friend, 
 And helter-skelter have I rode to thee ; 
 And tidings do I bring, and lucky joys. 
 And golden times, and happy news of price. 
 
 " Fal. I pr'ythee now, deliver them like a man of this world. 
 
Henry TV. 449 
 
 " Pist. A foutra for the world, and worldlings base ! 
 I speak of Africa, and golden joys. 
 
 " Fal. O base Assyrian knight ! what is thy news 1 
 Let King Cophetua know the truth thereof. 
 
 " Sil. [Singing:] 'And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John.' 
 
 " Pist. Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons 1 
 And shall good news be baffled ? 
 Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies' lap. 
 
 " Shal. Hones): gentleman, I know not your breeding. 
 
 " Pist. Why, then, lament therefore. 
 
 " Shal. Give me pardon, sir. If, sir, you come with news 
 from the court, I take it there is but two ways, — either to utter 
 them, or to conceal them. I am, sir, under the king in some 
 authority. 
 
 "Pist. Under which king, Bezonian .' speak, or die. 
 
 " Shal. Under King Harry. 
 
 " Pist. Harry the Fourth, or Fifth >. 
 
 " Shal. Harry the Fourth. 
 
 " Pist. A foutra for thine office ! — 
 
 Sir John, thy tender lambkin now is king ; 
 Harry the Fifth's the man. I speak the truth : 
 When Pistol lies, do this, [makes a contemptuous gesture^] and 
 
 fig me, like 
 The bragging Spaniard. 
 
 " FaL What ! is the old king dead? 
 
 " Pist. As nail in door : the things I speak are just. 
 
 " FaL Away, Bardolph ! saddle my horse. — Master Robert 
 Shallow, choose what office thou wilt in the land, 'tis thine. 
 — Pistol, I will double-charge thee with dignities. * * * * 
 Carry Master Silence to bed. — Master Shallow, my Lord 
 Shallow, be what thou wilt ; I am fortune's steward. Get on 
 thy boots ; we '11 ride all night. — O sweet Pistol ! — ^Away 
 Bardolph! [Exit Bard:\ Come, Pistol, utter more to me; 
 and, withal, devise something to do thyself good. Boot, boot. 
 Master Shallow; I know the young king is sick for me. Let 
 us take any mans horses; the laws of England are at my 
 commandment. Happy are they which have been my friends, 
 and woe unto my Lord Chief- Justice !" 
 
 2 F 
 
XVIII. 
 
 3atc5artj tje CJitti. 
 
XVIII. 
 RICHARD III. 
 
 Shakespeare derived his authority for the dramatic history 
 of Richard III. from the life of that monarch written by Sir 
 Thomas More ; a biography well calculated for theatrical 
 purposes ; scarcely so for the sacred purposes of truthful 
 history ; for that in the person and character of the " crook- 
 backed tyrant," the engine of party misrepresentation was 
 urged to its greatest high -pressure power, few who have 
 looked into -the histories of the Tudor succession will be 
 hardy enough to deny. It is neither my cue nor my inclina- 
 tion at this period to enter the dark labyrinth of the contro- 
 versy respecting that signally bold usurpation, and to debate 
 the plausibility of a single individual's attaining the power 
 within the short lapse of a few months — of a few weeks, in- 
 deed, to compass the, death of his own brother; of three 
 noblemen, councillors of the successor to the crown ; of the 
 successor himself, with his brother; and lastly, of his own 
 wife :, but I would simply observe, that to give credence to all 
 that was written to blacken the memory of Richard for the 
 purpose of confirming Richmond in the succession, the reader 
 may afterwards, with like child-like faith, transfer his belief 
 to the veritable history of King Bluebeard, or of any other 
 
454 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 royal ogre. It is a remarkable fact, as Walpole has asserted 
 in his " Historic Doubts," that there is no proof at all of so 
 dire an atrocity having been committed, as the murder of the 
 young king and his brother in the Tower. Not their prison, 
 as is generally supposed, from our associations with that 
 building, from the uses to which it has since his time been 
 appointed : but their residence, as was usual in that period, for 
 the purposes of security as well as state ; where they had 
 their guards and their retinue, and where difificulty of accom- 
 plishing their assassination, by reason of all these combined 
 circumstances, and without its transpiring by one vent or 
 another, (the more especially as Brackenbury, the Governor 
 of the Tower, and Tyrrel, the reputed murderer, were both 
 living in the time of Henry VII., when confession and proof 
 of the deed would have advanced the interests of all parties — 
 both its perpetrators and the deposer of the York dynasty;) 
 the circumstance, I say, of there being no tangible clue to so 
 extraordinary a series of treasons, treachery, and murder, 
 should lead us to receive all history connected with the bio- 
 graphy of its leading characters cautiously and sceptically. 
 I do not mean to convey the idea that Richard III. was an 
 estimable character, still less an immaculate one ; but that all 
 the accounts that have come down to us concerning him were 
 written by political and temporising adversaries, even descend- 
 ing to the distortion of his body and limbs. Whereas, the 
 celebrated Countess of Desmond, who survived to an extra- 
 ordinary age, more than a hundred years, stated that she 
 danced with him at the coronation of his brother, Edward IV., 
 and that, with the exception of the king, he was- the handsom- 
 est man at court, Edward being celebrated for his personal 
 accomplishments. Now, making allowance, under the circum- 
 stances, for some partiality on the part of the Countess to- 
 ward's a man of Richard's rank and station, to say nothing of 
 his acknowledged courtly tongue, we cannot suppose him to 
 
Richard III. 455 
 
 have been the monster of deformity that he has been depicted 
 by his enemies. However, as already said, it is not my in- 
 tention to enter upon that dark problem — the fate of the 
 young princes, and the guilt or innocence of their uncle ; much 
 upon this point will be found to interest the reader, after 
 going through Sir Thomas More's beautifully-written, but 
 Lancastrian life of the Protector, and our popular histories, 
 which are grounded upon it, by turning to Walpole's special 
 pleading in his " Historic Doubts," also to that agreeable little 
 piece of antiquarian gossip, William Hutton of Birmingham's 
 "History of the Battle of Bosworth ;" and lastly, to the " Life 
 of Richard," by Caroline Halsted, a work distinguished by 
 assiduous and careful research, with impartiality of judgment. 
 My business is with Shakespeare's Richard, a delineation 
 of wonderful energy, vigour, and intellectual ascendency. 
 But no ordinary reader need be reminded that the " Richard 
 HI." of Shakespeare and the "Richard III." of the actors 
 have very little in common,^— so little, indeed, that Mrs 
 Inchbald, in her " British Theatre," has computed the number 
 of lines in the acting copy that have been retained from the 
 original drama, to consist of no more than three hundred and 
 thirty-one entire lines — scarcely one act out of the five ; the 
 remainder is a hash of scenes, speeches, scraps, broken lines 
 from other plays ; the dying speech of Richard, for instance, 
 being the curse uttered by Northumberland in the 2d Part of 
 " Henry IV.," upon hearing the news of his son, Hotspur's, 
 death ; and, to crown all. Gibber, who concocted this prodigy 
 of a medley, with amusing conceit foisted his own bombast 
 into the company of Shakespeare's magniloquence, and "with 
 its darkness dared affront his light." Some worthy atone- 
 ment, however, has been made in our own time to the poet's 
 insulted memory, by producing, in their original form., plays 
 which, for nearly a century, had kept possession of the stage, 
 bearing his name, (as cheats inscribe great craftsmen's names 
 
456 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 upon worthless goods,) but so mutilated, deformed, — even 
 totally changed and re-written, as scarcely to be recognised. 
 The reformation alluded to is in the case of the " Tempest," 
 and " King Lear," of which the former acting versions were 
 two signal examples of the disgusting morality and dramatic 
 taste of the Frenchified era of Charles II., and the age suc- 
 ceeding it. The experiment, however, was made some years 
 ago by Mr Macready, of performing this play according to 
 the text of Shakespeare ; and the same attempt was made at 
 Sadlers Wells, when under the direction of Mrs Warner and 
 Mr Phelps. In answer to the question I put to the lady as 
 to the spirit in which it was received by their audience, she 
 said, " Certainly with respect ; and that they were much im- 
 pressed by those terrible scenes in which Margaret of Anjou 
 appears." 
 
 Let not English playgoers profess a veneration for the 
 genius of Shakespeare while they allow CoUey Cibber's tiger- 
 cat version of " Richard III." to keep possession of their stage, 
 and to have the poet's name affixed as being the author 
 of it. 
 
 The Richard of our poet is a thorough man of the world, — 
 bold, practical, direct, and prompt. He is gratuitously as 
 well as politically cruel. Expediency with him is law ; it 
 were even his religion, if such a word could be combined with 
 such a being. He will pause at no obstacle to achieve a 
 purpose ; and at no result, however revolting, does he ever 
 relent. The wonderful elasticity of his genius carries him 
 over all barriers. "At one slight' bound, high overleaps all 
 bound " or limit to his desire. The whole of his career, to its 
 close — and most especially at the close — excites our admira- 
 tion from the wonderful energy and skill with which he uses 
 his resources. In our astonishment, we almost lose sight of 
 the former tyrant ; and — so innate- is the love and reverence 
 of power, with resolution, in the human mind — we contem- 
 
Richard III, 457 
 
 plate him solely as a brave man who has been over-mastered 
 and crushed by numbers. 
 
 The- leading characteristics of Richard's mind are, scorn, 
 sarcasm, and an overweening contempt. It appears as if 
 contempt for his victims — rather than active hatred and 
 cruelty — were the motive for murdering them. Upon our 
 first meeting him, in the play bearing his name, he sounds the 
 keynote to his whole character — that of contempt — in the 
 celebrated apostrophe to his own person : — • 
 
 " I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, 
 Cheated of feature by dissembling nature. 
 Deform' d, unfinish'd, sent before my time 
 Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, 
 And that so lamely and unfashionable. 
 That dogs bark at me as I halt by them." 
 
 His ambitious nature, his bounding, elastic intellect, but, 
 above all, his want of faith in goodness, conspire to produce 
 this tendency to despise and degrade every surrounding 
 being and object, even (as just quoted) his own person. 
 
 He is never sincere and truly in earnest but when he is 
 about to commit a murder. 
 
 " Then, since the heavens have shap'd my body so. 
 Let hell make crook'd my mind to answer it." 
 
 This is his introduction to the reader ; and in his last scene 
 he indulges the bitterness of his soul in a sneer at those 
 visions which, but a few moments since, have so appalled him ; 
 and he recklessly attacks the very power whose influence he 
 had just before been compelled to acknowledge. He then 
 says : — 
 
 " Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls ; 
 Conscience is but a word that cowards use, 
 Devis'd at first to keep the strong in awe." 
 
 It is to be observed, moreover, that the first feeling every 
 
458 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 victim excites in him is that of "contempt." The instant 
 they leave him, his first ejaculation — even in the throb of 
 triumph at the success obtained by his own intellect — is 
 always one of contempt for his dupe. 
 
 Upon Lady Anne's quitting him after that keen encounter 
 of their wits ; when he succeeds in wooing and winning her at 
 the very time that she is attending the funeral of her husband, 
 whom he himself had killed, he breaks forth into that demo- 
 niacal sarcasm : — 
 
 " Was ever woman in this humour woo'd .' 
 Was ever woman in this humour won } 
 I '11 have her ; but I '11 not keep her long. 
 What, I that kill'd her husband, and his father, 
 To take her in her heart's extremest hate ; 
 With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes. 
 The bleeding witness of her hatred by ; 
 Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me ; 
 And I no friends to back my suit withal, 
 But the plain devil and dissembling looks ; 
 And yet, to win her — all the world to nothing!" 
 
 After his scene with the court of Edward, in the ist Act, 
 he says, in all the boldness of a contemptuous supremacy : — 
 
 " I do the wrong ; and first begin to brawl. 
 The secret mischief that I set abroach, 
 I lay unto the grievous charge of others. 
 Clarence, — whom I indeed have cast in darkness, — 
 I do beweep to many simple gulls ; 
 Namely, to Stanley, Hastings, Buckingham ; 
 And tell them 'tis the queen and her allies 
 That stir the king against the duke my brother." 
 
 And the scene itself where Clarence is being conducted by 
 Brackenbury and his guard to the Tower ; and his making the 
 " simple Clarence," as he sneeringly calls him, believe that he 
 has been doomed to prison through the machinations of the 
 queen and her family, is' another instance of the contempt 
 
Richard III. 459 
 
 resulting from his sense of intellectual superiority over all 
 others that come in collision with him. His insolent and 
 vigorous supremacy in the following dialogue displays the 
 master-poet. After feigning his surprise at the act — which 
 he himself had ordained and compassed — he breaks forth in 
 a tone of indignant remonstrance : — 
 
 " Why, this it is, when men are rul'd by women : 
 'Tis not the king that sends you to the Tower ; 
 My Lady Grey, his wife, Clarence ; 'tis she 
 That tempers him to this extremity. 
 Was it not she, and that good man of worship, 
 Anthony Woodville, her brother there, 
 That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower ; 
 From whence this present day he is deliver'd .■■ — 
 We are not safe, Clarence ; we are not safe. 
 
 " Clar. By Heav'n, I think there is no man secure. 
 But the queen's kindred, and night-walking heralds 
 That trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore. * * * 
 
 " Brack. I beseech your graces both to pardon me ; 
 His majesty hath straitly given in charge. 
 That no man shall have private conference. 
 Of what degree soever, with his brother. 
 
 " Glo. Even so ! an please your worship, Brackenbury, 
 You may partake of anything we say : 
 We speak no treason, man. We say the king 
 Is wise and virtuous ; and his noble queen 
 Well-struck in years, fair, and not jealous. 
 We say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot, 
 A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing-pleasing tongue ; 
 And the queen's kindred are made gentlefolks. 
 How say you, sir } Can you deny all this ? 
 
 " Brack. With this, my lord, myself have naught to do. 
 
 " Glo. Naught to do with Mistress Shore .' I tell thee, 
 fellow. 
 He that doth naught with her,— excepting one, 
 Were best to do it secretly, alone. 
 
