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Social Sciences & Humanities Library
University of California, San Diego
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APR Is 1997
MAY 3 1997
MAR 1 Z 1S38
THE CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMEN : MORAL, PO-
ETICAL, AND HISTORICAL.
THE DIARY OF AN ENNUYEE.
MEMOIRS OF THE LOVES OF THE POETS. Bio-
graphical Sketches of Women celebrated in Ancient and Mod-
ern Poetry.
STUDIES, STORIES, AND MEMOIRS.
SKETCHES OF ART, LITERATURE, AND CHAR-
ACTER. With a Steel Engraving of Raphael's Madonna del
San Sisto.
MEMOIRS OF THE EARLY ITALIAN PAINTERS
(Cimabue to Bassano).
LEGENDS OF THE MADONNA as represented in <he
Fine Arts.
SACRED "AND LEGENDARY ART. In two volumes.
LEGENDS OF THE MONASTIC ORDERS as repre-
sented in the Fine Arts. Forming the Second Serie; Ji Sacred
and Legendary Art.
Each volume, i6mo, $1.25 ; the ten volumes, in box, $12.50; half
calf, $25.00; tree calf, $35.00.
WORKS ON ART. New Edition. Edited, and with a new
Memoir of Mrs. Jameson, by Miss E. M. HURLL, recently of
Wellesley College. With a large number of illustrations made
especially for this edition. 5 vols. 8vo, gilt top.
SACRED AND LEGENDARY ART. 2 volumes.
LEGENDS OF THB MONASTIC ORDERS.
LEGENDS OF THE MADONNA.
MEMOIRS OF THE EARLY ITALIAN PAINTERS.
Per volume, $3.00; the set, 5 volumes, $15.00; half calf, gilt top,
$25.00 ; half polished morocco, $25.00.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., Publishers,
BOSTON AND NEW YORK.
CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMEN
MORAL, POETICAL, AND HISTORICAL
BY
MRS. JAMESON
from the last London Edition
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
PREFACE
TO TTTH NEW EDITION.
IN preparing for the press a new edition of this little work, the
ftuthor has endeavored to render it more worthy of the approba-
tion and kindly feeling with which it has been received ; she can-
not better express her sense of both than by justifying, as far as
It is in her power, the cordial and flattering tone of all the public
criticisms. It is to the great name of SHAKSPEARE, that bond
of sympathy among all who speak his language, and to the sub-
ject of the work, not to its own merits, that she attributes the
success it has met with, success the more delightful, because,
in truth, it was from the very first, so entirely unlocked for, as to
be a matter of surprise as well as of pleasure and gratitude.
In this edition there are many corrections, and some addition!
which the author hopes may be deemed improvements. She ha
been induced to insert several quotations at length, which were
formerly only referred to, from observing that however familiar
they may be to the mind of the reader, they are always recog-
nized with pleasure like dear domestic faces ; and if the memory
fail at the moment to recall the lines or the sentiment to which
the attention is directly required, few like to interrupt the course
of thought, or undertake a journey from the sofa or garden-seat
to the library, to hunt out the volume, the play, the passage, for
themselves.
When the first edition was sent to press, the author contem-
plated writing the life of Mrs. Siddons, with a reference to her
art; and deferred the complete development of the character of
Lady Macbeth, till she should be able to illustrate it by the im
personation and commentary of that grand and gifted actress ; bu
the task having fallen into other hands, the analysis of the chat
kcter has been almost entirely rewritten, as at first conceived, or
rather restored to its original form.
This little work, as It now stands, forma only part of a plan
which the author hopes, if life be granted her, to accomplish ;
at all events, aft, while it is spared, shall be devoted \o ita ft*
tlment.
CONTENTS.
I
or CTTELUCI.
POTtia ........................... ,..., ........... M
Isabella ......................................... 88
Beatrice ......................................... 99
Rosalind ......................................... 110
CHARACTSRS OF PASSION AXD
Juliet ........................................... 119
Helena .......................................... 168
Perdita. ......................................... 172
Viola ............................................ 181
Ophelia ......................................... 187
Miranda ......................................... 207
CHARACTERS OP THE A7F1CTIOHS.
Hennione ........................................ 219
Desdemona ...................................... 240
Imogen ................................... . ...... 259
Cordelia. . . ...................................... 280
HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
Cleopatra. ....................................... 802
Octavia ......................................... 841
Volumnia ........................................ 845
Constance of Bretagne ............................ 857
Elinor of Guienne ................................ 88?
Blanche of Castile ................................ 88f
Margaret of Anjon ........... ................... 894
Katherine of Arragon .......................... 40"
Lady Macbeth ........................... ,. ____ 487
CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMEN.
INTRODUCTION.
Scene A Library.
Too will not listen to me ?
MKDON.
1 do, with all the deference which befits a gen
tlem.in when a lady holds forth on the virtues erf
oer own sex.
He is a parricide of his mother's name,
And with an impious hand murders her fame,
That wrongs the praise of women; that dares writ*
Libels on saints, or with fool ink requite
The milk they lent ns.
Yonrs was the nobler birth,
For yon from man were made man bat of earth
The son of dust I
ALDA.
Whafathia?
10 INTRODUCTIOH.
MEDOH.
" Only a rhyme I learned from one I talked
withal ; " 'tis a quotation from some old poet that
has fixed itself in my memory from Randolph, J
think.
ALDA.
'Jfis very justly thought, and very politely quoted,
and my best courtesy is due to him and to you :
but now will you listen to me ?
With most profound humility.
ALDA.
Nay, then ! I have done, unless you will lay
aside these mock airs of gallantry, and listen to
me for a moment ! Is it fair to bring a second-
hand accusation against me, and not attend to mj
defence ?
MKDOH.
Well, I will be serious.
ALDA.
Do so, and let us talk like reasonable beings.
Then tell me, (as a reasonable woman you will
lot be affronted with the question,) do you really
expect that any one will read this little, book o/
fount
INTRODUCTION. 11
ALDA.
I might answer, that it has been a great source
rf amusement and interest to me for several months,
and that so far I am content : but no one writes a
book without a hope of finding readers, and I shall
find a few. Accident first made me an authoress ;
and not now, nor ever, have I written to flatter
any prevailing fashion of the day for the sake of
profit, though this is done, I know, by many who
have less excuse for thus coining their brains.
This little book was undertaken without a thought
of fame or money : out of the fulness of my own
heart and soul have I written it. In the pleasure
it has given me, in the new and various views of
human nature it has opened to me, in the beautiful
and soothing images it has placed before me, in the
exercise and improvement of my own faculties, I
have already been repaid : if praise or profit come
beside, they come as a surplus. I should be grati-
fied and grateful, but I have not sought for them,
nor worked for them. Do you believe thia ?
I do : in this I cannot suspect you of affectation,
for the profession of disinterestedness is uncalled
for, and the contrary would be too far counts
nanced by the custom of the day to be matter 01
reserve or reproach. But how could you (saving
ihe reverence due to a lady-authoress, and speak*
ing as one reasonable being to another) chooM
nich a threadbare subject ?
IS INTRODUCTION.
ALDA.
What do you mean ?
I presume you have written a book to maintain
flie superiority of your sex over ours ; for so 1
judge by the names at the heads of some of your
chapters ; women fit indeed to inlay heaven with
rtars, but, pardon me, very unlike those who at
present walk upon this earth.
Very unlike the fine ladies of your acquaintance,
I grant you ; but as to maintaining the superiority,
or speculating on the rights of women nonsense I
why should you suspect me of such folly ? it ia
quite out of date. Why should there be compe-
tition or comparison ?
MEDON.
Both are ill-judged and odious ; but did you evei
meet with a woman of the world, who did no*
abuse most heartily the whole race of men ?
AUDA.
Did you ever talk with a man of the world, who
did not speak with levity or contempt of the wholt
auman race of women ?
MEDON.
Perhaps I might answer like Voltaire " llelaa
INTRODUCTION. 18
ils pourraient bien avoir raison tous deux." But
do you thence infer that both are good for noth-
ing ?
ALDA.
Thence I infer that the men of the world ana
the women of the world are neither of them
good for much.
MKDOK
And you have written a book to make them
better ?
ALDA.
Heaven forbid ! else I were only fit for the next
lunatic asylum. Vanity run mad never conceived
such an impossible idea.
Then, in a few words, what is the subject, and
what the object, of your book ?
ALDA.
I have endeavoured to illustrate the various
modifications of which the female character is sus-
ceptible, with their causes and results. My life
has been spent in observing and thinking; I have
had, as you well know, more opportunities for the
first, more leisure for the last, than have fallen to
the lot of most people. What I have seen, felt,
thought, suffered, has led me to form certain
opinions. It appears to me that the condition of
women in society, as at present constituted, is falsa
in itself, and injurious to them, that the education
14 INTRODUCTION.
of women, as at present conducted, is founded in
mistaken principles, and tends to increase fear-
fully the sum of misery and error in both sexes ;
but I do not choose presumptuously to fling these
opinions in the face of the world, in the form of
essays on morality, and treatises on education. 1
have rather chosen to illustrate certain positions
by examples, and leave my readers to deduce the
moral themselves, and draw their OWP inferences.
And why have you not chosen you" examples
from real life? you might eas'ly have done so.
You have not been a mere spectator, or a mer
actor, but a lounger behind the scenes of exist*
ence have even assisted in preparing the puppeti
for the stage : you might have given us an epitome
of your experience, instead of drean?'ng over Shak-
speare.
ALDA.
I might so, if I had chosen to become a female
satirist, which I will never be.
MEDON.
You would, at least, stand a better c>ance oi
being read.
ALDA.
I am not sure of that. The vile taste fo- satire
and personal gossip will not be eradicated, I sup-
pose, while the elements of curiosity and r-wilioi
in human nature; but as a fashion of !>*>>?
INTRODUCTION. IS
tore, 1 think it is passing away ; at all events it
u not my forte. Long experience of what is called
"the world," of the folly, duplicity, shallownesa,
selfishness, which meet us at every turn, too soon
unsettles our youthful creed. If it only led to the
knowledge of good and evil, it were well; if it
only taught us to despise the illusions and retire
from the pleasures of the world, it would be better.
But it destroys oar belief it dims our perception
of all abstract truth, virtue, and happiness ; it turns
life into a jest, and a very dull one too. It makes
us indifferent to beauty, and incredulous of good-
ness ; it teaches us to consider self as the centre on
which all actions turn, and to which all motives are
to be referred.
MEDON.
But this being so, we must either revolve with
these earthly natures, and round the same centre,
or seek a sphere for ourselves, and dwell apart
I trust it is not necessary to do either. While
we are yet young, and the passions, powers, and
feelings, in their full activity, create to us a world
within, we cannot look fairly on the world with-
out: all things then are good. When first we
throw ourselves forth, and meet burs and briars on
every aide, which stick in our very hearts ; and
fair tempting fruits which turn to bitter ashes in
ihe taste, then we exclaim with impatience, all
things are evlL But at length comes the calm
16 INTRODUCTION.
hour, when they who look beyond the superficies
of things begin to discern their true bearings;
when the perception of evil, or sorrow, or sin.
brings also the perception of some opposite good,
which awakens our indulgence, or the knowl-
edge of the cause which excites our pity. Thus
it is with me. I can smile, nay, I can laugh
"till, to see folly, vanity, absurdity, meanness, ex-
posed by scornful wit, and depicted by others in
fictions light and brilliant. But these very things,
when I encounter the reality, rather make me sad
than merry, and take away all the inclination, if I
had the power, to hold them up to derision.
M F.DON.
Unless, by doing so, you might correct them.
ALDA.
Correct them 1 Show me that one human being
who has been made essentially better by satire 1 O
no, no! there is something in human nature which
hardens itself against the lash something in satin
which excites only the lowest and worst of our
propensities. That avowal in Pope
I most be proud to see
MOD not afraid of God, afraid of me !
has ever filled me with terror and pity
XXDOH.
From its truth perhaps ?
ENTnOi)UCTIOS. 17
ALDA.
From its arrogance, for the truth is, that a vica
never corrected a vice. .Pope might be proud of
the terror he inspired in those who feared no God
in whom vanity was stronger than conscience : but
that terror made no individual man better; and
while he indulged his own besetting sin, he admin-
istered to the malignity of others. Your professed
satirists always send me to think upon the opposite
sentiment in Shakspeare, on " the mischievous foul
sin of chiding sin." I remember once hearing a
poem of Barry Cornwall's, (he read it to me,)
about a strange winged creature that, having the
lineaments of a man, yet preyed on a man, and
afterwards coming to a stream to drink, and be-
holding his own face therein, and that he had
made his prey of a creature like himself, pined
away with repentance. So should those do, who
having made themselves mischievous mirth out of
the sins and sorrows of others, remembering their
own humanity, and seeing within themselves the
ame Lineaments so should they grieve and pine
away, self-punished.
"Tis an old allegory, and a sad one and but too
much to the purpose.
I abhor the spirit of ridicule I dread it and ]
despise it I abhor it because it is in direct coo*
a
18 INTRODUCTION.
tra Jiction to the mild and serious spirit of Cbri
iianity; 1 fear it, because we find that in every
tate of society in which it has prevailed as a
fashion, and has given the tone to the manners
and literature, it marked the moral degradation
and approaching destruction of that society ; and 1
despise it, because it is the usual resource of the
shallow and the base mind, and, when wielded by
the strongest hand with the purest intentions, an
inefficient means of good. The spirit of satire
reversing the spirit of mercy which is twice blessed,
seems to me twice accursed ; evil in those who
indulge it evil to those who are the objects of it.
"Peut-e'tre fallait-il que la punition des im.
prudens et des faibles fut confide a la maligmt,
car la pure vertu n'eut jamais 6t6 aasez cruelle."
ALDA.
That is a woman's sentiment.
MEDON.
True it was; and I have pleasure in remind-
ing you that a female satirist by profession is ye*
an anomaly in the history of our literature, as a
female schismatic is yet unknown in the history of
our religion. But to what do you attribute the
number of satirical women we meet in society ?
ALDA.
Not to our nature ; out to a state of . oeity ut
INTRODUCTION. 19
which the levelling spirit of persiflage has been
!ong a fashion ; to the perverse education which
fosters it; to affections disappointed or unem-
ployed, which embitter the temper; to faculties
misdirected or wasted, which oppress and irritate
the mind ; to an utter ignorance of ourselves, and
the common lot of humanity, combined with quick
and refined perceptions and much superficial cul-
tivation ; to frivolous habits, which make serious
thought a burden, and serious feeling a bane if
suppressed, if betrayed, a ridicule. Women, gen-
erally speaking, are by nature too much subjected
to suffering in many forms have too much of
fancy and sensibility, and too much of that faculty
which some philosophers call veneration, to be
naturally satirical. I have known but one woman
eminently gifted in mind and person, who is also
distinguished for powers of satire as bold as merci-
less ; and she is such a compound of all that nature
can give of good, and all that society can teach of
evil
MEDOH.
That she reminds us of the dragon of old, which
was generated between the sunbeams from heaven
and the slime of earth.
No such thing. Rather of the powerful and
beautiful fairy Melusina, who had every talent and
every charm under heavec but once in so many
tours was fated to become v serpent No, I return
80 INTRODUCTION.
to my first position. It is not by exposing folly aitd
scorning fools, that we make other people wiser
or ourselves happier. But to soften the heart by
images and examples of the kindly and generous
affections to show how the human soul is dis-
ciplined and perfected by suffering to prove how
much of possible good may exist in things evil and
perverted how much hope there is for those who
despair how much comfort for those whom a
heartless world has taught to contemn both others
and themselves, and so put barriers to the hard,
cold, selfish, mocking, and levelling spirit of the day
O would I could do this !
On the same principle, I suppose, that they have
changed the treatment of lunatics; and whereas
they used to condemn poor distempered wretches
to straw and darkness, stripes and a strait waist-
coat, they now send them to sunshine and green
fields, to wander in gardens among birds and
(lowers, and soothe them with soft music and kind
flattering speech.
ALDA.
Yon laugh at me ! perhaps I deserve it
No, in truth; I am a little amused, but inoe*
honestly attentive : and perhaps wish I could think
toore like you. But to proceed : I allow that witk
INTRODUCTION. 2t
this view of the case, you could not well have
chosen your illustrations from real life ; but why
Dot from history ?
As far as history could guide me, I have taken
her with me in one or two recent publications,
which all tend to the same object. Nor have I
here lost sight of her ; but I have entered on a land
where she alone is not to be trusted, and may make
a pleasant companion but a most fallacious guide.
To drop metaphor: history informs us that such
things have been done or have occurred ; but when
we come to inquire into motives and characters, it
is the most false and partial and unsatisfactory
authority we can refer to. Women are illustrious
in history, not from what they have been in them-
selves, but generally in proportion to the mischief
they have done or caused. Those characters best
fitted to my purpose are precisely those of which
history never heard, or disdains to speak ; of those
which have been handed down to us by many dif-
"erent authorities under different aspects we cannot
judge without prejudice; in others there occur
certain chasms which it is difficult to supply ; and
hence inconsistencies we have no means of recon-
ciling, though doubtless they might be recorciled
if we knew the whole, instead of a part.
MED03J
But instance instance I
12 INTRODUCTION.
Examples crowd upon me; but take the first
that occurs. Do you remember that Duchesse de
Longueville, whose beautiful picture we were look-
ing at yesterday ? the heroine of the Fronde ?
think of that woman bold, intriguing, profligate,
vain, ambitious, factious ! who made men rebels
with a smile ; or if that were not enough, the lady
was not scrupulous, apparently without principle
as without shame, nothing was too much ! And
then think of the same woman protecting the vir-
tuous philosopher Arnauld, when he was denounced
and condemned ; and from motives which her worst
enemies could not malign, secreting him in her
house, unknown even to her own servants pre-
paring his food herself, watching for his safety, and
at length saving him. Her tenderness, her pa-
tience, her discretion, her disinterested benevolence,
not only defied danger, (that were little to a woman
of her temper,) but endured a lengthened trial, all
the ennui caused by the necessity of keeping her
house, continual self-control, and the thousand small
daily sacrifices which, to a vain, dissipated, proud,
impatient woman, must have been hard to bear.
Now if Shakspeare had drawn the character of the
Duchesse de Longueville, he would have shown u
the same individual woman in both situations : for
the same being, with the same faculties, and pas-
lions, and powers, it surely was : whereas in hi*
tory, we see in one case a fury of discord, 'a womai
without modesty or pity ; and in the other an
INTRODUCTION. 28
f benevolence, and a worshipper of goodness ; and
nothing to connect the two extremes in our fancy.
MEDON.
But these are contradictions which we meet on
every page of history, which make us giddy with
doubt, or sick with belief, and are the proper sub-
jects of inquiry for the moralist and the philosopher
I cannot say that professed moralists and philos-
ophers did much to help me out of the dilemma ;
but the riddle which history presented I found
solved in the pages of Shakspeare. There the
crooked appeared straight; the inaccessible, easy;
the incomprehensible, plain. All I sought, I found
there ; his characters combine history and real life ;
they are complete individuals, whose hearts and
souls are laid open before us : all may behold, and
all judge for themselves.
But all will not judge alike
No; and herein lies a part of their wonderful
jruth. We hear Shakspeare's men and women dis-
cussed, praised and dispraised, liked, disliked, aa
real human beings ; and in forming our opinions of
them, we are influenced by our own characters,
habits of thought, prejudices, feelings, impulses, just
14 INTRODUCTION.
as we are influenced with regard to our acquaint-
ances and associates.
MEDON.
But we are then as likely to misconceive and
misjudge them.
ALDA.
Yes, if we had only the same imperfect means of
studying them. But we can do with them what we
jannot do with real people: we can unfold the
whole character before us, stripped of all preten-
sions of self-love, all disguises of manner. We can
take leisure to examine, to analyze, to correct our
own impressions, to watch the rise and progress of
various passions we can hate, love, approve, con-
demn, without offence to others, without pain to
ourselves.
MEDON.
In this respect they may be compared to those
exquisite anatomical preparations of wax, which
those who could not without disgust and horror dis-
sect a real specimen, may study, and learn the
mysteries of our frame, and all the internal work-
ings of the wondrous machine of life.
I ALDA.
And it is the safer and the better way for us at
Jeast. But look that brilliant rain-drop trembling
there in the sunshine suggests to me another illufr
tration. Passion, when we contemplate / through
INTRODUCTION. 25
the medium of imagination, is like a ray of light
transmitted through a prism; we can calmly,
and with undazzled eye, study its complicate na-
ture, and analyze its variety of tints ; but passion
brought home to us in its reality, through our own
feelings and experience, is like the same ray trans-
mitted through a lens, -blinding, burning, consnm
ing where it falls.
MEDON.
Your illustration is the most poetical, I allow ;
but not the most just. But tell me, is the ground
you have taken sufficiently large ? is the founda-
tion you have chosen strong enough to bear the
moral superstructure you raise upon it ? You know
the prevalent idea is, that Shakspeare's women are
inferior to his men. This assertion is constantly
repeated, and has been but tamely refuted.
ALDA.
Professor Richardson V
MEDON.
He is as dry as a stick, and his refutation not
successful even as a piece of logic. Then it is not
sufficient for critics to assert this inferiority and
want of variety : they first assume the fallacy, then
urgue upon it. Gibber accounts for it from the
circumstance that all the female parts in Shak-
ipeare's time were acted by boys there were no
*omen on th-3 stage ; and Mackenzie, who ought
k> havo known better, says that he was not so happy
INTRODUCTION.
in his delineations of love and tenderness, as of the
other passions; because, forsooth, the majesty of
his genius could not stoop to the refinements of del-
icacy ; preposterous !
Stay ! before we waste epithets of indignation,
let us consider. If these people mean that Shak-
peare's women are inferior in power to his men, I
grant it at once ; for in Shakspeare the male ana
female characters bear precisely the same relation
to each other that they do in nature and in society
they are not equal in prominence or in power
they are subordinate throughout Richardson re-
marks, that " if situation influences the mind, and
if uniformity of conduct be frequently occasioned
by uniformity of condition, there wiusf be a greater
diversity of male than of female characters,"
which is true ; add to this our limited sphere of
action, consequently of experience, the habits of
self-control rendering the outward distinctions of
character and passion less striking and less strong
all this we see in Shakspeare as in nature : foi
instance, Juliet is the most impassioned of the
female characters, but what are her passions com.
pared to those which shake the soul of Othello ?
" Even as the dew-drop on the myrtle-leaf
To the vex'd sea."
Look at Constance, frantic for the loss of her son
then look at Lear, maddened by the ingratitude of
INTRODUCTION. 27
bis daugLters: why it 13 the, west wind bowing
those aspen tops that wave before our window,
compared to the tropic hurricane, when forests
crash and burn, and mountains tremble to their
bases !
MBDON.
True ; and Lady Macbeth, with all her soaring
ambition, her vigor of intellect, her subtlety, her
courage, and her cruelty what is she, compared to
Richard HI. ?
ALDA.
I will tell you what she is she is a woman.
Place Lady Macbeth in comparison with Richard
ITT., and you see at once the essential distinction
between masculine and feminine ambition though
both in extreme, and overleaping all restraints of
conscience or mercy. Richard says of himself, that
he has " neither pity, love, nor fear : " Lady Mac-
beth is susceptible of all three. You smile ! but
that remains to be proved. The reason that Shak-
speare's wicked women have such a singular hold
upon our fancy, is from the consistent preservation
of the feminine character, which renders them more
terrible, because more credible and intelligible
not like those monstrous caricatures we meet with
in history
MKDON.
In history ? this is new 1
ALDA.
Yes ! I repeat, in historv, where certain isolated
28 INTRODUCTION.
facts and actions are recorded, without any rela
don to causes, or motives, or connecting feelings
and pictures exhibited, from which the considerate
mind turns in disgust, and the feeling heart has no
relief but in positive, and I may add, reasonable
incredulity. I have lately seen one of Correggio's
finest pictures, in which the three Furies are repre-
sented, not as ghastly deformed hags, with talons
and torches, and snaky hair, but as young women,
with fine luxuriant forms and regular features, and
a single serpent wreathing the tresses like a ban-
deau but such countenances ! such a hideous ex-
pression of malice, cunning, and cruelty ! and the
effect is beyond conception appalling. Leonardo
da Vinci worked upon the same grand principle oi
art in his Medusa
Where it is less the horror than the grace
Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone
* * * * *
'Tis the melodious tints of beauty thrown
Athwart the hue of guilt and glare of pain,
That humanize and harmonize the strain.
And Shakspeare, who understood all truth, worked
out his conceptions on the same principle, having
said himself, that " proper deformity shows not in
the fiend so horrid as in women." Hence it is that
whether he portrayed the wickedness founded in
perverted power, as in Lady Macbeth; or th
wickedness founded in weakness, as in Gertrude
Lady ABIC, or Cressida, he is the more fearfully
INTRODUCTION. 2S
jnpressive, because we cannot claim for ourselvei
n exemption from the same nature, before which,
in ita corrupted state, we tremble with horror or
shrink with disgust
Do you remember that some of the commentators
of Shakspeare have thought it incumbent on their
gallantry to express their utter contempt for the
scene between Richard and Lady Anne, as a mon-
strous and incredible libel on your sex ?
They might have spared themselves the trouble.
Lady Anne is just one of those women whom we
Bee walking in crowds through the drawing-rooms
of the world the puppets of habit, the fools of for-
tune, without any particular inclination for vice, or
any steady principle of virtue ; whose actions are
inspired by vanity, not affection, and regulated by
opinion, not by conscience : who are good while
there is no temptation to be otherwise, and ready
victims of the first soliciting to evil. In the case of
Lady Anne, we are startled by the situation : not
three months a widow, and following to the sep-
ulchre the remains of a husband and a father, she
is met and wooed and won by the very man who
murdered them. In such a ease it required perhaps
either Richard or the arch-fiend himself to tempt
her successfully ; but in a less critical moment, a
Sir less subtle and andacious seducer woul 1 hav
10 INTRODUCTION
sufficed. Cressida is another modification of vanity
weakness, and falsehood, drawn in stronger colors.
The world contains many Lady Annes and Ores-
sidas, polished and refined externally, whom chance
and vanity keep right, whom chance and vanity
lead wrong, just as it may happen. When we read
in history of the enormities of certain women, per-
fect scarecrows and ogresses, we can safely, like the
Pharisee in Scripture, hug ourselves in our secure
virtue, and thank God that we are not as others
are but the wicked women in Shakspeare are
portrayed with such perfect consistency and truth,
that they leave us no such resource they frighten
us into reflection they make us believe and
tremble. On the other hand, his amiable women
are touched with such exquisite simplicity they
have so little external pretensions and are so un-
like the usual heroines of tragedy and romance,
that they delight us more " than all the nonsense
of the beau-ideal ! " We are flattered by the per-
ception of our own nature in the midst of so many
charms and virtues: not only are they what we
could wish to be, or ought to be, but what we per-
suade ourselves we might be, or would be, under a
different and a happier state of things, and, per-
haps, some time or other may be. They are not
Ituck up, like the cardinal virtues, all in a row, lor
us to admire and wonder at they are not mere
poetical abstractions nor (as they have beet
termed) mere abstractions of the affections,
Bat common clay ta'en from the common eartJi,
INTRODUCTION. SI
Moulded by God, and tempered by tht tears
Of augels, to the perfect form of woman.
MEDON.
Beautiful lines ! Where are they ?
I quote from memory, and I am afraid
rately, from a poem of Alfred Tennyson's.
Well, between argument, and sentiment, and
logic, and poetry, you are making out a very
plausible case. I think with you that, in the in-
stances you have mentioned, (as Lady Macbeth
and Richard, Juliet, and Othello, and others,) the
want of comparative power is only an additional
excellence ; but to go to an opposite extreme of
delineation, we must allow that there is not one of
Shakspeare's women that, as a dramatic character,
can be compared to Falstaff.
ALDA.
No ; because any thing like Falstaff in the form
of woman any such compound of wit, sensuality,
and selfishness, unchecked by the moral senti-
ments and the affections, and touched with the
same vigorous painting, would be a gross and
monstrous caricature. If it could exist in nature,
we might find it in Shakspeare ; but a moment'*
reflection shows us that it would be essentially an
impossible combination of faculties in a female.
9? INTRODUCTION.
MEDON.
It strikes me, however, that his humorous women
are feebly drawn, in comparison with some of the
female wits of other writers.
ALDA.
Because his women of wit and humor are not
introduced for the sole purpose of saying brilliant
things, and displaying the wit of the author ; they
are, as I will show you, real, natural women, in
whom wit is only a particular and occasional modi-
fication of intellect. They are all, in the first
place, affectionate, thinking beings, and moral
agents; and then witty, as if by accident, or as
the Duchesse de Chaulnes said of herself, " par la
grace de Dieu." As to humor, it is carried as far
as possible in Mrs. Quickly ; in the termagant
Catherine ; in Maria, in " Twelfth Night ; " in
Juliet's nurse ; in Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page. What
can exceed in humorous naivete", Mrs. Quickly*s
upbraiding Falstaff, and her concluding appeal
" Didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee
thirty shillings ? " Is it not exquisite irresistible ?
Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page are both " merry wives, *
but how perfectly discriminated ! Mrs. Ford has
the most good nature Mrs. Page is the cleverer
of the two, and has more sharpness in her tongue,
more mischief in her mirth. In all these instancei
I allow that the humor is more or less vulgar ; bu'
a humorous woman, whether in high or low life
has always a tinge of vulgarity.
INTRODUCTION. 33
MEDOJC.
I should like to see that word vulgar properly
defined, and its meaning limited at present it if
the most arbitrary word in the language.
ALDA.
Yes, like the word romantic, it is a convenient
" exploding word," and in its general application
signifies nothing more than " see how much finer I
am than other people ! " * but in literature and
character I shall adhere to the definition of Ma-
dame de Stael, who uses the word vulgar as the
reverse of poetical. Vulgarity (as I wish to apply
the word) is the negative in all things. In litera-
ture, it is the total absence of elevation and depth
in the ideas, and of elegance and delicacy in the
expression of them. In character, it is the absence
of truth, sensibility, and reflection. The vulgar in
manner, is the result of vulgarity of character ; it
is grossness, hardness, or affectation. If you would
gee how Shakspeare has discriminated, not only
different degrees, but different kinds of plebeian
vulgarity in women, you have only to compare the
nurse in Romeo and Juliet with Mrs. Quickly.
On the whole, if there are people who, taking the
strong and essential distinction of sex into con-
nderation, still maintain that Shakspeare's female
characters are not, in truth, in variety, in power
See Foster's Essay on the \ppllcation of the word
Essays, TO!. I
ft
14 INTRODUCTION.
equal to liis men, I think I shall prove the con
trary.
MEDON.
I observe that you have divided your illustra-
tions into classes ; but shades of character so melt
into each other, and the various faculties and
powers are so blended and balanced, that all clasg-
ification must be arbitrary. I am at a loss to con-
ceive where you have drawn the line ; here, at the
head of your first chapter, I find ' Characters of
Intellect" do you call Portia intellectual, and
Hermione and Constance not so ?
I know that Schlegel has said that it is impossible
to arrange Shakspeare's characters in classes : yet
some classification was necessary for my purpose.
I have therefore divided them into characters in
which intellect and wit predominate ; characters
in which fancy and passion predominate; and
characters in which the moral sentiments and
affections predominate. The historical characters
I have considered apart, as requiring a different
mode of illustration. Portia I regard as a perfect
model of an intellectual woman, in whom wit is
tempered by sensibility, and fancy regulated by
strong reflection. It is objected to her, to Bea-
trice, and others of Shakspeare's women, that th
display of intellect is tinged with a coarseness of
manner belonging to the age in which he wrota
To reoiark that the conversation and letters of
INTRODUCTION. SI
highbi 2d and virtuous women of that time were
more bold and frank in expression than any part
of the dialogue appropriated to Beatrice and Rosa-
lind, ma/ excuse it to our judgment, but does not
reconcile it to our taste. Much has been said, and
more might be said on this subject but I would
rather not discuss it. It is a mere difference of
manner which is to be regretted, but has nothing
to do with the essence of the character.
I think you have done well in avoiding the topic
altogether ; but between ourselves, do you really
think that the refinement of manner, the cen-
sorious, hypocritical, verbal scrupulosity, which is
carried so far in this " picked age " of ours, is a
true sign of superior refinement of taste, and
purity of morals? Is it not -rather a whiting of
the sepulchre ? I will not even allude to indi-
vidual instances whom we both know, but does it
not remind you, on the whole, of the tone of
French manners previous to the revolution that
" decence," which Horace Walpole so admired,*
veiling the moral degradation, the inconceivable
profligacy of the higher classes? Stay I have
not yet done not to you, but for you, I will add
thus much; our modern idea of delicacy appar-
ently attaches more importance to words than tc
things to manners than to morals. You will hear
* Correspondence, TOl. IM.
16 INTRODUCTION.
people inveigh against the improprieties of Shak*
ipeare, with Don Juan, or one of those infernal
French novels I beg your pardon lying on their
tr ilet table. Lady Florence is shocked at the sal-
lies of Beatrice, and Beatrice would certainly stand
aghast to see Lady Florence dressed for Almack's
BO you see that in both cases the fashion makes
the indecorum Let her ladyship new model her
gowns!
ALDA.
Well, well, teave Lady Florence I would rather
hear you defend Shakspeare.
1 think it is Coleridge who so finely observes
that Shakspeare ever kept the high road of human
life, whereon all travel, that he did not pick out
by-paths of feeling and sentiment ; in him we have
no moral highwaymen, and sentimental thieves
and rat-catchers, and interesting villains, and ami-
able, elegant adulteresses h-la-mode Germanorum
no delicate entanglements of situation, in which
the grossest images are presented to the mind
disguised under the superficial attraction of style
and sentiment He flattered no bad passion, dis-
guised no vice in the garb of virtue, trifled with
with no just and generous principle. He can
make us laugh at folly, and shudder at crime, yet
*till preserve our love for our fellow-beings, and
Bur reverence for ourselves. He has a lofty and a
fearless trust in his own powers, and in the beaut*
INTRODUCTION 91
and excellence of virtue ; and with his eye fixed
on the lode-star of truth, steers us triumphantly
among shoals and quicksands, where with any
other pilot we had been wrecked : for instance,
who but himself would have dared to bring into
close contact two such characters as lago and
Desdemona? Had the colors in which he has
arrayed Desdemona been one atom less transpar-
ently bright and pure, the charm had been lost ;
she could not have borne the approximation:
some shadow from the overpowering blackness
of Ms character must have passed over the sun-
bright purity of hers. For observe that lago'a
disbelief in the virtue of Desdemona is not pre-
tended, it is real. It arises from his total want of
faith in all virtue ; he is no more capable of con-
ceiving goodness than she is capable of conceiv-
ing evil. To the brutish coarseness and fiendish
malignity of this man, her gentleness appears only
a contemptible weakness ; her purity of affection,
which saw " Othello's visage in his mind," only a
perversion of taste ; her bashful modesty, only a
cloak for evil propensities ; so he represents them
with all the force of language and self-conviction,
and we are obliged to listen to him. He rips her
to pieces before us he would have bedeviled an
angel ! yet such is the unrivalled, though passive
delicacy of the delineation, that it can stand it
tnhurt, untouched I It is wonderful ! yet natura,
M it is wonderful 1 Af*sr all, there are people in
4ie world, whose opinions and feelings are tain tec
58 INTRODUCTION.
Dy an habitual acquaintance with the evil side of
lociety, though in action and intention they remain
right; and who, without the real depravity of
heart and malignity of intention of lago, judge ai
he does of the character and productions of others.
Heaven bless me from such critics ! yet if genius,
youth, and innocence could not escape unslut red,
can I hope to do so ? I pity from my soul the
persons you allude to for to such minds there can
exist few uncontaminated sources of pleasure
either in nature or in art.
Ay " the perfumes of Paradise were poison to
the Dives, and made them melancholy." * 1C ou
pity them, and they will sneer at you. But what
have we here ? " Characters of Imagination
Juliet Viola;" are these romantic young ladies
the pillars which are to sustain your moral edifice ?
Are they to serve as examples or as warnings f<
ftie youth of this enlightened age ?
ALDA.
Aa warnings, of course what else ?
MRDON.
Against the dangers of romance? hut wher
An Oriental pro7rb
INTRODUCTION. 39
lie they? " Vraiment," as B. Constant says, "je
ne vois pas qu'en fait d'enthousiasme, le feu soit a
[a maison." Where are they these disciples of
poetry and romance, these victims of disinterested
devotion and believing truth, these unblown roses
all conscience and tenderness whom it is so
necessary to guard against too much confidence in
others, and too little in themselves where are
they?
ALDA.
Wandering in the Elysian fields, I presume,
with the romantic young gentlemen who are too
generous, too zealous in defence of innocence, too
enthusiastic in their admiration of virtue, too vio-
lent in their hatred of vice, too sincere in friend-
ship, too faithful in love, too active and disinterested
in the cause of truth
MEDON.
Very fair ! But seriously, do you think it neces-
sary to guard young people, in this selfish and cal-
culating age, against an excess of sentiment and
imagination ? Do you allow no distinction between
the romance of exaggerated sentiment, and the
romance of elevated thought ? Do you bring cold
water to quench the smouldering ashes of enthu-
liasin? Methinks it is rather superfluous; and
lhat another doctrine is needed to withstand the
heartless system of expediency which is the favorite
philosophy of the day. The warning you speak of
uay be gently hinted to the few who are in dajige
40 INTRODUCTION.
of being misled by an excess of the generous im-
pulses of fancy and feeling; but need hardly, 1
think, be proclaimed by sound of trumpet amid
the mocks of the world. No, no ; there are young
women in these days, but there is no such thing aa
youth the bloom of existence is sacrificed to a
fashionable education, and where we should find
the rose-buds of the spring, we see only the full-
blown, flaunting, precocious roses of the hot-bed.
Blame then \hsAforcing system of education, the
most pernicious, the most mistaken, the most far-
reaching in its miserable and mischievous effect**,
that ever prevailed in this world. The custom
which shut up women in convents till they were
married, and then launched them innocent and
ignorant on society, was bad enough ; but not worse
than a system of education which inundates us with
hard, clever, sophisticated girls, trained by know-
ing mothers, and all-accomplished governesses, with
whom vanity and expediency take place of con-
science and affection (in other words, of romance)
" frutto senile in sul giovenil fiore ; " with feel-
'ings and passions suppressed or contracted, not
governed by higher faculties and purer principles ;
with whom opinion the same false honor which
sends men out to fight duels stands instead of the
rtrongth and the light of virtue within their own
Bouls. Hence the strange anomalies of artificub
lociety girls of sixteen who are models of manner
INTRODUCTION. 41
auracles of prudence, marvels of learning, who
ineer at sentiment, and laugh at the Juliets and the
Imogens; and matrons of forty, who, when the
passions should be tame and wait upon the judg
oient, amaze the world and put us to confusion with
tneir doings.
MEDON.
Or turn politicians to vary the excitement -
Uow I hate political women 1
ALDA.
Why do you hate them ?
MEDOM.
Because they are mischievous.
ALDA.
But why are they mischievous ?
MEDON.
Why ! why are they mischievous ? Nay, ask
them, or ask the father of all mischief, who has not
a more efficient instrument to further his designs in
this world, than a woman run mad with politics.
The number of political intriguing women of this
time, whose boudoirs and drawing-rooms are the
foyers of party-spirit, is another trait of resemblance
between the state of society now, and that which
existed at Paris before the revolution.
ALDA.
And do you think, like some interesting young
ii INTRODUCTION.
lady in Miss Edgeworth's tales, that " women haT
nothing to do with politics ? " Do you mean to say
that women are not capable of comprehending the
principles of legislation, or of feeling an interest in
the government and welfare of their country, or of
perceiving and sympathizing in the progress ol
great events ? That they cannot feel patriotism ?
Believe me, when we do feel it, our patriotism, like
our courage and our love, has a purer source than
with you ; for a man's patriotism has always some
unge of egotism, while a woman's patriotism is gen-
erally a sentiment, and of the noblest kind.
MEDON.
I agree in all this ; and all this does no\ mitigate
my horror of political women in general, who are,
I repeat it, both mischievous and absurd If you
could but hear the reasoning in these feminine co-
teries ! but you never talk politics.
Indeed I do, when I can get any one to listen to
me ; but I prefer listening. As for the evil you
complain of, impute it to that imperfect education
which at once cultivates and enslaves the intellect,
and loads the memory, while it fetters the judgment
Women, however well read in history, never gen-
eralize in politics ; never argue on any broad or
general principle ; never reason from a considera-
tion of past events, their causes and consequence*
But they are always political through their affeo
ESTIIODUCTION. 43
taon^, their prejudices, their personal liaisons, thwr
hopes, their fears.
MEDOX.
If it were no worse, I could stand it ; for that ii
t least feminine.
ALDA.
But most mischievous. For hence it is that we
make such blind partisans, such violent party wo-
mer, and such wretched politicians. I never heard
a woman talk politics, as it is termed, that I could
not discern at once the motive, the affection, the
secret bias which swayed her opinions and inspired
her arguments. If it appeared to the Grecian sage
so " difficult for a man not to love himself, nor the
things that belong to him, but justice only ? " how
much more for woman !
Then you think that a better education, based
on truer moral principles, would render women
more reasonable politicians, or at least give then?
Borne right to meddle with politics ?
ALDA.
It would cease in that case to be meddling, as you
term it, for it would be legitimized. It is easy to
incer at political ana mathematical ladies, and quoto
Lord Byron but O leave those angry common-
places to others ! they dvi not come well from you.
Do not force me to remind you, that women hav
It INTKODUCTIOH.
achieved enough to silence them forever,* and
how often must that truism be repeated, that it u
not a woman's attainments which make her amiable
or unamiable, estimable or the contrary, but her
qualities ? A time is coming, perhaps, when the
education of women will be considered, with a view
to their future destination as the mothers and nurses
of legislators and statesmen, and the cultivation oi
their powers of reflection and moral feelings super-
sede the exciting drudgery by which they are now
crammed with knowledge and accomplishments.
Well till that blessed period arrives, I wish you
would leave us the province of politics to ourselves.
I see here you have treated of a very different
class of beings, " women in whom the affections and
the moral sentiments predominate," Are there many
Buch, think you, in the world ?
Yes, many such ; the development of affection
and sentiment is more quiet and unobtrusive than
that of passion and intellect, and less observed; it
is more common, too, therefore less remarked ; but
in women it generally gives the prevailing tone
to the character, except where vanity has been
made the ruling motive.
* In our own time, Madame do Stacl, Mrs. SomorHHe, Hair!* 4
Martlne.au, Mrs. Marcel ; we need not go back to the Roland*
nd Agues!, nor even to our own Lucy Hutchinfon.
INTRODUCTION. 4*
Except ! I Admire your exception ! You make
this case the rule the exception. Look round
the world,
ALDA.
You are not one of those with whom that common
phrase " the world " signifies the circle, whatever
and wherever that may be, which limits our indi-
vidual experience as a child considers the visible
horizon as the bounds which shut in the mighty
universe. Believe me, it is a sorry, vulgar kind of
wisdom, if it be wisdom a shallow and confined
philosophy, if it be philosophy which resolves all
human motives and impulses into egotism in one
sex, and vanity in the other. Such may be the
way of the world, as it is called the result of a
very artificial and corrupt state of society, but such
is not general nature, nor female nature. Would
you see the kindly, self-sacrificing affections de
veloped under their most honest but least poetical
guise displayed without any mixture of vanity,
and unchecked in the display by any fear of being
thought vain ? you will see it, not among the pros-
perous, the high-born, the educated, " far, far re-
moved from want, and grief, and fear," but among
the poor, the miserable, the perverted among
those habitually exposed to all influences that
harden and deprave.
MKDOJT.
I beliove it nay, I know it ; but how should yot
46 INTRODUCTION.
know it, or anything of the strange places of refug
which truth and nature have found in the two ex
tremes of society ?
ALDA.
It is no matter what I have seen or known ; and
for the two extremes of society, I leave them to the
author of Paul Clifford, and that most exquisitt
painter of living manners, Mrs. Gore. St. Giles's
is no more nature than St. James's. I wanted
character in its essential truth, not mortified by
particular customs, by fashion, by situation. 1
wished to illustrate the manner in which the affec-
tions would naturally display themselves in women
whether combined with high intellect, regulated
by reflection, and elevated by imagination, or exist-
ing with perverted dispositions, or purified by the
moral sentiments. I found all these in Shakspeare ;
his delineations of women, in whom the virtuous
and calm affections predominate, and triumph ove?
shame, fear, pride, resentment, vanity, jealousy,
are particularly worthy of consideration, and per-
fect in their kind, because so quiet in their effect.
Several critics have remarked in general tenni
on those beautiful pictures of female friendship, and
of the generous affection of women for each other,
which we find in Shakspeare. Other writers,
especially dramatic writers, have found ample food
for wit and satiric delineation in the littleness of
"eminmo spite and rivalry, in the mean spirit of
INTRODUCTION. 47
sompetitioa, the petty jealousy of superior charms,
the mutual slander and mistrust, the transient
leagues of folly or selfishness miscalled friendship-
the result of an education which makes vanity the
ruling principle, and of a false position in society.
Shakspeare, who looked upon women with the
spirit of humanity, wisdom, and deep love, has done
justice to their natural good tendencies and kindly
sympathies. In the friendship of Beatrice and
Hero, of Rosalind and Celia ; in the description of
the girlish attachment of Helena and Hermia, he
has represented truth and generous affection rising
superior to all the usual sources of female rivalry
and jealousy ; and with such force and simplicity,
and obvious self-conviction, that he absolutely
forces the same conviction on us.
Add to these the generous feeling ->f Viola for
her rival Olivia ; of Julia for her rival Sylvia ; of
Helena for Diana ; of the old Countess for Helena,
in the same play ; and even the affection of the
wicked queen in Hamlet for the gentle Ophelia,
which prove that Shakspeare thought (and when
did he ever think other than the truth?) that
women have by nature " virtues that are merciful,"
and can be just, tender, and true to their sister
women, whatever wits and worldlings, and satiristi
ind fashionable poets, may say or sing of us to the
contrary. There is another thing which he hai
most deeply felt and beautifully represented the
48 ENTRGDUCTIOK.
distinction between masculine and feminine cour-
age. A man's courage is often a mere anima.
quality, and in its most elevated form a point of
honor. But a woman's courage is always a virtue,
because it is not required of us, it is not one of the
means through which we seek admiration and ap-
plause ; on the contrary, we are courageous through
our affections and mental energies, not through our
vanity or our strength. A woman's heroism ia
always the excess of sensibility. Do you remember
Lady Fanshawe putting on a sailor's jacket, and
his ' blue thrum cap," and standing at her husband's
eide, unknown to him during a sea-fight ? There
she stood, all bathed in tears, but fixed to that spot.
Her husband's exclamation when he turned and
discovered her " Good God, that love should make
such a change as this ! " is applicable to all the acts
of courage which we read or hear of in women.
This is the courage of Juliet, when, after summing
up all the possible consequences of her own act, till
ehe almost maddens herself with terror, she drinks
the sleeping potion ; and for that passive fortitude
which is founded in piety and pure strength of af-
fection, such as the heroism of Lady Russel and
Gertrude de Wart, he has given us some of the
noblest modifications of it in Hermione, in Cordelia,
in Imogen, in Katherine of Arragon.
MEDOlf.
And what do you call the courage of Lady Mao
INTRODUCTION. 41
My hands are of your color, but I shame
To wear a heart so white.
And again,
A little water clears us of this deed,
How easy is it then !
li this is not mere masculine indifference to blood
and death, mere firmness of nerve, what is it ?
ALDA.
Not that, at least, which apparently you deem it ;
you will find, if you have patience to read me to
the end, that I have judged Lady Macbeth very
differently. Take these frightful passages with the
context take the whole situation, and you will see
that it is no such thing. A friend of mine truly
observed, that if Macbeth had been a ruffian with-
out any qualms of conscience, Lady Macbeth would
have been the one to shrink and tremble ; but that
which quenched him lent her tire. The absolute
necessity for self-command, the strength of her rea-
son, and her love for her husband, combine at this
critical moment to conquer all fear but the fear of
detection, leaving her the full possession of her fac-
ulties. Recollect that the same woman who speaks
with such horrible indifference of a little water
clearing the blood-stain from her hand, sees in im-
agination that hand forever reeking, forever pol-
uted : and when reason is no longer awake and
paramount over the violated feelings of nature and
womanhood, we beheld her making unconscious
4
00 INTRODUCTION.
efforts to wash out that " damned spot," and sigb
ing, heart-broken, over that little hand which all the
perfumes of Arabia will never sweeten more.
MEDON.
I hope you have given her a place among the
women in whom the tender affections and moral
sentiments predominate.
ALDA.
You laugh ; but, jesting apart, perhaps it would
have been a more accurate classification than plac-
*n her amon the historical characters.
Apropos to the historical characters, I hope you
have refuted that insolent assumption, (shall 1 call
it?) that Shakspeare tampered inexcusably with
the truth of history. He is the truest of all his-
torians. His anachronisms always remind me of
those in the fine old Italian pictures ; either they
are insignificant, or, if properly considered, are
really beauties ; for instance, every one knows that
Correggio's St. Jerome presenting his books to the
Virgin, involves half-a-dozen anachronisms, to
ay nothing of that heavenly figure of the Mag
ialon, in the same picture, kissing the feet of thj
infant Saviour. Some have ridiculed, some have
tKCused this strange combination of inaccuracies
but is it less one of the divinest pieces of senti-
ment and poetry that ever breathed and glowed
INTRODUCTION: 51
from tlie canvas ? You remember too the famous
nativity by some Neapolitan painter, who has
placed Mount Vesu vius and the Bay of Naples in
the background ? .In these and a hundred other
instances, no one seems to feel that the apparent
absurdity involves the highest truth, and that the
sacred beings thus represented, if once allowed as
objects of faith and worship, are eternal under
jvery aspect, and independent of all time and all
locality. So it is with Shakspeare and his ana-
chronisms. The learned scorn of Johnson and
some of his brotherhood of commentators, and the
eloquent defence of Schlegel, seem in this case
superfluous. If he chose to make the Delphic
oracle and Julio Romano contemporary what
does it signify? he committed no anachronisms of
character. He has not metamorphosed Cleopatra
into a turtle-dove, nor Katherine of Arragon into
a sentimental heroine. He is true to the spirit
and even to the letter of history; where he de-
viates from the latter, the reason may be found in
some higher beauty and more universal truth.
I have proved this, I think, by placing parallel
with the dramatic, character all the historic testi-
mony I could collect relative to Constance, Cleo-
patra, Katherine of Arragon, &c.
Analyzing the character of Cleopatra must have
52 INTKODUCTION.
been something like catching a meteor by the tail,
and making it sit for its picture.
Something like it, in truth ; but those of Miranda
and Ophelia were more embarrassing, because they
seemed to defy all analysis. It was like intercept-
ing the dew-drop or the snow-flake ere it fell to
earth, and subjecting it to a chemical process.
Some one said the other day that Shakspeare
had never drawn a coquette. What is Cleopatra
but the empress and type of all the coquettes that
ever were or are ? She would put Lady
herself to school. But now for the moral
ALDA.
The moral ! of what ?
MEDON.
Or* your book. It has a moral, I suppose.
ALDA.
It has indeed a very deep one, which those who
icek will find. If now I have answered all your
considerations and objections, and sufficiently ex-
plained my own views, may I proceed ?
MEDON.
If you please I am prepared to listen in ear
eat.
CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
PORTIA.
WE bear it asserted, not seldom by way of 0013*
pliment to us women, that intellect is of no sex.
If this mean that the same faculties of mind are
common to men and women, it is true; in any
other signification it appears to me false, and thft
reverse of a compliment. The intellect of woman
bears the same relation to that of man as her
physical organization ; it is inferior in power,
and different in kind. That certain women have
surpassed certain men in bodily strength or intel-
lectual energy, does not contradict the general
principle founded in nature. The essential and
invariable distinction appears to me this : in men
the intellectual faculties exist more self-poised and
self-directed more independent of the rest of tho
character, than we ever find them in women, with
whom talent, however predominant, is in a much
greater degree modified by the sympathies and
moral qualities.
In thinking over all the distinguished women
D4 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
cau at this moment call to mind, I recollect but
one., who, in the exercise of a rare talent, belied
her sex, but the moral qualities had been first per-
verted.* It is from not knowing, or not allowing
this general principle, that men of genius have
committed some signal mistakes. They have given
us exquisite and just delineations of the more pecu-
liar characteristics of women, as modesty, grace,
tenderness ; and when they have attempted to poi^
tray them with the powers common to both sexes,
as wit, energy, intellect, they have blundered in
some respect; they could form no conception of
intellect which was not masculine, and therefore
Lave either suppressed the feminine attributes alto-
gether and drawn coarse caricatures, or they have
made them completely artificiaLf Women dis-
tinguished for wit may sometimes appear mascu-
line and flippant, but the cause must be sought
elsewhere than in nature, who disclaims all such.
Hence the witty and intellectual ladies of our
comedies and novels are all in the fashion of some
particular time ; they are like some old portrait*
* Artemisia Qentileschi, an Italian artist of the seventeenth
eentury, painted one or two pictures, considered admirable ai
works of art, of which the subjects are the most vicious and bar-
barous conceivable. I remember one of these in the gallery of
Florence, which I looked at once, but once, and wished then, a*
I do now, for the privilege of burning it to ashes.
t Lucy Ashton, in the Bride of Lammermoor, may be placet
next to Desdemona; Diana Vernon is (comparatively) a failure
M eT"ry woman will allow; while the masculine lady Gera!iin
m Miss Edgeworth's tale of Ennui, and the intellectual Corinn*
rp consistent, essential women; the distinction is more ea*il
felt tiiau analyzed
PORTIA. 5i
i*hich caii still amuse and ptease by the beauty of
the workmanship, in spite of the graceless costume
or grotesque accompaniments, but from which we
turn to worship with ever new delight the Floras
and goddesses of Titian the saints and the vir-
gins of Raffaelle and Domenichino. So the Milla-
mants and Belindas, the Lady Townleys and Lady
Teazles are out of date, while Portia and Rosalind,
in whom nature and the feminine character are
paramount, remain bright and fresh to the fancy
as when first created.
Portia, Isabella, Beatrice, and Rosalind, may be
classed together, as characters of intellect, because,
when compared with others, they are at once dis-
tinguished by their mental superiority, in Portia,
it is intellect kindled into romance by a poetical
imagination ; in Isabel, it is intellect elevated by
religious principle ; in Beatrice, intellect animated
by spirit ; in Rosalind, intellect softened by sensi-
bility. The wit which is lavished on each is pro-
found, or pointed, or sparkling, or playful but
always feminine ; like spirits distilled from flowers,
it always reminds us of its origin ; it is a volatile
essence, sweet as powerful; and to pursue the
isomparison a step furthei, the wit of Portia is like
ottar of roses, rich and concentrated; that of
Rosalind, like cotton dipped in aromatic vinegar ;
the wit of Beatrice is like sal volatile ; and that of r
Isabel, like the incense wafted to heaven. Of
Jiese four exquisite characters, considered as dra-
toatic and poetical conceptions, it is difficult to pro
66 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
bounce which is most perfect in its way, mort
admirably drawn, most highly finished. But if
considered in another point of view, as women and
individuals, as breathing realities, clothed in flesh
and blood, I believe we must assign the first rank
to Portia, as uniting in herself in a more eminent
degree than the others, all the noblest and most
lovable qualities that ever met together in woman ;
and presenting a complete personification of Pe-
trarch's exquisite epitome of female perfection :
n vago spirito ardento,
E'n alto intelletto, un puro core.
It is singular, that hitherto no critical justice has
been done to the character of Portia ; it is yet more
wonderful, that one of the finest writers on the
eternal subject of Shakspeare and his perfections,
should accuse Portia of pedantry and affectation,
and confess she is not a great favorite of his a
confession quite worthy of him, who avers his pre-
dilection for servant-maids, and his preference of
the Fannys and the Pamelas over the Clementina!
and Clarissas.* Schlegel, who has given several
pages to a rapturous eulogy on the Merchant of
Venice, simply designates Portia as a " rich, beauti-
ful, clever heiress : " whether the fault lie in the
writer or translator, I do protest against the word
clever.f Portia clever ! what an epithet to apply
HailHt's Essayn, vol. ii. p. 167.
t I am informed that the original German word is geistrtick*
Utonlly, rich in soul or spirit, a just and beautiful epithet. 9l
tt
PORTIA. 5 4
to tLw heavenly compound of talent, feeling, wis-
dom, beauty, and gentleness 1 Now would it not
be well, if this common and comprehensive word
were more accurately defined, or at least more
accurately used? It signifies properly, not so
touch the possession of high powers, as dexterity in
the adaptation of certain faculties (not necessarily
of a high order) to a certain end or aim not
always the worthiest. It implies something com-
monplace, inasmuch as it speaks the presence of
the active and perceptive, with a deficiency of the
feeling and reflective powers ; and applied to a wo-
man, does it not almost invariably suggest the idea
of something we should distrust or shrink from, if
not allied to a higher nature V The profligate
French women, who ruled the councils of Europe
in the middle of the last century, were clever
women ; and that philosopheress Madame du Chate-
let, who managed, at one and the same moment,
the thread of an intrigue, her cards at piquet, and
a calculation in algebra, was a very clever woman I
If Portia had been created as a mere instrument to
bring about a dramatic catastrophe if she had
merely detected the flaw in Antonio's bond, and
used it as a means to baffle the Jew, she might have
been pronounced a clever woman. But what Por-
tia does, is forgotten in what she is. The rare and
harmonious blending of energy, reflection, and feel-
lag, in her fine character, maice the epithet clevei
lound like a discord as applied to her, and placa
Jier infinitely beyond the slight praise of Richardson
IW CHAKACTKKS OF INTELLECT.
nd Schlcgel, neither of whom appear to have ftillj
comprehended her.
These and other critics have been apparently ac
dazzled and engrossed by the amazing character ol
Shylock, that Portia has received less than justice
at their hands ; while the fact is, that Shylock is
not a finer or more finished character in his way,
than Portia is in hers. These two splendid figures
are worthy of each other ; worthy of being placed
together within the same rich framework of en-
chanting poetry, and glorious and graceful forms.
She hangs beside the terrible, inexorable Jew, the
brilliant lights of her character set off by the shad-
owy power of his, like a magnificent beauty-
breathing Titian by the side of a gorgeous Rem-
brandt
Portia is endued with her own share of those
delightful qualities, which Shakspeare has lavished
on many of his female characters ; but besides the
dignity, the sweetness, and tenderness which should
distinguish her sex generally, she is individualized
by qualities peculiar to herself; by her high mental
powers, her enthusiasm of temperament, her decis-
ion of purpose, and her buoyancy of spirit These
are innate ; she has other distinguishing qualities
more external, and which are the result of the cir-
cumstances in which she is placed. Thus she ia
th heiress of a princely name and countless wealth
a train of obedient pleasures have ever waited
ttmnd her; and from infancy she has breathed an
tfaaospherc redolent of perfume and blandishment
PORTIA. 59
Accordingly there is a commanding grace, a high-
bred, auy elegance, a spirit of magnificence in all
that she does and says, as one to whom splendor
had been familiar from her very birth. She treads
as though her footsteps had been among marble
palaces, beneath roofs of fretted gold, o'er cedar
floors and pavements of jasper and porphyry
amid gardens full of statues, and flowers, and foun-
tains, and haunting music. She is full of penetra-
tive wisdom, and genuine tenderness, and lively
wit ; but as she has never known want, or grief, or
fear, or disappointment, her wisdom is without a
touch of the sombre or the sad ; her affections are
all mixed up with faith, hope and joy ; and her wit
has not a particle of malevolence or causticity.
It is well known that the Merchant of Venice ia
founded on two different tales; and in weaving
together his double plot in so masterly a manner,
Shakspeare has rejected altogether the character of
the astutious Lady of Belmont with her magic po-
tions, who figures in the Italian novel. With yet
more refinement, he has thrown out all the licen-
tious part of the story, which some of his contem-
porary dramatists would have seized on with avidity,
and made the best or worst of it possible ; and he
has substituted the trial of the caskets from anothei
lource. * We are not told expressly where Belmont
* In the " Mercatante di Venezia " of Ser. Giovanni, we haw
the whole story of Antonio and Bassanie, and part of the story
put not the character of Portia. The incident of the casket* if
Vom the Gesta Romanoruw
10 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
u situated ; but as Bassanio takes ship to go thithet
from Venice, and as we find them afterwards order-
ing horses from Belmont to Padua, we will imagine
Portia's hereditary palace as standing on some
lovely promontory between Venice and Trieste,
overlooking the blue Adriatic, with the Friub
mountains or the Euganean hills for its background,
such as we often see in one of Claude's or Poussin's
elysian landscapes. In a scene, in a home like this,
Shakspeare, having first exorcised the original pos-
sessor, has placed his Portia ; and so endowed her,
that all the wild, strange, and moving circumstancea
of the story, become natural, probable, and neces-
sary in connexion with her. That such a woman
should be chosen by the solving of an enigma, is
not surprising: herself and all around her, the
scene, the country, the age in which she is placed,
breathe of poetry, romance, and enchantment.
From the four quarters of the earth they come
To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing saint
The Hyrcanian desert, and the vasty wilds
Of wide Arabia, are as thoroughfares now,
For princes to come view fair Portia;
The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head
Spits in the face of heaven is no bar
To stop the foreign spirits; but they come
As o'er a orook to see fair Portia.
The sudden plan which she forms for the release
of her husband's friend, her disguise, and her de
portment as the young and learned doctor, woulo
tppear forced and improbable in any other womaa
PORTIA. 61
But in Portia are the simple and natural result of
ker character.* The quickness with which she
perceives the legal advantage which may be taken
of the circumstances ; the spirit of adventure with
which she engages in the masquerading, and the
decision, firmness, and intelligence with which she
executes her generous purpose, are all in perfect
keeping, and nothing appears forced nothing aa
introduced merely for theatrical effect.