 " Brack. What one, my lord ? 
 
 " Glo. Her husband, knave:— Wouldst thou betray me ? " 
 
460 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 This turning of the tables upon the king's officer, and making 
 him the defendant, where he had been the plaintiff, is a speci- 
 men of Richard's suddenly available talent. . When the party- 
 have gone out, he says, with a diabolical jeer : — 
 
 " Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne'er return. 
 Simple, plain Clarence ! — I do love thee so, 
 That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven. 
 If heaven will take the present at our hands" 
 
 This should be the very triumph of insolfence and contempt, 
 with calculating cruelty. 
 
 Again, when Queen Elizabeth leaves him, after his argu- 
 ments have won her sanction to his addressing her daughter, 
 his contempt again breaks forth: — 
 
 "Relenting fool, and shallow, changing woman 1" 
 
 Even upon slight and casual occasions the same tone occurs, 
 and thus the harmony of the character is maintained. His 
 muttered sneer, upon receiving his mother's benediction : — 
 
 " And make me die a good old man ; 
 That is the butt-end of a mother's blessing." 
 
 Again, his lightly and carelessly sending the Bishop of Ely 
 for strawberries from the prelate's garden in Holborn, in the 
 midst of their conversation. Here we have an act of inso- 
 lence with contempt. 
 
 And, lastly, his cruelty and ingratitude towards his jackal, 
 Buckingham, who wrought hard to help him to his bad emi- 
 nence ; who had performed for him the ninety -nine time- 
 serving villainies, but cannot do the hundredth — that of mur- 
 dering the children in the Tower. All these examples, I think, 
 warrant our pronouncing the master-key in Richard's mind 
 to be " contempt," and which adds a venom to his cruelty. 
 And thus, again, the position so often maintained in behalf of 
 Shakespeare's genius — that, let us only lay hold of a clue in 
 
Richard III. 461 
 
 any one of his characters, and pursue it to the end, we shall 
 find all to be clear, harmonious, and consistent. In the char- 
 acter of Richard, I am not sure that the poet does not mean 
 to convey that his cruelty towards his species, for the purpose 
 of achieving the end of his ambition, is not the result of the 
 great leading characteristic of his mind — that of " contempt.'' 
 In all this complication of high intellectual qualities in the 
 character and conduct of Richard, Shakespeare makes mani- 
 fest his own instinctive and powerful sagacity in selecting, and 
 in his style of fashioning such a being for the hero of a great 
 dramatic poem. A mere human tiger, roused into action 
 only by the smell of blood, would have been but a subject 
 for a third-rate poet, and who would have made a regular 
 Sawney Beane of the character. But Shakespeare has in- 
 vested his Richard with a halo of accomplishment — he is in- 
 finitely superior to the persons by whom he is surrounded. 
 Speaking of his own genius, he says, and with a just apprecia- 
 tion : — 
 
 " Our aiery buildeth in the cedar's top, - 
 And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun." 
 
 With these qualities he has conjoined a wanton hardness 
 of heart ; a politic, and, upon occasion, even a ribald cruelty ; 
 and a total defiance and scorn of all faith in a principle of 
 goodness. He is as perfect an incarnation of evil as that 
 Satanic conception of the great epic poet. 
 
 Among the subordinate agents, in the play appears the 
 little York, a spirited sketch quite in Shakespea:re's own man- 
 ner. Quick, keen, and intelligent, he is precisely the lively, 
 observant child that might be expected as the growth of a 
 court and in troublous times, and yet manifesting all the 
 caution— consistent, nevertheless, with a sprightly, nature— 
 which such times inspire. He is first introduced with his 
 mother and grandam. Their /anxiety and dread^the sad 
 
462 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 consequences of experienced age, and such an age of turbu- 
 lence as they lived in — are beautifully contrasted with his 
 gay young prattle : — 
 
 "Duck I long with all my heart to see the prince : 
 I hope he is much grown since last I saw him. 
 
 " Qu. Eliz. But I hear no : they say-my son of York 
 Hath almost overta'en him in his growth. 
 
 " York. Ay, mother, but I would not have it so. 
 
 "Duch. Why, my good cousin.' it is good to grow. 
 
 " York. Grandam, one night as we did sit at supper, 
 My uncle Rivers talk'd how I did grow 
 More than my brother: 'Ay,' quoth my uncle Gloster, 
 ' Small herbs have grace; great weeds do grow apace.' 
 And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast. 
 Because sweet flowers are slow, and weeds make haste. 
 ****** 
 
 Now, by my troth, if I had been remember' d, 
 
 I could have given my uncle's grace a flout. 
 
 To touch his growth nearer than he touch'd mine. 
 
 "Duck. How, my young York } I prithee let me hear it. 
 
 " York. Marry, they say my uncle grew so fast. 
 That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old ; 
 'Twas full two years ere I could get a tooth. 
 Grandam, this would have been a biting jest. 
 
 "Duck. I prithee, pretty York, who told thee this.' 
 
 " York. Grandam, his nurse. 
 
 "Duck. His nurse ! why, she was dead ere thou wast born. 
 
 " York. If 'twere not she, I cannot tell who told me." 
 
 He had heard his mother say it. She rebuked him for 
 being "too shrewd," saying to the others, "Pitchers have 
 ears." Here is a touch of caution thrown in, the natural birth 
 of surrounding plots and machinations. 
 
 In Shakespeare's abundance of individualising various char- 
 acters of similar semblance, he has placed in juxtaposition 
 with little York the young son of Clarence, whose innocent 
 simplicity is no less natural than the other's innocent shrewd- 
 ness. The sweet credulity which can perceive no guile beneath 
 
Richard III. 463 
 
 kindly demonstration, and the boyish quickness which in- 
 stinctively discerns evil, without power to ward off its sinister 
 approach, are equally touching exemplifications of childhood 
 nature. How the pure, bright honesty of childish feeling 
 shows in those few words of Clarence's young son, when, 
 after describing his uncle Gloster's caresses, and his grandam 
 drops a hint of Richard's deceit, the boy exclaims, "Think 
 you my uncle did dissemble, grandam ? " she replies, " Ay, 
 boy." And he answers, with the confidence of a clear young 
 spirit, " I cannot think it." This comes with bright effect 
 against the sharpwitted precocity of little York's colloquy 
 above quoted. 
 
 The latter's pert and sly taunts to his uncle Gloster, in the 
 presence of the young king, are better known from their in- 
 troduction on the stage ; but they are most naturally man- 
 aged, and as skilfully contrasted with tlje sweet, gentle sketch- 
 of his brother, the little king, whose premature thought has 
 taken the character of pensive care and unnaturally early 
 wisdom. 
 
 Shakespeare not unfrequently makes his children talk bcr 
 yond their years, and at times almost greatly ; nevertheless 
 they still wear the childlike air and manner, — so completely 
 did he invest himself for the time in the spiritual garment of 
 each character as he summoned it to the scene. The ques- 
 tions the little king puts to his uncle Gloster respecting Julius 
 Caesar, who he had been informed was builder of the Tower, 
 and his precocious reflection upon the character of that great 
 Roman, strictly harmonise with his forced maturity of mind, 
 and yet the manner of his speech is youthful. He says : — 
 
 " That Julius Caesar was a famous man : 
 With what his valour did enrich his wit. 
 His wit set down to make his valour live : 
 Death makes no conquest of this conqueror; 
 For now he. lives in fame, though not in life'' 
 
464 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 Although here is sound philosophy, and that it is somewhat 
 precocious in reflection, yet how perfectly is the language 
 in which it is expressed that of a superior-minded child. 
 
 The description of these two innocent children, — " Fairest 
 flowers, no sooner blown than blasted," — as they lay victims 
 about to be sacrificed, forms an exquisite picture, and such a 
 one as Shakespeare, in the opulence of his mind, loved to 
 put into the mouth of a subordinate character. It is uttered 
 by Tyrrel, the agent of Gloster's cruelty : — 
 
 " The tyrannous and bloody act is done, — 
 The most arch deed of piteous massacre 
 That ever yet this land was guilty of 
 Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn 
 To do this piece of ruthless butchery. 
 Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs, 
 Melting with tenderness and mild compassion. 
 Wept like to children in their death's sad story. 
 ' Oh, thus,' quoth Dighton, ' lay the gentle babes,' — 
 "Thus, thus,' quoth Forrest, 'girdling one another 
 Within their alabaster innocent arms ; 
 Their lips were four red roses on a stalk. 
 Which in their summer beauty kiss'd each other. 
 A book of prayers on their pillow lay ; 
 Which once,' quoth Forrest, ' almost chang'd my mind ; 
 But, oh, the devil ' — there the villain stopp'd ; 
 When Dighton thus told on : — ' We smother'd 
 The most replenished sweet work of nature. 
 That from the prime creation e'er she fram'd.' " 
 
 The two murderers employed by Gloster to despatch 
 Clarence, are drawn with a terribly bold and masterly hand. 
 They are not only designed with a marked difference from any 
 other of Shakespeare's murderers, (such, for instance, as those 
 just quoted, and those in "Macbeth," who are gentlemen of 
 fallen fortunes,) but these have such perfect individuality as 
 to be unlike, and quite distinct from each other. Throughout 
 the scene you recogise the one ruffian from his companion, 
 
Richard III. 465 
 
 though no otherwise designated than as, " ist Murderer and 
 2d Murderer," being third or fourth class characters in the 
 play. From the preliminary short interview with Gloster, 
 where the ist Murderer alone speaks, and assures the duke, — 
 
 " My lord, we will not stand to prate ; 
 Talkers are no good doers : — be assur'd. 
 We go to use our hands, and not our tongues ;" 
 
 down to the scene where they perpetrate the deed, the first 
 man displays the bold, ruthless, callous villain, dashed with a 
 spice of ferocious humour; and the other is a vacillating 
 creature, whom circumstances, and not predisposition, have 
 made what he is. Here is a short portion of dialogue — not 
 familiarly known, but full of pithy meaning, illustrative of 
 the poet's discrimination, as well as distinction of character, 
 even in the least important persons on the scene ; and who 
 yet are of " similar mark and likelihood." The 2d Murderer 
 says : — 
 
 " What, shall we stab him as he sleeps .' 
 
 " 1st Mur. No ; he 'II say 'twas done cowardly when he 
 wakes. 
 
 " 2d Mur. When he wakes ! why, fool, he shall never wake 
 until the great judgment-day. 
 
 " \st Mur. Why, then, he '11 say we stabbed him sleeping. 
 
 " 2d Mur. The urging of that word 'judgment' hath bred 
 a kind of remorse in me. 
 
 " 1st Mur. What ! art thou afraid ? 
 
 " 2d Mur. Not to kill him, having a warrant for it ; but 
 to be damned for killing him, from the which no warrant can 
 defend me. 
 
 " \st Mur. I thought thou hadst been resolute. 
 
 " 2d Mur. So I am — to let him live. 
 
 " \st Mur. I '11 back -to the Duke of Gloster, and tell 
 him so. 
 
 " 2d Mur. Nay, I prithee, stay a little. I hope my holy 
 
 humour will change : it was wont to hold me but while one 
 
 tells twenty. 
 
 2 G 
 
466 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 " 1st Mur. How dost thou feel thyself now ? 
 
 " 2d Mur. 'Faith, some certain dregs of conscience are yet 
 within me. 
 
 " 1st Mur. Remember our reward when the deed's done. 
 
 " 2d Mur. Zounds ! he dies ; I had forgot the reward. 
 
 " 1st Mur. Where 's thy conscience now .' 
 
 " 2d Mur. In the Duke of Gloster's purse. 
 
 " 1st Mur. So when he opens his purse to give us our 
 reward, thy conscience flies out. 
 
 " 2d Mur. 'Tis no matter ; let it go : there 's few or none 
 will entertain it. 
 
 " 1st Mur. What if it come to thee again.' 
 
 " 2d Mur. I '11 not meddle with it ; it is a dangerous thing, 
 it makes a man a coward; a man cannot steal, but it accuseth 
 him ; a man cannot swear, but it checks him ; 'tis a blushing 
 shame-faced spirit, that mutinies in a man's bosom ; it fills a 
 man full of obstacles ; it made me once restore a purse of 
 gold, that by chance I found; it beggars any man that keeps 
 it ; it is turned out of all towns and cities for a dangerous 
 thing ; and every man that means to live well, endeavours to 
 trust to himself, and live without it. 
 
 " 1st Mur. Zounds ! it is even now at my elbow persuading 
 me not to kill the duke. 
 
 " 2d Mur. Take the devil in thy mind, and believe him not ; 
 he would insinuate with thee, but to make thee sigh. 
 
 " 1st Mur. I am strong-framed; he cannot prevail with mel' 
 
 After they have killed Clarence, the 2d Murderer, true to 
 his first infirmity of purpose, says : — 
 
 *' A bloody deed, and desp'rately despatch'd ! 
 How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands 
 Of this most grievous guilty murder done !" 
 
 The women in this play serve as means to exhibit the 
 power of Richard in swaying to his purposes persons the 
 most averse from him and his interests. They cannot with- 
 stand his will when once he sets resolutely to work to show 
 them what that will is, and to exercise his force of inteHect in 
 
Richard III. 467 
 
 influencing and bending their minds to his. Lady Anne is 
 won from the very side of her murdered husband's murdered 
 father's coffin to accept the suit of him who was the murderer 
 of both ; and Edward's widowed queen, in the midst of her 
 lament for her two princely boys, is lured into consent that 
 her daughter shall wed with the man who untimely stopped 
 their breath to usurp their crown and birthright, when he 
 deigns to use his subtle tongue in persuasion. And if all this 
 appear dramatic high-colouring, be it borne in mind that 
 there is historic repute in confirmati6n of it. 
 
 The only one who confronts him with dauntless unsubmis- 
 sion equal to his own is Queen Margaret. She has lost all — 
 has nothing more to concede, therefore she is beyond his 
 attempts to subdue. Her sum of wrongs invests her with a 
 martyred majesty which seems to place her above earthly 
 royalty. She steps forward and stands before him like an 
 accusing spirit, to arraign him for the blood he has spilt, for the 
 anguish he has caused. She comes face to face with him, like 
 an impersonation of woe for the murdered husband and son 
 his hand had slain, and seems a living pre-embodiment of 
 those ghastly spectres which subsequently haunt his remorse- 
 broken slumbers. The effect of Queen Margaret's appear- 
 ance, despair -crowned and breathing curses, in the earlier 
 scenes of the play — is that of a human ghost foreboding the 
 aftercoming of those shadowy apparitions of his victims that 
 surround Richard's tented bed on Bosworth field of battle, 
 which was to be his death-bed. 
 
 The character of Buckingham is here drawn with skilful 
 and consistent delineation. He is a weak man, morally and 
 mentally ; and, like many weak men, he instinctively clings 
 for support to a powerful intelleat like that of Richard, while 
 flattering himself that he assists and guides it by his own aid 
 and counsel. Buckingham is lavish in protestation— always 
 the resource of the weak, conscious of their own lack of 
 
468 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 strength in earnest meaning. He is duped by Richard's pre- 
 tence of submitting to his advice and direction, — a certain 
 mark of weakness in one unable to perceive Richard's supe- 
 rior intelligence. He is fluent and sophistical, — a sure token 
 of feeble wisdom and lack of sound argument. He is vain of 
 his powers of oratory, and has immense conceit of his gift at 
 dissimulation, — an infallible proof of wanting sense, both in 
 morals and understanding. He thus vaunts his ability to 
 deceive :— 
 
 -" Tut ! I can counterfeit the deep tragedian ; 
 Speak and look back, and pry on every side. 
 Tremble and start at wagging of a straw. 
 Intending deep suspicion ; ghastly looks 
 Are at my service, like enforced smiles ; 
 And both are ready in their offices, 
 At any time to grace my stratagems." 
 
 Such a boast as this made to Richard — that master in the 
 art of dissembling ! The effect is almost ludicrous of the man's 
 blindness of self-conceit. Accordingly, Richard, with his 
 humour of shrewd policy, does not fail to take inward-laugh- 
 ing advantage of it, and uses the vaunter as a convenient tool. 
 It is Buckingham who suggests the hypocritical device of 
 Richard's causing himself to be found by the civic train when 
 they come to offer the crown, engaged in pious-seeming 
 occupation : — 
 
 " Look you, get a prayer-book in your hand. 
 And stand between two churchmen, good my lord ; 
 For on that ground I '11 make a holy descant : 
 And be not easily won to our requests ; 
 Play the maid's part, still answer nay, and take it." 
 
 He is evidently vain of his slyness and cleverness in trick- 
 ery, and he proceeds to play out the got-up scene of farcical 
 " nolo coronari" between Richard and himself before the lord 
 
Richard III. 469 
 
 mayor, aldermen, and citizens, with all the relish of a weak- 
 minded and weak-moraled man. Richard makes him his 
 cat's-paw so long as it suits his purpose ; but the instant he 
 perceives that the weak-souled creature is even weak enough 
 to have conscience-qiialms after so much weakness of paltering 
 with right, he flings him by with the sneer — 
 
 " High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect." 
 
 He does not choose that the blind fool he has hitherto known 
 so subserviently hoodwinked and linked to his purposes, 
 should now presume to scan them, much less to demur and 
 shrink frofti their fulfilment. From first to last, Bucking- 
 ham's career with Richard contains an impressive lesson on 
 weakness enmeshed by unscrupulous strength, when involved 
 in the net by its own folly arid vanity. 
 
 Some of Shakespeare's most insignificant scenes abound 
 with .notable axioms and aphoristic wisdom. For example, 
 in that short and apparently unimportant one in this play, 
 where some citizens meet in the street and talk, gossip-wise, 
 about the ill-ordering of government from the factious state 
 of parties, the king's death, and the extreme youth of his 
 successor, the Prince of Wales, one of the citizens says, 
 with the grave prudential tone of mercantile foresight : — 
 
 " When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks ; 
 When. great leaves fall, then winter is at hand ; 
 When the sun sets, who doth not look for night > 
 Untimely storms make men expect a dearth. 
 All may be well ; but if God sort it so, 
 'Tis more than we deservd, or I expect 
 
 " zd Cit. Truly, the hearts of men are full of fear ; 
 You cannot reason almost with a man 
 That looks not heavily, and full of dread. 
 
 " ^d Cit. Before the days of change,; still is it so.. 
 By a divine instinct men's minds mistrust 
 Ensuing danger ; as by proof we see 
 
470 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 The water swell before a boist'rous storm : — 
 But leave it all to God." 
 
 The serene piety and resignation of this little scene, coming 
 in contrast with the treason and cruelty with which the whole 
 argument of the drama is fraught, is conceived in the full 
 spirit of Shakespeare's prevailing philosophy. 
 
 He is also accustomed to introduce a character as a sort of 
 chorus, to detail the progress of events to his audience, as the 
 choruses of the ancient tragedy were appointed to do. So in 
 this ; he has a short scene in the 3d Act, headed 
 
 " A Street — Enter a Scrivener" 
 
 who says : — 
 
 " Here is the indictment of the good Lord Hastings ; 
 Which in a set hand fairly is engross'd, 
 That it may be to-day read o'er in Paul's ; 
 And mark how well the sequel hangs together. 
 Eleven hours I have spent to write it over, 
 For yesternight by Catesby was it sent to me. 
 The precedent was full as long a doing ; 
 And yet within these five hours Hastings liv'd, 
 Untainted, unexamined, free, at liberty. 
 Here 's a good world the while ! — ^Who is so gross 
 That cannot see this palpable device i" — '• 
 Yet who so bold, but says he sees it not .' — 
 Bad is the world, and all will come to naught, 
 When such ill dealing must be seen in thought" 
 
 This slight passing scene appears to me accurately sug- 
 gestive of the smothered feeling of indignation that boils in 
 men's minds under a .tyrannical dynasty ; and, indeed, so 
 well is this under-current of opinion depicted in the subordi- 
 nate characters in Shakespeare's historical plays, that they 
 ought in nowise to be omitted in the representation, since 
 they form part of the perfect whole designed by the great 
 master. He, no doubt, intended that the minds of the 
 
Richard III. 47 1 
 
 audience, while dazzled by the glare of romance and pre- 
 eminence which surrounded the chief actors in life's drama, 
 should at the same time be presented with the counterbalan- 
 cing reflection of the ill effects produced upon the mass of the 
 people during the transit of such fiery meteors. 
 
XIX. 
 CORIOLANUS. 
 
 I DO not suppose that there ever was embodied a more per- 
 fect representation of the abstract principle of aristocratic 
 assumption than we find delineated in the play of " Corio- 
 lanus ;" the dramatic moral of which (as Hazlitt has sarcasti- 
 cally summed it up) is, " that those who have little shall have 
 less ; and those who have much shall take all that others 
 have left." Certainly there is no tyranny like the tyranny of 
 a class, whether it be patrician, plebeian, or military : and 
 perhaps the most oppressive of all is the government of a 
 soldiery, because its ruling principles are opposed to the 
 dignity of reasoning beings ; for it enforces unconditional and 
 implicit submission in the teeth of common sense, — and per- 
 emptory obedience even to the violation of the common law 
 of instinct and humanity. As an illustration of this remark, 
 I would require no stronger argument against the principle of 
 the '^One Institution," as Thomas Carlyle calls a soldiery, 
 than the simple fact, that there must have been hundreds of 
 men of high honour, and of as high intelligence, in the French 
 army that invaded Rome in 1849, who, from principle, were 
 opposed to the duty that they, by their oath of allegiance, 
 were compelled to fulfil. The machinery of a military des- 
 potism are the limbs of sentient mortal beings, and its aggran- 
 
476 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 disement, consummation, and glory, their sighs, and blood, 
 and tears, and death. That men who are born and educated 
 in that stubborn faith of the Meccan prophet, — that to die in 
 the lap of war is to insure an immortal retribution of elysian 
 glory and sensual enjoyment, — should "go to their graves 
 like beds," is reconcilable with a principle ; but that, eighteen 
 hundred years after the command, which we believe to be 
 Divine, was promulgated, — that men should " do justice and 
 love mercy ;" should "love their neighbours as themselves ;" 
 should "resist not evil," but "turn their cheeks to the smiter;" 
 and the whole Christian-professing world recognising and 
 preaching this command, — they should, nevertheless, train and 
 keep in sleek condition hordes of their fellow-men, like hounds 
 in a kennel, ready to let slip and be laid on any scent, the prey 
 of which is to be hunted down, is a thing which I cannot 
 comprehend, and cannot reconcile with reason ; it is, indeed, 
 the greatest moral anomaly of the Christian era. We daily 
 elbow in the street men who, we know, are in constant pre- 
 paration to stab a fellow-being at a word of command ; and 
 we think no more of their vocation than, if it were to cut 
 down so many trees. We feel no congeniality with the man 
 who is hired to take the life of an uncomplaining sheep ; but 
 we contemplate with complacency him who, for hire also, 
 has maimed and killed his fellow-men. 
 
 Is this incongruity to be reconciled by the fact, that man- 
 kind have an instinctive reverence for mere power; that they 
 are dazzled by the manifestation of physical force ; that they 
 are ever " strong upon the strongest side ;" that they sympa- 
 thise more with the general who has laid waste a town, than 
 with the terrified inhabitants who have fled houseless into the 
 unsheltering fields and roads >. A flying community before 
 an invading army ; a hunger-starved mob dispersed by fifty 
 dragoons, are not picturesque objects— not objects of respect; 
 we sympathise less with their discomfiture and destitution 
 
Coriolanus. 477 
 
 than with the triumphing power that has efifected it. There 
 are few whose breasts do not reverberate the exultation of 
 Volumnia at hearing the trumpets of her victorious home- 
 returning son, Coriolanus. It is a complete abstraction of the 
 aristocracy of war; and terribly grand is that bloody paean. 
 We lose the idea of a woman in the speech, and are absorbed 
 in that pagan personation of contest and carnage. Erom the 
 Roman matron she rises into an incarnation of the goddess 
 Bellona : — 
 
 " Hark ! the trumpets. 
 These are the ushers of Marcius : before him 
 He carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears : 
 Death, that dark spirit, in 's nervy arm doth lie ; 
 Which, being advanc'd, declines, and then men die." 
 
 All readers of " Coriolanus " scoff at and despise the starv- 
 ing citizens for their vacillation and ill-reasoning ; and all 
 entertain a tacit respect for the dictating power and mea- 
 sureless contempt that distinguish the hero of the play^ 
 Hazlitt goes so far as to assert that Shakespeare entertained 
 the same sentiment ; and he has paid- the poor compliment 
 to the great soul of the poet by explaining this emotion to 
 have arisen, in all probability, from some feeling of " contempt 
 for his own origin ;" but this can scarcely be the case, — for we 
 'find that his family was more than "respectable," in the con- 
 ventional sense, — ^its heraldry tracing to the reign of Henry 
 IV. ; but were this not the case, I believe his soul to have 
 been elevated far above the distinctions of class and rank, 
 although he sued for the privilege of his heraldic coat. His 
 was the aristocracy of mind. Besides, I maintain that, in his 
 finely-balanced mind and constant sense of even-handed jus- 
 tice, he has pleaded for, as well as against, the plebeians ; 
 and if they are to be reproached for incontinence and incon- 
 sistency, I find no special pleading in behalf of the petulance, 
 the inconsistency, and treason towards his native land, as 
 
478 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 manifested in the hero of the play. He has made out a case 
 for the hungry citizens, with all their folly and vacillation ; 
 and he has read no flattering lesson to the exclusive and 
 insolent patrician, with his vulgar scorn of what he styled 
 " the rank-scented many." This is one chord in the grand 
 harmony of Shakespeare's mind : we never find him making 
 any character or set of principles a stalking-horse behind 
 which to shoot his own prejudices, or even mere opinions, 
 whether civil, political, or religious, — so little, indeed, has he 
 done this, that it were difficult to decide upon the one ; and 
 it is still a question for controversy, whether he was of the 
 Reformed or of the old Catholic Church. He was most just, 
 as well as gentle-hearted, — ^the great master-spirit, as it were, 
 of human thought and human action, — too great to descend 
 from his altitude and identify himself with the party-pudder- 
 ings and squabbles of political Big-endians and Little-endians. 
 Well for him — and most well for the high cause of human 
 amelioration ! Had he given up to any party-dogmas " what 
 was meant for mankind," he had not at this moment been 
 the unquestioned authority upon every point in philosophy, 
 — civil, moral, and social j — the poet of humanity, — the prac- 
 tical teacher of our best interests in this life, by cherishing 
 good and kind deeds, and sweet, and cheerful, and grateful 
 thoughts, as opposed to selfishness and that deep immorality 
 which Thomas Carlyle boldly terms the " damnable putres- 
 cence of modern cant " — the cant of turning this green and 
 shining world, given to us by a boundless Beneficence, into a 
 sterile promontory of bigotry and hopeless ingratitude. 
 
 I have fancied that in the three superb Roman dramas of 
 Shakespeare, — " Coriolanus," " Julius Caesar," and " Antony 
 and Cleopatra," — we discern in his treatment of his subjects 
 a wonderful harmony of manner and language, according 
 with the several eras in which the scenes are laid. In the 
 early period of the Commonwealth, when Coriolanus flourished. 
 
Coriolanus. 479 
 
 we note a simplicity of manner, conduct, and even language, 
 congenial with the then inornate state of society. A massive 
 and Doric simplicity pervades the whole character of the 
 diction of the " Coriolanus." His celebrated apostrophe to his 
 native city, upon entering the Forum, is a beautiful specimen 
 of the language of the whole drama :— 
 
 " The honour'd gods 
 Keep Rome in safety, and the chairs of justice 
 Supplied with worthy men ! Plant love among us. 
 Throng our large temples with the shows of peace. 
 And not our streets with war." 
 
 When Julius Caesar flourished, the dialect had become 
 polished; his own "Commentaries" are pure classical lan- 
 guage; customs and manners had attained a high tone of 
 civility; the schools of , philosophy were instituted; oratory 
 walked in golden sandals ; Cicero was in his zenith. That 
 play, therefore, is saturated with forensic wisdom ; we have 
 grand set speeches, and references to the Stoic philosophy. 
 