But all the finest parts of Portia's character are
brought to bear in the trial scene. There she
shines forth all her divine self. Her intellectual
powers, her elevated sense of religion, her high
honorable principles, her best feelings as a woman,
are all displayed. She maintains at first a calm
self-command, as one sure of carrying her point in
the end ; yet the painful heart-thrilling uncertainty
in which she keeps the whole court, until suspense
verges upon agony, is not contrived for effect
merely ; it is necessary and inevitable. She has
two objects in view ; to deliver her husband's
friend, and to maintain her husband's honor by
the discharge of his just debt, though paid out ot
her own wealth ten times over. It is evident that
she would rather owe the safety of Antonio to any
thing rather than the legal quibble with which her
cousin Bellario has armed her, and which she
In that age, delicate points of law were not determined by
"Se ordinary judges of the provinces, but by doctors of law, wh
ore called from Bologna, Padua, and other places celebrated fix
*ir legal colleges
22 CdARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
reserves as a last resource. Thus all the speeches
addressed to Shylock in the first instance, are
either direct or indirect experiments on his tem-
per and feelings. She must be understood from
the beginning to the end as examining, with in-
tense anxiety, the effect of her own words on hia
mind and countenance ; as watching for that relent-
ing spirit, which she hopes to awaken either by
reason or persuasion. She begins by an appeal to
bis mercy, in that matchless piece of eloquence,
which, with an irresistible and solemn pathos, falls
upon the heart like " gentle dew from heaven : "
but in vain ; for that blessed dew drops not more
fruitless and unfelt on the parched sand of the
desert, than do these heavenly words upon the ear
of Shylock. She next attacks his avarice :
Shylock, there's thrice thy money offered thee I
Then she appeals, in the same breath, both to hif
avarice and his pity :
Be merciful!
Take thrice thy money. Bid me tear the bond.
All that she says afterwards hei (Strong expres-
sions, which are calculated to strike a shuddering
horror through the nerves the reflections she
interposes her delays and circumlocution to give
rime for any latent feeling of commiseration to dis-
play itself all, all are premeditated and tend ii
the same manner to the object she has in view
Thus
Yon mast prepare yonr bosom for his knife.
Therefore lay bare your bosom !
PORTIA. 6S
JThese two speeches, though addressed apparently
to Antonio, are spoken at Shylock, and are evi-
dently intended to penetrate Ms bosom. In the
lame spirit she asks for the balance to weigh the
pound of flesh ; and entreats of Shylock to have a
surgeon ready
Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge,
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death 1
SHYLOCK.
Is it so nominated in the bond?
PORTIA.
It is not so expressed but what of that ?
'Twere good you do so much, for charity.
So unwilling is her sanguine and generous spirit
to resign all hope, or to believe that humanity is
absolutely extinct in the bosom of the Jew, that
phe calls on Antonio, as a last resource, to speak for
himself. His gentle, yet manly resignation the
deep pathos of his farewell, and the affectionate
allusion to herself in his last address to Bassanio
Commend me to your honorable wife;
Say how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death, &c.
are well calculated to swell that emotion, which
through the whole scene must have been laboring
suppressed within her heart.
At length the crisis arrives, for patience and
womanhood can endure no lorger; and when
Shylock, carrying uis savage bent " to the last
ftour of act," springs on his victim "A sentence
14 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
some, prepare ! " then the smothered scorn, indig-
nation, and disgust, burst forth with an impetuosity
which interferes with the judicial solemnity she
had at first affected ; particularly in the speech
Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh.
Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less, nor more,
But just the pound of flesh ; if thou tak'st more,
Or less than a just pound, be it but so much
As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance,
Or the division of the twentieth part
Of one poor scruple ; nay, if the scale do turn
But in the estimation of a hair,
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.
But she afterwards recovers her propriety, and
triumphs with a cooler scorn and a more self-
possessed exultation.
It is clear that, to feel the full force and dramatic
beauty of this marvellous scene, we must go along
with Portia as well as with Shylock; we must
understand her concealed purpose, keep in mind
her noble motives, and pursue in our fancy the
under current of feeling, working in her mind
throughout The terror and the power of Shylock's
character, his deadly and inexorable malice,
would be too oppressive; the pain and pity too
intolerable, and the horror of the possible issue
too overwhelming, but for the intellectual relief
afforded by this double source of interest and con
templation.
I come now to that capacity for warm and gen>
trous affection, that tenderness of heart, whicfc
PORTIA. 69
render Portia not less lovable as a woman, than
admirable for her mental endowments. The affec-
tions are to the intellect, what the forge is to the
metal ; it is they which temper and shape it to all
good purposes, and soften, strengthen, and purify
it. What an exquisite stroke of judgment in the
poet, to make the mutual passion of Portia and
Bassanio, though unacknowledged to each other,
anterior to the opening of the play ! Bassanio's
confession very properly comes first :
BASSANIO.
In Belmont is a lady ricUy left,
And she is fair, and farjr than that word,
Of wond'rous virtues : sometimes from her eyes
I did receive fair speechless messages ;
*****
and prepares us for Portia's half betrayed, uncon-
scious election of this most graceful and chivalrous
admirer
NERISSA.
Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a
Venetian, a scholar, and a soldier, that came hither in
company of the Marquis of Montferrat ?
PORTIA.
Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, so he was called.
NERISSA.
True, madam; he of all the men that ever myfool-
toh eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fail
lady.
PORTIA.
I remember him well; and I rennmbsr him worthy d
"hy praise.
ft
66 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
Our interest is thus awakened for the loven
from the very first ; and what shall be said of the
casket-scene with Bassanio, where every line which
Portia speaks is so worthy of herself, so full of sen-
timent and beauty, and poetry and passion ? Too
naturally frank for disguise, too modest to confess
her depth of love while the issue of the trial re-
mains in suspense, the conflict between love and
fear, and maidenly dignity, cause the most delicious
confusion that ever tinged a woman's cheek, or
dropped in broken utterance from her lips.
I pray you, tarry, pause a day or two,
Before you hazard ; for in choosing wrong,
I lose your company ; therefore, forbear awhile ;
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 you may miss me ;
But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin,
That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eye*,
They have o'erlooked me, and divided me:
One half of me is yours, the other half yours,
Mine own, I would say; but if mine, theu yours,
And so all yours !
The short dialogue between the loyera u at
inimte.
PORTIA. 17
BASSANIO.
Let me choose j
For, as I am, I live upon the rack.
Upon the rack, Bassanio ? Then confess
What treason there is mingled with your lof
None, but that ugly treason of mistrust,
Which makes me fear the enjoying of my lore
There may as well be amity and life
'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love.
PORTIA.
Ay ! but I fear you speak upon the rack,
Where men enforced do speak any thing.
BASSANIO.
Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth.
PORTIA.
Well then, confess, and live.
BASSANIO.
Confess and love
Had been the very sum of my confession!
happy torment, when my torturer
Doth teach me answers for deliverance !
A prominent feature in Portia's character is tha
confiding, buoyant spirit, which mingles with aU
Her thoughts and affections. And here let me ob
erve, that I never yet met in real life, nor eve*
read in tale or history, of any woman, distinguished
8 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
for intellect of the highest order, who was i.ot also
remarkable for this trusting spirit, this hopefalnesi
Mid cheerfulness of temper, which is compatible
\vith the most serious habits of thought, and the
most profound sensibility. Lady Wortley Montagu
was one instance ; and Madame de Stael furnishea
another much more memorable. In her Corinne,
whom she drew from herself, this natural brightness
of temper /s a prominent part of the character. A
disposition to doubt, to suspect, and to despond, in
the young, argues, in general, some inherent weak-
ness, moral or physical, or some miserable and rad-
ical error of education ; in the old, it is one of the
first symptoms of age ; it speaks of the influence of
Borrow and experience, and foreshows the decay of
the stronger and more generous powers of the soul.
Portia's strength of intellect takes a natural tinge
from the flush and bloom of her young and prosper-
ous existence, and from her fervent imagination.
In the casket-scene, she fears indeed the issue of
the trial, on which more than her life is hazarded
but while she trembles, her hope is stronger than
her fear. While Bassanio is contemplating th
caskets, she suffers herself to dwell for one momen'
on the possibility of disappointment and misery.
Let mnsio sound while he doth make h:s choice;
Then if he lose, he makes a swaiv-like end, *"
Fading in music : that the comparison
May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream
And watery death-bed for him.
POUTIA. 09
Then immediately follows that revulsion of feel-
ing, so beautifully characteristic of the hopeful,
trusting, mounting spirit of thia noble creature.
But he maywin!
And what is music then ? then music is
Even as the nourish, when true subjects bow
To a new-crowned monarch : such it is
As are those dulcet sounds at break of day,
That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear,
And summon him to marriage. Now he goes
With no less presence, but with much more love
Than young Alcides, when he did redeem
The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy
To the sea monster. I stand here for sacrifice.
Here, not only the feeling itself, born of the
elastic and sanguine spirit which had never been
touched by grief, but the images in which it cornea
arrayed to her fancy, the bridegroom waked by
music on his wedding-morn, the new-crowned
monarch, the comparison of Bassanio to the young
Alcides, and of herself to the daughter of Laome-
don, are all precisely what would have suggested
themselves to the fine poetical imagination of Por-
tia in such a moment.
Her passionate exclamations of delight, when
Bassanio has fixed on the right casket, are as strong
as though she had despaired before. Fear and
doubt she could repel ; the native elasticity of her
mind bore up against them; vet she makes us feel,
that, aa the sudden joy overpowers her almost to
Tainting, the disappointment would as certainly
kave killed her.
/O CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
How all the other passions fleet to air,
As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair,
And shudd'riug fear, and green-eyed jealousy ?
love! be moderate, allay thy ecstasy;
In measure rain thy joy scant this excess ;
1 feel too much thy blessing: make it less,
For fear I surfeit!
Her subsequent surrender of herself in aeai t and
loul, of her maiden freedom, and her vast posses-
sions, can never be read without deep emotions
for not only all the tenderness and delicacy of a
devoted woman, are here blended with all the
dignity which becomes the princely heiress of Bel-
mont, but the serious, measured self-possession of
her address to her lover, when all suspense is over,
and all concealment superfluous, is most beautifully
consistent with the character. It is, in truth, an
awful moment, that in which a gifted woman first
discovers, that besides talents and powers, she has
also passions and affections ; when she first begins
to suspect their vast importance in the sum of her
existence ; when she first confesses that her happi-
ness is no longer in her own keeping, but is sur-
rendered forever and forever into the dominion
of another ! The possession of uncommon powers
of mind are so far from affording relief or resource
in the first intoxicating surprise I had almost said
terror of such a revolution, that they render it
more intense. The sources of thought multiply
beyond calcuUtion the sources of feeling; umi
mingled, they rush together, a torrent deep at
POKTIA. 7'
rtrong. Because Portia is endued with that en
larged comprehension which looks before and after,
ihe does not feel the less, but the more : because
from the bjight of her commanding intellect she
can contemplate the force, the tendency, the con-
sequences of her own sentiments because she is
fiilly sensible of her own situation, and the value
of all she concedes the concession is not made
with less entireness and devotion of heart, less con-
ridence in the truth and worth of her lover, than
when Juliet, in a similar moment, but without any
such intrusive reflections any check but the in-
stinctive delicacy of her sex, flings herself and her
fortunes at the feet of her lover :
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay,
And follow thee, my lord, through all the world.*
In Portia's confession, which is not brea'thed from
a moonlit balcony, but spoken openly in the pres-
ence of her attendants and vassals, there is nothing
of the passionate self-abandonment of Juliet, nor
of the artiess simplicity of Miranda, but a concious-
ness and a tender seriousness, approaching ti
olemnity, which are not less touching.
Yon see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,
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 time* myself;
/ thousand times more fair, ten thousand limM
Borneo and Juliet, Act ii. Scene 2.
*1 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
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 something ; which to term in gross,
Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd,
Happy in this, she is not yet so old
But she may learn ; and 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.
Myself and wh#t mine, to you and yours
Is now converted. But now, I was the lord,
Of this fair mansion, master of my servants,
Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now,
This house, these servants, and this same myself',
Are yours, my lord.
We must also remark that the sweetness, th
solicitude, the subdued fondness which she after-
wards displays, relative to the letter, are as true to
the softness of her sex, as the generous self-denial
with which she urges the departure of Bassanio,
(having first given him a husband's right over her-
elf and all her countless wealth,) is oonsistent with
a reflecting mind, and a spirit at once tender
reasonable, and magnanimous.
It is not only in the trial scene that Portia'i
acuteness, eloquence, and lively intelligence are
evealed to us ; they are displayed in the first i&.
tance, and kept up consistently to the end. He
reflections, arising from the most usual aspects ot
nature, and from the commonest incidents of life
tie in such a poetical spirit, and are at the sam
POKTIA. 7J
tme so pointed, so profound, that they have passed
into familiar and daily application, with all the
force of proverbs.
If to do, were as easy as to know what were good to
do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages
princes' palaces.
I can easier teach twenty what were good to be dona,
than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching.
The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark,
When neither is attended ; and, I think,
The nightingale, if she should sing by day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many things by season, seasoned are
To their right praise and true perfection !
How far that little candle throws his beams !
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
A substitute shines as brightly as a king,
Until a king be by ; and then his state
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook,
Into the main of waters.
Her reflections on the friendship between her
husband and Antonio are as full of deep meaning
as of tenderness ; and her portrait of a young ,ox-
eomb, in the same scene, is touched with a truth
ind spirit which show with what a keen observing
)y,j she has looked upon men and things.
I'll hold thee any wager,
When we are both accou'^er'd like young men,
I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two,
A-id wear my dagger with the traver grace
M CHAKACTKRS OF INTELLECT.
And speak, between the change of man and boy
With a reed voice ; and turn two mincing step*
Into a manly stride ; and speak of frays,
Like a fine bragging youth ; and tell quaint lies-
How honorable ladies sought my love,
Which I denying, they fell sick and died ;
I could not do withal : then I'll repent,
And wish, for all that, that I had not killed them ;
And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell,
That men should swear, I have discontinued school
Above a twelvemonth !
And in the description of her various suitors, in
the first scene with Nerissa, what infinite power,
wit, and vivacity ! She half checks herself as she
is about to give the reins to her sportive humor :
" In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker."
But if it carries her away, it is so perfectly good-
natured, so temperately bright, so lady-like, it is
ever without offence ; and so far, most unlike the
satirical, poignant, unsparing wit of Beatrice, " mis-
prising what she looks on." In fact, I can scarce
conceive a greater contrast than between the vivac-
ity of Portia and the vivacity of Beatrice. Portia,
with all her airy brilliance, is supremely soft and
dignified; every thing she says or does, displays
her capability for profound thought and feeling, aa
well as her lively and romantic disposition ; and aa
I have seen in an Italian garden a fountain fling-
ing round its wreaths of showery light, while the
many-colored Iris hung brooding above it, in ita
calm and soul-felt glory ; so in Portia the wit is
tver kept subordinate to the poetry, and we stiU
75
feel the tender, the intellectual, and the imagina-
tive part of the character, as superior to, and pre-
siding over its spirit and vivacity.
In the last act, Shylock and his machinations be-
ing dismissed from our thoughts, and the rest of the
dramatis personce assembled together at Belmont,
fcll our interest and all our attention are riveted
ou Portia, and the conclusion leaves the most de-
lightful impression on the fancy. The playful
equivoque of the rings, the sportive trick she puts
on her husband, and her thorough enjoyment of
the jest, which she checks just as it is proceeding
beyond the bounds of propriety, show how little
she was displeased by the sacrifice of her gift, and
are all consistent with her bright and buoyant
spirit. In conclusion, when Portia invites her com-
pany to enter her palace to refresh themselves
after their travels, and talk over " these events at
full," the imagination, unwilling to lose sight of the
brilliant group, follows them in gay procession from
the lovely moonlight garden to marble halls and
princely revels, to splendor and festive mirth, to
love and happiness.
Many women have possessed many of those
qualities which render Portia so delightful. She
is in herself a piece of reality, in whose possible
existence we have no doubt : and yet a human
being, in whom the moral, intellectual, and sen-
Jient faculties should be so exquisitelv blended and
proportioned tc each other; and these again, in
armouy with all outward aspects and influence*
T6 CHAUA.CTKUS OF INTELLECT.
probably neve" existed certainly could not now
exist. A woman constituted like Portia, and placed
in this age, and in the actual state of society, would
find society armed against her ; and instead of be-
ing like Portia, a gracious, happy, beloved, and
loving creature, would be a victim, immolated in
Gre to that multitudinous Moloch termed Opinion.
Vrith her, the world without would be at war with
the world within ; in the perpetual strife, either
her nature would " be subdued to the element it
worked in," and bending to a necessity it could
neither escape nor approve, lose at last something
of its original brightness; or otherwise a per-
petual spirit of resistance, cherished as a safeguard,
might perhaps in the end destroy the equipoise ;
firmness would become pride and self-assurance ;
and the soft, sweet, feminine texture of the mind,
settle into rigidity. Is there then no sanctuary for
such a mind ? Where shall it find a refuge from
the world ? Where seek for strength against it-
self? Where, but in heaven ?
Camiola, in Massinger's Maid of Honor, is said to
emulate Portia ; and the real story of Camiola (for
she is an historical personage) is very beautiful
She was a lady of Messina, who lived in the begin*
aing of the fourteenth century ; and was the con-
temporary of Queen Joanna, of Petrarch and Boc*
-;io. It fell out in those days, that Prince Or-
umdo of Arragon, the younger brother of the King
pf Sicily, having taken the command of a nava*
Knnament against the Neapolitans, was defeated
PORTIA. 77
wounded, taken prisoner, and confined by Rolmrt
f Naples (the father of Queen Joanna) in one
of his strongest castles. As the prince had distin-
guished himself by his enmity to the Neapolitans,
and by many exploits against them, his ransom was
fixed at an exorbitant sum, and his captivity was
unusually severe ; while the King of Sicily, who
had some cause of displeasure against his brother,
and imputed to him the defeat of his armament, re-
fused either to negotiate for his release, or to pay
the ransom demanded.
Orlando, who was celebrated for his fine person
and reckless valour, was apparently doomed to
languish away the rest of his life in a dungeon,
when Camiola Turinga, a rich Sicilian heiress, de-
voted the half of her fortune to release him. But
as such an action might expose her to evil com-
ments, she made it a condition, that Orlando should
marry her. The prince gladly accepted the terms,
and sent her the contract of marriage, signed by
his hand ; but no sooner was he at liberty, than ho
refused to fulfil it, and even denied all knowledge
of his benefactress.
Camiola appealed to the tribunal of state, pro-
duced the written contract, and described the obli-
gations she had heaped on /his ungrateful and un-
generous man ; sentence was given against him ;
and he was adjudged to Camiola, not only as her
rightful husband, but as a property which, accord
tog to the laws of war in that age, she had purchased
ith her gold. The dv of marriapre was fixed
f8 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
-Orlando presented himself with a splendid retinae
amiola also appeared, decorated as for her bridal
but instead of bestowing her hand on the recreant
ihe reproached him in the presence of all with hii
breach of faith, declared her utter contempt for hu
baseness; and then freely bestowing on him the
sum paid for his ransom, as a gift worthy of hia
mean soul, she turned away, and dedicated herselt
and her heart to heaven. In this resolution she
remained inflexible, though the king and all the
court united in entreaties to soften her. She took
the veil ; and Orlando, henceforth regarded as one
who had stained his knighthood, and violated his
faith, passed the rest of his life as a dishonored
man, and died in obscurity.
Camiola, in " The Maid of Honor," is, like Por-
tia, a wealthy heiress, surrounded by suitors, and
" queen o'er herself: " the character is constructed
upon the same principles, as great intellectual
power, magnanimity of temper, and feminine ten-
derness; but not only do pain and disquiet, and
the change induced by unkind and inauspicious in-
fluences, enter into this sweet picture to mar and
cloud its happy beauty, but the portrait itself may
be pronounced out of drawing ; for Massinger ap-
parently had not sufficient delicacy of sentiment to
work out his own conception of the character with
perfect consistency. In his adaptation of the story
he represents the mutual love of Orlando and Ca-
miola as existing previous to the captivity of th
former, and on his part declared with many vowt
PORTIA. 79
M eternal faith, yet she requires a written contract
of marriage before she liberates him. It will per-
haps be said that she has penetrated his weakness,
and anticipates his falsehood : miserable excuse !
how could a magnanimous woman love a man,
whose falsehood she believes but possible f or lov-
ing him, how could she deign to secure herself by
such means against the consequences ? Shakspeare
and Nature never committed such a solecism. Ca-
miola doubts before she has been wronged; the
Qrmness and assurance in herself border on harsh-
ness. What in Portia is the gentle wisdom cf a
noble nature, appears, in Camiola, too much a
spirit of calculation : it savors a little of the count-
ing house. As Portia is the heiress of Belmont,
and Camiola a merchant's daughter, the distinction
may be proper and characteristic, but it is not in
favor of Camiola. The contrast may be thus il-
lustrated :
CAMIOLA.
You have heard of Bertoldo's captivity and the king's
neglect, the greatness of his ransom; jifty thousand
jrowns, Adorni ! Two parts of my estate ! Yet I M
love the gentleman, for to you I will confess my weak-
ness, that I purpose now, when he is forsaken by tin
king and hii own hopes, to ransom him.
Maid of Honor, Act. ft.
PORTIA.
What sum owes he the Jew?
BASSANIO.
For me three thousand ducat*.
BO CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
POKTIA.
What! no morel
Pay him six thousand and deface the bond,
Double six thousand, and then treble that,
Before a friend of this description
Shall lose a hair thro' my Bassanio's fault.
You shall have gold
T ) pay the petty debt twenty times o'er.
Merchant of Feme*.
Camiola, who is a Sicilian, might as well have been
born at Amsterdam : Portia could have only existed
m Italy. Portia is profound as she is brilliant;
Camiola is sensible and sententious ; she asserts her
dignity very successfully ; but we cannot for a mo-
ment imagine Portia as reduced to the necessity of
asserting hers. The idiot Sylli, in " The Maid of
Honor," who follows Camiola like one of the de-
formed dwarfs of old time, is an intolerable viola-
tion of taste and propriety, and it sensibly lowers
our impression of the principal character. Shak-
epeare would never have placed Sir Andrew Ague-
cheek in constant and immediate approximation
with such a woman as Portia.
Lastly, the charm of the poetical coloring is
wholly wanting in Camiola, so that when she is
placed in contrast with the glowing eloquence, the
luxuriant grace, the buoyant spirit of Portia, the
effect is somewhat that of coldness and formality.
Notwithstanding the dignity and the beauty of
Massinger's delineation, and the noble self-devotion
f Camiola, which I acknowledge and admire, the
PORTIA. 81
hro characters will admit of no comparison an
sources of contemplation and pleasure.
It is observable that something of the intellectual
brilliance of Portia is reflected on the other female
characters of the " Merchant of Venice," so as to
preserve in the midst of contrast a certain harmony
and keeping. Thus Jessica, though properly kept
subordinate, is certainly
A most beautifu 1 . pagaii a most sweet Jew.
She cannot be called a sketch or if a sketch, she
is like one of those dashed off in glowing colora
from the rainbow pallette of a Rubens ; she has a
rich tinge of orientalism shed over her, worthy of
her eastern origin. In any other play, and in any
other companionship than that of the matchless
Portia, Jessica would make a very beautiful heroine
of herself. Nothing can be more poetically, more
classically fanciful and elegant, than the scenes be-
tween her and Lorenzo ; the celebrated moonlight
dialogue, for instance, which we all have by heart.
Every sentiment she utters interests us for her:
more particularly her bashful self-reproach, when
lying in the disguise of a page ;
I am glad 'tis night, you do not look upon m,
For I am much asham'd of my exchange ;
But love is blind, and lovirs cannot MM
82 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
The pretty follies that themselves commit;
For if they could, Cupid himself would blush
To see me thus transformed to a boy.
And the enthusiastic and generous testimony to
the superior graces and accomplishments of Portia
comes with a peculiar grace from her lips.
Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match.
And on the wager lay two earthly women,
And Portia one, there must be something else
Pawned with the other; for the poor rude wcrld
Hath not her fellow.
We should not, however, easily pardon her for
cheating her father with so much indifference, but
for the perception that Shylock values his daughter
far beneath his wealth.
I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the
jewels in her ear ! would she were hearsed at my foot,
aud the ducats hi her coffin !
Nerissa is a good specimen of a common genus
of characters ; she is a clever confidential waiting-
woman, who has caught a little of her lady's ele-
pance and romance ; she affects to be lively and
sententious, falls in love, and makes her favor
conditional on the fortune of the caskets, and in
short mimics her mistress with good emphasis and
discretion. Nerissa and the gay talkative Gratiano
are as well matched as the incomparable Portif
Mid her magnificent and captivating lover.
ISABELLA. 83
ISABELLA.
THE character of Isabella, considered as a poet-
ical delineation, is less mixed than that of Portia;
and the dissimilarity between the two appears, at
first view, so complete that we can scarce believe
that the same elements enter into the composi-
tion of each. Yet so it is ; they are portrayed as
equally wise, gracious, virtuous, fair, and young;
we perceive in both the same exalted principle
N and firmness of character ; the same depth of
reflection and persuasive eloquence ; the same
self-denying generosity and capability of strong
affections; and we must wonder at that marvel-
lous power by which qualities and endowments,
essentially and closely allied, are so combined and
modified as to produce a result altogether differ-
ent. "O Nature! O Shakespeare! which of ye
drew from the other? "
Isabella is distinguished from Portia, and strong-
ly individualized by a certain moral grandeur, a
saintly grace, something of vestal dignity and pu-
rity, which render her less attractive and more
imposing; she is " severe in youthful beauty, "and
inspires a reverence which would have placed her
beyond the daring of one unholy wish or thought,
except in such a man as Angeio
O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint,
With saints dost bait thy hook I
B4 "U1ARACTKR8 OF INTELLECT.
This impression of her character is conveyed
from the very first, when Lucio, the libertine jestei
whose coarse audacious wit checks at every feather,
thus expresses his respect for her,
I would not though 'tis my familiar siii
With maids to seem the lapwing, and to jest
Tongue far from heart play with all virgins so.
I hold you as a thing enskyed, and sainted ;
By your renouncement an immortal spirit,
And to be talked with in sincerity,
As with a saint.
A strong distinction between Isabella and Por-
tia is produced by the circumstances in which they
are respectively placed. Portia is a high-born
heiress, " Lord of a fair mansion, master of her ser-
vants, queen o'er herself; " easy and decided, aa
one born to command, and used to it Isabella
has also the innate dignity which renders her
" queen o'er herself," but she has lived far from
the world and its pomps and pleasures ; she is one
of a consecrated sisterhood a novice of St Clare ;
the power to command obedience and to con-
fer happiness are to her unknown. Portia is a
splendid creature, radiant with confidence, hope,
and joy. She is like the orange-tree, hung at
Dnce with golden fruit and luxuriant flowers, which
has expanded into bloom and fragrance beneath
favoring skies, and has been nursed into beauty by
the sunshine and the dews of heaven. Isabella is
ike a stately and graceful cedar, towering on som*
tlpine cliff, unbowed and unscathed amid th
ISABELLA 81
itorm. She gives us the impression of one who
has passed under the ennobling discipline of suf-
fering and self-denial: a melancholy charm tem-
pers the natural vigor of her mind: her spirit
seems to stand upon an eminence, and look down
upon the world as if already enskyed and sainted;
and yet when brought in contact with that world
which she inwardly despises, she shrinks back with
all the timidity natural to her cloistral education.
This union of natural grace and grandeur with
the habits and sentiments of a recluse, of auster-
ity of life with gentleness of manner, of inflexible
moral principle with humility and even bashful-
ness of deportment, is delineated with the most
beautiful and wonderful consistency. Thus when
her brother sends *o her, to entreat her mediation,
her first feeling is fear, and a distrust in her own
powers:
. . . Alat> ! what poor ability's in me
To do him good ?
Essay the power you have.
ISABELLA.
My power, alas ! I doubt.
In the first scene with Angelo she seems divided
between her love for her brother and her sense of
pis fault ; between her self-respect and her maid-
enly bashfulness. She begins with a kind of hesi-
tation " at war 'tw-_xt will and will not : " and whei
4-ogelo quotes the law, and insists OD the justice of
86 CHAKACTKUS OF IXTELI.KCT.
"his sentence, and the responsibility of his station,
her native sense of moral rectitude and sever*
principles takes the lead, and she shrinks back:
just, but severe law !
I had a brother then Heaven keep your honor!
(Retiring.
Excited and encouraged by Lucio, and sup-
ported by her own natural spirit, she returns to
the charge, she gains energy and self-possession
as she proceeds, grows more earnest and passionate
from the difficulty she encounters, and displays
that eloquence and power of reasoning for which
we had been already prepared by Claudio's first
allusion to her :
In her youth
There is a prone and speechless dialect,
Such as moves men; besides, she hath prosperous art,
When she will play with reason and discourse,
And well she can persuade.
It is a curious coincidence that Isabella, exhort-
ing Angelo to mercy, avails herself of precisely the
same arguments, and insists on the self-same topics
which Portia addresses to Shylock in her celebrated
speech ; but how beautifully and how truly is the
distinction marked ! how like, and yet how unlike
''ortia's eulogy on mercy is a piece of heavenly
rhetoric ; it falls on the ear with a solemn meas-
ortd harmony ; it is the voice of a descended angel
Addressing an inferior nature : if not premeditated,
It is at least part of a preconcerted scheme ; while
Isabella's pleadings are poured from the abundance
ISABELLA. 87
if her heart in broken sentences, and with the art-
less vehemence of one who feels that life and death
hang upon her appeal. This will be best under-
itood by placing the corresponding passages IB
immediate comparison with each other.
PORTIA.
The quality of mercy is not strain' d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven,
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 power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings.
ISABELLA.
Well, believe this,
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs,
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword,
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe.
Become them with one half so good a grace
As mercy does.
PORTIA.
Consider this
That in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer aoth teach ts all to render
The deeds of mercy.
ISABELLA.
Alas! alas!
Why all the souls that were, were forfeit ono;
18 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
And He, that might the 'vantage best have took,
Found out the remedy. How would yon be,
If He, which is the top of judgment, should
But judge you as you are ? 0, think on that,
And mercy then will breathe within your lips,
Like man new made I
The beautiful things which Isabella is made fco
otter, have, like the sayings of Portia, become
proverbial ; but in spirit and character they are aa
distinct as are the two women. In all that Portia
says, we confess the power of a rich poetical imag-
ination, blended with a quick practical spirit of
observation, familiar with the surfaces of things,
while there is a profound yet simple morality, a
depth of religious feeling, a touch of melancholy, in
Isabella's sentiments, and something earnest and
authoritative in the manner and expression, as
though they had grown up in her mind from long
and deep meditation in the silence and solitude ol
her convent cell :
it is excellent
To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous
To use it like a giant.
Could great men thunder,
As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet:
For every pelting, petty officer
Would use his heaven for thunder; nothing but thunder
Merciful Heaven!
Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt
Iplit'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak
Than the soft myrtle. but man, proud man !
ISABELLA 81
Drest in a little brief authority,
Most ignorant of what he's most assured,
His glassy essence, like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven,
As make the angels weep.
Great men may jest with saints, 'tis wit in them;
But in the less, foul profanation.