 In the play of " Antony and Cleopatra" we have all the 
 lusciousness and languor of the Sybarite existence, with the 
 gorgeous imagination and oriental diction of a luxurious 
 climate. In no one of his plays has he surpassed the " Antony 
 and Cleopatra " in splendour and richness ; as Hazlitt has 
 beautifully said, " Shakespeare's genius Jias spread over the 
 whole play a richness like the overflowing of the Nile." It 
 is not too much to suppose that there was previous intention 
 in all this ; but what does it not say for his wonderful com- 
 prehension and harmony in design, forethought, arrangement, 
 and development ? 
 
 Among the secondary characters in this play of " Corio- 
 lanus," the most estimable, as well as the most interesting, 
 is old Menenius, the patrician and senator. He forms an 
 amiable link between the two orders ; he is precisely the 
 character a nobleman should be ; wearing the insignia of his 
 
480 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 rank with a bland and easy dignity ; gracefully condescend- 
 ing, and even familiar with the commonalty, sympathising 
 with their wants, difEculties, and privations; and this gives 
 him the privilege to speak to them with the authority of his 
 longer experience, with better education and knowledge. This 
 same sympathy, too, which they all recognise, gives him the 
 warrant to visit their misconduct and their senseless waver- 
 ings, their vacillations, irrational turbulence, and revolt, with 
 an asperity which they would ill bear from another who cared 
 less for them and their destitute condition. It is observable, 
 that throughout all his displeasure and petulance against the 
 mob, Menenius never makes use of a cruel or even unkind 
 speech : in his spleen he is sufficiently and humorously con- 
 temptuous ; but we hear no such expression as the scoundrelly 
 exultation of Coriolanus at the approaching war with the 
 Volscians,-when he say^ — 
 
 " I am glad on 't ; then we shall have means to vent 
 Our musty superfluity ;" 
 
 a speech admirably in character with one who considered the 
 masses below him in the commonwealth only as so much 
 material to build up his own pomp and ambition. Menenius 
 has described his own nature and temper in that sparring 
 scene between himself and the tribunes of the people, Brutus 
 and Sicinius. It is a happy display of a testy, wayward, and 
 humorous old man, with a rich vein of kind-heartedness run- 
 ning through his crusty temper. The scene is the opening 
 one of the 2d Act. 
 
 The character of Tullus Aufidius is well placed in opposi- 
 tion with that of Coriolanus. It is no vulgar foil, no bald 
 contrast ; but it is superficially bright only. Beneath a show 
 of martial eminence, which fits him to be the hero's antago- 
 nist, he possesses a low soul, which places him intrinsically 
 beneath the great Roman. Where Coriolanus is proud. 
 
Coriolanus. 481 
 
 Aufidius is ambitious ; where Coriolanus is loftily self-con- 
 scious, Aufidius is aspiringly self-seeking. Exteriorly, Tullus 
 forms no unworthy rival in arms with Caius Marcius; but 
 interiorly, morally, he is immeasurably below him. With 
 his usual delicacy, but vigour of delineation, the poet has 
 depicted this from first to last. At the very outset we be- 
 hold Tullus burning with desire to cope with Marcius, and 
 to win some share of that warlike renown for which he is 
 famous. He has a fever of military jealousy upon him, which 
 has its hot and its cold fits. He is seized with one of the 
 latter on finding that Coriolanus is under his own roof, a 
 poor and banished man ; finding his great rival thus within 
 his power, it allays his thirst of competition, and substitutes 
 in its place a complacent feeling of patronage, which takes 
 the appearance of chivalrous sentiment. But this impulse 
 soon passes, and his old professional jealousy is rekindled at 
 the first view of Coriolanus's reinstation in command. His 
 vulgar nature cannot bear the sight of the other's pre-emi- 
 nence ; and this perpetual consciousness of inferiority goads 
 him into ever sharper desire to attain superior rank. It 
 makes him basely rejoice when he beholds Coriolanus give 
 way to the pleading of his mother and his wife ; it impels 
 him to the villainy of working his downfall ; it urges him to 
 treachery and murder-crime. As an instance of Shake- 
 speare's subtlety in drawing these moral portraitures, it is to 
 be observed that Aufidius, even at the best of his behaviour 
 towards his noble rival, when he receives him with kindliness 
 at his house at Antium, always addresses him as " Caius 
 Marcius ;" and the secret rankling which prompted the name 
 is betrayed in open avowal where he subsequently calls him 
 so, and the other exclaiming " Marcius !" he retorts — 
 
 " Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius ; dost thou think 
 
 I '11 grace thee with that robbery, thy stolen name 
 
 Coriolanus in Corioli.'" 
 
 2 H 
 
482 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 His jealous sting of enmity is constantly revealed, not only 
 by acknowledged feelings, as where he says — 
 
 " At the last, 
 I seem'd his follower, not partner ; and 
 He waged me with his countenance, as if 
 I had been mercenary ;" 
 
 but also by side-wind touches of evidence. It is in the moral 
 inferiority of Tullus Aufidius, thus subtly drawn, that Shake- 
 speare has presented him as an effective opposite to the 
 principal character. 
 
 The Roman commander, Cominius, and the Roman officer, 
 Titus Lartius, are fine and spirited sketches. Cominius is the 
 patrician in every word and phrase. It is he who utters one 
 of the grandest and most poetical speeches in the play — the 
 panegyric on the deeds of Coriolanus, delivered before the 
 senators in the capitol ; it occurs in the 2d scene of the 2d 
 Act. He says :— * 
 
 " The deeds of Coriolanus 
 Should not be utter'd feebly. — It is held, 
 That valour is the chiefest virtue, and 
 Most dignifies the haver : if it bq. 
 The man I speak of cannot in the world 
 Be singly counterpois'd. At sixteen years, 
 When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought 
 Beyond the mark of others : — our then dictator. 
 Whom with all praise! point at, saw him fight. 
 When with his Amazonian chin he drove 
 The bristled lips before him : he bestrid 
 An o'er-press'd Roman,, and i' the consul's view 
 Slew three opposers ; Tarquin's self he met, 
 And struck him on his knee : in that day's feats. 
 When he might act the woman in the scene. 
 He prov'd best man i' the field ; and for his meed 
 Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age 
 Man-enter'd thus, he waxed like a sea ; 
 
Coriolanus. 483 
 
 And in the brunt of seventeen battles since, 
 
 He lurch'd* all swords of the garland. For this last, 
 
 Before and in Corioli, let me say 
 
 I cannot speak him home : he stopp'd the fliers ; 
 
 And, by his rare example, made the coward 
 
 Turn terror into sport : as weeds before 
 
 A vessel under sail, so men obey'd. 
 
 And fell below his stem: his sword, death's stamp, 
 
 Where it did mark, it took ; from face to foot 
 
 He was a thing of blood, whose every motion 
 
 Was tim'd with dying cries : alone he enter'd 
 
 The mortal gate of the city, which he painted 
 
 With shunless destiny ; aidless came off. 
 
 And with a sudden re-enforcement struck 
 
 Corioli like a planet: now all 's his ; 
 
 When by and by the din of war 'gan pierce 
 
 His ready sense ; then straight his doubled spirit 
 
 Requicken'd what in flesh was fatigate. 
 
 And to the battle came he ; where he did 
 
 Run reeking o'er the lives of men, as if 
 
 'Twere a perpetual spoil : and till we call'd 
 
 Both field and city ours, he never stood 
 
 To ease his breast with panting." 
 
 Titus Lartius, the sturdy veteran, proclaims himself in 
 some of the first words he utters : — 
 
 " I'll lean upon one crutch, and fight with t' other, 
 Ere stay behind this business." 
 
 And the whole subsequent tone of the character is true to the 
 bold announcing key-note thus struck. 
 
 Sicinius and Brutus, the two tribunes of the people, are 
 thorough specimens of a brace of vulgar demagogues. In 
 their very first scene, they manifest the grudging envy, the 
 malignant spirit which actuates them against Marcius ; and 
 their vile nature exposes itself in the low motives they attri- 
 bute to him. They are constantly on the watch for factious 
 * Won the garland from all swords. 
 
484 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 opposition and vexatious objection. They meanly incite the 
 people, and prompt them into animosity against him. They 
 take advantage of his defects of temper — his irascible and tor- 
 nado disposition — to urge him into self-destruction. They do 
 this with the little cunning of little minds, and the unscrupu- 
 lousness of base politicians. It is principally their venting 
 their splenetic remarks behind his back which gives so hate- 
 ful an effect to their comments : had they urged their objec- 
 tions to his face, they might, and they ought to have com- 
 manded atterition, for there is truth in what they adduce of 
 his overweening pride. It is their hole-and-corner plotting 
 and scheming, as well as animadverting surreptitiously, which 
 imparts so dastardly a character to their movements ; by not 
 daring to impeach him openly, betraying their sense that 
 they cannot do so with strict justice. The unfairness with 
 which these faction-mongers proceed, is indicated in strong 
 colours where they order the man, who brings the unwelcome 
 news that the Volsces are marching upon Rome, "to be 
 whipped," accusing him of having raised the report for mere 
 party purpose. One exclaims, "Nothing but his report!" 
 and the other, on hearing the addition that Marcius is said to 
 lead the Volscian power, rejoins — 
 
 " Rais'd only that the weaker sort may wish 
 God Marcius home again. 
 
 " Sicin. The very trick on't !" 
 
 Ay, precisely the kind of trick that these gentry were well 
 versed in ; the trick of spreading false reports to stir popular 
 excitement. No wonder they suspected it to be a hatched 
 rumour, and ordered the fellow who promulgated it to be 
 forthwith scourged. No one better than they could estimate 
 his desert. 
 
 This play is rich in short secondary scenes — of much signifi- 
 cance, notwithstanding their brevity and apparent unimport- 
 ance, and which serve to exemplify Shake.speare's system of 
 
Coriolanus. 485 
 
 art in this respect. Witness all the mob or citizen scenes ; 
 the one between a Roman and a Volsce,^ in the 3d scene of 
 the 4th Act ; that between Aufidius and his lieutenant, in 
 the 7th scene of the 4th Act ; and the sth of the 5th 
 Act, where Tullus Aufidius, the three or four conspira- 
 tors of his faction, and the lords of Antium, meet to con- 
 fer respecting Coriolanus's having committed the Volscian 
 cause. In this last scene the various interested motives which 
 sway each set of speakers in turn, while all are discussing the 
 same point and affecting to deplore ike others' loss, are made 
 amusingly, though incidentally apparent. Aufidius betrays 
 his besetting military jealousy ; the conspirators betray their 
 disappointment at missing the expected Roman spoil ; and 
 the lords of the city show their dissatisfaction that " the bene- 
 fit of our levies " should have been " given away." Shake- 
 speare saw into, and made men reveal, their secret hearts like 
 a recording angel. 
 
 There is but one subordinate character among the females 
 in this play, and that is Valeria, the friend of Volumnia and 
 Virgilia. The part is necessarily a very slight one; yet, 
 being a patrician lady, and an intimate of the principals, the 
 poet takes occasion to exalt her qualities with the reader 
 through a third party. Coriolanus describes her as 
 
 " The noble sister of Publicola, 
 The moon of Rome ; chaste as the icicle 
 That's curded by the frost from purest snow. 
 And hangs on Dian's temple " 
 
 A passage which, for the beauty of the poetry, and as a 
 lustrous image of woman's perfection, I should suppose has 
 never been surpassed. In the 3d scene of the ist Act, where 
 Valeria comes to pay a morning visit to the two ladies, we 
 again have an example — even upon so minim an occasion^- 
 of Shakespeare's perception of all the characteristic points to 
 
486 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 be produced, and with advantage. One would suppose, from 
 this effective little scene, that he had put himself upon " a 
 course" of etiquette, and had taken honours and degrees in 
 the science of making " morning calls." Ladies, I believe, 
 upon these occasions — those at least who are well-bred and 
 sweet-tempered — always select a subject for conversation 
 which shall be most grateful to the ear of their hostess ; so 
 the courtly Valeria knows that nothing can better please the 
 mother and grandmother than to talk about and praise the 
 little Marcius ; and an admirable picture she draws of the 
 future warrior. The grandmother, Volumnia, says — " He had 
 rather see the swords and hear a drum, than look upon his 
 schoolmaster." The visitor replies — " On my word, the 
 father's son. I '11 swear 'tis a very pretty boy. O' my 
 troth, I looked upon him o' Wednesday half-an-hour to- 
 gether ; he has such a confirmed countenanced In that com- 
 prehensive term of one word Shakespeare has conveyed the 
 perfect ideal of a self-willed character. It has been frequently 
 remarked that we cannot alter a phrase or an epithet of his 
 without injuring it. Let any one try to select a word more 
 apt to the purpose in this instance of conveying the idea of a 
 sturdy child, and his success will be fortunate — not to say, 
 singular. Valeria continues — 
 
 " I saw him run after a gilded butterfly ; and when he 
 caught it, he let it go again ; and after it again ; and over 
 and ove.r he comes, and up again ; catched it again : or 
 whether his fall enraged him, or how 'twas, he did so set his 
 teeth and tear it ; O I warrant, how he mammocked it !" 
 
 There 's the epitome of the father who " fluttered the Vol- 
 scians about, like an eagle in a dove-cote." Here 's strict 
 harmony of keeping. The grandmother, only too proud of 
 the child, can pay the act no higher compliment in her own 
 mind, than by pronouncing it "one of his father's moods." 
 
Coriolanus. 487 
 
 She has just before, in the true spirit of a Roman woman, 
 affirmed — 
 
 " The breasts of Hecuba, 
 When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier 
 Than Hector's forehead, when it spit forth blood 
 At Grecian swords contending." 
 