That in the captain's but a choleric word,
Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.
Authority, although it err like others,
Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself
That skins the vice o' the top. Go to youi bosom ;
Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth kno-vi
That's like my brother's fault: if it confess
A natural guiltiness such as his is,
Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue
Against my brother's life.
Let me be ignorant, and hi nothing good,
But graciously to know I am na better.
The sense of death is most in apprehension ;
And the poor beetle that we tread upon,
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great
As when a giant dies .
'Tis not impossible
But one, the wicked 'st caitiff on the ground,
May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute
As Angelo ; even so may Angelo,
In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms,
Be an arch villain.
liei fine powers of reasoning, and that natural
*0 CHARACTERS OK INTELLECT.
aprightness and purity which no sophistry car
warp, and no allurement betray, are farther di
played in the second scene with Angela
ANGKLO.
What would you do?
ISABELLA.
As much for my poor brother as myself;
That is, were I under the terms of death,
The impression of keen whips I'd wear as ruble*,
And strip myself to death as to a bed
That, longing, I have been sick for, ere I'd yield
My body up to shame.
ANGKLO.
Then must your brother die.
And 'twere the cheaper way ;
Better it were a brother died at once,
Than that a sister, by redeeming him,
Should die forever.
Were you not than cruel as the sentence,
That you have slander' d so 1
Ignominy in ransom, and free pardon.
Are of two houses : lawful mercy is
Nothing akin to foul redemption.
ANGKLO.
Ton seem'd of late to make the law a tyrant}
ISABELLA 11
And rather proved the sliding of your brother
A merriment than a vice.
pardon me, my lord; it oft falls out,
To have what we'd have, we speak not what we mean:
1 something do excuse the thing I hate,
For Ids advantage that I dearly love.
Towards the conclusion of the play we have
another instance of that rigid sense of justice,
which is a prominent part of Isabella's character,
and almost silences her earnest intercession for her
brother, when his fault is placed between her plea
and her conscience. The Duke condemns the vil-
lain Angelo to death, and his wife Mariana entreats
Isabella to plead for him.
Sweet Isabel, take my part,
Lend me your knees, and all my life to come
I'll lend you all my life to do you service.
Isabella remains silent, and Mariana reiterates
her prayer.
MARIANA.
Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me,
Hold up your hands, say nothing, I'll speak alii
Isabel ! will yon not lend a knee ?
Isabella, thus urged, breaks silence and appeals
to the Duke, not with supplication, or persuasion,
iut with grave argument, and a kind of dignified
Smmility and conscious power, whbh are finelj
>haracteristic of the individual woman
I*J CI1AUAC1XR8 OF INTELLKCf.
Most bounteous Sir,
Lock, if it please you, on this man condemn' d,
As if my brother liv'd ; I partly think
A due sincerity povern'd his deeda
Till he did look on me; since it is so
Let him not die. My brothe* had but jn*fic,
In that he did the thing for which he died.
For Angelo,
ilis art did not o'ertake his oad intent,
That perish'd by the way: thoughts are no subject^
Intents, but merely thoughts.
In this instance, as in the one before mentioned,
Isabella's conscientiousness is overcome by the only
sentiment which ought to temper justice into mercy,
the power of affection and sympathy.
Isabella's confession of the general frailty of her
BOX, has a peculiar softness, beauty, and propriety.
She admits the imputation with all the sympathy
of woman for woman ; yet with all the dignity of
one who felt her own superiority to the weaknesi
ihe acknowledges.
ANGELO.
Nay, women are frail too,
ISABELLA.
Ay, as the glasses where they view themselvea ;
Which are as easy broke as they make forms.
Women ! help heaven ! men their creation mar
In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail ,
For we are soft as our complexions are,
And credulous to false prints.
Nor should we fail to remark the deeper inters*
ISABELLA. 93
which is thrown round Isabella, by one part of her
character, which is betrayed rather than exhibited
in the progress of the action ; and for which we are
not at first prepared, though it is so perfectly nat-
ural. It is the strong under-current of passion and
enthusiasm flowing beneath this calm and saintly
self-possession ; it is the capacity for high feeling
and generous and strong indignation, veiled beneath
the sweet austere composure of the religious re-
cluse, which, by the very force of contrast, power-
fully impress the imagination. As we see in real
life that where, from some external or habitual
cause, a strong control is exercised over naturally
pick feelings and an impetuous temper, they dis-
play themselves with a proportionate vehemence
when that restraint is removed ; so the very vio-
lence with which her passions burst forth, when op-
posed or under the influence of strong excitement,
s admirably characteristic.
Thus in her exclamation, when she first allow*
Herself to perceive Angelo's vile design
ISABELLA.
Ha! little honor to be much believed,
And most pernicious purpose ; seeming ! seeming
I will proclaim thee, Angelo : look for it !
Sign me a present pardon for my brother,
Or with an outstretched throat I'll tell the world
Aloud, what man thou art !
And again, where she findr that the " outward
tainted deputy," has, deceived her
4 CHARACTERS OK INTfcXLECT.
O I will to him, and pluck out his eyes!
Unhappy Claudio! wretched Isabel I
Injurious world! most damned Angelo!
She places at first a strong ani high-souled c<
fiJence in her brother's fortitiNv and magnanimity
judging him by her own lofty spirit :
I'll to my brother;
Though he hath fallen by prompture of the blood,
Yet hath he in him such a mind of honor,
That had -lie twenty heads to tender down,
On twenty bloody blocks, he'd yield them up
Before his sister should her body stoop
To such abhorr'd pollution.
But when her trust in his honor is deceived by
his momentary weakness, her scorn has a bitter-
ness, and her indignation a force of expression al-
most fearful ; and both are carried to an extreme,
which is perfectly in character :
faithless coward ! dishonest wretch !
Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice?
Is't not a kind of incest to take life
From thine own sister's shame? What should I think*
Heaven shield, my mother play'd my father fair!
For such a Warped slip of wilderness
Ne'er issued from his blood. Take my defiance;
Die! perish! might but my bending down,
Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed.
I'll pray a thousand prayers for thy death.
No word to Rave theo.
ISABELLA. 95
The whole of this scene with Claudio is inexpres-
libly grand in the poetry and the sentiment ; and
the entire play abounds in those passages and
phrases which must have become trite from familiar
and constant use and abuse, if their wisdom and
unequalled beauty did not invest them with an im-
mortal freshness and vigor, and a perpetual charm.
The story of Measure for Measure is a tradition
of great antiquity, of which there are several ver-
sions, narrative and dramatic. A contemptible
tragedy, the Promos and Cassandra of George
Whetstone, is supposed, from various coincidences,
to have furnished Shakspeare with the groundwork
of the play ; but the character of Isabella is, in con-
ception and execution, all his own. The commen-
tators have collected with infinite industry all the
sources of the plot ; but to the grand creation of
Isabella, they award either silence or worse than
silence. Johnson and the rest of the black-letter
crew, pass over her without a word. One critic, a
lady-critic too, wl ose name I will be so merciful as
to suppress, treats Isabella as a coarse vixen. Haz-
litt, with that strange perversion of sentiment and
want of taste which sometimes mingle with his
piercing and powerful intellect, dismisses Isabella
with a slight remark, that "we are not greatl)
enamoured of her rigid chastity, nor can feel much
confidence in the virtue that is sublimely good at
another's expense." What shall we answer to such
priticism ? Upon what ground can we read the
from beginning to end, and doubt the angel-
9fi CHARACTERS OK INTELLECT
purity of Isabella, or contemplate her possible laps*
from virtue ? Such gratuitous mistrust is here a
lin against the light of heaven.
Having waste ground enough,
Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary,
And pitch our evils there ?
Professor Richardson is more just, and truly
Hums up her character as " amiable, pious, sen-
Bible, resolute, determined, and eloquent : " but bit
remarks are rather superficial.
Schlegel's observations are also brief and gen-
eral, and in no way distinguish Isabella from many
other characters ; neither did his plan allow him to
be more minute. Of the play altogether, he ob
serves very beautifully, " that the title Measure foi
Measure is in reality a misnomer, the sense of the
whole being properly the triumph of mercy over
strict justice : " but it is also true that there is " an
original sin in the nature of the subject, which
prevents us from taking a cordial interest in it."*
Of all the characters, Isabella alone has our sym-
pathy. But though she triumphs in the conclusion,
her triumph is not produced in a pleasing manner.
There are too many disguises and tricks, too many
"bv-paths and indirect crooked ways," to conduct
us to tne natural and foreseen catastrophe, which
the Duke's presence throughout renders inevitable.
This Duke seems to have a predilection for bring-
Ing about justice by a most unjustifiable succession
* Characters of Shakespeare's Plays.
ISABELLA. 9?
of falsehoods and counterplots. He really deserve*
LuciiA satirical designation, who somewnere styles
him "The Fantastical Duke of Dark Corners."
But Isabella is ever consistent in her pure and up-
right simplicity, and in the midst of this simulation,
expresses a characteristic disapprobation of the
part she is made to play,
To speak so indirectly I am loth :
I would say the truth.*
She yields to the supposed Friar with a kind of
forced docility, because her situation as a religious
novice, and his station, habit, and authority, as her
spiritual director, demand this sacrifice. In the
end we are made to feel that her transition from
the convent to the throne has but placed this noble
creature in her natural sphere : for though Isabella,
as Duchess of Vienna, could not more command
our highest reverence than Isabella, the novice of
Saint Clare, yet a wider range of usefulness and
benevolence, of trial and action, was better suited
to the large capacity, the ardent affections, the
energetic intellect, and firm principle of such a
woman as Isabella, than the walls of a cloister.
The philosophical Duke observes in the very first
cene
Spirits are not finely touched,
But to fine issues : nor nature never lends
The smallest scruple of her excellence,
But like a thrifty goddess she determines,
Herself the glory of a creditor,
Both thanks and cse.f
* Act IT. Scene 5. t f I. e. usury, interest.
r
18 CHARACTERS OP INTELLECT.
This profound and beautiful sentiment ia illu
bated in the character and destiny of Isabella
She says, of herself, that ' she has spirit to act
whatever her heart approves ; " and what her heart
approves we know.
In the convent, (which may stand here poetically
for any narrow and obscure situation in which
euch a woman might be placed,) Isabella would
not have been unhappy, but happiness would have
been the result of an effort, or of the concentration
of her great mental powers to some particular pur-
pose; as St. Theresa's intellect, enthusiasm, ten-
derness, restless activity, and burning eloquence,
governed by one overpowering sentiment of devo-
tion, rendered her the most extraordinary of saints.
Isabella, like St Theresa, complains that the rules
of her order are not sufficiently severe, and from
the same cause, that from the consciousness of
strong intellectual and imaginative power, and of
overflowing sensibility, she desires a more " strict
restraint," or, from the continual, involuntary
ttroggle against the trammels imposed, feels iti
necessity.
ISABELLA.
And have you nuns no further privileges ?
FRANCI8CA.
Are not these large enough?
ISABELLA.
Tea, truly; I speak, not as desiring more,
But rather wishing a more strict restraint
Upon the sisterhood 1
BEATRICE. 99
Such women as Desdemona and Ophelia would
ave passed their lives in the seclusion of a nun-
nery, without wishing, like Isabella, for stricter
Bonds, or planning, like St. Theresa, the reforma-
tion of their order, simply, because any restraint
would have been efficient, as far as they were con-
cerned. Isabella, " dedicate to nothing temporal,"
might have found resignation through self govern-
ment, or have become a religious enthusiast : while
" place and greatness " would have appeared to her
strong and upright mind, only a more extended
field of action, a trust and a trial. The mere trap-
pings of power and state, the gemmed coronal, the
ermined robe, she would have regarded as the out-
ward emblems of her earthly profession ; and would
have worn them with as much simplicity as her
novice's hood and scapular ; still, under whatever
guise she might tread this thorny world the same
* angel of light."
BEATEICE.
SHAKSPEARE has exhibited in Beatrice a spir-
ited and faithful portrait of the fine lady of his
*WB time. The deportment, language, manners, ana
allusirms, are those of a particular class in a partic-
ular age; but the individual and dramatic char-
acter which forms the groundwork, is strongly
00 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
iisoriminated and being taken from general na-
ture, belongs to every age. In Beatrice, high
jitellect and high animal spirits meet, and excite
3ach other like fire and air. In her wit (which ifl
brilliant without being imaginative) there is a
touch of insolence, not unfrequent in women wheii
the wit predominates over reflection and imagina-
tion. In her temper, too, there is a slight infusion
of the termagant ; and her satirical humor plays
with such an unrespective levity over all subjects
alike, that it required a profound knowledge of
women to bring such a character within the pale
of our sympathy. But Beatrice, though wilful, is
not wayward ; she is volatile, not unfeeling. She
has not only an exuberance of wit and gayety, but
of heart, and soul, and energy of spirit ; and is no
more like the fine ladies of modern comedy,
whose wit consists in a temporary allusion, or a
play upon words, and whose petulance is displayed
in a toss of the head, a flirt of the fan, or a flour-
ish of the pocket handkerchief, than one of our
modern dandies is h'ke Sir Philip Sydney.
In Beatrice, Shakspeare has contrived that the
poetry of the character shall not only soften, but
.heighten its comic effect We are not only in-
clined to forgive Beatrice all her scornful airs, all
her biting jests, all her assumption of superiority ;
but they amuse and delight us the more, when w
find her, with all the headlong simplicity of a child,
tailing at once into the snare laid for her afleo
tions; when we see her, who thought a mail of
BEATRICE. 101
Rod's making not good enough for her, who dis-
sLined to be o'ermastered by " a piece of valian
iust," stooping like the rest of her sex, Tailing he*
proud spirit, and taming her wild heart to the lov-
ing hand of him whom she had scorned, flouted,
and misused, "past the endurance of a block."
And we are yet more completely won by her gen-
erous enthusiastic attachment to her cousin. When
the father of Hero believes the tale of her guilt
when Claudio, her lover, without remorse or a lin
gering doubt, consigns her to shame; when the
Friar remains silent, and the generous Benedick
himself knows not what to say, Beatrice, confident
in her affections, and guided only by the impulses
of her own feminine heart, sees through the incon-
sistency, the impossibility of the charge, and ex-
claims, without a moment's hesitation,
0, on my soul, my cousin ia belied!
Schlegel, in his remarks on the play of " Much
Ado about nothing," has given us an amusing in-
stance of that sense of reality with which we are
impressed by Shakspeare's characters. He says of
Benedick and Beatrice, as if he had known them
personally, that the exclusive direction of their
pointed raillery against each other " is a proof of a
growing inclination." This is rot unlikely; and
the same inference would lead us to suppose that
this mutual inch'nation had commenced oefore the
opening of the play. The very first words utterei
Hy Beatrice are an inquiry after Benedick, thougk
jcpressed with her usual arch impertinence :
102 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
I pray you, is Signior Montanto returned ftrcm th*
wars, or no ?
I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten it
these wars ? But how many hath he killed ? for indeed 1
promised to eat all of his killing.
And in the unprovoked hostility with which sh
falls upon him in hia absence, in the pertinacity
and bitterness of her satire, there is certainly great
argument that he occupies much more of her
viioughts than she would have been willing to con-
fess, even to herself. In the same manner Bene-
dick betrays a lurking partiality for his fascinating
enemy ; he shows that he has looked upon hei
with no careless eye, when he says,
There's her cousin, (meaning Beatrice,) an' she wer
not possessed with a fury, excels her as much in beauty
as the first of May does the last of December.
Infinite skill, as well as humor, is shown in mak-
ing this pair of airy beings the exact counterpart
of each other; but of the two portrait", that of
Benedick is by far the most pleasing, because the
independence and gay indifference of temper, the
laughing defiance of love and marriage, the satirical
freedom of expression, common to both, jtre more
becoming to the masculine than to the fem-nine
character. Any woman might love such a cavalier
is Benedick, and be proud of his affection ; hi
valor, his wit, and his gayety sit so gracefully uj>on
nim ! and his light scofl's against the power of love,
are but just sufficient to render more piquant th
iquost of this " heretic in I'espite of beauty.
BEATRICE. 103
But a man might well be pardoned vcho should
ihriuk from encountering such a spiiit as that of
Beatrice, unless, indeed, he had " served an ap-
prenticeship to the taming school." The wit of
Beatrice is less good-humored than that of Bene-
dick ; or, from the difference of sex, appears so.
It is observable that the power is throughout ou
oer side, and the sympathy and interest on his:
which, by reversing the usual order of things,
seems to excite us against the grain, if I may use
such an expression. In all their encounters slw
constantly gets the better of him, and the gentle-
man's wits go off halting, if he is not himself fairly
hors de combat. Beatrice, woman-like, generally
has the first word, and will have the last. Thus,
when they first meet, she begins by provoking tho
merry warfare :
I wonder thai: you will still be talking, Signior Bene-
dick ; nobody marks you.
BENEDICK.
What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living?
BEATRICE.
Is it possible Disdain should die, while she hath such
meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy
teelf must convert to disdain, if you come in her pres-
ence.
Tt is clear that she cannot for a moment endur*
his neglect, and he can as little tolerate her scorn.
Kothing that Benedidr addresses to Beatrice per-
04 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
wnally can equal the malicious force of some of
her attacks upon him : he is either restrained by a
feeling of natural gallantly, little as she deserves
the consideration due to her sex, (for a female
satirist ever places herself beyond the pale of such
forbearance,) or he is subdued by her superior
volubility. He revenges himself, however, in her
absence : he abuses her with such a variety of
comic invective, and pours forth his pent-up wrath
with such a ludicrous extravagance and exaggera-
tion, that he betrays at once how deep is his morti-
fication, and how unreal his enmity.
In the midst of all this tilting and sparring of
their nimble and fiery wits, we find them infinitely
anxious for the good opinion of each other, anu
secretly impatient of each other's scorn : but Bea-
trice is the most truly indifferent of the two ; the
most assured of herself. The comic effect pro-
duced by their mutual attachment, which, however
natural and expected, comes upon us with all the
force of a surprise, cannot be surpassed : and how
exquisitely characteristic the mutual avowal 1
BENEDICK.
Pj my sword, Beatrice, thon lovest me.
BEATRICE.
Do not swear by it, and eat it
BENEDICK.
I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make
\'an eat it, that says, I love not you.
BEATRICE. J05
BEATRICE.
fFifl you not eat yoor word ?
BENEDICK.
With no sauce that can be devised to it: I protest, 1
love thee.
BEATRICE.
Why, then, God forgive me !
BENEDICK.
What offence, *weet Beatrice ?
BEATRICE.
You stayed me in a happy hour. I was about to pro-
test, I loved you.
BENEDICK.
And do it with all thy heart.
BEATRICE.
I love yon with so much of my heart, that there is
none left to protest.
But here again the dominion rests with Beatrice,
and she appears in a less amiable light than her
lover. Benedick surrenders his whole heart to her
and to his new passion. The revulsion of feeling
even causes it to overflow in an excess of fond-
ness ; but with Beatrice temper has still the mas-
tery. The affection of Benedick induces him to
:hallenge his intimate friend for her sake, but the
affection of Beatrice does not prevent her from
risking the life of her lover.
The character of Hero is well contrasted with
lhat of Beatrice, and their mutual attachment k
l06 CUARACTEIIS OF INTELLECT.
rery beautiful and natural. When they are both
on the scene together, Hero has but little to say
for herself: Beatrice asserts the rule of a master
spirit, eclipses her by her mental superiority,
abashes her by her raillery, dictates to her, an-
swers for her, and would fain inspire her gentle-
hearted cousin with some of her own assurance.
Yes, faith ; it is my cousin's duty to make a curtsey,
and say, "Father, as it please you;" but yet, for aD
that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else makfl
another curtsey, and, " Father, as it please me."
But Shakspeare knew well how to make one char-
acter subordinate to another, without sacrificing
the slightest portion of its effect ; and Hero, added
to her grace and softness, and all the interest which
attaches to her as the sentimental heroine of the
play, possesses an intellectual beauty of her own.
When she has Beatrice at an advantage, she re-
pays her with interest, in the severe, but most
animated and elegant picture she draws of her
cousin's imperious character and unbridled levity
of tongue. The portrait is a little overcharged,
because administered as a corrective, and intended
to bo overheard.
But nature never firam'd a woman's heart
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice :
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eye*,
Misprising what they look on; and her wit
Values itself so highly, that to her
All matter else seems weak ; she cannot lorw,
Nor take no shape nor project of affection,
She is so self-endeared.
BEATRICE. 107
UR8VLA.
Bore, sure, such carping is not commendable
HERO.
No : not to be so odd, and from all fashions,
Aa Beatrice is cannot be commendable :
But who dare tell her so ? If I should speak,
She'd mock me into air: she would laugh m%
Out of myself, press me to death with wit.
Therefore let Benedick, like cover'd fire,
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly:
It were a better death than die with mocks,
Which is as bad as die with tickling.
Beatrice never appears to greater advantage
than in her soliloquy after leaving her conceal-
ment " in the pleached bower where honeysuckles,
ripened by the sun, forbid the sun to enter ; " she
exclaims, after listening to this tirade against her-
gelf,
What fire is in mine ears ? Can this be true ?
Stand I condemned for pride and scorn so much?
The sense of wounded vanity is lost in bitter feel-
ings, and she is infinitely more struck by what ia
flaid in praise of Benedick, and the history of his
u).posed love for her than by the dispraise of her-
self. The immediate success of the trick is a most
natural consequence of the self-assurance and mag-
oanimity of her character ; she is so accustomed to
assert dominion over the spirits of others, that she
cannot suspect the possibility of a plot laid against
herself.
A haughty, excitable, an^ violent temper is an
08 ' CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
other of the characteristics of Beatrice ; but there
is mure of impulse than of passion in her vehe-
mence. In the marriage scene where she has be-
held her gentle-spirited cousin, whom she love*
the more for those very qualities which are mort
unlike her own, slandered, deserted, and devoted
to public shame, her indignation, and the eager-
ness with which she hungers and thirsts after
revenge, are, like the rest of her character, open,
ardent, impetuous, but not deep or implacable.
When she bursts into that outrageous speech
Is he not approved in the height a villain that hath
slandered, scorned, dishonored my kinswoman ? that
1 w?re a man! What! bear her in hand until they come
to take hands ; and then, with public accusation, uncov-
ered slander, unmitigated rancor God, that I were a
man! I would eat his heart in the market-place]
And when she commands her lover, as the first
proof of his affection, " to kill Claudio," the very
consciousness of the exaggeration, of the contrast
between the real good-nature of Beatrice and the
Berce tenor of her language, keeps alive the comic
effect, mingling the ludicrous with the serious. It
is remarkable that, notwithstanding the point and
vivacity of the dialogue, few of the speeches ot
Beatrice are capable of a general application,
engrave themselves distinctly on the memory ; they
sontain more mirth than matter ; and though wil
oe the predominant feature in the dramatic por
Jrait, Beatrice more charms and dazzles us by what
ihe is than by what she says. It is not mere]" bet
BEATRICE 109
sparkling repartees and saucy jests, it is the soul
of wit, and the spirit of gayety in forming the whole
character, looking out from her brilliant eyes, and
laughing on her full lips that pout with scorn.---
which we have before us, moving and full of life
On the whole, we dismiss Benedick and Beatrice
to their matrimonial bonds rather with a sense of
amusement than a feeling of congratulation or sym-
pathy ; rather with an acknowledgment that they
are well-matched, and worthy of each other than
with any well-founded expectation of their domes-
tic tranquillity. If, as Benedick asserts, they are
both " too wise to woo peaceably," it may be added
that both are too wise, too witty, and too wilful to
live peaceably together. We have some misgiv-
ings about Beatrice some apprehensions that
poor Benedick will not escape the " predestinated
scratched face," which he had foretold to him who
should win and wear this quick-witted and pleasant-
spirited lady; yet when we recollect that to the
wit and imperious temper of Beatrice is united a
magnanimity of spirit which would naturally place
her far above all selfishness, and all paltry strug-
gles for power when we perceive, in the midst of
ner sarcastic levity and volubility of tongue, so
much of generous affection, and such a high sense
of female virtue and honor, we are inclined to hope
the best. We think it possible that though the
gentleman may now and then swear, and the lady
icold, the native good-humor of the one, the really
ine understanding of the other, and the valiu
1 10 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
Ihoy so evidently attach to each other's esteini,
will ensurjB them a tolerable portion of domeatia
felicity, and in this hope we leave them.
ROSALIND.
1 COME now to Rosalind, whom 1 should have
ranked before Beatrice, inasmuch as the greater
degree of her sex's softness and sensibility, united
with equal wit and intellect, give her the superiority
as a woman ; but that, as a dramatic character, she
is inferior in force. The portrait is one of infinitely
more delicacy and variety, but of less strength and
depth. It is easy to seize on the prominent feat-
ures in the mind of Beatrice, but extremely diffi-
cult to catch and fix the more fanciful graces of
Rosalind. She is like a compound of essences, so
volatile in their nature, and so exquisitely blended,
that on any attempt to analyze them, they seem to
escape us. To what else shall we compare her,
all-enchanting as she is ? to the silvery summer
clouds which, even while we gaze on them, shift
their hues and forms dissolving into air, and light,
and rainbow showers ? to the May-morning, flush
with opening blossoms and roseate dews, and
M charm of earliest birds ? " to some wild anO
beautiful melody, such as some shepherd bo
ROSALIND. Hi
flight " pipe to Amarillis in the shade ?" to a
mountain streamlet, now smooth as a mirror in
which the skies may glass themselves, and anon
leaping and sparkling in the sunshine or rather
to the very sunshine itself? for so her genial spirit
touches into life and beauty whatever it shines on 1
But this impression, though produced by th
complete development of the character, and in
the end possessing the whole fancy, is not imme-
diate. The first introduction of Rosalind is less
striking than interesting ; we see her a dependant,
almost a captive, in the house of her usurping
uncle ; her genial spirits are subdued by her situa-
tion, and the remembrance of her banished father
her playfulness is under a temporary eclipse.
I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry !
is an adjuration which Rosalind needed not when
once at liberty, and sporting " under the green-
wood tree." The sensibility and even pensivenesa
of her demeanor in the first instance, render her
archness and gayety afterwards, more graceful and
more fascinating.
Though Rosalind is a princess, she is a princess
of Arcady; and notwithstanding the charming
effect produced by her first scenes, we scarcely
ever think of her with a reference to them, or
associate her with a court, and the artificial append-
ages of her rank. She was not made to " lord it
o'er a fair mansion," and vake state upon her like
the all- accomplished Portia , but to breathe the (ree
112 CHARACTERS OF WTELLICCT.
air of heaven, and frolic among green leaves. Sh
was not made to stand the siege of daring profli-
gacy, and oppose high action and high passion
to the assaults of adverse fortune, like Isabel ; but
to " fleet the time carelessly as they did i' the
golden age." She was not made to bandy wit with
lords, and tread courtly measures with plumed and
warlike cavaliers, like Beatrice ; but to QAIH-C on
the green sward, and "murmur among living
brooks a music sweeter than their own."
Though sprightliness is the distinguishing charac-
teristic of Rosalind, as of Beatrice, yet we find her
much more nearly allied to Portia in temper and
intellect. The tone of her mind is, like Portia's,
genial and buoyant : she has something, too, of her
softness and sentiment ; there is the same confiding
abandonment of self in her affections; but the
characters are otherwise as distinct as the situa-
tions are dissimilar. The age, the manners, the
circumstance in which Shakspeare has placed his
Portia, are i_ot beyond the bounds of probability ;
nay, have a certain reality and locality. We
fancy her a contemporary of the Raffaelles and the
Ariostos; the sea-wedde<? Venice, its merchants
and Magnificos, the Rialto, and the long canals,
rise up before us when we think of her. But Rosa-
lind is surrounded with the purely ideal and imag-
inative; the reality is in the characters and in the
entimects, not in the circumstances or situatioa
Portia is dignified, splendid, and romantic ; Rosa*
Ini] is playful, pastoral, and picturesque : both ar
ROSALIND. Hi
m the highest degree poetical, but the one is epic
and the other lyric.
Every thing about Rosalind breathes of " youth
and youth's sweet prime." She is fresh as the
morning, sweet as the dew-awakened blossoms,
und light as the breeze that plays among them.
She is as witty, as voluble, as sprightly as Bea-
trice; but in a style altogether distinct. In
both, the wit is equally unconscious ; but in Bea-
trice it plays about us like the lightning, dazzling
but also alarming ; while the wit of Rosalind bub-
bles up and sparkles like the living fountain, re-
freshing all around. Her volubility is like the
bird's song ; it is the outpouring of a heart filled to
overflowing with life, love, and joy, and all sweet
and affectionate impulses. She has as much ten-
derness as mirth, and in her most petulant raillery
there is a touch of softness " By this hand, it will
not hurt a fly ! " As her vivacity never lessens
our impression of her sensibility, so she wears her
masculine attire without the slightest impugnment
of her delicacy. Shakspeare did not make the
modesty of his women depend oa their dress, as
we shall see further when we come to Viola and
Imogen. Rosalind has in truth " no doublet and
hose in her disposition." How her heart seems to
throb and flutter under her page's vest ! What
depth of love in her passion for Orlando 1 whether
disguised beneath a saucy playfulness, or breaking
forth with a fond impatience, or tali* betrayed in
that beautiful scene where sne faints at the sight
8
114 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.
of his "kerchief stained with his blood ! Here her
recovery of her self-possession her feara lest she
should have revealed her sex her presence of
mind, and quick-witted excuse
I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited -
and the characteristic playfulness which seems to
return so naturally with her recovered senses,
are all as amusing as consistent. Then how beauti-
fully is the dialogue managed between herself and
Orlando ! how well she assumes the airs of a saucy
page, without throwing off her feminine sweetness I
How her wit flutters free as air over every sub-
ject 1 With what a careless grace, yet with what
exquisite propriety 1
For innocence hath a privilege in her
To dignify arch jeste and laugliing eyes.
And if the freedom of some of the expression*
used by Rosalind or Beatrice be objected to, lef
it be remembered that this was not the fault of
Shakspeare or the women, but generally of the
age. Portia, Beatrice, Rosalind, and the rest
lived in times when more importance was attached
to things than to words ; now we think more of
words than of things ; and happy are we in theaa
later days of super-refinement, if we are to be
laved by our verbal morality. But this is med-
dling with the province of the melancholy Jaques.
tnd our argument is Rosalind.
The impression left upon our hearts and minJf
ROSALIND. 115
by tLe character of Rosalind by the mixture
f playfulness, sensibility, and what the French
(and we for lack of a better expression) call nai-
vete- is like a delicious strain of music. There if
a depth of delight, and a subtlety of words to ex-
press that delight, which is enchanting. Yet when
we call to mind particular speeches and passages,
we find that they have a relative beauty and pro-
priety, which renders it difficult to separate them
from the context without injuring their effect
She says some of the most charming things in the
world, and some of the most humorous : but we
apply them as phrases rather than as maxims, and
remember them rather for their pointed felicity of
expression and fanciful application, than for their
general truth and depth of meaning. I will give a
few instances :
I was never so be-rhymed since Pythagoras' time that
I was an Irish rat which I can hardly remember.*
Good, my complexion ! Dost thou think, though I am
caparisoned like a man, that I have a doublet and hose
In my disposition?