 After reading this very unimportant part of Valeria, and 
 which consists of but about half-a-dozen short sentences, no 
 one, I should think, would be so hardy as to maintain (which 
 nevertheless has been asserted in the fanatical spirit of criti- 
 cism) that Shakespeare sloyened his insignificant characters 
 in order to throw his principals into high relief. Even the 
 common soldiers in this play have their full appointment, 
 and an honourable one it is. Heretofore in several instances 
 notice has been taken of the pains he has bestowed in deline- 
 ating all the component qualities that go to form the legiti- 
 mate common soldier. In a collective body, the soldier is of 
 "no mark or likelihood ;" he is one rand in the great rope of 
 an army, whose aggregate might is to tear down or raise up 
 empires. A body of soldiers looks like one man seen through 
 a multiplying lens; a thousand are marching like one, and 
 one is multiplied into a thousand. Not only do they move 
 simultaneously, but they seem as if one thought actuated the 
 whole mass. Abstractedly and distinctively, however, the 
 common soldier is an object of no common interest ; and our 
 poet evidently thought so, from the position he has assigned 
 him in the several plays of " All 's Well that Ends Well," 
 " Henry V.," " Antony and Cleopatra," and in the one now 
 under consideration. The occupation of the soldier is to 
 march, countermarch, fight, storm towns, sever nations, and 
 dislocate empires. He does not appear to be a denizen of 
 the land that gave him birth ; he should always be abroad ; 
 and when he returns home, he should be sent abroad again ; 
 and he himself seems to think so, for he looks upon fais own 
 
48.8 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 country only as a resting-place till some active foreign duty 
 turns up, and then he undertakes it with the same coolness 
 that a reaper goes to the harvest-field. He is a fine pictu- 
 resque character, too, the common soldier. He goes through 
 his toiling eventful life under suns that scorch like a blast- 
 furnace, in infectious swamps, or on bleaching plains ; and in 
 the twilight of existence he creeps home, mayhap both 
 maimed and rheumatic in all his joints, to die in a hospital. 
 His career, indeed, is jestingly summed up by the Clown in 
 " Pericles." — " What would you have me do .' go to the wars, 
 would you "i where a man may serve seven years for the loss 
 of a leg, and have not money in the end to buy him a wooden 
 one." 
 
 The English common soldier has not a chance of the high- 
 est advancement in his profession ; and this, if an injustice, 
 at all events renders him an object of additional interest 
 and sympathy ; and perhaps it is well for him that it should 
 be so, for he has no inducement to be envious of his comrades 
 in rank. A gap that is made by death in Eis order does not 
 advance him. He is disinterested ; and another attractive 
 feature in his character is, that he is devoid of meanness. 
 My heart aches when I contemplate a common soldier, be- 
 cause I feel that there is a fellow-creature, most probably 
 possessing many of my own sympathies for his species, whose 
 eyes would fill with tears at a tale of noble sorrow ; and who, 
 nevertheless, commits a whole life of mistake in contributing 
 to the cause of that sorrow. May the fulfilment of that time 
 speedily arrive — and it must arrive, or Christianity is an insti- 
 tution of this world — when every brother, of every clime and 
 colour, shall "sit under his own vine and his own fig-tree, 
 and no man shall make him afraid." 
 
 The scene alluded to in this play is the vivid conversation 
 of Tullus Aufidius's soldiers when the banished Coriolanus 
 comes to claim the protection of his enemy's hearth. There 
 
Coriolanus. 489 
 
 is not a more characteristic dialogue in the whole drama ; or, 
 of its class, in any other of the poet's dramas, while there are 
 several touches of nature and of human action fully worthy 
 of the prominent parts. Here is an abridgment of the whole 
 scene, (the Sth of the 4th Act,) containing that portion only in 
 which the soldiers are engaged : — 
 
 >" Scene — A Hall in Tullus Aufidiu^s House — Music within — 
 Enter a Servant. 
 " 1st Serv. Wine, wine, wine ! What service is here ! I 
 think our fellows are asleep. \^Exit. 
 
 " Enter a second Servant. 
 
 "zd Serv. Where's Cotus.' My master calls for him. — 
 Cotus ! \Exit. 
 
 " Enter CORIOLANUS. 
 " Cor. A goodly house. The feast smells well ; but I appear 
 not like a guest. 
 
 "Re-enter ist SERVANT. 
 " \st Serv. What would you have, friend } Whence are 
 you } Here 's no place for you : — pray go to the door. 
 
 " Cor. [Aside.l I have deserved no better entertainment in 
 being Coriolanus. 
 
 "Re-enter 2d Servant.. 
 
 " 2d Serv. Whence are you, sir ? Has the Porter his eyes 
 in his head that he gives entrance to such companions ? Pray, 
 get you out. 
 
 " Cor. Away ! 
 
 " 1st Serv. Away ? Get you away. 
 
 " Cor. Now, thou art troublesome. 
 
 " 2d Serv. Are you so brave .' I '11 have you talked with 
 anon. 
 
 " Enter 3d SERVANT. The first meets him. 
 
 " id Serv. What fellow 's this ? 
 
 " \st Serv., A strange one as ever I looked on ; I cannot 
 get him out of the house. Prithee, call my master to him. 
 
 " 3^ Serv. What have you to do here, fellow > Pray you, 
 avoid the house. 
 
490 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 " Cor. Let me but stand ; I will not hurt your hearth. 
 
 " 3^ Serv. What are you ? 
 
 " Cor. A gentleman. 
 
 " id Serv. A marvellous poor one. 
 
 " Cor. True ; so I am. 
 
 " id Serv. Pray you, ' poor gentleman,' take up some other 
 station ; here 's no place for you. Pray you, avoid. Come. 
 
 " Cor. Follow your function ; go, and batten on cold bits. 
 
 \Pushes him away. 
 
 " id Serv. What, will you not ? Prithee, tell my master 
 what a strange guest he has here. 
 
 " 2d Serv. And I shall. [Exit. 
 
 " id Serv. Where dwellest thou .' 
 
 " Cor. Under the canopy. 
 
 " id Serv. Under the canopy ! 
 
 " Cor. Ay. 
 
 " id Serv. Where 's that .' 
 
 " Cor. V the city of the kites and crows. 
 
 " id Serv. V the city of kites and crows .' What an ass it 
 is ! Then thou dwellest with daws, too .' 
 
 " Cor. No ; I serve not thy master. * * * Thou prat'st, 
 and prat'st. Serve with thy trencher. Hence ! 
 
 [Beats him away. 
 
 " Enter AuFiDius and 2d Servant. 
 
 " Auf. Where is this fellow .' 
 
 "■zd Serv. Here, sir. I'd have beaten him like a dog, but 
 for disturbing the lords within. 
 
 "Auf. Whence com'st thou .■" What would'st thou ? Thy 
 name ? * * * * 
 
 " Cor. A name unmusical to the Volscians' ears, and harsh 
 in sound to thine. 
 
 "Auf. Say, what 's thy name } 
 
 Thou hast a grim appearance, and thy face 
 Bears a command in 't ; though thy tackle 's torn 
 Thou show'st a noble vessel. What 's thy name .' 
 
 " Cor. My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done 
 To thee particularly, and to all the Volsces, 
 
Coriolanus. 49 ^ 
 
 Great hurt and mischief ; thereto witness may 
 My surname, Coriolanus." 
 
 He then relates the circumstance of his banishment, and 
 willingness to join issue with his old enemy to lay waste his 
 native country. The two, hand in hand, go in, and the ser- 
 vants advance : — 
 
 " xst Serv. Here 's a strange alteration ! 
 
 " 2d Serv. By my hand, I had thought to have strucken 
 him with a cudgel ; and yet my mind gave me ; his clothes 
 made a false report of him. 
 
 " \st Serv. What an arm he has ! He turned me about 
 with his finger and thumb, as one would set up a top. 
 
 " zd Serv. Nay, I knew by his face that there was some- 
 thing in him. He had, sir, a kind of face, methought, — I can- 
 not tell how to term it. 
 
 " \st Serv. He had so; looking, as it were, — would I were 
 hanged, but I thought there was more in him than I could 
 think. 
 
 " 2d Serv. So did I, I '11 be sworn. He is simply the rarest 
 man i' the world. 
 
 " xst Serv. I think he is ; but a greater soldier than he, you 
 
 wot one. 
 
 " 2d Serv. Who .' my master ">. 
 
 " \st Serv. Nay, it 's no matter for that. 
 
 " 2d Serv. Worth six on him. 
 
 " \st Serv. Nay, not so neither; but I take him to be the 
 greater soldier. 
 
 " 2d Serv. 'Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to say 
 that. For the defence of a town our general is excellent. 
 
 " ist Serv. Ay, and for an assault too. 
 
 " Re-enter 3d Servant. 
 " id Serv. Oh, slaves ! I can tell you news ; news, you 
 
 rcLSC3.1s 
 
 " 1st Serv. What— what— what .? Let 's partake. 
 " id Serv. I would not be a Roman of all nations : I had 
 as lief be a condemned man. 
 « tst and 2d Serv. Wherefore ? Wherefore .? 
 
492 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 " id Serv. Why, here 's he that was wont to thwack our 
 general — Caius Marcius. 
 
 " \st Serv. Why. do you say ' thwack our general ? ' 
 
 " 3^ Serv. I do not say thwack our general; but he was 
 always good enough for him. 
 
 " 2d Serv. Come, we are fellows and friends : he was ever 
 too hard for him ; I have heard him say so himself. 
 
 " \st Serv. He was too hard for him directly, to say the 
 truth on't' before Corioli, he scotched him and notched him 
 like a carbonado. 
 
 " 2d Serv. An he had been cannibally given, he might have 
 broiled and eaten him too. 
 
 " 1st Serv. But, more of thy news. 
 
 " id Serv. Why, he 's so made on here within, as if he were 
 son and heir to Mars : set at upper end o' the table ; no 
 question asked him by any of the senators, but they stand 
 bald before him. Our general himself makes a mistress of 
 him ; sanctifies himself with 's hand, and turns up the white o' 
 the eye to his discourse. But the bottom o' the news is, our 
 general is cut i' the middle, and but one half of what he was 
 yesterday ; for the other has half, by the grant and entreaty 
 of the whole table. He '11 go, he says, and sowle the' Porter 
 of Rome gates by the ears. He will mow down all before 
 him, and leave his passage polled. 
 
 " 2d Serv. And he 's as like to do it as any man I can 
 imagine. 
 
 " id Serv. Do 't ! — he will do 't ; for, look you, sir, he has 
 as many friends as enemies ; which friends, sir, as it were, 
 durst not — look you, sir — show themselves, as we term it, — 
 his friends, whilst he 's in directitude. 
 
 " 1st Serv. ' Directitude ! ' What 's that ? 
 
 "id Setv. But when they shall see, sir, his crest up again, 
 and the man in blood, they will - out of their burrows, like 
 conies after rain, and revel all with him. 
 
 " 1st Serv. But when goes this forward ? 
 
 " id Serv. To-morrow; to-day; presently; you shall have 
 the drum strike up this afternoon : 'tis, as it were, a parcel of 
 their feast, and to be executed ere they wipe their lips. 
 
 " 2d Serv. Why, then, we shall have a stirring world again. 
 
Coriolanus. 493 
 
 This peace is nothing but to rust iron, increase tailors, and 
 breed ballad-makers. 
 
 " 1st Serv. Let me have war, say I : it exceeds peace as far 
 as day does night: it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of 
 vent. Peace is a very apoplexy,— lethargy ; mulled, deaf, 
 sleepy, insensible ; * * * and it makes men hate one 
 another. 
 
 " $d Serv. Reason ; because they then less need one another!' 
 
 There is a class of men who, from their natural powers, 
 seem born to command ; but who, from a restless and jealous 
 spirit, can bear no one near their state; proud, imperious, 
 domineering, insolent, they must be the " be all, and the end 
 all, here," — ay, and " hereafter " too, if the thing were pos- 
 sible. Men, whose talents all per-force admire ; but with 
 whom — from their overbearing tempers — no one can act. 
 Such, in a great mea'sure, seems to have signalised the career 
 of Coriolanus. In his triumphs all bore testimony to his 
 merit, — even the commonalty whom he hated, and who knew 
 that he hated them : when, however, the plebeian faction 
 became predominant, the tempestuous disposition of the man 
 spurned all counsel — all entreaties to temporise and ma- 
 noeuvre; — no! they should "unroof the city" before he would 
 abate one jot of his will. He was therefore deserted by his 
 own " order," and " whooped " out of his birthplace by the 
 men he had despised. What a grand moral lesson ! 
 
 This noble drama is the history of Plutarch vivified and 
 brought home to the bosom-feelings of every man who is 
 wise enough to perceive the stupidity, as well as the injustice, 
 of all faction for class-aggrandisement. 
 
XX. 
 
 jHeasure for jWleasute* 
 
XX. 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 
 
 For the store of golden axioms on moral and social wisdom 
 that it contains, no one of Shakespeare's dramas stands more 
 grandly conspicuous than that of "Measure for Measure." 
 Moreover, it displays a wider range of character, morally con- 
 trasted, than almost any other. We have the brutal stupidity 
 of Barnardine, the callous offspring of vicious ignorance, 
 whom the prospect of a shameful death cannot rouse to sen- 
 sibility ; the cruel and practical indifference of Abhorson, the 
 gaoler and hangman ; the putrid infamy pf the creatures 
 haunting the suburban stews; the vile and cold-blooded 
 hypocrisy of virtue in Angelo— the more heart-sickening 
 from that hypocrisy, cis palpable disease is preferable to the 
 scrofulous treachery of roseate health, when the worm of 
 death is at the core ; and ascending from that " lowest deep" 
 in morality to the benevolent-hearted Provost, the well-mean- 
 ing and patriotic, but certainly weak Duke, up to the angelic 
 purity of the sainted Isabella, the heroine of the piece, and 
 foremark of the whole community, and to whom the foremark 
 of comment is consequently due. 
 