We dwell here hi the skirts of the forest, like fringe
upon a petticoat.
In Shakspeare's time, there were people in Ireland, (then
nay be so still, for aught I know,) who undertook to charm rat*
fc> death, by chanting curtain verses which acted as a soell.
u Rhyme them to death, as they do rats in Ireland," is a Una
in one of Ben Jonson's comediei this will explain
tomorouj allusion.
116 CHARACTERS OK INTELLECT.
Love is merely a madness; and, I tell yon, deserve* u
well a dark house and a whip us madmen do ; ana th
reason why they are not so punished and cured is, thai
the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in low
too.
A traveller ! By my faith you have great reason to b
ad. 1 fear you have sold your own lands to see other
men's ; then to have seen much and to have nothing, is to
kiv-j rich eyes and poor hands.
Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look you lisp, and
wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own
eountry; bo out of love with your nativity, and almof-t
chide God for making you that countenance you are; or
I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.
Break an hour's promise in love! He that will divide
a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of
the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it
may be said of him that Cupid hath clapp'd him o' the
shoulder, but I warrant him heart-whole.
Men have died from time to time, and worms have
eaten them but not for love.
T could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel,
and to cry like a woman ; but I must comfort the weaker
vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself coura-
geous to petticoat.
Rosalind has not the impressive eloquence of
Portia, nor the sweet wisdom of Isabella. Her
longest speeches are not her best ; nor is her taunt-
ing address to 1'hebe, beautiful and celebrated M
ROSALIND. 117
it is, equal to Phebe's own description of her. The
latter, indeed, is more in earnest.*
Celia is more quiet and retired : but she rather
fields to Rosalind, than is eclipsed by her. She la
as full of sweetness, kindness, and intelligence,
quite as susceptible, and almost as witty, though
he makes less display of wit. She is described as
less fair and less gifted ; yet the attempt to excite
in her mind a jealousy of her lovelier friend, by
placing them in comparison
Thou art a fool ; she robs thee of thy name ;
And thoa wilt show more bright, and seem more virtuous,
When she is gone-
fails to awaken in the generous heart of Celia any
other feeling than an increased tenderness and
sympathy for her cousin. To Celia, Shakspeare
has given some of the most striking and animated
parts of the dialogue ; and in particular, that ex-
quisite description of the friendship between her
and Rosalind
If she be a traitor,
Why, so am I ; we have still slept together,
Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat together,
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,
Still we were coupled and inseparable.
Rouseeaa could describe Buch a character as Rosalind!, bul
felled to represent it consistently. " N'est-ce pas de ton occur
quo viennent les graces de ton enjouement? Tea railleries sont
tea signes d'interet plus touchants que les complirents d'un
Mitre. Tu caresses quand tu foiatres. Tu ris, mais ton rir
96netre 1'ame ; tu ris, mais tu fais pleurer de tendresse et je
>oia presque toujours sericase avec les indifferent ''
118 CHARACTERS OI' J.NTKLLKC1.
The feeling of interest and admiration thus e-
cited for Celia at the first, follows her through the
whole play. We listen to her as to one who has
made herself worthy of our love ; and her silence
expresses more than eloquence.
Fhebe is quite an Arcadian coquette ; she IB a
piece of pastoral poetry. Audrey is only rustic.
A very amusing effect is produced by the conlraat
between the frank and free bearing of the two
princesses in disguise, and the scornful airs of the
real Shepherdess. In the speeches of Phebe, and
in the dialogue between her and Sylvius, Shak-
speare has anticipated all the beauties of the Italian
pastoral, and surpassed Tasso and Guarini. We
find two among the most poetical passages of the
play appropriated to Phebe ; the taunting speech
to Sylvius, and the description of Rosalind in her
page's costume ; which last is finer than the por-
trait of Bathyllus in Anacreon.
CHARACTERS OF PASSION AND
IMAGINATION.
JULIET.
O LOVE ! thou teacher ' O Grief! thou tamei
and Time, thou healer ol human hearts ! bring
hither all your deep and serious revelations ! And
ye too, rich fancies of unbruised, unbowed youth
ye visions of long perished hopes shadows of un-
born joys gay colorings of the dawn of existence !
whatever memory hath treasured up of bright and
beautiful in nature or in art ; all soft and delicate
images all lovely forms divinest voices and en-
trancing melodies gleams of sunnier skies and
fairer climes, Italian moonlights and airs that
breathe of the sweet south," now, if it be pos-
sible, revive to my imagination live once more to
my heart! Come, thronging around me, all inspi-
rations that wait on passion, on power, on beauty ;
give me to tread, not bold, and yet unblamed,
within the inmost sanctuary of ShaKspeare's genius,
in Juliet's moonlight bower, and Miranda's en-
chanted isle 1
*****
120 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
It is not without emotion, that I attempt to touch
on the character of Juliet. Such beautiful things
have already been said of her only to be exceeded
in beauty by the subject that inspired them ! it u
.mpossible to say any thing better ; but it is possible
to say something more. Such in fact is the sim-
plicity, the truth, and the loveliness of Juliet*!
character, that we are not at first aware of its com-
plexity, its depth, and its variety. There is in it
an intensity of passion, a singleness of purpose, an
entireness, a completeness of effect, which we fee.*
ac a whole ; arid to attempt to analyze the impres-
sion thus conveyed at once to soul and sense, is as
if while hanging over a half-blown rose, and revel-
ling in its intoxicating perfume, we should pull it
asunder, leaflet by leaflet, the better to display itg
bloom and fragrance. Yet how otherwise should
we disclose the wonders of its formation, or do
justice to the skill of the divine hand that hath
thus fashioned it in its beauty ?
Love, as a passion, forms the groundwork of the
drama. Now, admitting the axiom of Rochefou-
cauld, that there is but one love, though a thousand
different I'opies, yet the true sentiment itself has aa
many different aspects as the human soul of which
it forms a part. It is not only modified by the
individual character and temperament, but it is
under the influence of climate and circumstance.
The love that is calm in one moment, shall show
itself vehement and tumultuous at another. Th
.ove that is wild and passionate in the south, is deep
JULIET. 121
H&d contemplative in the north ; as the Spanish or
Roman girl perhaps poisons a rival, or stabs herself
for the sake of a living lover, and the German 01
Russian girl pines into the grave for love of the
false, the absent, or the dead. Love is ardent or
deep, bold or timid, jealous or confiding, impatient
or humble, hopeful or desponding and yet there
are not many loves, but one love.
All Shakspeare's women, being essentially
women, either love or have loved, or are capable of
loving; but Juliet is love itself. The passion is
her state of being, and out of it she has no exist-
ence. It is the soul within her soul; the pulse
within her heart ; the life-blood along her veins,
" blending with every atom of her frame." The
love that is so chaste and dignified in Portia so
airy-delicate and fearless in Miranda so sweetly
confiding in Perdita so playfully fond in Rosalind
so constant in Imogen so devoted in Desde-
mona so fervent in Helen so tender in Viola,
is each and all of these in Juliet. All these remind
us of her ; but she reminds us of nothing but her
own sweet self; or if she does, it is of the Gismunda,
or the Lisetta, or the Fiammetta of Boccaccio, to
whom she is allied, not in the character or circum-
rtances, but in the truly Italian spirit, the glowing,
national complexion of the portrait.*
* Lord Byron remarked of the Italian -women, (and he could
ipeak avee connaissance de fait,) that they are the only women
to the world capable of impressions, at once very sudden and
urable ; which, he adds, is to be found in no other nation.
122 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
There was an Italian painter who said that the
lecret of all effect in color consisted in white upon
black, and black upon white. How perfectly did
Shakspeare understand this secret of effect ! and
how beautifully he has exemplified it in Juliet ?
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows !
Thus she and her lover are in contrast with all
around them. They are all love, surrounded with
all hate ; all harmony, surrounded with all discord :
all pure nature, in the midst of polished and artifi-
cial life. Juliet, like Portia, is the foster child of
opulence and splendor ; she dwells in a fair city
she has been nurtured in a palace she clasps her
robe with jewels she braids her hair with rainbow-
tinted pearls ; but in herself she has no more con-
nection with the trappings around her, than the
lovely exotic, transplanted from some Eden-like
climate, has with the carved and gilded conser-
vatory which has reared and sheltered its luxuriant
beauty.
But in this vivid impression of contrast, there ii
nothing abrupt or harsh. A tissue of beautiful
Mr. Moore observes afterwards, how completely an Italian
woman, either from nature or her social position, IB led to invert
the usual course of frailty among ourselves, and, weak in resist-
ing the first impulses of passion, to reserve the whole strength
V her character for a display of constancy and devotedneM
afterwards. Both these traits of national character are exempli
led In Juliet Moore'* Lift of Byron, vol. ii. pp. 803, 838. 4U
JULIET. 1 23
poetry weaves together the principal figures, and
the subordinate personages. The consistent truth
of the costume, and the exquisite gradations of re-
lief with which the most opposite hues are approx-
imated, blend all into harmony. Romeo and Juliet
are not poetical beings placed on a prosaic back-
ground; nor are they, like Thekla and Max in
the Wallenstein, two angels of light amid the dark-
est and harshest, the most debased and revolting
aspects of humanity ; but every circumstance, and
every personage, and every shade of character in
each, tends to the development of the sentiment
which is the subject of the drama. The poetry,
too, the richest that can possibly be conceived, is
interfused through all the characters ; the splendid
imagery lavished upon all with the careless prodi-
gality of genius, and the whole is lighted up into
such a sunny brilliance of effect, as though Shak-
speare had really transported himself into Italy, and
had drunk to intoxication of her genial atmos-
phere. How truly it has been said, that " although
Romeo and Juliet are in love, they are not love-
rick 1 " What a false idea would anything of the
mere whining amoroso, give us of Romeo, such as
he really is in Shakspeare the noble, gallant,
ardent, brave, and witty 1 And Juliet with even
less truth could the phrase or idea apply to her 1
The picture in " Twelfth Night " of the wan girl
dying of love, " who pined in thought, and with a
Screen and yellow melancholy," would never surely
iccur to us, when thinking on the enamored and
124 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
impassioned Juliet, in whose bosom love keeps a
fiery vigil, kindling tenderness into enthusiasm,
enthusiasm into passion, passion into heroism ! No,
the whole sentiment of the play is of a far different
cast. It is flushed with the genial spirit of the south
it tastes of youth, and of the essence of youth ; of
life, and of the very sap of life.* We have indeed
the struggle of love against evil destinies, and a
thorny world ; the pain, the grief, the anguish, the
terror, the despair; the aching adieu; the pang
unutterable of parted affection ; and rapture, truth,
and tenderness trampled into an early grave : but
still an Elysian grace lingers round the whole, and
the blue sky of Italy bends over all !
In the delineation of that sentiment which forms
the groundwork of the drama, nothing in fact can
equal the power of the picture, but its inexpressible
sweetness and its perfect grace : the passion which
has taken possession of Juliet's whole soul, has the
force, the rapidity, the resistless violence of the tor-
rent : but she is herself as " moving delicate," aa
fair, as soft, as flexible as the willow that bends
over it, whose light leaves tremble even with the
motion of the current which hurries beneath them.
But at the same time that the pervading sentiment
is never lost sight of, and is one and the same
throughont, the individual part of the character in
ill its variety is developed, and marked with thn
Uicest discrimination. For instance, the simplicity
* La give dt la trie, Is an expression nMd somewhere by M
de Stael.
JULIET. 125
of Juliet Is very different from the simplicity of
Miranda : her innocence is not the innocence of a
desert island. The energy she displays does not
once remind us of the moral grandeur of Isabel, or
the intellectual power of Portia ; it is founded in
the strength of passion, not in the strength of char-
acter : it is accidental rather than inherent, rising
with the tide of feeling or temper, and with it sub-
siding. Her romance is not the pastoral i omance
of Perdita, nor the fanciful romance of Viola ; it is
the romance of a tender heart and a poetical imag-
ination. Her inexperience is not ignorance : she
has heard that there is such a thing as falsehood,
though she can scarcely conceive it Her mother
and her nurse have perhaps warned her against
flattering vows and man's inconstancy ; or she has
even
Turned the tale by Ariosto told,
Of fair Olympia, loved and left, of old!
Hence that bashful doubt, dispelled almost as soon
as felt
Ah, gentle Romeo !
If thou dost love, pronounce it faitl Ally.
That conscious shrinking from her own confe*
on
Fain would I dwell on form; fain, fain deny
What I have spoke !
*"*ie ingenuous simplicity of her avowal-
126 CHAKACTERS OK PASSION, ETC.
Or \f thou think'st I am too quickly won,
I'll f-own, and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo but else, not for the world!
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,
An! therefore thou may'st think my 'huvior light,
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those who have more cunning to be strange.
And the proud yet timid delicacy, with which el*
throws herself for forbearance and pardon upon
the tenderness of him she loves, even for the lovt
she bears him
Therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.
In the alternative, which she afterwards placet
before her lover with such a charming mixture of
conscious delicacy and girlish simplicity, there in
that jealousy of female honor which precept and
education have infused into her mind, without on*
real doubt of his truth, or the slightest hesitation i
her self-abandonment : for she does not even wai
to hear his asseverations ;
But if thou mean'st not well, I do beseech the*
To cease thy suit, and leave mi to my griefc
ROMEO.
So thrive my soul
JULIKT.
A thousand times, good night I
JULIET. 127
But all these flutterings between native impulses
Mid maiden fears become gradually absorbed, swept
away, lost, and swallowed up m tie denth and en-
Uiusiasrn of confiding love.
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deop ; the more I give to you
The more I have for both are infinite!
AVhat a picture of the young heart, that sees no
bound to its hopes, no end to its affections ( For
" what was to hinder the thrilling tide of pleasure
which had just gushed from her heart, from f ow-
ing on without stint or measure, but experience,
which she was yet without ? What was to abate
the transport of the first sweet sense of pleasure
which her heart had just tasted, but indifference,
to which she was yet a stranger ? What was tnere
to check the ardor of hope, of faith, of constancy,
just rising in her breast, but disappointment, which
she had never yet felt ? " *
Lord Byron's Haidee is a copy of Juliet in the
Oriental costume, but the development is epic, no*
dramatic-!
Characters of Shakspeare's Plays.
t I must allude, but with reluctance, to another character,
which I hare heard likened to Juliet, and often quoted as th
heroine par excellence of amatory fiction I mean the Julie of
Rousaeau'8 Nouvelle HeloYse ; I protest against her altogether.
Aa a creation of fancy the portnvit is a compound of the most
froM and glaring inconsistencies ; as false and impossible to th
reflecting and philosophical mind, as the fabled Syrens, Hama-
dryads and Centaurs to the eye of the anatomist. As a woman,
128 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
I remember no dramatic character, conveying
the same impression of singleness of purpose, and
devotion of heart and soul, except the Thekla of
Schiller's Wallenstein ; she is the German Juliet
far unequal, indeed, but conceived, nevertheless, in
a kindred spirit I know not if critics have ever
compared them, or whether Schiller is supposed to
have had the English, or rather the Italian, Juliet
in his fancy when he portrayed Thekla ; but there
are some striking points of coincidence, while th*
national distinction in the character of the passion
leaves to Thekla a strong cast of originality.* The
Julie belongs neither to nature nor to artificial society ; and tf
the pages of melting and dazzling eloquence in which Rousseau
baa garnished out his idol did not blind and intoxicate us, as the
incense and the garlands did the votaries of Isis, we should be
disgusted. Rousseau, having composed his Julie of the com-
monest clay of the earth, does not animate her with fire from
heaven, but breathes his own spirit into her, and then calls the
" impettieoatod " paradox a woman. He makes her a peg on
which to hang his own visions and sentiments and what send
inents ! but that I fear to soil my pages, I would pick out a few
tf them, and show the difference between this strange combina-
tion of youth and innocence, philosophy and pedantry, sophist-
ical prudery, and detestable grossibretf, and our own Juliet.
No! if we seek a French Juliet, we must go far far back to the
real HeioYw, to her eloquence, her sensibility, her fervor of pas-
f 'on, her devotedness of truth. She, it least, married the man
she loved, and loved the man she mairied, and more than died
for him; but enough of both.
* B. Constant describes her beautifully- -" Sa roix si douce aii
travers ie bruit des armes, sa forme delicate au milieu de ee*
homines tons converts de fer, la purete' de son ftme opposee
leurs calculs avides, son calme celeste qni contraste avec lenn
agitations, rMnplissent le spectateur d'une emotion constant* <r
ttelancolique, 'elle que ne la fait ressentir nulle trag&lie ordf
take."
JULIET. 129
Princess Thekla is, like Juliet, the heiress of rank
and opulence ; her first introduction to us, in her
full dress and diamonds, does not impair the im-
pression of her softnsss and simplicity. We do
not think of them, nor do we sympathize with the
complaint of her lover,
The dazzle of the jewels which played roimd you
Hid the beloved from me.
We almost feel the reply of Thekla before she
utters it,
Then you saw me
Not with your heart, but with your eyes !
The timidity of Thekla in her first scene, her
trembling silence in the commencement, and the
few words she addresses to her mother, remind us ot
the unobtrusive simplicity of Juliet's first appear-
ance; but the impression is different; the one ia
the shrinking violet, the other the un expanded
rose-bud. Thekla and Max Piccolomini are, like
Romeo and Juliet, divided by the hatred of their
fathers. The death of Max, and the resolute des-
pair of Thtkla, are also points of resemblance ; and
Thekla's complete devotion, her frank yet dignified
abandonment of all disguise, and her apology for
her own unreserve, are quite in Juliet's style,
I ought to be less open, ought to hide
rfy heart more from thee so decorum dictates:
But where in tnis placb wouldst thoc seek for truth
If in my mouth thota 'lidst not find it ? *
9
ISO CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
The same confidence, innocence, and fervor of
affection, distinguish both heroines ; but the love
of Juliet is more vehement, the love of Thekla u
more calm, and reposes more on itself; the love of
Juliet gives us the idea of infinitude, and that of
Thekla of eternity : the love of Juliet flows on with
an increasing tide, like the river pouring to the
ocean ; and the love of Thekla stands unalterable,
and enduring as the rock. In the heart of Thekla
love shelters as in a home ; but in the heart of
Juliet he reigns a crowned king, " he rides on its
pants triumphant 1 " As women, they would divide
the loves and suffrages of mankind, but not aa
dramatic characters : the moment we come to look
nearer, we acknowledge that it is indeed " rash-
ness and ignorance to compare Schiller with Shak-
speare."* Thekla is a fine conception in the
German spirit, but Juliet is a lovely and palpable
creation. The coloring in which Schiller has ar-
rayed his Thekla is pale, sombre, vague, compared
with the strong individual marking, the rich glow
of life and reality, which distinguish Juliet One
contrast in particular has always struck me ; the
two beautiful speeches in the first interview be-
tween Max and Thekla, that in which she describe!
her father's astrological chamber, and that in which
he rsplies with reflections on the influence of the
tars, are said to " form in themselves a fine poem.
They do so; but never would Shakspeare havi
* Coleridge preface to Wallenstain.
JULIET. 181
placed such extraneous description and reflection
n the mouths of his lovers. Romeo and Juliet
tpeak of themselves only; they see only themselves
in the universe, all things else are as an idle mat-
ter. Not a word they utter, though every word is
poetry not a sentiment or description, though
dressed in the most luxuriant imagery, but has a
direct relation to themselves, or to the situation in
which they are placed, and the feelings that en-
gross them : and besides, it may be remarked of
Thekla, and generally of all tragedy heroines in
love, that, however beautifully and distinctly char-
acterized, we see the passion only under one or
two aspects at most, or in conflict with some one
circumstance or contending duty or feeling. In
Juliet alone we find it exhibited under every
variety of aspect, and every gradation of feeling
it could possibly assume in a delicate female
heart : as we see the rose, when passed through
the colors of the prism, catch and reflect every
tint of the divided ray, and still it is the same
sweet rose.
I have already remarked the quiet manner in
which Juliet steals upon us in her first scene, as
the serene, graceful girl, her feelings as yet un-
awakened, and her energies all unknown to her-
elf, and unsuspected by others. Her silence and
ker filial deference are charming :
I'll look to like, if looking liking move ;
But no more deep wiu 1 endart mine eye,
Than your consent sball give it strength to fly
132 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
MiK'.h in the same unconscious way we are im-
pressed with an idea of her excelling loveliness :--
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
nd which could make the dark vault of death u
feasting presence full of light" Without any
elaborate description, we behold Juliet, as she ii
reflected iu the heart of her lover, like a single
bright star mirrored in the bosom of a deep, trans-
parent well. The rapture with which he dwells
on the " white wonder of her hand ; " on her lips,
That even in pure and vestal modesty
Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.
And then her eyes, " two of the fairest stars in
all the heavens ! " In his exclamation in the
sepulchre,
Ah, dear Juliet, why art thon yet so fair !
there is life and death, beauty and horror, rapture
and anguish combined. The Friar's description ot
her approach,
0, so light a step
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint I
and then her father's similitude,
Death lies on her, like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field;
til these mingle into a beautiful picture of youth-
ful, airj', delicate grace, feminine sweetness, and
patrician elegance.
'And our impression of Juliet's loveliness and
lensibility is enhanced, when we find it overcom
tog in the bosom of Romeo a previous love for
JULIET. 1 8
>nother His visionary passion for the cold, inac-
tessible Rosaline, forms but the prologue, the
threshold, to the true the real sentiment which
Tcceeds to it. This incident, which is found in
the original story, has been retained by Shakspeare
with equal feeling and judgment; and far from
being a fault in taste and sentiment, far from pie-
judicing us against Romeo, by casting on him, at
the outset of the piece, the stigma of inconstancy,
it becomes, if properly considered, a beauty in the
drama, and adds a fresh stroke of truth to the por-
trait of the lover. Why, after all, should we be
offended at what does not offend Juliet herself ?
for in the original story we find that her attention
is first attracted towards Romeo, by seeing him
" fancy sick and pale of cheer," for love of a cold
beauty. We must remember that in those times
every young cavalier of any distinction devoted
himself, at his first entrance into the world, to the
service of some fair lady, who was selected to be
his fancy's queen ; and the more rigorous the
beauty, and the more hopeless the love, the more
honorable the slavery. To go about "metamor-
phosed by a mistress," as Speed humorously ex-
presses it,* to maintain her supremacy in charau
at the sword's point ; to sigh ; to walk with folded
arms ; to be negligent and melancholy, and to show
a careless desolation, was the fashion of the day.
The Surreys, the Sydneys, the Bayards, the Her-
berts cf the time all those who were the mirron
In the 'Two Genclemen of Verona."
184 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
" in which the noble youth did dress themselves,
were of this fantastic school of gallantry the last
remains of the age of chivalry ; and it was especially
prevalent in Italy. Shakspeare has ridiculed : t in
many places with exquisite humor ; but he wished
to show us that it has its serious as well as its comic
aspect. Romeo, then, is introduced to us with
perfect truth of costume, as the thrall of a dream-
ing, fanciful passion for the scornful Rosaline, who
had forsworn to love; and on her charms and
coldness, and on the power of love generally, he
descants to his companions in pretty phrases, quite
in the style and taste of the day.*
Why then, brawling love, loving hate,
any tbing, of nothing first create I
heavy lightness, serious vanity,
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forois !
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs ;
Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lover's eyes;
Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lover's tears.
There is an allusion to this court language of lore In "All
IfWl that Knds Well," where Helena says,
There shall your master have a thousand It reft
A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign ;
A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear,
Hie humble ambition, proud humility,
Hifl jarring concord, and his discord dulcut,
His faith, his sweet disaster, with a world
Of pretty fond adoj tious Christendoms
That blinking Cupid gossips. ACT i. SCENE 1
The <sourtly poets of Elizabeth's time, who copied the [Ultai
unntUaers of the sixteenth century, are full of the*e qoalq
HDMlt*.
JULIET. 135
But when once he has beheld Juliet, and quaffed
^itoxicating draughts of hope and love from her
loft glance, how all these airy fancies fade before
the soul-absorbing reality ! The lambent fire that
played round his heart, burns to that heart's very
core. We no longer find him adorning his lamen-
tations in picked phrases, or making a confidant of
his gay companions : he is no longer " for the
numbers that Petrarch flowed in ; " but all is con-
secrated, earnest, rapturous, in the feeling and the
expression. Compare, for instance, the sparkling
antithetical passages just quoted, with one or two
of his passionate speeches to or of Juliet :
Heaven is here,
Where Juliet lives ! &c.
Ah Juliet ! if the measure of thy joy
Be heaped like mine, and that thy skill be more
To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath
This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue
Unfold the imagin'd happiness, that both
Receive in either by this dear encounter.
Come what sorrow may,
It cannot countervail the exchange of joy
That one short minute gives me hi her sight.
How different ! and how finely the distinction U
irawn I His first passion is indulged as a waking
dream, a reverie of the fancy ; it is depressing, in-
dolent, fantastic ; his second elevates him to the
third heaven, or hurries him to despair, at rushes
186 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
to its object through all impediments, defies aD
dangers, and seeks at last a triumphant grave, in
the arms of her he so loved. Thus Romeo's pre-
vious attachment to Rosaline is so contrived as to
exhibit to us another variety in that passion, which
is the subject of the poem, by showing us the dis-
tinction between the fancied and the real sentiment.
It adds a deeper effect to the beauty of Juliet ; it
interests us in the commencement for the tender
and romantic Romeo ; and gives an individual real-
ity to his character, by stamping him like an
historical, as well as a dramatic portrait, with the
very spirit of the age in which he lived.*
It may be remarked of Juliet as of Portia, that
we not only trace the component qualities in each
as they expand before us in the course of the ac-
tion, but we seem to have known them previously,
and mingle a consciousness of their past, with the
interest of their present and their future. Thus,
in the dialogue between Juliet and her parcels,
and in the scenes with the Nurse, we seem to have
oefore us the whole of her previous education and
habits : we see her, on the one hand, kept in severe
subjection by her austere parents; and on the
other, fondled and spoiled by a foolish old nurse
a situation perfectly accordant with the manners ot
the time. Then Lady Capulet comes sweeping b
with her train of velvet, her black hood, her fan,
* Since this was written, I have met with some remarks of
rimlUr tendency in that most interesting book, " The JU 4
uord B. Fitzgerald."
JULIET. 187
Bncl her rosary the very beau-ideal of a proud
Italian matron of the fifteenth century, whose ofiel
to poison Romeo in revenge for the death of Ty-
balt, stamps her with one very characteristic trait
of the age and country. Yet she loves her daugh-
ter ; and there is a touch of remorseful tendernesl
in her lamentation over her, which adds to our im-
pression of the timid softness of Juliet, and the
harsh subjection in which she has been kept :
But one, poor one ! one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and solace in,
And cruel death hath catched it from my sight!
Capulet, as the jovial, testy old man, the self
willed, violent, tyrannical father, to whom his
daughter is but a property, the appanage of his
house, and the object of his pride, is equal as a
portrait : but both must yield to the Nurse, who is
drawn with the most wonderful power and discrim-
ination. In the prosaic homeliness of the outline,
and the magical illusion of the coloring, she reminds
us of some of the marvellous Dutch paintings, from
which, with all their coarseness, we start back as
from a reality. Her low humor, her shallow gar-
rulity, mixed with the dotage and petulance of' ige
her subserviency, her secrecy, and her total \ant
of elevated principle, or even common honesty
are brought before us like a living and palpable
Among these harsh and inferior spirits is Juliet
placed; her haughty parents, and her plebeian
188 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
Burse, not only throw into beautiful relief her own
native softness and elegance, but are at once the
cause and the excuse of her subsequent conduct
She trembles before her stern mother and he*
violent father : but, like a petted child, alternately
cajoles and commands her nurse. It is her old
foster-mother who is the confidante of her love. It
is the woman who cherished her infancy, who aids
and abets her in her clandestine marriage. Do we
not perceive how immediately our impression of
Juliet's character would have been lowered, if
Shakspeare had placed her in connection with any
common-place dramatic waiting-woman ? even
with Portia's adroit Nerissa, or Desdemona'?
Emilia? By giving her the Nurse for her con-
fidante, the sweetness and dignity of Juliet's char-
acter are preserved inviolate to the fancy, even in
the midst of all the romance and wilfulness of pas-
sion.
The natural result of these extremes of subjeo-
t.on and independence, is exhibited in the char-
acter of Juliet, as it gradually opens upon us. We
behold it in the mixture of self-will and timidity, <A
strength and weakness, of confidence and reserve,
which are developed as the action of the play pro-
ceeds. We see it in the fond eagerness of the in-
dulged girl, for whose impatience the " nimblest of
the lightning-winged loves " had been too slow a
messenger ; in her petulance with her nurse ; in
those bursts of vehement feeling, which prepare u
for thu climax of passion at the catastrophe ; in hef
185
rnvectives against Romeo, when she hears of the
death of Tybalt : iu her indignation when the nuroa
echoes those reproaches, and the rising of her
temper against unwonted contradiction :
NURSE.
Sliame come to Romeo !
JULIET.
Blistered be thy tongue,
For such a wish ! he was not born to shame.
Then comes that revulsion of strong feeling, that
burst of magnificent exultation in the virtue anil
honor of her lover :
Upon his brow Shame 5s ashamed to sit,
For 'tis a throne where Honor may be crown'd
Sole monarch of the universal earth 1
And this, by one of those quick transitions of
feeling which belong to the character, is immediate-
ly succeeded by a gush of tenderness and self-
reproach
Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,
When I, thy three-hours' wife, have mangled it ?
With the same admirable truth of nature, Juliet
represented as at first bewildered by the fearful
iestiny that closes round her ; reverse is new and
terrible to one nursed in the lap of luxury, and
whose energies are yet untried.
40 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC
Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems
Upon so soft a subject as myself.
While a stay remains to her amid the evils that
encompass her, she clings to it She appeals to hei
father to her mother
Good father, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak one word!
*****
Ah, sweet my mother, cast me not away!
Delay this marriage for a month, a week !
And, rejected by both, she throws herself upon
her nurse in all the helplessness of anguish, of con-
fiding affection, of habitual dependence
God ! nurse ! how shall this be prevented ?
Some comfort, nurse !
The old woman, true to her vocation, and fear-
ful lest her share in these events should be dis-
covered, counsels her to forget Romeo and marry
Paris ; and the moment which unveils to Jo'' it th
weakness and baseness of her confidante, is the
moment which reveals her to herself. She docs
not break into upbraidings; it is n momeii* for
anger; it is incredulous amazement, lucceeded L y
the extremity of scorn and abhorrence, which ~ake
possession of her mind. She assumes at once and
wserts all her own superiority, and rises to majesty
; n the strength of her despair.
JULIET 141
OUI.IET.
Speakest thou from thy heart?
NURSE.
Aye, and from my soul too ; or els
Beshrew them both!
JTJTJET.
AMEN'.
This final severing of all the old familiar ties of
her childhood
Go, counsellor !
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain!
and the calm, concentrated force of her resolve,
If all else fail, myself have power to die;
have a sublime pathos. It appears to me also an
admirable touch of nature, considering the master-
passion which, at this moment, rules in Juliet's soul,
that she is as much shocked by the nurse's dispraise
of her lover, as by her wicked, time-serving ad-
vice.