 Isabella is a curious combination of staid self-possession 
 and the most shrinking modesty. She has a fine and even 
 
 2 I 
 
498 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 powerful mind, but it is in conjunction with a retiring nature, 
 rendered even bashful by habit and education. She is very 
 young. The poet has distinctly marked this in several por- 
 tions of the play, and she has been brought up for a nun. 
 Most people seem to consider Isabella as a full-grown woman, 
 with a confirmed manner, and a confident, nay, a self-satisfied 
 disposition. To me she is much the reverse of all this. I 
 find her to be, upon close and careful examination of the 
 character, as Shakespeare has drawn* it, a girl of naturally 
 fine understanding and admirable judgment, together with an 
 unvain and most unselfish spirit. She is hardly aware of her 
 own mental powers, for there has been hitherto little oppor- 
 tunity for their exercise. Her answers to Lucio, her brother's 
 friend, when he comes to beg her intercession with Claudio's 
 stern judge, are indicative of self-doubt and distrust of her 
 own qualifications for the oflSce of pleader. " Alas ! what 
 poor ability's in ME to do him good.'" And when Lucio 
 urges her, with, " Assay the power you have," she falteringly 
 replies, " My power ! Alas ! I doubt," as if but too fearful 
 that she can do naught to meet this calamity. Her brother's 
 first description of her fully bears out the view here taken of 
 the character. He speaks of her modest, silent habit, together 
 with her tender years, where he says — 
 
 " In her youth 
 There is a prone and speechless dialect, 
 - Such as moves men ;" 
 
 and her power of intellect is denoted in the words — 
 
 " She hath prosperous art 
 When she will play with reason and discourse, 
 And well she can persuade." 
 
 Isabella has been called "cold." But with what generous 
 impulse she speaks, when, hearing of her brother's oflfence 
 with Juliet, she exclaims, " Oh, let him marry her !" with the 
 
Measure for Measure. 499 
 
 genuine trust of youth, believing that reparation is the best 
 expiation. Note, also, the enthusiastic eagerness with which 
 she is willing to augment austerities in her approaching con- 
 vent life. She asks, " Have you nuns no farther privileges ?" 
 And upon sister Francesca's answer, "Are not these large 
 enough?" Isabella replies — 
 
 " Yes, truly : I speak not as desiring more ; 
 But rather wishing a mere strict restraint 
 Upon the sisterhood, the votafists of St Clare." 
 
 This is precisely the lavish zeal with which a very young 
 person enters upon vowed duties. Her prodigal regardless- 
 ness of life, too, is perfectly characteristic of youth. Of her 
 own, of her brother's, of Mariana's, she is, each in turn, 
 equally prodigal when misfortune threatens. Of her own she 
 eagerly speaks : — 
 
 " Oh, were it but my life, 
 I 'd throw it down for your deliverance 
 As frankly as a pin." 
 
 Is that the speech and act of a cold-blooded person .' Of 
 her brother's life she is no less profuse when staked against 
 honour : — 
 
 " Better it were a brother died at once. 
 Than that a sister, by redeeming him. 
 Should die for ever;" 
 
 and she is thus profuse because she feels sure that he, too, 
 would be so, knowing the alternative ; for she says, rather 
 than this — 
 
 " Had he twenty heads to tender down 
 On twenty bloody blocks, he 'd yield them up." 
 
 And of Mariana's life she shows the same disregard when 
 knowing that it is made miserable by Angelo's unkindness ; 
 for she exclaims, " What a merit were it in death to take this 
 
500 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 poor maid from' the world !" Such being precisely the way 
 in which young ardent natures feel when first coming face to 
 face with the stern griefs of life. 
 
 Isabella's warmth of indignation, when she finds her brother 
 less indifferent to death, compared with dishonour, than she 
 had believed, might redeem her from the charge of "cold- 
 ness ;" but even this has been turned against her, one critic 
 going so far as ungenerously and unj ustly, and unwarrantably 
 as ungenerously, to sneer at a "virtue" that is (he says) 
 " sublimely good at another's expense'' Jenny Deans would, of 
 course, be placed in the same category of this writer's con- 
 tempt with Isabella. From all that we are shown of her 
 character, Isabella's "virtue" is as noble and unselfish as it is 
 unaffectedly sincere and pure. It has courage for all things 
 but evil-doing in hope of advantage. She herself says, when 
 urged by the Duke to undertake an attempt of a difficult 
 nature — " Let me hear you speak farther ; / have spirit to do 
 anything that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit'.' This 
 is not the language of a cold-natured woman. 
 
 She has been accused of lukewarmness in her pleading to 
 Angelo ; but read the whole of those two fine scenes care- 
 fully, and I insure the congruence — that the skill of the drama- 
 tist is absolute and consummate mastery, in the way where- 
 by he has contrived to preserve the womanly warmth with 
 womanly delicacy throughout. In the first of these two 
 scenes, Shakespeare has managed to exhibit the impression 
 of lukewarmness that has been alluded to, as produced upon 
 the bystanders, Lucio and the Provost; both of them being 
 present on this occasion. The coarse man of the world, Lucio, 
 not having an idea of the motive that restrains her and holds 
 her in a measure tongue-tied, urges her, almost reproachfully, 
 saying (aside to her) — 
 
 " Give 't not o'er so : to him again, entreat him ; 
 Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown : 
 
Measure for Measure. 501 
 
 You are too cold ; if you should need a pin, 
 You could not with more tame a tongue desire it : 
 To him, I say." 
 
 Does not the tone and manner of this expostulation also 
 convey the idea of its being addressed to a very young, and 
 not to an adult woman ? But the fact is, Lucio, in his disso- 
 lute callousness and vice-hardened perceptions, has not a 
 glimmering of the real cause of Isabella's apparent coldness ; 
 and many who have judged the character, and pronounced 
 it "cold," seem to have equally missed the true source of 
 Isabella's imputed "tameness" here. I can only feel it to 
 be thoroughly consistent with the most generous ardour of 
 nature, such as she gives evidence of possessing beneath her 
 exterior calm and self-retention, that this modest young girl, 
 this maiden recluse, should find extreme difificulty in speaking 
 at all upon the subject she has to treat of; and, upon study- 
 ing the scene itself, it will be perceived that Isabella's hesita- 
 tion only occurs when she has to touch upon the subject in 
 question — her brother's fault. The virgin delicacy with which 
 the poet has made her shrink from its absolute mention, and 
 search for any form of words that shall convey the substance 
 of her plea, without naming it, appears the very triumph of 
 dramatic art, and perfectly serves to vindicate the character 
 from the charge of unwomanly coldness, while exquisitely 
 inferring its womanly modesty and reserve. 
 
 On all other points Isabella's conduct is warmth and ear- 
 nestness to the uttermost. With what fervour and force of 
 solemn argument she presses her appeal for mercy! When 
 Angelo puts her off with — 
 
 " Your brother is a forfeit of the law. 
 And you but waste your words," 
 
 she rejoins — 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! 
 Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once ; 
 
502 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 And HE that might the 'vantage best have took, 
 Found out the remedy. How would you be, 
 If HE, which is the top, of judgment, should 
 . But judge you as you are ? O ! think on that, 
 And mercy then will breathe within your lips. 
 Like man new made." 
 
 In the second of these two great scenes, (the pleading 
 scenes,) — great in their wonderfully artistic conduct through- 
 out, — Isabella is fl/i?«^ with Angelo; and the poet has depicted 
 her difference of bearing with miraculous tact and delicacy. 
 Upon her entrance, the very first words Angelo utters awaken 
 the feminine instinct, the sensitive perception of his altered 
 manner and ominous meaning. She at once shrinks from it, 
 and seeks to ward it off, by endeavouring, as long as possible, 
 to misunderstand and misbelieve it. She will not allow her- 
 self to own that it is there, and will not allow him to make it 
 manifest through his indirect speech. The way in which she 
 parries this dreaded meaning is so intensely true to modest 
 womanhood, that no one but Shakespeare, (whom an enthu- 
 siastic friend once declared to be half a woman, so tender and 
 delicate was his poet-nature, as well as noble and exalted,) 
 no one but he could have penned the words uttered by 
 Isabella during this scene. They are full of all the innocent- 
 artful turns and defences that women, possessing both moral 
 and mental susceptibility, resort to in a circumstance of such 
 critical difficulty as the one at issue between herself and 
 Angelo. She evades his licentious inferences as long as pos- 
 sibly she can, by ingenious replies framed so as to preserve 
 the ambiguity she would fain have him keep to ; then, when 
 forced upon her comprehension, she takes affecting refuge in 
 appeal : — 
 
 " I have no tongue but one : gentle, my lord. 
 Let me entreat you speak the former language." 
 
 And when his unrelenting purpose will not withhold its expres- 
 
Measure for Measure. 503 
 
 sion, she adopts the course (so perfectly womanly !) of imput- 
 ing a better motive to him than she is conscious he is actuated 
 by, in a last lingering hope of inducing him to retract, by 
 arousing -vyithin him a sense of moral shame: — 
 
 " I know your virtue hath a licence in 't. 
 Which seems a little fouler than it is, 
 To pluck on others," 
 
 And lastly, when she finds nothing will avail to restrain him 
 from open avowal of his foul wish, she bursts forth into indig- 
 nant eloquent protest against his " most pernicious purpose." 
 
 I have ventured the rather to enlarge upon my views of 
 this pure-charactered being, Isabella, because I feel that she 
 has received scant justice hitherto from critics of my own sex 
 — critics, best as well as worst — and because I think it a 
 reproach upon men that they should treat injuriously one of 
 the most beautiful-souled among Shakespeare's beautiful- 
 souled women. 
 
 Can anything be more finely contrasted in character, as 
 moral contrasts, than the two portraits of Lucio and the 
 Provost in this play } The one is a young gallant- — a rois- 
 terer "about town" — a thorough man of the «wmoral world; 
 a socially-esteemed " gentleman." Among the list of persons, 
 he is styled a " fantastic," but also one of the " gentlemen." 
 He dresses well ; he frequents what is termed " good society," 
 say, genteel society. Virtuous ladies would not protest 
 against his being admitted to the company they frequent. 
 Well-bred gentlemen would not disdain to associate with 
 him. He is known to be tainted with vices, but they are 
 fashionable vices, in some (so called) gay courts ; vices that 
 have a tender, palliating nomenclature affixed to them, and 
 which enables their perpetrator to obtain a passport into decent 
 communities. He would be called (with a half-serious shake 
 of the head) a " gay deceiver," a " wild young fellow," a 
 wicked " Lothario," and so be endured, if not pardoned, for 
 
504 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 the sake of his station and easy effrontery ; which, combined, 
 suffice to make him be thought agreeable ; and of a surety 
 his legs would be tolerated under gentle mahogany. Yet 
 this man is a liar, a backbiter, and a profligate. He basely 
 neglects his illegitimate child, and with coward selfishness 
 deserts its miserable mother. He maligns the absent Duke, 
 and not only eats his words when he finds that they are likely 
 to draw him into mischief, but accuses another of their utter- 
 ance. He is a slanderer and a moral poltroon ; yet is he 
 one of that class of gentry who, by dint of position, by birth, 
 an impudent brazen assumption, and unimpeachable costume, 
 passes current as a dashing young fellow ; dissipated cer- 
 tainly, but of highly-respectable connexions ; and who, by 
 and by, when he has " sown his wild oats," in other words, is 
 battered and precociously " used up," and is all but mentally 
 impotent, will subside into a respectable member of society, 
 and possibly be a justice of quorum, and commit "petty 
 rogues" to prison-labour. 
 
 Totally different from this man is the grave, sensible, and 
 really respectable Provost. He is a person in an inferior 
 grade ; no higher appointment than that of head-gaoler of the 
 prison. But he is mild, kind, gentle-hearted ; full of charity 
 and forbearance towards those original temptations to sin, and 
 circumstances of sin, which form extenuation, though not vin- 
 dication of sin. In the fault of the youthful Claudio he can 
 perceive temperament, unrestrictive teaching, and a desire to 
 amend ; which should all plead against the fault receiving so 
 stringent a punishment as is awarded to it. Even in the 
 hardened Barnardine, the worthy Provost can discern that 
 spark of retrievable matter which should be fostered into hope 
 of reformation, rather than extinguished in impatient haste. 
 He says, with the true spirit of divine hope — that hope which 
 bids us not despair of even the, apparently, most destitute 
 of lost souls : — 
 
Measure for Measure. 505 
 
 " What if we do omit 
 This reprobate, till he were well inclin'd." 
 
 The Provost in this play is, as it were, an impersonation of 
 that more merciful spirit of justice which would rather deal 
 correctively than penally with human error. That spirit which, 
 taking into consideration how ill-taught and ill-advised the 
 childhood of most criminals has been, is inclined to treat those 
 criminals with more of leniency than severity. That spirit 
 which, pitying the slender opportunities of knowing better and 
 doing better that fall to the lot of the generality of pauper- 
 infancy, leans toward the tolerant rather than the inexorable 
 in judging their after misdeeds. That spirit which, aware of 
 the inefificient means that have beeti taken to prevent vice, 
 dreads too harshly to punish vice. That spirit which, con- 
 scious that the education of the destitute child is too often 
 suffered to be but the training to become the self-providing 
 thief, fears to inflict a penalty which should, in strict justice, 
 fall on those who took no pains originally to make him an 
 honest man. But as the great wit-humanist of our own day — 
 Douglas Jerrold — says, with his own fine and peculiar irony, 
 " To reform man is a tedious and uncertain labour ; hanging 
 is the sure work of a minute." 
 
 We are made to recognise throughout the delineation of 
 the character of the Provost, (as contrasted with that of 
 Lucio,) how far higher is moral elevation than social eleva- 
 tion. For the keeper of felons we have esteem and reverence ; 
 for the conventional gentleman — the gentleman about town, 
 we come not short of contempt, and even loathing. There is 
 only one redeeming touch in all Lucio's nasty character. It 
 is, that with all his moral degradation -he has yet sufficient' 
 perception of good left, to be sensible of the purity and holy 
 whiteness of Isabella. He holds her in genuine veneration, 
 and says to her : — 
 
 " I would not — though 'tis my familiar sin 
 
5o6 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 With maids to seem the lapwing, and to jest, 
 Tongue far from heart, — play with all virgins so : 
 I hold you as a thing ensky'd and sainted ; 
 By your renouncement, an immortal spirit ; 
 And to be talk'd with in sincerity. 
 As with a saint." 
 