This scene is the crisis in the character; and
henceforth we see Juliet assume a new aspect. The
fond, impatient, timid girl, puts on the wife and the
woman : she has learned heroism from suffering,
nd subtlety from oppression. It is idle to criticize
ter dissembling submission to her father and
mother; a higher duty has taken place of that
which she owed to them ; a more sacred tie has
levered all others. Her parents are pictured a*
I4t CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
they are, that no feeling for them may interfei IK
the slightest degree with our sympathy for tha
lovers. In the mind of Juliet there is no struggle
between her filial and her conjugal duties, and
there ought to be none. The Friar, her spiritual
director, dismisses her with these instructions :
Go home, be merry, give consent
To marry Paris;
and she obeys him. Death and suffering in every
horrid form she is ready to brave, without fear or
doubt, " to live an unstained wife : " and the artifice
to which she has recourse, which she is even in-
structed to use, in no respect impairs the beauty oi
the character; we regard it with pain and pity;
but excuse it, as the natural and inevitable conse-
quence of the situation in which she is placed. Nor
should we forget, that the dissimulation, as well ai
the courage of Juliet, though they spring from pa-
ion, are justified by principle :
My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven;
How shall my faith return again to earth,
Unless that husband send it me from heaven ?
In her successive appeals to her father, her
mother, her nurse, and the Friar, she seeks those
remedies which would first suggest themselves to 9
gentle and virtuous nature, and grasps her dagger
only as the last resource against dishonor ant*
violated faith ;
JTLIET. 145
God jrin'd my heart with Romeo's, thou on hands.
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo seal'd,
Shall be the label to another deed,
Or my true heart with treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this shall slay them both !
Thus, in the very tempest and whirlwind of
rion and terror, preserving, to a certain degree,
that moral and feminine dignity which harmonize*
with our best feelings, and commands our unre-
proved sympathy.
I reserve my remarks on the catastrophe, which
demands separate consideration ; and return to
trace from the opening, another and distinguishing
trait in Juliet's character.
In the extreme vivacity of her imagination, and
its influence upon the action, the language, the
sentiments of the drama, Juliet resembles Portia ;
but with this striking difference. In Portia, the
imaginative power, though developed in a high
degree, is so equally blended with the other intel-
lectual and moral faculties, that it does not give us
the idea of excess. It is subject to her nobler
reason ; it adorns and heightens all her feelings ; it
does not overwhelm or mislead them. In Juliet, it
is rather a part of her southern temperament, con-
trolling and modifying the rest of her character ;
gpringing from her sensibility, hurried along by
her passions, animating her joys, darkening her
Borrows, exaggerating her terrors, and, in the end,
overpowering her reason. With Juliet, imagma-
ton is, in the first instance, if not the source, the
H4 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
medium of passion ; and passion again kindles he*
imagination. It is through the power of imagina-
tion that the eloquence of Juliet is so vividly
poewo-al ; that every feelirig, every sentiment come*
to her, clothed in the richest imagery, and is thu>
refitted from her mind to ours. The poetry is nol
here the mere adornment, the outward garnishing
of the character ; but its result, or rather blended
with its essence. It is indivisible from it, and inter-
fused through it like moonlight through the summer
air. To particularize is almost impossible, since
the whole of the dialogue appropriated to Juliet i
one rich stream of imagery : she speaks in pictures
and sometimes they are crowded one upon another
'.hus in the balcony scene
I have no joy of this contract to-night:
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden,
Too like the lightning which doth cease to be
Ere one can say it lightens.
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Again,
for a falconer's voice
To lore this tassel-gentle back again !
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak alond,
Else would I tear the ^ave where Echo lies,
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine
With repetition of my Romeo's name.
Here there are. three images in the course of na
JULIET. 145
lines. In the same scene, the speech of twenty-
two lines, beginning,
Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face,
contains but one figurative expression, the mask of
night ; and every one reading this speech with the
context, must have felt the peculiar propriety of ita
simplicity, though perhaps without examining the
cause of an omission which certainly is not for-
tuitous. The reason lies in the situation and in
the feeling of the moment ; where confusion, and
anxiety, and earnest self-defence predominate, the
excitability and play of the imagination would be
checked and subdued for the time.
In the soliloquy of the second act, where she if
chiding at the nurse's delay :
she is lame ! Love's heralds should be thoughts,
That ten times faster glide than the sun's beams.
Driving back shadows over low'ring hills :
Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love,
And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings !
How beautiful ! how the lines mount and float
responsive to the sense ! She goes on
Had she affections, and varm youthful blood,
She'd be as swift in motion as a ball ;
My words should bandy her to my sweet love,
And his to me i
The famous soliloquy, " Gallop apace, ye fiery-
Tooted steeds," teems with luxuriant imagery. The
trad adjuration, " Come night ! come Borneo 1 comt
U CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
thou day in night I " expresses that fulness of eiv
thusiastic admiration for her lover, which pooaooecf
her whole soul; but expresses it as only Juliet
could or would have expressed it, in a bold and
beautiful metaphor. Let it be remembered, that, in
this speech, Juliet is not supposed to be addressing
an audience, nor even a confidante ; and I confess
I have been shocked at the utter want of taste and
refinement in those who, with coarse derision, or
in a spirit of prudery, yet more gross and perverse,
have dared to comment on this beautiful " Hymn
to the Night," breathed out by Juliet in the silence
and solitude of her chamber. She is thinking
aloud ; it is the young heart " triumphing to itself
in words." In the midst of all the vehemence with
which she calls upon the night to bring Romeo to
her arms, there is something so almost infantine in
her perfect simplicity, so playful and fantastic in
the imagery and language, that the charm of sen-
timent and innocence is thrown over the whole ;
and her impatience, to use her own expression, it
truly that of " a child before a festival, that hath
new robes and may not wear them." It is at the
very moment too that her whole heart and fancy
are abandoned to blissful anticipation, that the
nurse enters with the news of Romeo's banishment ;
and the immediate transition from rapture to de-
spair has a most powerful effect
It is the same shaping spirit of imagination which,
iii the scene with the Friar, heaps together all im-
ages of horror that ever hung upon a trouble*
iruam.
JULIET. 141
Obid c"3 leap, rather than many Paris,
From off the battlements of yonder tower,
Or walk in thievish ways; or bid me lurk
Where serpents are chain me with roaring bean,
Or shut me nightly in a charnel-hpuse
O'ercovered quite with dead men's rattling bonee;
Or bid me go into a new made grave ;
Or hide me with a dead man in his shroud ;
Things that to hear them told have made me trembla
But she immediately adds,
And I will do it without fear or doubt,
To live an unstained wife to my sweet love !
In the scene where she drinks the sleeping jxv
lion, although her spirit does not quail, nor her de-
termination falter for an instant, her vivid fancy
conjures up one terrible apprehension after another,
till gradually, and most naturally in such a mind
once thrown off its poise, the horror rises to frenzy
her imagination realizes its own hideous crea-
tions, and she sees her cousin Tybalt's ghost *
In particular passages this luxuriance of fancy
may seem to wander into excess. For instance^
O serpent heart, hid with a flowery face!
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
Beautiful tyrant ! fiend angelical !
Dove-featherd raven! wolfish ravening lamb, &c.
* Juliet, courageously drinking off the potion, after she ha*
pSaced before herself in the most fearful colors all its possibU
tonseqneucefl, is compared by Schlegol to the Simons story yt
tVeianier an 1 his physician.
48 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
Yet tins highly figurative and antithetical ex-
aberance of language is defended by Schlegel on
itrong and just grounds ; and to me also it appears
natural, however critics may argue against its taste
or propriety.* The warmth and vivacity of Juliet's
fancy, which plays like a light over every part of
her character which animates every line she utter*
which kindles every thought into a picture, and
clothes her emotions in visible images, would natu-
rally, under strong and unusual excitement, and in
the conflict of opposing sentiments, run into some
extravagance of diction.f
With regard to the termination of the play, -which
* Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together
Thoughts so all unlike each other ;
To mutter and mock a broken charm,
To dally with wrong that does no harm!
Perhaps 'tis tender, too, and pretty,
At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of lore and pity.
And what if in a world of sin
(0 sorrow and shame should this be true !)
Such giddiness of heart and brain
Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
So talks as it's most used to dot COLERIDGE.
These lines Room to me to form the truest comment on Juliet '
Wild exclamations against Romeo
t " The censure," observes Schlegel. originates in a fancileM
way of thinking, to which every thing appears unnatural that
does not suit its tame insipidity. ITeuce an idea has been
formed of pimple and natural pathos which consists in exclama-
tions destitute of imagery, and nowise elevated above every-day
Hie; but energetic passions electrify the whole mental power*
tnd will, consequently, in highly-favored natures, express then
in an ingenious and figuratlre manner "
JULIKT. 14>
Etas be<m a subject of much critical argument, it ia
well known that Shakspeare, following the old
English versions, has departed from the original
itory of Da Porta ; * and I am inclined to believo
* The " Giulietta " of Luigi da Porta was written about 1520
In a popular little book published in 1565, thirty years before
Bhakspeare wrote his tragedy, the name of Juliet occurs as an
example of faithful love, and is thus explained by a note in th
margin. "Juliet, a noble maiden of the citie of Verona, whiab
loved Romeo, eldest son of the Lord Monteschi; and being privily
married together, he at last poisoned himself for love of her:
she, for sorrow of his death, slew herself with his dagger." Thi*
uote, which furnishes, in brief, the whole argument of Shak-
speare's play, might possibly have made the first impression on
his fancy. In the novel of Da Porta the catastrophe is alto-
gether different. After the death of Romeo, the Friar Lorenzo
endeavors to persuade Juliet to leave the fatal niouument. Sh
refuses; and throwing herself back on the dead body of her
husband, she resolutely holds her breath and dies. "E volta-
tasi al giacente corpo di Romeo, il cui capo sopra un origliere,
che con lei nell' area era state lasciato, posto aveva; gli occhl
meglio rinchiusi avendogli, e di lagrime il freddo volto bagnan-
dogli, disse; " Che debbo senza di te in vita piu fare, signer mio?
e che altro mi resta verso te se non colla mia morte seguirti!
" E detto questo, la sua gran sciagura nell' animo recatasi, e la
perdita del caro amante ricordandosi, deliberando di piu non
fivere, raccolto a se il flato, e per buono spazio tenutolo, e po-
eia con un gran grido fuori mandandolo, sopra il morto corpo,
morta ricadde."
There is nothing so improbaoie in the story of Romeo and
Juliet as to make us doubt the tradition that it is a real foot.
" The Veronese," says Lord Byron, in one of his letters from
Verona, " are tenacious to a degree of the truth of Juliet's story,
Insisting on the ftict, giving the date 1303, and showing a tomb.
It is a plain, open, and partly decayed sarcophagus with withered
toaves in it, in a wild and desolate conventual garden once *
emetery, now ruined, to the very graves The situation struck
ne M very appropriate to the legend, being blighted as theiJ
60 CHARACTERS OF PA88ION, ETC.
hat Da Forta, in making Juliet waken from her
trance while Romeo yet lives, and in his terrible
final scene between the lovers, has himself departed
from the old tradition, and, as a romance, has cer-
tainly improved it ; but that which is effective in
a narrative, is not always calculated for the drama
and I cannot but agree with Schlegel, that Shak-
gpeare has done well and wisely in adhering to the
old story. Can we doubt for a moment that he who
has given us the catastrophe of Othello, and the
tempest scene in Lear, might also have adopted
these additional circumstances of horror in the fate
of the lovers, and have so treated them as to har-
row up our very soul had it been his object to do
BO ? But apparently it was not. The tale is one,
Such as, once heard, in gentle heart destroys
All pain but pity.
It is in truth a tale of love and sorrow, not of
anguish and terror. "We behold the catastrophe
afar off with scarcely a wish to avert it Romeo
and Juliet must die; their destiny is fulfilled ; they
have quaffed off the cup of life, with all its infinite
of joys and agonies, in one intoxicating draught.
What have they to do more upon this earth?
lore." He mfeht have added, that when Verona itself with It*
Amphitheatre and its Paladian structures, lies level with th
arth, the yery spot on which it stood will be consecrated by th
memory of J uliet.
Whan in Italy, I met a gentleman, who being then u dmnt It
ftnre romantiqiu," wore a fragment of Juliet's tomb Ml IB
JULIET. 1 51
Toung, Innocent, loving and beloved, they descend
together into the tomb : but Shakspeare has made
that tomb a shrine of martyred and sainted affec-
tion consecrated for the worship of all hearts, not
a dark charnel vanlt, haunted by spectres of pain,
rage, and desperation. Romeo and Juliet are
pictured lovely in death as in life ; the sympathy
they inspire does not oppress us with tha* suffocaN
ing sense of horror, which in the altered tragedy
makes the fall of the curtain a relief; but all pain
is lost in the tenderness and poetic beauty of the
picture. Romeo's last speech over his bride is not
like the raving of a disappointed boy : in its deep
pathos, its rapturous despair, its glowing imagery,
there is the very luxury of life and love. Juliet,
who had drunk off the sleeping potion in a fit of
frenzy, wakes calm and collected
I do remember well where I should be,
And there I am Where is my Romeo ?
Th<5 profound slumber in which her senses have
been steeped for so many hours has tranquillized
her nerves, and stilled the fever in her blood ; she
wakes " like a sweet child who has been dreaming
of something promised to it by its mother," and
opens her eyes to ask for it
.... Where is my Romeo?
die is answered at once,
Thy Vnsb&id in thy bosom Lere lies dead.
152 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
This is enough : she sees at once the whole horror
of her situation she seee it with a quiet and re-
wived despair she utters no reproach against th
Friar makes no inquiries, no complaints, except
that affecting remonstrance
churl drink all, and leave no friendly drop
To help me after !
All that is left to hei is to die, and she dies. Th
poem, which opened with the enmity of the two
families, closes with their reconciliation over the
breathless remains of their children ; and no vio-
lent, frightful, or discordant feeling is suffered to
mingle with that soft impression of melancholy left
within the heart, and which Schlegel compares to
one long, endless sigh.
" A youthful passion," says Goethe, (alluding to
one of his own early attachments,) " which is con-
ceived and cherished without any certain object,
may be compared to a shell thrown from a mortar
by night : it rises calmly in a brilliant track, acd
seems to mix, and even to dwell for a moment,
with the stars of heaven ; but at length it falls it
bursts consuming and destroying all around, even
as itself expires."
*****
To conclude : love, considered under its poetical
aspect, is the union of passion and imagination
and accordingly, to one of these, or to both, all tht
qualities of Juliet's mind and heart (unfolding and
Tarring as the action of the drama proceeds) nv j
je finally traced; the former concentrating all
those natural impulses, fervent affections and high
energies, which lend the character its internal
charm, its moral power and individual interest : the
latter diverging from all those splendid and luxu-
riant accompaniments which invest it with its ex-
ternal glow, its beauty, its vigor, its freshness, and
its truth.
With all this immense capacity of affection and
imagination, there is a deficiency of reflection and
of moral energy arising from previous habit and
education : and the action of the drama, while
it serves to develope the character, appears but
its natural and necessary result. " Le mysttre
de 1'existence," said Madame de Stael to her
daughter, "c'est le rapport de nos erreurs aveo
nos peines."
HELENA.
IN the character of Juliet *t have seen the pa
*ionate and the imaginative blended in an equal
degree, and in the highest conceivable degree
as combined with delicate female nature. In
Helena we have a modificaticn of character al-
together distinct; allied, indeed, to Juliet as a
picture of fervent, enthusiastic, self-forgetting love,
but differing wholly from her in other respects ; fol
Helen is the union of strength of passion with
tr5ngth of character.
94 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC-
" To be tremblingly alive to gentle impressions,
Hid yet be able to preserve, when the prosecution
of a design requires it, an immovable heart amidst
even the most imperious causes of subduing emo-
tion, is perhaps not an impossible constitution of
mind, but it is the utmost and rarest endowment 01
humanity." * Such a character, almost as difficult
to delineate in fiction as to find in real life, has
Shakspeare given us in Helena ; touched with the
most soul-subduing pathos, and developed with the
most consummate skill.
Helena, as a woman, is more passionate than im-
aginative ; and, as a character, she bears the same
relation to Juliet that Isabel bears to Portia. There
is equal unity of purpose and effect, with much lest
of the glow of imagery and the external coloring ol
poetry in the sentiments, language, and details. It
is passion developed under its most profound and
serious aspect ; as in Isabella, we have the serious
and the thoughtful, not the brilliant side of intel-
lect. Both Helena and Isabel are distinguished by
high mental powers, tinged with a melancholy
sweetness ; but in Isabella the serious and energetic
part of the character is founded in religious prin-
ciple ; in Helena it is founded in deep passion.
There never was, perhaps, a more beautiful
picture of a woman's love, cherished in secret, not
*elf-consuming in silent languishment not pining
tn though*. not passive and " desponding over iti
idol " but patient and hopeful, strong in ite owf
* Foster's Kssayi.
HELENA. 155
intensity, and sustained by its own fond faith. The
passion here reposes upon itself for all its interest ;
it derives nothing from art or ornament or circum-
p *ance ; it has nothing of the picturesque charm or
glowing romance of Juliet ; nothing of the poetical
splendor of Portia, or the vestal grandeur of Isabel.
The situation of Helena is the most painful and
degrading in which a woman can be placed. She
is poor and lowly ; she loves a man who is far her
superior in rank, who repays her love with indiffer-
ence, and rejects her hand with scorn. She mar-
ries him against his will ; he leaves her with con-
tumely on the day of their marriage, and makes his
return to her arms depend on conditions apparently
impossible. * All the circumstances and details
with which Helena is surrounded, are shocking to
our feelings and wounding to our delicacy : and yet
the beauty of the character is made to triumph over
all : and Shakspeare, resting for all his effect on
its internal resources and its genuine truth and
sweetness, has not even availed himself of some
extraneous advantages with which Helen is repre-
ented in the original story. She is the Giletta di
Narbonna of Boccaccio. In the Italian tale, Giletta
is the daughter of a celebrated physician attached
to the court of Roassillon ; she is represented as a
rich heiress, who rejects many suitors of worth and
* I have read somewhere tiat the play of which Helena ia thi
..eroine, (All's Well that Ends Well,) was at first entitled bj
lhakspeare "Lore's Labor Won." Whj the title was alteixV
Mr by whom. I cannot disco --or
156 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
rank, iu consequence of her secret attachment tr
the young Bertram de Roussillon. She cures the
King of France of a grievous distemper, by one of
her fathei 's prescriptions ; and she asks and re-
ceives as her reward the young Count of Roussillon
as her wedded husband. He forsakes her on their
wedding day, and she retires, by his order, to his
territory of Roussillon. There she is received with
honor, takes state upon her in her husband's ab-
sence as the " lady of the land," administers justice,
and rules her lord's dominions so wisely and so
well, that she is universally loved and reverenced
by his subjects. In the mean time, the Count, in-
stead of rejoining her, flies to Tuscany, and the
rest of the story is closely followed in the drama.
The beauty, wisdom, and royal demeanor of Giletta
are charmingly described, as well as her fervent
love for Bertram. But Helena, in the play, derives
no dignity or interest from place or circumstance,
and rests for all our sympathy and respect solely
upon the truth and intensity of her affections.
She is indeed represented to us as one
Whose beauty did astonish the survey
Of richest eyes: whose words all ears took captirc;
Whose dear perfection, hearts that scorn'd to serve.
Humbly called mistress.
As her dignity is derived from mental power, witK
out any alloy of pride, so her humility has a pecu
liar grace. If she feels and repines over her lowfc
birth, it is merely as an obstacle which separate
HELENA. 19l
Her from the man she loves. She is more sensible
to his greatness than her own littleness : she is con-
tinually looking from herself up to him, not from
Kim down to herself. She has been bred up under
the same roof with him ; she has adored him from
infancy. Her love is not " th' infection taken in at
the eyes," nor kindled by youthful romance : it ap-
pears to have taken root in her being ; to have
grown with her years ; and to have gradually ab-
sorbed all her thoughts and faculties, until her
fancy " carries no favor in it but Bertram's," and
" there is no living, none, if Bertram be away."
It may be said that Bertram, arrogant, wayward,
and heartless, does not justify this ardent and deep
devotion. But Helena does not behold him with
our eyes ; but as he is " sanctified in her idolatrous
fancy." Dr. Johnson says he cannot reconcile
himself to a man who marries Helena like a coward,
and leaves her like a profligate. This is much too
severe ; in the first place, there is no necessity that
we should reconcile ourselves to him. In this con-
sists a part of the wonderful beauty of the character
of Helena a part of its womanly truth, which
Johnson, who accuses Bertram, and those who so
plausibly defend him, did not understand. If it
never happened in roal life, that a woman, richly
endued with heaven's best gifts, loved with all her
heart, and soul, and strength, a man unequal to or
tnworthy of ner, and to whose faults herself alone
was blind I would givp. up the point : but if it be
n nature, why should it not be in Shakspeare 1
158 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
We are not to look into Bertram's character for the
spring and source of Helena's love for him, but into
her own. She loves Bertram, because she love*
him ! a woman's reason, but here, and sometime*
elsewhere, all-sufficient.
And although Helena tells herself that she love*
in vain, a conviction stronger than reason tells her
that she does not : her love is like a religion, pure,
holy, and deep : the blessedness to which she has
lifted her thoughts is forever before her ; to despair
would be a crime, it would be to cast herself
away and die. The faith of her affection, combin-
ing with the natural energy of her character, be-
lieving all things possible makes them so. It could
say to the mountain of pride which stands between
her and her hopes, " Be thou removed ! " and it is
removed. This is the solution of her behavior in
the marriage scene, where Bertram, with obvious
reluctance and disdain, accepts her hand, which the
king, his feudal lord and guardian, forces on him.
Her maidenly feeling is at first shocked, and she
shrinks back
That yon are well restor'd, my lord, I am glad:
Let the rest go.
But shall she weakly relinquish the golden oppor-
tunity, and dash the cup from her lips at the mo-
ment it is presented ? Shall she cast away the
treasure for which she has ventured both life and
honor, when it is just within her grasp ? Shall she,
liter compromising her feminiue delicacy by ii
HELENA. 151
public disclosure of her preference, be thrust back
into shame, " to blush out the remainder of her
life," and lie a poor, lost, scorned thing ? Thia
would be very pretty and interesting and character-
istic in Viola or Ophelia, but not at all consistent
with that high determined spirit, that moral energy,
with which Helena is portrayed. Pride is the only
obstacle opposed to her. She is not despised and
rejected as a woman, but as a poor physician's
daughter ; and this, to an understanding so clear,
so strong, so just as Helena's, is not felt as an un-
pardonable insult. The mere pride of rank and
birth is a prejudice of which she cannot comprehend
the force, because her mind towers so immeasurably
above it ; and, compared to the infinite love which
swells within her own bosom, it sinks into nothing.
She cannot conceive that he, to whom she has de-
voted her heart and truth, her soul, her life, her
service, must not one day love her in return ; and
once her own beyond the reach of fate, that her
cares, her caresses, her unwearied patient tender-
ness, will not at last " win her lord to look upon
her"
For time will bring on summer,
When briars shall have leaves as well as thorns,
And be as sweet as sharp.
It is this fond faith which, hoping all things,
enables her to endure all things : whi?h hallows
and dignifies the surrender of her woman's pride,
making it a sacrifice on which virtue and lov
Ihrow a mingled incense.
*O CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
'Hie scene in which the Countess extorta from
HP.IIMI the confession of her love, must, as an illus-
tration, be given here. It is perhaps, tlie finest in
the whole play, and brings out all the striking
points of Helen's character, to which I have already
alluded. We must not fail to remark, that though
the acknowledgment is wrung from her with an
agony which seems to convulse her whole being,
yet when once she has given it solemn utterance,
she recovers her presence of mind, and asserts her
native dignity. In her justification of her feelings
and her conduct, there is neither sophistry, nor
self-deception, nor presumption, but a noble sun-
plicity, combined with the most impassioned
earnestness ; while the language naturally rises in
its eloquent beauty, as the tide of feeling, now first
let loose from the bursting heart, comes pouring
forth in words. The whole scene is wonderfully
beautiful.
HELENA.
What is your pleasure, madam?
COUNTESS.
You know, Helen, I am a mother to you.
HELENA.
Mine honorable mistress.
Nay, a mother;
Why not a mother? When I said a mother,
Met bought you saw a serpent: what's in mother,
That you start at it ? I say, I am your mother ;
161
And put you in the catalogue of those
That were enwombed mine: 'tis often seen,
Adoption strives with nature ; and choice breed*
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, I am thy mother? What's the matter
That this distempered messenger of wet,
The many-color'd Iris, rounds thine eye ?
Why? that you are my daughter?
HELENA.
That I am not.
COUNTESS.
I My, I am your mother.
HELENA.
Pardon, madam:
The Count Roussillon cannot be my brother!
I am from humble, he from honor'd name;
No note upon my parents, his all noble :
My master, my dear lord he is : and I
His servant live, and will his vassal die:
He must not be my brother.
COUNTESS.
Nor I your mother?
HELENA.
You are my mother, madam ; would you were
( So that my lord, your son, were not my brother,)
Indeed my mother, or, were you both our mother%
I care no more for, than I do for Heaven,*
* i. . I can M much for aa I io for heavta
11
162 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
So I were not his sister; can't no other,
But I, your daughter, he most be my brother?
Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law ;
God shield, you mean it not ! daughter and mtthn
So strive upon your pulse : what, pale again ?
My fear hath catch'd your fondness: now I see
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your salt tears' head. Now to all sense 'tis grow
You love my son; invention is asham'd,
Against the proclamation of thy passion,
To say, thou dost not : therefore tell me true ;
But tell me, then, 'tis so : for, look, thy cheeks
Confess it, one to the other.
Speak, is't so?
If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue !
If it be not, forswear' t: howe'er, I charge the,
As heaven shall work in me for thy avail,
To tell me truly.
HELENA.
Good madam, pardon me !
COUNTESS.
Do you love my eon ?
HELENA*
Your pardon, noble m lull Mil
COUNTESS.
Lore you my son?
HELENA.
Do not you love him,
COUNTESS.
0* mat about; my love hath in't a bond,
HELENA. 163
Whereof the world takes note: come, come, discloM
The state of your affection ; for your passions
Have to the full appeach'd.
HELENA.
Then I confess
tfere 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 loved 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 untenible sieve,
I still pour in the waters of my love,
And lack not to love 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 yourselt,
Whose aged honor 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 ; 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.
This old Countess of Roussillon is a charming
iketeh. She is like one of Titian's old women, wui
. 64 CHARACTERS OK PASSION, ETC.
itill, amid their wrinkles, remind us of that soul of
beauty and sensibility, which must have animated
them when young. She is a fine contrast to Lady
Capulet benign, cheerful, and affectionate ; she
has a benevolent enthusiasm, which neither age,
nor sorrow, nor pride can wear away. Thus, when
she is brought to believe that Helen nourishes a
ecret attachment for her son, she observes
Even so it was with me when I was young!
This thorn
Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong,
It is the show and seal of nature's truth,
When love's strong passion is impress'd in youth.
Her fond, maternal love for Helena, whom she
has brought up : her pride in her good qualities
overpowering all her own prejudices of rank and
birth, are most natural in such a mind; and her
indignation against her son, however strongly ex-
pressed, never forgets the mother.
What angel shall
Bless this unworthy husband? he cannot thrive
Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear
And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath
Of greatest justice.
Which of them both
Is dearest to me I have no skill in sense
To make distinction.
This is very skilfully, as well as delicately co
ceivcd. In rejecting those poetical and accident*,
advantages which Giletta possesses in the origin*
163
Itory, Shakspeare has substituted the beautiful
character of the Countess ; and he has contrived,
that, as the character of Helena should rest for its
internal charm on the depth of her own affections,
go it should depend for its external interest on the
affection she inspires. The enthusiastic tenderness
of the old Countess, the admiration and respect of
the King, Lafeu, and all who are brought in con-
nection with her, make amends for the humiliating
neglect of Bertram; and cast round Helen that
collateral light, which Giletta in the story owes to
other circumstances, striking indeed, and well im-
agined, but not (I think) so finely harmonizing
with the character.
It is also very natural that Helen, with the in-
tuitive discernment of a pure and upright mind,
and the penetration of a quick-witted woman,
should be the first to detect the falsehood and
cowardice of the boaster Parolles, who imposes on
every one else.
It has been remarked, that there is less of poet-
ical imagery in this play than in many of the
others. A certain solidity in Helen's character
takes place of the ideal power ; and with consistent
truth of keeping, the same predominance of feeling
over fancy, of the reflective over the imaginative
faculty, is maintained through the whole dialogue.
Yet the finest passages in the serious scenes are
.hose appropriated to her ; they are familiar and
celebrated as quotations, but fully to understand
Jbeir beauty and truth, they should be considered
166 CHARACTERS OK PASSION, ETC.
relatively to her character and situation ; thus,
when in speaking of Bertram, she says, " that he is
one to whom she wishes well," the consciousness of
the disproportion between her words and her feel-
ings draws from her this beautiful and affecting ob-
servation, so just in itself, and so true to her situ-
ation, and to the sentiment which fills her whole
heart :
'Tis pity
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 act what we must only think, which never
Returns us thanks.
Some of her general reflections have a senten-
tious depth and a contemplative melancholy, whicfc
remind us of Isabella :
Our remedies oft in themselves 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.
Impossible be strange events to those
That weigh their pains in sense ; and do suppoM
What hath been cannot be.
lie 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.
Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
HELENA. 167
WLere most it premises ; and oft it hits,
Where hope is coldest, and despair most sits.
Her sentiments in the same manner are remark-
able for the union of profound sense with the most
passionate feeling ; and when her language is figu-
rative, which is seldom, the picture presented to us
is invariably touched either with a serious, a lofty,
or a me'ancholy beauty. For instance :
It were all one
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it he's so far above me.
And when she is brought to choose a husband
from among the young lords at the court, her heart
having already made its election, the strangeness
of that very privilege for which she had ventured
all, nearly overpowers her, and she says beauti-
fully:
The blushes on my cheeks thus whisper me,
" We blush that thou shouldst choose ; but be refused.
Let the white death sit on that cheek for ever
We'll ne'er come there again I "
In her soliloquy after she has been forsaken by
Bertram, the beauty lies in the intense feeling, the
force and simplicity of the expressions. There is
little imagery, and wherever it occurs, it is as bold
as it is beautiful, and springs out of the energy of
Ae sentiment, and the pathos of the situation. Sh
iap been reading his cruel letter.
US CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
7W IJiave no wife I have nothing in France.
Tis bitter!
Nothing in France, until he has no wife !
Thou shall have none, Roussillon, none in Fnuioa,
Then hast thou all again. Poor lord ! is't I
That chase thee from thy country, and expose
Those tender limhs of thine to the event
Of the none-sparing war? And is it I
That drive thee from the sportive court, where tho*
Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark
Of smoky muskets ? you leaden messengers,
That ride upon the violent speed of fire,
Fly with false aim ! move the still-piercing air,
That sings with piercing, do not touch my lord I
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;
Whoever charges on his forward breast,
I am the caitiff that do hold him to it;
And though I kill him not, I am the cause
His death was so effected ; better 'twere
I met the ravin lion when he roared
With sharp constraint of hunger; better 'twere
That all the miseries which nature owes,
Were mine at once.
No, no, although
The ah* of paradise did fan the house,
And angels officed all ; I will be gone.
Though I cannot go the length of those who have
defended Bert-am on almost every point, still ]
think the censure which Johnson has passed on the
character is much too severe. Bertram is certainly
not a pattern hero of romance, but full of faults
luch as we meet with every day in men of his age
tnd class. He is a bold, ardent, self-willed youtlw
HELENA. 165
fast dismissed into the world from domestic indul-
gence, with an excess of aristocratic and military
pride, but not without some sense of true honor
and generosity. I have lately read a defence of
Bertram's character, written with much elegance
and plausibility. " The young Count," says this
critic, " comes before us possessed of a good heart,
and of no mean capacity, but with a haughtiness
which threatens to dull the kinder passions, and to
cloud the intellect. This is the inevitable conse-
quence of an illustrious education. The glare of
his birthright has dazzled his young faculties. Per-
haps the first words he could distinguish were from
the important nurse, giving elaborate directions
about his lordship's pap. As soon as he could walk,
a crowd of submissive vassals doffed their caps, and
hailed his first appearance on his legs. His spell-
ing book had the arms of the family emblazoned
on the cover. He had been accustomed to hear
himself called the great, the mighty son of Roussil-
lon, ever since he was a helpless child. A succes-
sion of complacent tutors would jy no means de-
stroy the illusion ; and it is from their hands that
Shakspeare receives him, while yet in his minority.
An overweening pride of birth is Bertram's great
foible. To cure him of this, Shakspeare sends him
o the wars, that he may win fame for himself, and
thus exchange a shadow for a reality. There the
great dignity that his valor acquired for him places
him on an equality with any one of his ancestors,
d he is no longer beholden to them alone for the
170 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
World's observance. Thus in his own person he
discovers there is something better than mere
hereditary honors ; and his heart is prepared t
acknowledge that the entire devotion of a Helen's
love is of more worth than the court-bred smiles of
a princess." *
It is not extraordinary that, in the first instance,
his spirit should revolt at the idea of marrying his
mother's " waiting gentlewoman," or that he should
refuse her ; yet when the king, his feudal lord, whose
despotic authority was in this case legal and in-
disputable, threatens him with the extremity of his
wrath and vengeance, that he should submit him-
self to a hard necessity, was too consistent with the
manners of the time to be called cowardice. Such
forced marriages were not uncommon even in our
own country, when the right of wardship, now
vested in the Lord Chancellor, was exercised with
uncontrolled and often cruel despotism by the
sovereign.
There is an old ballad, in which the king bestowi
a maid of low degree on a noble of his court, and
the undisguised scorn and reluctance of the knight,
wxd the pertinacity of the lady, are in point.
He brought her down full forty pound
Tyed up within a glove,
" Fair maid, I'll give the same to thee,
Go seek another love."
I'll have none of your gold," she said,
~ Nor I'll have none of your fee ;
JJw Monthly Magazine, TOL IT
HELENA. 171
But your fair bodye I must have,
The king hath granted me."
Sir William ran and fetched her then,
Five hundred pounds in gold,
Saying, " Fair maid, tajse this to thee,
My fault will ne'er be told."
' 'Tis not the gold that shall me tempt,"
These words then answered she ;
" But your own bodye I must have,
The king hath granted me."
" Would I had drank the water clear,
When I did drink the wine,
Rather than my shepherd's brat
Should be a ladye of mine 1 " #
Bertram's disgust at the tyranny which has made
his freedom the payment of another's debt, which
has united him to a woman whose merits are not
towards him whose secret love, and long-enduring
faith, are yet unknown and untried might well
make his bride distasteful to him. He flies her on
the very day of their marriage, most like a wilful,
haughty, angry boy, but not like a profligate. On
other points he is not so easily defended ; and
Shakspeare, we see, has not defended, but corrected
him. The latter part of the play is more perplex-
ing than pleasing. We do not, indeed, repine with
Dr. Johnson, that Bertram, after all hia misde-
meanors, is " dismissed to happiness ; " but, not-
* Percy'g Reliquw.
172 CHARACTERS OP PASSION, ETC.
withstanding the clever defence that has been made
for him, he has our pardon rather than our sym-
pathy ; and for mine own part, I could find h
easier to love Bertram as Helena does, than to ex-
cuse him ; her love for him is his best excuse.
PERDITA.
IN Viola and Perdita the distinguishing traits are
the same sentiment and elegance ; thus we as-
sociate them together, though nothing can be more
distinct to the fancy than the Doric grace of Per-
dita, compared to the romantic sweetness of Viola.
They are created out of the same materials, and
are equal to each other in the tenderness, delicacy,
and poetical beauty of the conception. They are
both more imaginative than passionate ; but Per-
dita is the more imaginative of the two. She is the
union of the pastoral and romantic with the clas-
sical and poetical, as if a dryad of the woods had
turned shepherdess. The perfections with which
the poet has so lavishly endowed her, sit upon her
wrth a certain careless and picturesque grace, " as
though they had fallen upon her unawares," Thin
Belphoebe, in the Fairy Queen, issues from the
Oowering forest with hair and garments all be-
sprinkled with thw leaves and blossoms they had
entangled in their flight ; and so arrayed by chance
%nd " heedless hap," takes all hearts with " stateh
PERDITA. 178
presence and with princely port," most like to
Perdita !
The story of Fijrizel and Perdita is but an epi-
sode in the " Winter's Tale ; " and the character ol
Perdita is properly kept subordinate to that of her
mother, Hermione : yet the picture is perfectly
finished in every part ; Juliet herself is not more
firmly and distinctly drawn. But the coloring in
Perdita is more silvery light and delicate ; the per-
vading sentiment more touched with the ideal;
compared with Juliet, she is like a Guido hung be-
eide a Georgione, or one of Paesiello's airs heard
after one of Mozart's.
The qualities which impart to Perdita her distinct
individuality, are the beautiful combination of the
pastoral with the elegant of simplicity with ele-
vation of spirit with sweetness. The exquisite
delicacy of the picture is apparent. To under-
stand and appreciate its effective truth and
nature, we should place Perdita beside some of
the nymphs of Arcadia, or the Chloris' and Sylvias
of the Italian pastorals, who, however graceful in
themseives, when opposed to Perdita, seem to melt
away into mere poetical abstractions ; as, in
Spenser, the fair but fictitious Florimel, which the
subtle enchantress had moulded out of snow, " ver-
meil tinctured," and informed with an airy spirit,
that knew " all wiles of woman's wits," fades and
dissolves away, when placed next to the real Flori
>iel, in her warm, breathing, human loveliness.
Perdita does not appear till the fourth act, and
174 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
the whole of the character is developed in th
course of a single scene, (the third,) with a com
pleteness of effect which leaves nothing to be
i-equired nothing to be supplied. She is first
introduced in the dialogue between herself and
Florizel, where she compares her own lowly state
to his princely rank, and expresses her fears of the
issue of their unequal attachment. With all her
timidity and her sense of the distance which sepa-
rates her from her lover, she breathes not a single
word which could lead us to impugn either her
delicacy or her dignity.
FLORIZEL.
These your unusual weeds to each part of you
Do give a life no shepherdess, but Flora
Peering in April's front ; this your sheep-shearing
Is as the meeting of the petty gods,
And vou the queen on't.
PERDITA.
Sir, my gracious lord,
To cnide at your extremes it not becomes me;
pardon that I name them : your high self,
The gracious mark o' the land, you have obscured
With a swain's bearing; and me, poor lowly maid,
Most goddess-like prank'd up : but that our feasts
In every mess have folly, and the feeders
Digest it with a custom, I should blush
To see you so attired ; sworn, I think
To show myself a glass.
The impression of her perfect beauty and airy
elegance of demeanor is conveyed in two exquisite
passages:
PERDITA. 17*
What you do
Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
I'd have you do it ever. When you sing,
I'd have you buy and sell so ; so give alms,
Pray so, and for the ordering your affairs
To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish yon
A wave o* the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that ; move still, still so, and own
No other function.
I take thy hand ; this hand
As soft as dove's down, and as white as it;
Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow,
That's bolted by the northern blasts twice o'er.
The artless manner in which her innate nobilitj
of soul shines forth through her pastoral disguise, is
thus brought before us at once :
This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever
Ran on the green sward; nothing she does or seems,
But smacks of something greater than herself;
Too noble for this place.
Her natural loftiness of spirit breaks out where
she is menaced and reviled by the King, as one
whom his son has degraded himself by merely look-
ing on ; she bears the royal frown without quailing ;
but the moment he is gone, the immediate recollec-
tion of herself, and of her humble state, of her hap-
ess love, is full of beauty, tenderness, and nature :
Even here undone !
I was much afeard : for once or twice,
I was about to speak ; and tell him plainly
I 7ft CHARACTERS OF PASSION,
The self-same sun, that shines upon his court
Hides not his visage from our cottage, bat
Looks on alike.
Will't please, you Sir, be gone ?
I told you what would come of this. Beseech yon,
Of your own state take care; this dream of mine-
Being now awake I'll queen it no inch further,
But milk my ewes, and weep.
How often have I told yon 'twould be thai
How often said, my dignity would last
But till 'twere known !
FLORIZEL.
It cannot fail, but by
The violation of my faith ; and then
Let nature crush the sides o' the earth together
And mar the seeds within ! Lift up thy looks.
*****
Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may
Be thereat glean' d! for all the sun sees, or
The close earth wombs, or the profound seas hide
In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath
To thee, my fair beloved 1
Perdita has another characteristic, which lends
to the poetical delicacy of the delineation a certain
strength and moral elevation, which is peculiarly
striking. It is that sense of truth and rectitude,
that upright simplicity of mind, which disdains all
crooked and indirect means, which would not stoop
for an instant to dissemblance, and is mingled with
a noble confidence in her love and in her lover
In this spirit is her answer to Camilla, who say
tourtier like,
PERDITA. 17T
Besides, you know
Prosperity's the very bond of love;
Whose fresh complexion, and whose heart together
Affliction alters.
To which she replies,
One of these is true;
I think, affliction may subdue the cheek,
But not take' in the mind.
In that elegant scene where she receives the
guests at the sheep-ehearing, and distributes the
flowers, there is in the full flow of the poetry, a
most beautiful and striking touch of individual
character : but here it is impossible to mutilate the
dialogue.
Reverend sirs,
For you there's rosemary and rue ; these keep
Seeming and savor all the winter long;
Grace and remembrance be to you both,
And welcome to our shearing!
POLIXENES.
Shepherdess,
(A fair one are you,) well you fit our ages
With flowars of winter.
Sir, the year growing ancient,
Nor yet on summer's death, nor on the birth
Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' the eoasoi
Are our carnations, and streaked gilliflowers,
Which some call nature s bastards : of that kind
Our rustic garden's barren , and I care not
To get slips of them
12
7i CHARACTERS OF PASSIOX, ETC.
POUXENM.
Wherefore, gentle maiden,
Do yot neglect them ?
PERDITA.
For I have heard it said,
There is an art, which in their piedness, share*
With great creating nature.
POLIXEXIS.
Say there be ;
Yet nature is made better by no mean
But nature makes that mean ; so o'er that art
Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art
That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, w many
A gentle 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; bat
The art itself is nature.
PEKDITA.
So it is.
POLJXENES.
Then make your garden rich in gilliflowers,
And do not call them bastards.
I'll not put
The dibble in earth to set one slip of them;
No more than were I painted, I would wish
This youth should say 'twere well.
It has been well remarked of this passage, that
Perdita does not attempt to answer the reasoning
PKRDITA. 179
tf Polixenes : she gives up the argument, buf,
woman-like, retains her own opinion, or rather, her
sense of right, unshaken by his sophistry. She
goes on in a strain of poetry, which comes over the
uoul like music and fragrance mingled : we seem to
inhale the blended odors of a thousand flowers, till
the sense faints with their sweetness ; and she con-
cludes with a touch of passionate sentiment, which
melts into the very heart :
Proserpina!
For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'st fall
From Dis's wagon! 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 ! 0, these I lack,
To make you garlands of; and my sweet friend
To strew him o'er and o'er.
FLORIZEL.
What ! like a corse ?
PEKDITA.
No, like a bank, for Love to lie and play on;
Not like a corse : or if, not to be buried,
Bat quick, and in mine arms 1
This love of truth, this conscientiousness, which
fonns so distinct a feature in the character of Per*
180 CUAUACTBRS OF PASSION, ETC.
dita, and mingles with its picturesque delicacy a
certain firmness and dignity, is maintained con-
sistently to the last. When the two lovers fly
together from Bohemia, and take refuge in the
court of Leontes, the real father of Perdita, Florizel
presents himself before the king with a feigned tale,
in which he has been artfully instructed by the old
counsellor Camillo. During this scene, Perdita
does not utter a word. In the strait in which they
are placed, she cannot deny the story which Florizel
relates she will not confirm it Her silence, in
epite of all the compliments and greetings of
Leontes, has a peculiar and characteristic grace
and, at the conclusion of the scene, when they are
betrayed, the truth bursts from her as if instinc-
tively, and she exclaims, with emotion,
The heavens set spies upon us will not have
Our contract celebrated.
After this scene, Perdita says very little. The
inscription of her grief, while listening to the re-
lation of her mother's death,
" One of the prettiest touches of nil, was, when at th
relation of the queen's death, with the manner how she
came by it, how attentiveness wounded her daughter: til
from one sign of dolor to another, she did, with au alat
1 would fain say, bleed tears: "
her deportment too as she stands gazing on th
statue of Hermione, fixed in wonder, admiration
vid norrow, as if she too were marble
VIOLA. 18!
royal piece !
Therw's magic in thy majesty, which has
From thy admiring daughter ta'en the spirito,
Standing like stone beside thee !
we touches of character conveyed indirectly, and
which serve to give a more finished effect to tbj*
beautiful picture.
VIOLA.
As the innate dignity of Perdita pierces through
her rustic disguise, so the exquisite refinement of
Viola triumphs over her masculine attire. Viola
is, perhaps, in a degree less elevated and ideal
than Perdita, but with a touch of sentiment more
profound and heart-stirring ; she is " deep-learned
in the lore of love," at least theoretically, and
ipeaks as masterly on the subject as Perdita due*
of flowers.
DUKE.
How dost thou ike this tune V
VIOLA.
It gives a very echo to the seat
Where love is thron'd.
And again,
If I did love you in my master's flame,
With such a suffering, such a deadly life
in your denial 1 would find no sense,
I would not understand it.
I.S2 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, KTC.
ILTVIA.
Why, what would yon do?
Make me a willow cabin at yMr gate,
And call upon my soul within the house ;
Write loyal cantons * of contemned love,
And sing them loud even in the dead of night.
Holla your name to the reverberate hills,
And make babbling gossip of the air
Cry out, Olivia ! you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me.
OLIVIA.
You might do much.
The situation and the character of Viola have
been censured for their want of consistency and
probability ; it is therefore worth while to examine
how far this criticism is true. As for her situation
in the drama, (of which she is properly the heroine,)
it is shortly this. She is shipwrecked on the coast
of Illyria : she is alone and without protection in a
strange country. She wishes to enter into the ser-
vice of the Countess Olivia ; but she is assured tnat
this is impossible ; " for the lady having recently
lost an only and beloved brother, has abjured the
light of men, has shut herself up in her palace, and
will admit no kind of suit" In this perplexity
Viola remembers to have heard her father speak
with praise and admiration of Orsino, the Duke of
I. e. canxons, songg
VIOLA. 183
tie country ; and having asceii^ined that he is not
married, and that therefore his court is not a proper
asylum for her in her feminine character, she at-
tires herself in the disguise of a page, as the best
protection against uncivil comments, till she can
gain some tidings of her brother.
If we carry our thoughts back to a romantic and
chivalrous age, there is surely sufficient probability
here for all the purposes of poetry. To pursue the
thread of Viola's destiny ; she is engaged in the
service of the Duke, whom she finds " fancy-sick "
for the love of Olivia. We are left to infer, (for so
it is hinted in the first scene,) that this Duke who
with his accomplishments, and his personal attrac-
tions, his taste for music, his chivalrous tenderness,
and his unrequited love, is really a very fascinating
and poetical personage, though a little passionate
and fantastic had already made some impression
on Viola's imagination ; and when she comes to
play the confidante, and to be loaded with favors
and kindness in her assumed character, that she
should be touched by a passion made up of pity,
admiration, gratitude, and tenderness, does not, I
think, in any way detract from the genuine sweet-
ness and delicacy of her character, for " she never
told her love."
Now all this, as the critic wisely observes, may
not present a very just picture of life ; and it may
also fail to impart any moral lesson for the especia,
orot of well-bred young ladies but is it not in
and in nature ? Did it ever fail to charm 01
184 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
to interest, to seize on the coldest fancy, to touch
the most insensible heart ?
Viola then is the chosen favorite of the enamour-
ed Duke, and becomes his messenger to Olivia, and
the interpreter of his sufferings to that inaccessible
beauty. In her character of a youthful page, she
attracts the favor of Olivia, and excites the jealousy
of her lord. The situation is critical and delicate
but how exquisitely is the character of Viola fitted
to her part, carrying her through the ordeal with
all the inward and spiritual grace of modesty.
What beautiful propriety in the distinction drawn
between Rosalind and Viola ! The wild sweetness,
the frolic humor which sports free and unblamed
amid the shades of Ardennes, would ill become
Viola, whose playfulness is assumed as part of her
disguise as a court-page, and is guarded by the
strictest delicacy. She has not, like Rosalind, a
saucy enjoyment in her own incognito ; her disguise
does not sit so easily upon her ; her heart does not
beat freely under it As in the old ballad, where
" Sweet William " is detected weeping in secret
over her " man's array," * so in Viola, a sweet con-
sciousness of her feminine nature is for ever break'
bag through her masquerade :
And on her cheek is ready with a blush
Modest as morning, when she coldly eye*
The youthful Phoebus.
Percy's Rellqnes, rol. ill. Me the ballad of the ' Udy tor*
C Berring Han."
VIOLA. 184
She plays her part well, but never forgets not
jdlows us to forget, that she is pJ tying a part.
OLIVIA.
Are you a comedian?
VIOLA.
No, my profound heart ! and yet by the very fangs rf
Ualice I swear, I am not that I play !
And thus she comments on it :
Disguise, I see thou art wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much;
How easy is it for the proper false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms !
Alas ! our frailty is the cause, not we.
The feminine cowardice of Viola, which will not
allow her even to affect a courage becoming her
attire, her horror at the idea of drawing a sword,
is very natural and characteristic ; and produces a
most humorous effect, even at the very moment it
charms and interests us.
Contrasted with the deep, silent, patient love of
Viola for the Duke, we have the lady-like wilful-
ness of Olivia ; and her sudden passion, or rather
fancy, for the disguised page, takes so beautiful a
coloring of poetry and sentiment, that we do not
think her forward. Olivia is like a princess of
romance, and has all the privileges of one ; she is,
like Portia, high born and high bred, mistress over
her servants but not like Portia. " queen o'er her-
*lf." She has never it. her life been opposed ; the
Irat contradiction, therefore, rouses all the woman
186 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
in her, and turns a caprice into a headlong pa
lion ; yet she apologizes for herself.
I have said too much onto a hoart of stone,
And laid mine honor too unchary out;
There's something in me that reproves my fault;
But such a headstrong potent fault it is,
That it but mocks reproof!
And in the midst of her self-abandonment, never
allows us to contemn, even while we pity her:
What shall you ask of me that I'll deny.
That honor, saved, may upon asking give ?
The distance of rank which separates the
Countess from the youthful page the real sex 01'
Viola the dignified elegance of Olivia's deport-
ment, except where passion gets the better of her
pride her consistent coldness towards the Duke
the description of that "smooth, discreet, and
stable bearing" with which she rules her house-
hold her generous care for her steward Malvolio,
in the midst of her own distress, all these circum-
stances raise Olivia in our fancy, and render her
caprice for the page a source of amusement and
interest, not a subject of reproach. Twelfth Night
is a genuine comedy ; a perpetual spring of the
gayest and the sweetest fancies. In artificial so-
ciety men and women are divided into castes and
classes, and it is rarely that extremes in character
Cr manners can approximate. To blend into ont
ksrmonious picture the utmost grace and refino>
187
m.ent of semiment, and the broadest effects of
humor; the most poignant wit, and the most in-
dulgent benignity ; in short, to bring before us in
the same scene, Viola and Olivia, with Malvolio
and Sir Toby, belonged only to Nature and to
Shakspeare.
OPHELIA.
A WOMAN'S affections, however strong, are senti-
ments, when they run smooth ; and become pas-
sions only when opposed.
In Juliet and Helena, love is depicted as a pas-
sion, properly so called ; that is, a natural impulse,
throbbing in the heart's blood, and mingling with
the very sources of life ; a sentiment more or less
modified by the imagination ; a strong abiding
principle and motive, excited by resistance, acting
upon the will, animating all the other faculties, and
again influenced by them. This is the most com-
plex aspect of love, and in these two characters, it
is depicted in colors at once the most various, the
most intense, and the most brilliant.
In Viola and Perdita, love, being less complex,
tppears more refined, more a sentiment than a
yassion a compound of impulse and fancy, while
ihe reflective powers and moral energies are more
faintly developed. The same remark applies also
> Julia and Silvia, in the Two Gentlemen of
188 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
Verona, and, in a greater degree, to Hermia anrt
Helena in the Midsummer Night's Dream. In the
two latter, though perfectly discriminated, Jove
takes the visionary fanciful cast, which belongs to
the whole piece ; it is scarcely a passion or a senti-
ment, but a dreamy enchantment, a reverie, which
a fairy spell dissolves or fixes at pleasure.
But there was yet another possible modification
of the sentiment, as combined with female nature ;
and this Shakspeare has shown to us. He has por-
trayed two beings, in whom all intellectual and
moral energy is in a manner latent, if existing ; in
whom love is an unconscious impulse, and imagina-
tion lends the external charm and hue, not the in-
ternal power ; in whom the feminine character ap-
pears resolved into its very elementary principle*
as modesty, grace,* tenderness. Without thes<
a woman is no woman, but a thing which, luckily
wants a name yet ; with these, though every othe>
faculty were passive or deficient, she might still bo
herself. These are the inherent qualities with
which God sent us into the world : they may bo
perverted by a bad education they may be ob-
scured by harsh and evil destinies they may be
overpowered by the development of some particular
mental power, the predominance of some passion
* By this word, aa used here, I would be understood to mean
that inexpressible something within the soul, which tends to th
food, the beautiful, the true, and is the antipodes to the vulgar
the violent, and the false ; that which we see diffused externally
vnr the form and movements, where there is perfect lunucenoi
nd nnconaciouBneM, as In children.
OPHELIA. 189
but they are never wholly crushed out of the
woman's soul, while it retains those faculties which
render it responsible to its Creator. Shakspeare
then has shown us that these elemental feminine
qualities, modesty, grace, tenderness, when ex-
panded under genial influences, suffice to constitute
a perfect and happy human creature : such is Mi-
randa. When thrown alone amid harsh and ad-
verse destinies, and amid the trammels and corrup-
tions of society, without energy to resist, or will to
act, or strength to endure, the end must needs be
desolation.
Ophelia poor Ophelia ! O far too soft, too
good, too fair, to be cast among the briers of this
working-day world, and fall and bleed upon the
thorns of life ! What shall be said of her ? for
eloquence is mute before her ! Like a strain of sad
sweet music which comes floating by us on the
wings of night and silence, and which we rather
feel than hear like the exhalation of the violet
dying even upon the sense it charms like the
snow-flake dissolved in air before it has caught a
stain of earth like the light surf severed from the
billow, which a breath disperses such is the char-
acter of Ophelia : so exquisitely delicate, it seema
as if a touch would profane it ; so sanctified in our
thoughts by the last and worst of human woes, that
we scarcely dare to consider it too deeply. The
love of Ophelia, which she never once confesses, is
like a secret which we have stolen from her, and
which ought to die upon our hearts as upon hex
190 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
*wn. Her sorrows ask not words but tears ; and
her madness has precisely the same effect thai
would be produced by the spectacle of real in-
sanity, if brought before us : we feel inclined to
turn away, and veil our eyes in reverential pity
and too painful sympathy.
Beyond every character that Shakspeare haa
drawn, (Hamlet alone excepted,) that of Ophelia
makes us forget the poet in his own creation.
Whenever we bring her to mind, it is with the
same exclusive sense of her real existence, without
reference to the wondrous power which called her
into life. The effect (and what an effect !) is pro-
duced by means so simple, by strokes so few, and
so unobtrusive, that we take no thought of them.
I* is so purely natural and unsophisticated, yet so
profound in its pathos, that, as Hazlitt observes, it
takes us back to the old ballads ; we forget that, in
its perfect artlessness, it is the supreme and con-
summate triumph of art.
The situation of Ophelia in the story,* is that of
a young girl who, at an early age, is brought from
A life of privacy into the circle of a court a court
euch as we read of in those early times, at once
rude, magnificent, and corrupted. She is placed
immediately about the person of the queen, and it
i. . In the story of the drama: for in the original "History
of Aoleth the Dane," from which Shakspeare drew his material*
there is a woman introduced who is employed as an instrument
to seduoe Anileth, I nt not eren the germ of the character or
Ophelia.
OVHELIA. 191
apparently her favorite attendant. The affection
of the wicked queen for this gentle and innocent
creature, is one of those beautiful redeeming
touches, one of those penetrating glances into
the secret springs of natural and feminine feeling
which we find only in Shakspeare. Gertrude, who
is not so wholly abandoned but that there remains
within her heart some sense of the virtue she has
forfeited, seems to look with a kind yet melancholy
complacency on the lovely being she has destined
for the bride of her son ; and the scene in which
ghe is introduced as scattering flowers on the grave
of Ophelia, is one of those effects of contrast in
poetry, in character and in feeling, at once natural
and unexpected ; which fill the eye, and make the
heart swell and tremble within itself like the
nightingales singing in the grove of the Furies in
Sophocles.*
Again, in the father of Ophelia, the Lord Cham-
berlain Polonius the shrewd, wary, subtle, pom-
pous, garrulous old courtier have we not the very
man who would send his son into the world to see
all, learn all it could teach of good and evil, but
keep his only daughter as far as possible from
every taint of that world he knew so well ? So that
when she is brought to the court, she seems in her
loveliness and perfect purity, like a seraph that
had wandered out of bounds, and yet breathed on
earth the air of paradise. When her father and
ber brother find it necessary to ware her simplicity;
* In the (E'lipug Ooloneu*
192 CHARACTERS OP PASSION, ETC.
give her lessons of worldly wisdom, and instruct
her " to be scanter of her maiden presence," for
that Hamlet's vows of love "but breathe like
sanctified and pious bonds, the better to beguile."
we feel at once that it comes too late ; for from the
moment she appears on the scene amid the dark
conflict of crime anJ vengeance, and supernatural
terrors, we know what must be her destiny. Once,
at Murano, I saw a dove caught in a tempest ; per-
haps it was young, and either lacked strength of
wing to reach its home, or the instinct which
teaches to shun the brooding storm ; but so it was
and I watched it, pitying, as it flitted, poor bird
hither and thither, with its silver pinions shining
against the black thunder-cloud, till, after a few
giddy whirls, it fell blinded, affrighted, and bewil-
dered, into the turbid wave beneath, and was swal-
lowed up forever. It reminded me then of the
fate of Ophelia ; and now when I think of her, 1
see again before me that poor dove, beating with
weary wing, bewildered amid the storm. It is the
helplessness of Ophelia, arising merely from her
sinocence, and pictured without any indication of
weakness, which melts us with such profound pity.
She is so young, that neither her mind nor her per-
uon have attained maturity ; she is not aware of
the nature of her own feelings ; they are prema-
turely developed in their full force before she has
rtrength to bear them ; and love and grief together
"end and shatter the frail texture of her existence,
jke the burning fluid poured into a crystal vast*
19S
She says very hide, and what she does say seems
rather intended to hide than to reveal the emotions
of her heart ; yet in those few words we are made
as perfectly acquainted with her character, and
with what is passing in her mind, as if she had
thrown forth her soul with all the glowing eloquence
of Juliet. Passion with Juliet seems innate, a par"
of her being, " as dwells the gathered lightning in
the cloud ; " and we never fancy her but with the
dark splendid eyes and Titian-like complexion of
the south. While in Ophelia we recognize as dis-
tinctly the pensive, fair-haired, blue-eyed daughter
of the north, whose heart seems to vibrate to the
passion she has inspired, more conscious of being
loved than of loving ; and yet, alas ! loving in the
silent depths of her young heart far more than she
is loved.
"When her brother warns her against Hamlet'i
'importunities
For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favor,
Hold it a fashion, and a toy of blood,
A violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward not permanent, sweet not lasting,
The perfume and the suppliance of a minute
No more !
khe replies with a kind of half eonso'ousnea*
No more but BC ?
LAERTES.
Think i'. no more.
13
194 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
He concludes his admonition with that mod
beautiful passage, in which the soundest sense, tht
most excellent advice, is conveyed in a strain of
the most exquisite poetry.
The chariest maid is prodigal enough,
If she unmask her beauty to the moon :
Virtue itself 'scapes not calumnious strokes.
The canker galls the infants of the spring
Too oft before their buttons be disclos'd:
And in the morn and liquid dew of youth,
Contagious blastments are most imminent.
She answers with the same modesty, yet with a
kind of involuntary avowal, that his fears are not
altogether without cause :
I shall the effect of this good lesson keep
As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother,
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do,
Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven;
Whilst, like the pufTd and reckless libertine,
Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads,
And recks not his own read.*
When her father, immediately afterwards, cate-
chizes her on the same subject, he extorts from her,
in short sentences, uttered with bashful reluctance,
the confession of Hamlet's love for her, but no*
a word of her love for him. The whole scene
is managed with inexpressible delicacy: it b
one of those instances, common in Shakspeare,
in which we are allowed to perceive what is
" And recks not his owe read," i. t. heed* not hU own IAMOD,
OPHELIA. ISA
passing in the mind of a person, without any cou-
Kiousness on their part. Only Ophelia herself is
unaware that while she is admitting the extent of
Hamlet's courtship, she is also betraying how deep
is the impression it has made, how entire the lov
with which it is returned.
POLONIUS.
What is between you? give me up the truth!
OPHELIA.
He hath, my lord, of late, made many tenders
Of his affection to me.
POLONIUS.
Affection ! poh ! you speak like a green girl,
Unsifted in such perilous circumstances.
Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?
OPHELIA.
I do not know, my lord, what I should think.
Marry, I'll teach you: think yourself a baby;
That you have taken these tenders for true pay
Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more decxly
Or (not to crack the wind of the poor phrase,
Wronging it thus) you'll tender me a fool.
OPHELIA.
My lord, he hath importun'd me with love
In honorable fashion.
POLONIUS.
Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, go to
196 CHARACTERS OF PA8SIOX, ETC.
OPHELIA.
And hath given countenance to his speech, my lor^
With almost all the holy vows of heaven.
POLONICS.
Ay, springes to catch woodcocks.