 Shakespeare solaces his heavenly spirit with these single 
 redeeming touches in his worst characters ; for he knows that 
 human nature, even in its most deplorable deviations from 
 what it should be, and from what it naturally is, has its 
 strange latent points of good, that still hover and linger there 
 to claim afEnity with that which might perchance have been 
 cherished into virtue by benign and wholesome influences, 
 instead of being smothered and perverted to evil by sinister 
 ones. 
 
 In the very blackest and vilest, of the personages in this 
 drama — the bad old woman, who gains a livelihood by trad- 
 ing in vice — the poet has developed just one solitary touch, 
 that rescues her from utter abhorrence and abandonment. 
 She pays for the keep of the wretched offspring of Lucio ; 
 rather than suffer the child to starve, which its own parent 
 would have done. — " His child is a year and a quarter old, 
 come Philip and Jacob ; / have kept it myself ; and see how 
 he goes about to abuse me." Shakespeare always courage- 
 ously shows how nature asserts her unquenchable power over 
 even the most unhappily-corrupted hearts. 
 
 In the power of displaying " individuality" of character, we 
 see the poet to no more advantage than in his several grades 
 of official men ; from the constable in ordinary up to the 
 justice of the peace ; all, whether prominent or subordinate, 
 are finished portraits. Elbow, the constable in this play, and 
 Dogberry in "Much Ado About Nothing," are brothers of 
 the same class ; both conceited and ignorant ; both pervert- 
 ing and " abusing the king's English ;" and both calling them- 
 
Measure for Measure. 507 
 
 selves "the poor Duke's officers;" a joke that Shakespeare 
 evidently liked^ from his repeating it. Elbow is intent upon 
 clearing his wife before Angelo from a scandal of Pompey ; 
 a scene abounding in the most ludicrous phraseology and 
 rich caricature of justice-room evidence and examination : — 
 the opening of the second act. 
 
 Connected with this same scene, figures a prodigious speci- 
 men of a being, in the person of "Master Froth ;" styled in 
 ^& dramatis persona, "Froth, a foolish gentleman." 
 
 Master Froth is a sample of the " order in creation, ' idea- 
 less.' " He is one of that class of human beings who, like a 
 certain class of reptiles, appear to exist quite as well without 
 brains as with brains. Some amiable naturalist — Buffon, 
 mayhap — tried the experiment upon a tortoise, of taking out 
 its brains, in order to ascertain whether the animal could dis- 
 pense with its cerebral accomplishment. The brain of a tor- 
 toise being no larger than a pea, he theorised that the differ- 
 ence between a pea and nothing could make no difference to 
 the poor beast. The result (it is said) confirmed the hypothe- 
 sis ; the poor beast blundered on without, as before with, its 
 pea of brain. And thus blunder on some human tortoises — 
 brainless — ^through life ; to all intents and purposes of mere 
 going on, as well as though they had their full pea-complish- 
 ment of skull furniture. But they may go right, or they may 
 go wrong, as the case may be. If they go right, it is from 
 pure good hap ; if they go wrong, it is from utter futility and 
 incapacity to keep out of harm's way. Master Froth strays 
 from the right path from sheer vapidity ; he frequents low 
 dissolute haunts from no graver cause than idleness and 
 vacuity of mind. He fools away his time, his money, and 
 his health, only because he is master of his leisure and of 
 "fourscore pound a year," with ne'er a pea-pulp in his 
 cranium to guide him in their due disposal. He just manages 
 to " blunder on," and that is all. He has not so much be- 
 
5 o8 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 neath his " most weak pia mater " as will help him to a single 
 spontaneous notion. He never originates a remark ; never 
 offers an opinion. He can only answer ; only return syllable- 
 rejoinders to what is demanded of him : "No, indeed ;" "Ay, 
 so I did ;" " All this is true." These form the "high-level" of 
 his ability. The only time he ventures upon an ascent above 
 this " tableland " of mind, and ventures at a reason for what 
 he says, he flounders and pitches headlong. Directly he 
 attempts a " because " he is ruined ! The Clown, in the course 
 of the examination before the Provost and Escalus, asks 
 Froth whether he has not a fancy for sitting in a certain 
 room in their tavern ; and he avers that he has so, adding, 
 " because it 's an open room, and good for winter." Simple 
 reply is the only safe course for Froth. Let him once open 
 his mouth for anything beyond this, and he proclaims himself 
 a fool — an aboriginal fool. By the way, he is knowing in 
 dates. Your fellows who know nothing else, are apt to be 
 recondite in dates. They are unerring on points of chro- 
 nology. So, when the Clown, in his zeal for accuracy, appeals 
 to Master Froth for confirmation whether his father did not 
 die at Hallowmas, Froth corrects him, with — " All-hollond- 
 eve." But after this exertion, and his breaking down in his 
 sole " because," he drops into silence until the Loird Escalus 
 summons him to answer his cross-questioning, and to receive 
 a piece of wholesome advice. Upon which, pea-brain Froth 
 once more relapses into his yeas and nays, and his " Yes, an't 
 please you, sirs ;" and is again tempted beyond his depth in 
 reply to his lordship's counsel to keep clear of mischief and 
 tavern-haunting, with, "I thank your worship. For mine own 
 part, I never come into any room in a tap-house but I am 
 drawn in." You see he can 't utter six words without betray- 
 ing what a hopeless gull he is. Well may that brazen fellow, 
 Pompey, bid Escalus look in Froth's face as a guarantee for 
 his harmlessness. -He may look into the '" blankness' of that 
 
Measure for Measure. 509 
 
 dark ;" he will find nothing there : it is responsible only for 
 vacancy; it is fatuity made absolute : — 
 
 " Clown. I beseech you, sir, look in this gentleman's face. 
 Good Master Froth, look upon his Honour ; 'tis for a good 
 purpose. Doth your Honour mark his face t 
 
 " Esc. Ay, sir, very well. 
 
 " Clown. Nay, I beseech you, mark it well. 
 
 "Esc. Well, I do so. 
 
 " Clown. Doth your Honour see any harm in his face .' 
 
 " Esc. Why, no. 
 
 " Clown. I '11 be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst 
 thing about him. Good, then ; if his face be the worst thing 
 about him, how could Master Froth do the Constable's wife 
 any harm .' I would know that of your Honour." 
 
 The postulate granted, the logic is fair, and the conclusion 
 self-evident. But if there is no " harm" in the poor simpleton, 
 neither is there any good in him. He is too effete, too flabby, 
 to mean, or to be worth anything. As Rochefoucauld truly 
 says, " A fool has not stuff enough in him to be good." There 
 can be no virtue in Froth ; and he is Froth no less by nature 
 than by name. No spirit, no essence, no body in him ; no- 
 thing, in short, but" "Froth." 
 
 Pompey, the Clown, is a copy from the life, so far as his 
 original calling goes. One class of the domestic fool-jester 
 in our poet's time was a hireling attendant at the taverns 
 and places of profligate resort in the suburbs of great towns. 
 Here the dramatist, for his purpose, had to introduce such a 
 personage ; and he has drawn him with all the bold strong 
 colours required by the occasion. But he has given him 
 humour, in a degree redeeming the coarseness ; and wit, that 
 points the moral, while it helps to withdraw attention from 
 the grosser details of the picture that he judged it needful to 
 draw. 
 
 The philosophy of making the Clown meet in the gaol, im- 
 prisoned for debt, so many of the idle young men about town 
 
5IO Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 whom he had formerly encountered in haunts of dissipation, 
 is sound doctrine, and sufficiently indicates the motive which 
 induced the treating of so untoward a subject. 
 
 There is one speech he makes — a sharp satire upon respect- 
 able imquitoxxs trades — which alone lifts him into importance 
 among the dramatis person<B : — " 'Twas never merry world 
 since, of two usuries, the merriest was put down, and the 
 worser allowed, by order-of law, a furr'd gown to keep him 
 warm ; and furr'd with fox and lamb skins, too, to signify, 
 that craft being richer than innocency, stands for the facing!' 
 
 If there be one speech more familiar than another in our 
 mouths, when talking of Shakespeare, it is, that take what 
 subject we may for discussion, we shall find that he has been 
 beforehand with us, and (which is more) that he has left little 
 or nothing to be said after him. Who would suppose that he 
 had anticipated the modern boasted discovery of the impolicy, 
 not to say the folly, of sending young delinquents to the 
 common gaol for the purpose of amendment, by correction ? 
 Yet, in the slight sketch of the reckless and incorrigible 
 Barnardine, we have a practical treatise upon the immorality, 
 as well as the futility, of visiting crime with the indiscrimi- 
 nate punishment of incarceration. In the case of the char- 
 acter just referred to, the Duke is made to inquire of the 
 Provost, " What is that Barnardine, who is to be executed in 
 the afternoon?" The Provost replies, "A Bohemian born, 
 but here nursed up and bred ; one that is a prisoner nine 
 years old'.' With' that apparently casual, but premeditated 
 little fact, the poet, like a great moral philosopher, deduces 
 the after life of the man ; and with surpassing vividness, in a 
 short scene, has he given that result in the mature criminal, 
 which must naturally ensue from such a course of correction 
 visited upon a nine years' victim. Barnardine has become, 
 as the Provost describes him, " A man that apprehends death 
 no more dreadfully but as a drunken sleep ; careless, reckless, 
 
Measure for Measure. 5 1 1 
 
 and fearless of what's past, present, or to come ; insensible of 
 mortality, and desperately mortal." 
 
 The young delinquent who learns the force of morality, the 
 power of Justice, the rights of mankind, the duties of himself 
 to his neighbour, and of his neighbour to him, from prison- 
 walls, having no other instruction for his tender years than 
 the hard truths to be gathered from their stony tutelage, runs 
 no chance of becoming any other than 'the brutal, insensible 
 Barnardine. For the multitudes of Barnardines, prison-taught 
 and prison-punished in actual existence, who will be respon- 
 sible at the last great account? Those who adjust matters 
 so, that no other teaching is provided for juvenile thieves 
 than prisoils, gaols, houses of correction, and penitentiai^ies ; 
 or the childish malefactors themselves, who know no better 
 than that to pilfer, to cheat, and to lie, are legitimate means 
 of gaining a livelihood, until taught that they are perilous to 
 soul and body by the State education of the " Stone Jug," and 
 bread and water 1 Shakespeare, in the story of Barnardine, 
 read us a profound lesson in penal legislation two hundred 
 and sixty-three years ago. May it be turned to profit now ! 
 
 In the full spirit of this prologue, the sturdy gaol-bird is 
 introduced to us in person. Pompey, who is both a prisoner 
 and deputy hangman, is sent by Abhorson, the head-execu- 
 tioner, to summon him for death : " Sirrah, bring Barnardine 
 hither." 
 
 '* Cto. Master Barnardine ! You must rise and be hanged, 
 Master Barnardine. 
 
 "Abhor. What, ho, Barnardine! 
 
 " Bar. [within.'] A murrain o' your throats ! Who makes 
 that noise there ? What are you .' 
 
 " Clo. Your friend, sir, the hangman. You must be so 
 good, sir, to rise and be put to death, 
 
 " Bar. [within.] Away, you rogue, away ! I 'm sleepy. 
 
 "Abhor. Tell him he must awake, and that quickly, 
 too. 
 
5 1 2 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 " Clo. Pray, Master Barnardine, awake till you are executed, 
 and sleep afterwards. 
 
 "Abhor. Go in to him, and fetch him out. 
 
 " Clo. He is coming, sir ; he is coming : I hear his straw 
 rustle. 
 
 "Abhor. Is the axe upon the block, sirrah .' 
 
 " Clo. Very ready, sir. \Enter Barnardine. 
 
 " Bar. How now, Abhorson 1 What 's the news with you .? 
 
 "Abhor. Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap into your 
 prayers ; for, look ye, the warrant 's come. 
 
 " Bar. You rogue, I have been drinking all night. I am 
 not fitted for it. 
 
 " Clo. Oh, the better, sir ; for he that drinks all night, and 
 is hanged betimes in the morning, may sleep the sounder all 
 the next day. 
 
 " A bhor. Look you, sir ; here comes your ghostly father. 
 Do we jest now, think you ? 
 
 \Enter Duke, disguised as the Friar.'\ ' 
 
 " Duke. Sir, induced by my charity, and hearing how hastily 
 you are to depart, I am come to advise you, comfort you, and 
 pray with you. 
 
 "Bar. Friar, not I. I have been drinking hard all night, 
 and I will have more time to prepare me, or they shall beat 
 out my brains with billets. I '11 not consent to die this day, 
 that's certain. 
 
 " Duke. Oh, sir, you must ; and therefore I beseech you, 
 look forward on the journey you shall go. 
 
 " Bar. I swear, I '11 not die to-day for any man's persuasion. 
 
 " Duke. But hear you 
 
 "Bar. Not a word; if you have anything to say to me, 
 come to my ward ; for thence will not I to-day." 
 
 Keeping to his text, that this poor caged wild beast from 
 nine years, has been the victim of a mistaken discipline, 
 Shakespeare, with his large heart, puts the following answer 
 from the Duke to the Provost, who has inquired, " How he 
 found the prisoner }" 
 
 " A creature unprepar'd, unmeet for death ; 
 
Measure for Measure. 5 1 3 
 
 And, to transport him in the mind he is, 
 Were damnable'.' ^ ' 
 
 And in the last scene of the play he reads a lesson to all 
 penal legislators in disposing of untaught ill-used criminals, 
 so nurtured, and from early youth. The Duke in his proper 
 person, as governor, says, " Which is that Barnardine ? " 
 " This, my lord," answers the Provost. 
 
 "Duke. Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul. 
 That apprehends no farther than this world, 
 And squar'st thy life according. Thou'rt condemn'd ; 
 But, for those earthly faults, / quit them all, 
 A nd pray thee, take this m.ercy to provide 
 For better times to come. Friar, advise him ; 
 I leave him to your hand." 
 
 Truly, an hour were well bestowed upon this fine drama, 
 did it contain no other sermon than is set forth in the treat- 
 ment of Master Barnardine. 
 
 And from" this episode, turn we to that point in the conduct 
 of the plot referring to the second interview of Isabella with 
 Angelo, while he is expecting her, and is meditating his 
 wicked purpose, for a specimen of self-knowledge, conveyed 
 in language that, for boldness and originality, is exceedingly 
 striking. It is in the poet's finest manner : — 
 
 " When I would pray and think, I think and pray 
 
 To several subjects : Heaven hath my empty words; 
 
 Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue, 
 
 Anchors on Isabel : Heaven in my mouth, - 
 
 As if I did but only chew his name, 
 
 And in my heart the strong and swelling evil 
 
 Of my conception. * * * O place ! O form ! 
 
 How often dost thou with thy casC) thy habit, 
 
 Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls 
 
 To thy false seeming ! Blood, thou art blood : 
 
 Let's write ' good angel' on the devil's horn, 
 
 'Tis not the devil's crest." 
 
 2 K 
 
514 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 And then, as she is coming into his presence, how fine the 
 
 reflection upon his own agitation : — 
 
 " O heavens ! 
 Why does my blood thus muster to my heart, 
 Making both it unable for itself, 
 And dispossessing all my other parts 
 Of necessary fitness ? 
 
 So play the foolish throngs with one that swoons ; 
 Come all to help him, and so stop the air 
 By which he should revive : and even so 
 The general,* subject to a well-wish'd king, 
 Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness 
 Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love 
 Must needs appear offence." 
 
 Scan this writer as we may ; come to him as often as we 
 may, the more reason do we find for admiration. Some fresh 
 beauty, some latent sense, some subtle meaning, some preg- 
 nant import, still starts to light as we scrutinise the passages. 
 An instance occurs to me upon the present occasion. Hitherto 
 I have not noticed the artful way in which he has made 
 Angelo, at the commencement of Isabella's first interview 
 with him, answer her at length in replying to her timid and 
 hesitating attempts at pleading for her brother ; but as she 
 progresses, and gathers confidence and power, he gradually 
 becomes silent, and even allows the bystanders' expressions of 
 interest in her suit to be heard ; and then, in the intensity 
 of his own absorption in her and her argument, he utters 
 those few strong self-communing words — " She speaks ; and 
 it is such sense, that my sense breeds with it" 
 
 The grandest writing, however, perhaps in the play, appears 
 in the arguments produced on both sides with reference to 
 the awful question of death. The Duke (as the Friar) char- 
 acteristically would induce Claudio to look upon it as a gain, 
 by balancing the bearing the evils of life, in opposition to a 
 
 * The commonalty. 
 
Measure for Measure. 5 ^ 5 
 
 riddance of their burthen. But Claudio has every induce- 
 ment to cling to life. He is in love with life ; he has strong 
 affections, strong passions, and is condemned to death for 
 yielding to their sway. In his craving for life, he would 
 retain it even by the loss of his sister's honour. Perfectly are 
 these characteristics sustained in the three persons of Isabella, 
 Claudio, and the Duke. The speech of the Friar-duke to 
 Claudio is a lofty argument, but it is a subtle Jesuitical com- 
 position ; for it has all the air of one who is reasoning as a 
 conventional casuist with a man about to die, and whom it is 
 his object to persuade to indifference. In short, it is a philo- 
 sophical " condemned sermon." He says — " So then, you 
 hope for pardon from Lord Angelo.'" Claudio answers — 
 
 " The miserable have 
 No other medicine, but only hope. 
 I have hope to live, and am prepar'd to die. 
 
 " Duke. Be absolute for death : either death or life 
 Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life : 
 If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing 
 That none but fools would keep. A breath thou art. 
 Servile to all the skyey influences, 
 That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st. 
 Hourly afflict : merely thou art death's fool ; 
 For him thou labour' st by thy flight to shun, 
 And yet run'st toward him still. Thou art not noble ; 
 For all th' accommodations that thou bear'st 
 Are nurs'd by baseness. Thou art by ho means valiant ; 
 For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork 
 Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep, 
 And that thou oft provok'st ; yet grossly fear'st 
 Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself ; 
 For thou exist' st on many a thousand grains 
 That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not ; 
 For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get, 
 And what thou hast, forget'st. Thou art not certain ; 
 For thy complexion shifts to strange effects, 
 , After the moon. If thou art rich, thou'rt poor ; 
 
5 1 6 Shakespeare- Characters. 
 
 For like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, 
 
 Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey. 
 
 And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none ; 
 
 For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire, 
 
 The mere effusion of thy proper loins, 
 
 Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum. 
 
 For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age ; 
 
 But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep. 
 
 Dreaming on both ; for all thy blessed youth 
 
 Becomes as agfed, and doth beg the alms 
 
 Of palsied eld : and when thou art old and rich. 
 
 Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty. 
 
 To make thy riches pleasant. What 's yet in this 
 
 That bears the name of life } Yet in this life 
 
 Lie hid more thousand deaths : yet death we fear. 
 
 That makes these odds all even." 
 
 This is the tranquil exposition of one who is upon very 
 good terms with the world ; who has the trade- wind of for- 
 tune in the "shoulder of his sail;" and who contemplates 
 the storm and shipwreck of life as a contingency ; not as the 
 most certain event in this world. People do not talk in that 
 calm manner of the " grim fiend" when he is glaring at them 
 over the shoulder. Two stronger and more characteristic 
 speeches on the opposite sides of a question surely never were 
 penned by the same man. There is the stoical philosophy of 
 the Duke, simply contemplating the event of death ; and in 
 the other, the terror and dismay of Claudio, who is trembling 
 on the brink of eternity, and is about to be thrust over the 
 precipice. The one is the philosophy of resignation, where 
 there is no demand for it in the teacher himself; and the 
 other a display of the futility of the argument, where the 
 demand for resignation is absolute ; the revolt of nature 
 against the hollow plausibility for a contented endurance. 
 The one a cool, a frigid ratiocination ; the other, an awful 
 and terrible reality. More powerful lines than these can 
 never have been uttered. They are like a prolonged shriek : — 
 
Measure for Measure. 5 1 7 
 
 " Ay, but to die, and go we know not where ; 
 To lie in cold obstruction and to rot ; 
 This sensible warm motion to become 
 A kneaded clod ; and the delighted spirit 
 To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside 
 In thrilling region of thick-ribbfed ice ; 
 Or to be imprison'd in the viewless winds, 
 And blown with restless violence round about 
 The pendent world ; or to be worse than worst 
 Of those that lawless and incertain thoughts 
 Imagine howling ! 'tis too horrible ! 
 The weariest, and most loathfed worldly life 
 That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment 
 Can lay on nature, is a paradise 
 To what we fear of death." 
 
 As regards that portion of the plot of " Measure for Mea- 
 sure " which turns upon the Duke's retiring from his govern- 
 ment, and leaving the stringent execution of his neglected 
 laws to a deputy, while he, in his monkish disguise, watched 
 from under his cowl the progress of events, no useful purpose 
 can result from such masquerading, seeing that when the 
 law is about to be enforced, he comes forth in the nick of 
 time and pardons all the delinquents. However, it makes 
 an agreeable j^a^^-mystery ; and not the less so, from the 
 audience being all the while admitted to the secret. The 
 story itself is a deeply-interesting one, and has been more 
 than once paralleled in history. The last and most signal 
 instance (with an awful tragedy for its consummation) occurred 
 after Monmouth's rebellion, in the person of that fiend in 
 human shape, the atrocious Colonel Kirk ; an act so enor- 
 mously wicked as to exalt common diabolism into virtue by 
 the contrast. 
 
 . In a brief summary of the right tendency of this play, let 
 it be observed, that the only man who is. deservedly puiiished 
 is the grossly loose character, Lucio ; and he is compelled to 
 marry one fully worthy of him. Angelo having a sense of 
 
5i8 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 goodness, and being moreover a repentant sinner, is united 
 to the virtuous woman whom he had treated with unkindness. 
 Moreover, the Clown is converted into an under-gaoler, and 
 the suburbs of infamy are all broken up. 
 
 A glorious being, indeed, was this same son of the Stratford 
 woolstapler! Well might Thomas Carlyle exclaim, "The 
 noblest thing we men of England have produced has been 
 this Shakespeare." 
 
 I believe that he would have been equal to any age of any 
 period in the world ; and this, because he was endowed with 
 real magnanimity of character — magnanimity in its extended, 
 not conventional sense of the term. He was, indeed, a true 
 genius, a true poet, a great-souled man ; and, therefore, he 
 would have advanced upon any age in which he might have 
 been thrown. That should seem to be the definition of a true 
 genius ; not merely to compass the world of Mind and 
 Matter, but also to throw a halo around it, like the golden 
 ring encircling the orb of Saturn ; — to re-fashion, to dilate, to 
 urge on his acquired knowledge for the glorification and well- 
 being of his brother-pilgrims in the walk of humanity. A 
 true poet, as before said, is a " creator." He does not merely 
 record that which he encounters in the external world, he 
 combines, he modifies, he refines ; he even suggests to nature. 
 A true poet despises nothing that is contrived and fashioned, 
 and because it is essentially part and parcel of his own faculty; 
 therefore, I would say, that if Shakespeare could come among 
 us again in the flesh, — his spirit I trust to be ever present 
 with us, happy in the happy thoughts that he has left as a 
 legacy to his brethren, — he would be among the first to appre- 
 ciate the great qualities of our age of practical and mechanical 
 science. He would never have thought disdainfully, even 
 
Measure for Measure, 5 1 9 
 
 slightingly, of our machinery ; because he would have known 
 that the sublimation, the omniscience, the omnipotence of the 
 science pervades the whole universe, from the starry worlds 
 in their convolutions to the mechanical structure of a gnat's 
 wmg. He would, therefore, have come among our boilers 
 and our shafts, our wheels and our pinions, our duplex and 
 our eccentric movements, and, ten to one, but he would have 
 put us upon some track to multiply our produce one hundred 
 fold. We should never have heard from him the nonsense 
 about over-production, while there were thousands of even 
 his own countrymen who were without clothes against in- 
 clemency, or sufficient food for their bellies. He gave proof 
 enough that he was elevated above the " low ambition " of 
 party-spirit, because he was too great to. descend to the sneak- 
 ing cunning of mancEuvre. The most assiduous reader of his 
 works could not decide what were his opinions, religious or 
 political. He contented himself with the simple mission of 
 teaching mankind a cheerful reliance upon the mercy and 
 benevolence of our good God; to be just and kind to all 
 men ; to seek out the good in things evil, and not, after the 
 new philosophy, of ferreting out whatever of evil may lurk 
 in things good. He strove to make men wiser and better, 
 and, therefore, happier. 
 
 Such was the expansion of his mental faculty, that it should 
 seem nothing would have come amiss to him ; for to what- 
 ever study he might have directed his mind, that he would 
 have rendered precious. And what superb things would he 
 not have uttered upon our steam-enginery ! How he would 
 have glorified our locomotive power, surrounding all with the 
 gorgeous hues of his imagination, adding beauty to utility ; 
 for whatever is useful assumes a beauty when touched with 
 the magician-poet's pencil ; as our poet-painter, Turner, con- 
 verted a common-place steam-boat in the Hebrides — the most 
 mechanical of ocean constructions — the triumph of art and 
 
520 Shakespeare-Characters. 
 
 utility amid the grandeur and romance of nature — into a fea- 
 ture of grace and enchantment in his picture. There it was, 
 stemming away against wind and tide, like the war-horse, 
 shouting " Ha, ha !" to the roar of the antagonist wind and 
 waters ; asserting its own prerogative of power ; disgorging 
 its smoky volumes, touched by the golden beams of the set- 
 ting sun. 
 
 The poet who underrates the inventive mechanical faculty, 
 is no poet, but a fool ; and the mechanic who sneers at the 
 imagination of the poet, is nothing but a mechanic — a me- 
 chanic " of all work." No one would have helped on the real 
 nobility — the middle class in the community — the key-stones 
 of the social arch, in their struggles and strides towards social 
 perfectibility, like our divine-hearted, our beloved Stratford 
 yeoman ; and what he has left to us all — to the whole world, 
 will yet fulfil this, if he be studied with a devout faith and a 
 loving heart. 
 
 And let the "outward -sainted," who so blithely catch 
 at and question his coarsenesses, and thence infer his im- 
 morality, be reminded that these are two distinct things, and 
 that each can and does exist independently of the other. 
 Indelicacy of speech does not necessarily involve immorality 
 of principle, or immorality comprise coarseness of language. 
 (These platitudes cease to be such with a large bulk of the 
 community.) There are books, not readable aloud in the 
 present conventional state of civilisation, which are, neverthe- 
 less, purely moral in principle ; and others could be cited (of 
 our own age) containing not one objectionable term, the ten- 
 dency of which is to sap the dearest institutions of social life. 
 Let it then be borne in mind, that although Shakespeare 
 sometimes transgresses the rules of modern decorum, he has 
 never sought to undermine the foundations of moral rectitude. 
 He does not varnish — he does not even polish vice ; and he 
 never gives a questionable complexion to naked, unsophisti- 
 
Measure for Measure. 5 2 1 
 
 cated virtue. For a full example of this, refer to the moral 
 of this misimderstood and misrepresented play of "Measure 
 for Measure;" — read that frightful scene in the "Pericles, 
 Prince of Tyre ;" and after rising from the perusal of the 
 whole play, say whether he has not made the heroine, 
 Marina, come forth from the horrid ordeal like an angel of 
 light. She has gone through the furnace, and even the smell 
 of the fire has not passed upon her garments. 
 
 Again, Shakespeare never sneers at real piety, and he 
 never hints a contempt for the dearest and most sacred privi- 
 leges of our social union; and therefore he ranks with the 
 greatest of ethical writers, as he is confessedly the greatest of 
 imaginative ones. 
 
 I can only say, in conclusion, and it is a triumphant one, 
 that the most crystal-hearted women in my own little circle 
 of acquaintance are the greatest studiers — not merely readers 
 — of his plays. 
 
 THE ENU 
 
 Ballantyne iSr* Company, Printers, Edinburgh. 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 Page 54, line II, for "fa niente," ?-?a<^ " far niente." 
 Page 71, line 24, for "abjuration," read "adjuration."