This is for all:
would not, in plain tenns, from this time forth
Have you so slander any moment's leisure
As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet,
Look to't, I charge you : come your ways.
OPHELIA.
1 shall obey, my lord.
Besides its intrinsic loveliness, the character of
Ophelia has a relative beauty and delicacy when
considered in relation to that of Hamlet, which if
the delineation of a man of genius in contest with
the powers of this world. The weakness of volition,
the instability of purpose, the contemplative sen-
sibility, the subtlety of thought, always shrinking
from action, and always occupied in " thinking too
precisely on the event," united to immense intel-
lectual power, render him unspeakably interesting:
and yet I doubt whether any woman, who would
have been capable of understanding and appreciat-
ng such a man, would have passionately loved him.
Let us for a moment imagine any one of Shak-
ipcare's most beautiful and striking female char-
acters in immediate connection with Hamlet Th
gentle Uesdemona would never have despatched
her household cares in haste, to listen to his philo
OPHELIA. 191
speculations, his dark conflicts with hia
own spirit, ijuch a woman as Portia would have
itudied him ; Juliet would have pitied him ; Rosa-
lind would have turned him over with a smile to
the melancholy Jacques ; Beatrice would have
laughed at him outright; Isabel would have rea-
soned with him ; Miranda could but have won-
dered at him : but Ophelia loves him. Ophelia,
the young, fair, inexperienced girl, facile to
every impression, fond in her simplicity, and cred-
ulous in her innocence, loves Hamlet; not from
what he is in himself, but for that which appears
to her the gentle, accomplished prince, upon
whom she has been accustomed to see all eyes
fixed in hope and admiration, "the expectancy
and rose of the fair state," the star of the court in
which she moves, the first 'who has ever whispered
Boft vows in her ear : and what can be more
natural ?
But it is not singular, that while no one enter-
tains a doubt of Ophelia's love for Hamlet though
never once expressed by herself, or asserted by
others, in the whole course of the drama yet it is
a subject of dispute whether Hamlet loves Ophelia,
though she herself allows that he had importuned
her with love, and " had given countenance to hil
rait with almost all the holy vows of heaven ; " al-
though in the letter which Polonius intercepted,
Hamlet declares that he loves her " best, O most
oest ! " though he asserts himself, with the wildest
vehemence,
l98 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ft 1C.
I lov'd Ophelia ; forty thousand brothers
Could nof, with all their quantity of lo*e,
Make up my sum:
still I have heard the question canvassed ; I have
even heard it denied that Hamlet did love Cphelia.
The author of the finest remarks I have yet seen
on the play and character of Hamlet, leans to thia
opinion. As the observations I allude to are con-
tained in a periodical publication, and may not be
at hand for immediate reference, I shall indulge
myself (and the reader no less) by quoting the
opening paragraphs of this noble piece of criticism,
upon the principle, and for the reason I have al-
ready stated in the introduction.
" We take up a play, and ideas come rolling in
upon us, like waves impelled by a strong wind.
There is in the ebb and 'flow of Shakspeare's soul
all the grandeur of a mighty operation of nature ;
and when we think or speak of him, it should be
with humility where we do not understand, and a
conviction that it is rather to the narrowness of our
own mind than to any failing in the art of the great
magician, that we ought to attribute any sense of
weakness, which may assail us during the content
plation of his created worlds.
" Shakspeare himself, had he even been as great
a critic as a poet, could not have written a regular
dissertation upon Hamlet So ideal, and yet so
real an existence, could have been shadowed ou
anly iu the colors of poetry. When a character
leaht solely or chiefly with this world and its event*
UJfHELlA. 199
when it acts and is acted upon by objects that have
R palpable existence, we see it distinctly, as if it
were cast in a material mould, as if it partook of
the fixed and settled lineaments of the things on
which it lavishes its sensibilities and its passions.
We see in such cases the vision of an individual
soul, as we see the vision of an individual counte-
nance. We can describe both, and can let a
Btranger into our knowledge. But how tell in
words, so pure, so fine, so ideal an abstraction as
Hamlet ? We can, indeed, figure to ourselves gen-
erally his princely form, that outshone all others in
manly beauty, and adorn it with the consummation
of all liberal accomplishment. We can behold in
every look every gesture, every motion, the future
king,
The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword,
Th' expectancy and rose of the fair state ;
The glass of fashion, and the mould of form,
Th' observ'd of all observers.
" But when we would penel/ate into his spirit,
meditate on those things on which he meditates, ac-
company him even unto the brink of eternity,
lluctuate with him on the ghastly sea of despair,
oar with him into the purest and serenest region!
of human thought, feel with him the curse of be-
holding iniquity, and the troubled delight of think-
ing on innocence, and gentleness, and beauty
*ome with him from all tbe glorious dreams cher-
hed by a uoble spirit in the halls of wisuora and
200 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ET7.
philosophy, of a sudden into the gloomy courts ol
sin, and incest, and murder ; shudder with bin
over the broken and shattered fragments of all tht
fairest Creations of his fancy, be borne with him
at once, from calm, and lofty, and delighted specu-
lations, into the very heart of fear, and horror, and
tribulations, have the agonies and the guilt of otu
mortal world brought into immediate contact with
the world beyond the grave, and the influence of
an awful shadow hanging forever on our thoughts,
be present at a fearful combat between all the stir-
red-up passions of humanity in the soul of man, a
combat in which one and all of these passions are
alternately victorious and overcome ; I say, that
when we are thus placed and acted upon, how is it
possible to draw a character of this sublime drama,
or of the mysterious being who is its moving spirit ?
In him, his character and situation, there is a con-
centration of all the interests that belong to human-
ity. There is scarcely a trait of frailty or of gran-
deur, which may have endeared to us our most
beloved friends in real life, that is not to be found
in Hamlet. Undoubtedly Shakspeare loved him
beyond all his other creations. Soon as he appears
on the stage we are satisfied : when absent we long
for his return. This is the only play which exists
almost altogether in the character of one single
person. Who ever knew a Hamlet in real life
yet who, ideal as the character ij, feels not its
reality ? This is the wonder. We love him not,
wo. think of him, not because he is witty, brr.ius*
OPHELIA. 20\
be was nielanch >ly, because he was filial ; but we
love him because he existed, and was himself. This
is the sum total of the impression. T Hlieve that,
of every other character either in tragic or epic
poetry, the story makes part of the conception ; but
of Hamlet, the deep and permanent interest is the
conception of himself. This seems to belong, not
to the character being more perfectly drawn, but
to there being a more intense conception of individ-
ual human life than perhaps any other human
composition. Here is a being with springs of
thought, and feeling, and action, deeper than we
can search. These springs rise from an unknown
depth, and in that depth there seems to be a one-
ness of being which we cannot distinctly behold,
but which we believe to be there ; and thus irrec-
oncilable circumstances, floating on the surface of
his actions, have not the effect of making us doubt
the truth of the general picture." *
This is all most admirable, most eloquent, most
true ! but the critic subsequently declares, that
" there is nothing in Ophelia which could inaka
her the object of an engrossing passion to so ma-
jestic a spirit as Hamlet."
Now, though it be with reluctance, and ever,
considerable mistrust of myself, that I differ from
* critic who can thus feel and write, I do not think
lo : I do think, with submission, that the love of
tlamlet for Ophelia is deep, is real, and is preeiselj
* Blackwood'i Magazine, TOJ u.
W2 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, KTU
the kind of love which such a man as Hamlet
would feel for such a woman as Ophelia.
When the heathen would represent their JovA
as clothed in all his Olympian terrors, they mounted
him on the back of an eagle, and armed him with
the lightnings ; but when in Holy Writ the Su-
preme Being is described as coming in his glory,
He is upborne on the wings of cherubim, and hia
emblem is the dove. Even so our blessed religion,
which has revealed deeper mysteries in the humar
soul than ever were dreamt of by philosophy till
she went hand-in-hand with faith, has taught us to
pay that worship to the symbols of purity and in-
nocence, which in darker times was paid to the
manifestations of power : and therefore do I think
that the mighty intellect, the capacious, soaring,
penetrating genius of Hamlet may be represented,
without detracting from its grandeur, as reposing
upon the tender virgin innocence of Ophelia, with
all that deep delight with which a superior nature
contemplates the goodness which is at once perfect
in itself, and of itself unconscious. That Hamlet
regards Ophelia with this kind of tenderness, that
he loves her with a love as intense as can belong to
I nature in which there is, (I think,) much more of
iiontemplation and sensibility than action or pas-
lion is the feeling and conviction with which
have always read the play of Hamlet.
As to whether the mind of Hamlet be, or be not,
touched with madness this is another point at
me among critics, philosophers, ay, and phyri-
OPHELIA. 20&
iians. To me it seems that he is not so far disor-
dered as to cease to be a responsible human being
that were too pitiable : but rather that his mind
is shaken from its equilibrium, and bewildered by
the horrors of his situation horrors which his finr
and subtle intellect, his strong imagination, and his
tendency tc melancholy, at once exaggerate, and
take from him the power either to endure, or " by
opposing, end them." We do not see him as a
lover, nor as Ophelia first beheld him ; for the days
when he importuned her with love were before the
opening of the drama before his father's spirit re-
visited the earth ; but we behold him at once in a
sea of troubles, of perplexities, of agonies, of ter-
rors. Without remorse, he endures all its horrors ;
without guilt, he endures all its shame. A loathing
of the crime he is called on to revenge, which re-
venge is again abhorrent to his nature, has set him
at strife with himself; the supernatural visitation
has perturbed his soul to its inmost depths; all
things else, all interests, all hopes, all affections,
appear as futile, when the majestic shadow comes
lamenting from its place of torment " to shake him
with thoughts beyond the reaches of his soul !" .
His love for Ophelia is then ranked by himself
among those trivial, fond records which he has
deeply sworn to erase from his heart and brain.
He has no thought to link his temole destiny witb
hers : he cannot marry her : he cannot reveal to
her, young, gentle, innocent as she is, the terrific
influences which have changed the whole current '
W4 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
of Iris life and purposes. In his distraction he over-
acts the painful part to which he had tasked him-
lelf ; he is like that judge of the Areopagus, who
being occupied, with graver matters, flung from
him the little bird which had sought refuge in his
bosom, and with such angry violence, that unwit-
tingly he killed it.
In the scene with Hamlet,* in which he madly
outrages her and upbraids himself, Ophelia sayi
very little : there are two short sentences in which
ihe replies to his wild, abrupt discourse :
HIM LET.
I did love you once.
OPHELIA.
Indeed, my lord, you made me believe o.
HAMLET.
you should not have believed me : for virtue cannot M
iiiocculate our old stock, but we shall relish of it. I loved
you not.
OPHELIA.
I was the more deceived.
Those who ever heard Mrs. Siddons read the play
of Hamlet, cannot forget the world of meaning, of
love, of sorrow, of despair, conveyed in these two
simple phrases. Here, and in the soliloquy after'
wards, where she says,
And I of ladies most deject and wretched,
That sucked the honey of his music vows,
we the only allusions to herself and her own f*o
Act UJ. Men* 1.
206
mgs in the course of the play; and these, uttered
almost without consciousness on her own part, con-
tain the revelation of a life of love, and disclose
the secret burthen of a heart bursting with its owr
tmuttered grief. She believes Hamlet crazed ; she
is repulsed, she is forsaken, she is outraged, where
she had bes'owed her young heart, with all its hopes
and wishes; her father is slain by the hand of her
lover, as it is supposed, in a paroxysm of insanity :
she is entangled inextricably in a web of horrors
which she cannot even comprehend, and the result
seems inevitable.
Of her subsequent madness, what can be said '(
What an affecting what an astonishing picture of
a mind utterly, hopelessly wrecked ! past hope
past cure ! There is the frenzy of excited passion
there is the madness caused by intense and con-
tinued thought there is the delirium of fevered
nerves; but Ophelia's madness is distinct from
these : it is not the suspension, but the utter destruc-
tion of the reasoning powers ; it is the total imbecil-
ity which, as medical people well know, frequently
follows some terrible shock to the spirits. Con-
stan je is frantic ; Lear is mad ; Ophelia is insane.
Her sweet mind lies in fragments before us a piti-
ful spectacle ! Her wild, rambling fancies ; her
aimless, broken speeches; her quick transitions
from gayety to sadness each equally purposeless
Bnd causeless ; her snatches of old ballads, such aa
perhaps her nurse sunc her to sleep with in her in-
Suicv are all so true to the life, that we forget tc
BOG CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
wonder, and can only weep. It belonged to Shak
ipeare alone so to temper such a picture that w
ean endure to dwell upon it :
Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favor and to prettiness.
That in her madness she should exchange her
bashful silence for empty babbling, her sweet
maidenly demeanor for the impatient restlessness
that spurns at straws, and say and sing precisely
what she never would or couM have uttered had
she been in possession of her reason, is so far from
being an impropriety, that it is an additional stroke
of nature. It is one of the symptoms of this species
of insanity, as we are assured by physicians. I
have myself known one instance in the case of a
young Quaker girl, whose character resembled that
of Ophelia, and whose malady arose from a similar
cause.
The whole action of this play sweeps past va
like a torrent, which hurries along in its dark and
resistless course all the personages of the drama
towards a catastrophe that is not brought about bv
human will, but seems like an abyss ready dug to
receive them, where the good and the wicked are
whelmed together.* As the character of Hamlet
nag been compared, or rather contrasted, with the
Greek Orestes, being like him, called on to avenge
a crime by a crime, tormented by remorseful doubts,
and pursued by distraction, so, to me, the character
* Ooethe. See the analysis of Hamlet in WUhelm Mefctor
MIRAXDA. 2Ul
of Ophelia bears a certain relation to that of the
Greek Iphigenia,* with the same strong distinction
between the classical and the romantic conception
of the portrait. Iphigenia led forth to sacrifice,
with her unresisting tenderness, her mournful
sweetness, her virgin innocence, is doomed to perish
by that relentless power, which has linked her
destiny with crimes and contests, in which she has
no part but as a sufferer; and even so, poor
Ophelia, " divided from herself and her fair judg-
ment," appears here like a spotless victim offered
up to the mysterious and inexorable fates.
" For it is the property of crime to extend ito
mischiefs over innocence, as it is of virtue to ex-
tend its blessings over many that deserve them
not, while frequently the author of one or the other
is not, as far as we can see, either punished 01
rewarded. "f But there's a heaven above us !
MIRANDA.
We might have deemed it impossible to go beyond
Viola, Perdita, and Ophelia, as pictures of feminize
Deauty ; to exceed the one in tender delicacy, th
pther in ideal gra^e, and the last in simplicity,
S Shakspeare had not done this; and he alon
* The IpUgenia in Aulia of Euripides. t Qooth*
808 CHABACrERS OF PASSIOtf. TC.
could have done it Had he never created a
Miranda, we should never have been made to feel
how completely the purely natural and the purely
ideal can blend into each other.
The character of Miranda resolves itself into
the very elements of womanhood. She is beauti-
ful, modest, and tender, and she is these only ; they
comprise, her whole being, external and internal.
She is so perfectly unsophisticated, so delicately
refined, that she is all but ethereal. Let us imagino
any other woman placed beside Miranda even
one of Shakspeare's own loveliest and sweetest
creations there is not one of them that could sus-
tain the comparison for a moment; not one that
would not appear somewhat coarse or artificial when
brought into immediate contact with this pure child
of nature, this " Eve of an enchanted Paradise."
What, then, has Shakspeare done ? " O wondrous
skill and sweet wit of the man ! " he has removed
Miranda far from all comparison with her own sex ;
he has placed her between the demi-demon of
earth and the delicate spirit of air. The next step
is into the ideal and supernatural ; and the only
being who approaches Miranda, with whom she can
be contrasted, is Ariel. Beside the subtle essence
of this ethereal sprite, this creature of elemental
light and air, that " rau upon the winds, nxk the
curl'd clouds, and in the colors of the rainbow
lived," Miranda herself appears a palpable reality
ft woman, " breathing thoughtful breath," a woman
walking the earth in her mortal loveliness, with a
MIRANDA. 201
heart as frail-strung, as passion-toucLud, as eve*
fluttered in a female bosom.
I have said that Miranda possesses merely the
elementary attributes of womanhood, but each of
these stand in her with a distinct and peculiar
grace. She resembles nothing upon earth :, but do
we therefore compare her, in our own minds, with
any of those fabled beings with which the fancy
of ancient poets peopled the forest depths, the
fountain or the ocean ? oread or dryad fleet, sea-
maid, or naiad of the stream ? We cannot think
of them together. Miranda is a consistent, natural,
human being. Our impression of her nymph-like
beauty, her peerless grace, and purity of soul, has
a distinct and individual character. Not only is
she exquisitely lovely, being what she is, but we are
made to feel that she could not possibly be other-
wise than as she is portrayed. She has never be-
held one of her own sex ; she has never caught
from society one imitated or artificial grace. The
impulses which have come to her, in her enchanted
eolitude, are of heaven and nature, not of the
world and its vanities. She has sprung up into
beauty beneath the eye of her father, the princely
magician ; her companions have been the rock
and woods, the many-shaped, many-tinted clouds,
and the silent stars ; her playmates the ocean bil-
lows, that stooped their foamy crests, and ran rip-
pling *o kiss her feet. Ariel and his attendant
sprites hovered over her head, ministered duteoui
to her every wish and presorted before hr
14
flO CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
pageants of beauty and grandeur. The very ai;
made vocal by her fathers art, floated in music
around her. If we can presuppose such a situation
with all its circumstances, do we not behold in the
character of Miranda not only the credible, but
the natural, the necessary results of such a situa-
tion ? She retains her woman's heart, for that it
unalterable and inalienable, as a part of her being ;
but her deportment, her looks, her language, her
thoughts all these, from the supernatural and
poetical circumstances around her, assume a cast
of the pure ideal ; and to us, who are in the secret
of her human and pitying nature, nothing ca^i be
more charming and consistent than the effect which
>he produces upon others, who never having bo
held any thing resembling her, approach her as " a
wonder," as something celestial :
Be sure ! the goddess c.n whom these airs attend !
And again :
What is this maid?
Is she the goddess who hath severed us,
And brought us thus together ?
And Ferdinand exclaims, while gazing on her,-
My spirits as in a dream are all bound up I
My father's loss, the weakness that I feel,
The wreck of all my friends, or this man's threat*,
To whom I am subdued, are but light to me
Might I but through my prison once a day
Behold this maid: all corners else o' the earth
Let liberty make use of, space enough
Have I in such a prison.
MIRANDA. 21'.
Contrasted with the impression of her refined
nd dignified beauty, and its effect on all beholders,
is Miranda's own soft simplicity, her virgin uino-
aence, her total ignorance of the conventional
forms and language of society. It is most natural
that in a being thus constituted, the first tears should
ipring from compassion, " suffering with those that
ihe saw suffer : "
the cry did knock
Against my very heart. Poor souls 1 they perished.
Had I been any god of power, I would
Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er
It should the good ship so have swallowed,
And the freighting souls within her;
and that her first sigh should be offered to a love
at once fearless and submissive, delicate and fond.
She has no taught scruples of honor like Juliet ;
no coy concealments like Viola ; no assumed dig-
nity standing in its own defence. Her bashfulnesa
is less a quality than an instinct ; it is like the self-
folding of a flower, spontaneous and unconscious.
I suppose there is nothing of the kind in poetry
equal to the scene between Ferdinand and Mir-
anda. In Ferdinand, who is a noble creature, we
have all the chivalrous magnanimity with which
man, in a high state of civilization, disguises his
veal superiority, and does humblo homage to the
being of whose destiny he dispose? ; while Miranda,
the mere child of nature, is struck with wonder at
Ver own now emotions Only conscious of her
! 1 2 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
own weakness as a woman, and ignorant of ihoM
usages of society which teach us to dissemble the
real passion, and assume (and sometimes abuse) an
unreal and transient power, she is equally ready
to place her life, her love, her service beneath hit
feet
MIRANDA.
Alas, now ! pray you,
Work not so hard: I would the lightning had
Burnt up those logs, that you are enjoined to pQe!
Pray set it down and rest you : when this burns,
'Twill weep for having weary'd you. My father
Is hard at study ; pray now, rest yourself:
He's safe for these three hours.
FERDINAND.
most dear mistress,
The sun will set before I shall discharge
What I must strive to do.
If you'll sit down,
I'll bear your logs the while. Pray give me thai,
I'll carry it to the pile.
FERDINAND.
No, precious creature;
I had rather crack my sinews, break my back,
Than you should such dishonor undergo,
While I sit lazy by.
MIRANDA.
It would become me
Aa well as it does you; and I should do it
MIRANDA. 211
With much more ease; for my good will is to it,
And rours against.
*****
MIRANDA.
You look wearily.
FERDINAND.
No, noble mistress ; 'tis fresh morning with me
When you are by at night. I do beseech you,
(Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers,)
What i your name?
MIRANDA.
Miranda. my father
I have broke your 'hest to say so 1
FERDINAND.
Adinir'd Miranda!
Indeed the top of admiration ; worth
What's dearest to the world ! Full many a lady
I have eyed 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 ; nevei *.ny
With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed
And put it tf the foil. But you, you,
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature's best
MIRANDA.
I do not know
One of my sex : no woman's face remember,
Save, from my glass, mine own ; nor have I seen
More that I may call men, than you, good friend,
And my dear father How features are abroad
114
CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
I am skill-less of: but, by my modesty,
(Tho jewel in my dower,) I would not wish
Any companion in the world 'but you ;
Nor can imagination form a shape,
Besides yourself, to like of But I prattle
Something too wildly, and my father's precept*
Therein forget.
FERDINAND.
I am, in my condition
A prince, Miranda I do think a king
(I would, not so!) and would no more endure
This wooden slavery, than I would suffer
The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak
The very Instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service ; there resides,
To make me slave to it ; and for your sake,
Am I this patient log-man.
MIRANDA.
Do you love mf ?
FERDINAND.
heaven ! earth ! bear witness to this sound
And crown what I profess' with kind event,
If I speak true : if hollowly, invert
What best is boded me, to mischief 1 I,
Beyond all limit of what else i' the world,
Do love, prize, honor you.
MIRANDA.
I am a fool,
Tc weep at what I am glad of.
FERDINAND.
Wherefore weep JM
MIRANDA. 21ft
MIRANDA.
At mine 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 i
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence 1
I am your wife, if you will marry mri ;
If not I'll die your maid: to be your fellow
You may deny me ; but I'll be your servant
Whether ycu will or 110 !
FERDINAND.
My mistress, dearest 1
And I thus humble ever.
MIRANDA.
My husband, then ?
FERDINAND.
Ay, with a heart as willing,
As bondage e'er of freedom. Here's my hand.
MIRANDA.
And mine with my heart hi it. And now farewell
Till half an hour hence.
As Miranda, being what she is, could only have
bad a Ferdinand for a lover, and an Ariel for her
attendant, so she could have bad with propriety na
other father than the majestic and gifted being,
who fondly claims her as " a thread of his own
life nay, that for which he lives." Prospero, with
iis magical powers, DJS superhuman wisdom, hu
nor a! worth and grandeur, and nis kingly dignity
816 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
JB one of the most aublime visions that ever swept
with ample robes, pale brow, and sceptred hand,
before the eye of fancy. He controls the invisible
world, and works through the agency of spirits
not by any evil and forbidden compact, but solely
by superior might of intellect by potent spells
gathered from the lore of ages, and abjured when
he mingles again as a man with his fellow men.
He is as distinct a being from the necromancers
and astrologers celebrated in Shakspeare's age, as
can well be imagined:* and all the wizards of
poetry and fiction, even Faust and S*. Leon, sink
into commonplaces before the princely, the philo-
sophic, the benevolent Prospero.
The Bermuda Isles, in which Shakspeare has
placed the scene of the Tempest, were discovered
in his time : Sir George Somers and his companions
having been wrecked there in a terrible storing
brought back a most fearful account of those un-
known islands, which they described as " a land of
devils a most prodigious and enchanted place,
subject to continual tempests and supernatural
visitings." Such was the idea entertained of the
" still-vext Bermoothes " in Shakspeare's age ; but
later travellers describe them as perfect regions of
encLantment in a far different sense ; as BO many
Such as Cornelius Agrippa, Michael Scott, Dr. De. The la*
mw the contemporary of Shakspeare.
t In 1009, about three years before Shakspeare produced UM
Psmpwt, which, though placed first in all the edition* of hit
M one of the last of his dramas
MIRAKDA. 211
'airy Edeiis, clustered like a knot of gems upon
the bosom of the Atlantic, decked out in all the
lavish luxuriance of nature, with shades of myrtle
and cedar, fringed round with groves of coral
in short, each island a tiny paradise, rich with
perpetual blossoms, in which Ariel might have
slumbered, and ever-verdant bowers, in which
Ferdinand and Miranda might have strayed: so
that Shakspeare, in blending the wild relations of
the shipwrecked mariners with his own inspired
fancies, has produced nothing, however lovely in
nature and sublime in magical power, which does
not harmonize with the beautiful and wondrous
reality.
There is another circumstance connected with
the Tempest, which is rather interesting. It was
produced and acted for the first time upon tho
occasion of the nuptials of the Princess Elizabeth,
the eldest daughter of James I. with Frederic, the
elector palatine. It is hardly necessary to remind
the reader of the fate of this amiable but most un-
happy woman, whose life, almost from the period
of her marriage, was one long tempestuous scene
of trouble and adversity.
*****
The characters which I have here classed
together, as principally distinguished by the pre-
dominance of passion and fancy, appear to me to
ise, in the scale of ideality and simplicity, from
Juliet to Miranda ; the last being in comparison so
>sfined, so elevated above all stain of earth, that
118 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC.
ive can only acknowledge her in connection with it
through the emotions of sympathy she feels and
inspires.
I remember, when I was in Italy, standing " at
evening on the top of Fiesole," and at my feet I
beheld the city of Florence and the Val d'Arno,
with its villas, its luxuriant gardens, groves, and
olive grounds, all bathed in crimson light. A trans-
parent vapor or exhalation, which in its tint was
almost as rich as the pomegranate flower, moving
with soft undulation, rolled through the valley, and
the very earth seemed to pant with warm life
beneath its rosy veil. A dark purple shade, the
forerunner of night, was already stealing over the
east ; in the western sky still lingered the blaze of
the sunset, while the faint perfume of trees, and
flowers, and now and then a strain of music wafted
upwards, completed the intoxication of the senses.
But I looked from the earth to the sky, and im-
mediately above this scene hung the soft crescent
moon alone, with all the bright heaven to herself'
and as that sweet moon to the glowing landscape
beneath it, such is the character of Miranda com-
pared to that of Juliet
DHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS
HERMIONE
CHARACTERS in which the affections and the
moral qualities predominate over fancy and all that
Dears the name of passion, are not, when we meet
with them in real life, the most striking and inter-
esting, nor the easiest to be understood and appre-
ciated ; but they are those on which, in the long
run, we repose with increasing confidence and ever-
new delight. Such characters are not easily ex-
hibited in the colors of poetry, and when we meet
with them there, we are reminded of the effect of
Raffaelle's pictures. Sir Joshua Reynolds assures
us, that it took him three weeks to discover the
beauty of the frescos in the Vatican ; and many, if
they spoke the truth, would prefer one of Titian'a
or Murillo's Virgins to one of Raffaelle's heavenly
Madonnas. The less there is of marked expression
or vivid color in a countenance or character, the
more difficult to delineate it in such a manner as to
captivate and interest us : but when this is done,
and done to perfection, it is the miracle of poetry
in painting, and of painting in poetry. Only Raf-
faelle and Correggio have achieved it in one case,
ind only Shakspeare in the otner
!20 CHARACTERS OP THE AFFECTIONS.
When, by the presence or the agency of som*
predominant and exciting power, the feelings and
affections arc upturned from the depths of the
heart, and flung to the surface, the painter or the
poet has but to watch the workings of the passions,
thus in a manner made visible, and transfer them
to his page or his canvas, in colors more or leM
vigorous : but where all is calm without and around,
to dive into the profoundest abysses of character,
trace the affections where they lie hidden like th
ocean springs, wind into the most intricate involu-
tions of the heart, patiently unravel its most del
icate fibres, and in a few graceful touches place be
fore us the distinct and visible result, to do this
demanded power of another and a rarer kind.
There are several of Shakspeare's character*
which are especially distinguished by this profound
feeling in the conception, and subdued harmony of
tone in the delineation. To them may be particu-
larly applied the ingenious simile which Goethe baa
used to illustrate generally all Shakspeare's char-
acters, when he compares them to the old-fashioned
watches in glass cases, which not only showed the
index pointing to the hour, but the wheels and
springs within, which set that index in motion.
Imogen, Desdemona, and Hermione, are three
women placed in situations nearly similar, and
equally endowed with all the qualities which can
render that situation striking and interesting. They
are all gentle, beautiful, and innocent; all art
models of conjugal submission, truth, and tender-
HEEMIONE. 221
ness , and all are victims of the unfounded jealousy
of their husbands. So far the parallel is close, but
here the resemblance ceases ; the circumstances of
each situation are varied with wonderful skill, and
the characters, which are as different as it is pos-
lible to imagine, conceived and discriminated with
a power of truth and a delicacy of feeling yet more
astonishing.
Critically speaking, the character of Herruione is
the most simple in point of dramatic effect, that of
Imogen is the most varied and complex. Hermione
is most distinguished by her magnanimity and her
fortitude, Desdemona by her gentleness and refined
grace, while Imogen combines all the best qualities
of both, with others which they do not possess ;
consequently she is, as a character, superior to
either ; but considered as women, I suppose the
preference would depend on individual taste.
Hermione is the heroine of the first three acts of
the Winter's Tale. She is the wife of Leontes,
king of Sicilia, and though in the prime of beauty
and womanhood, is not represented in the first
bloom of youth. Her husband on slight grounds
inspects her of infidelity with his friend Polixenes,
king ol Bohemia ; the suspicion once admitted, and
working on a jealous, passionate, and vindictive
mind, becomes a settled and confirmed opinion.
Hennionc is thrown into a dungeon ; her new-born
enfant is taken from her, and by the order of her
tosband, frantic with jealousy, exposed to death on
- 'ert shore ; she is herself brought to a public
!22 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECT tOK.
trial for treason and incontinency, defends herself
nobly, and is pronounced innocent by the oracle
But at the very moment that she is acquitted, sh
learns the death of the prince her son, who
Conceiving the dishonor of his mother,
Had straight declined, drooped, took it deeply,
Fastened and fixed the shame on't in himself,
Threw off his spirit, appetite, and sleep,
And downright languished.
She swoons away with grief, and her supposed
Ae-ath concludes the third act The last two acta
are occupied with the adventures of her daughter
Perdita ; and with the restoration of Perdita to the
arms of her mother, and the reconciliation of Her-
mione and Leontes, the piece concludes.
Such, in few words, is the dramatic situation.
The character of Hermione exhibits what is never
found in the other sex, but rarely in our own yet
sometimes; dignity without pride, love without
passion, and tenderness without weakness. To
conceive a character in which there enters so much
of the negative, required perhaps no rare and
astonishing effort of genius, such as creaf id a Ju-
liet, a Miranda, or a Lady Macbeth ; but to de-
lineate such a character in the poetical form, to
develop it through the medium of action and dia-
logue, without the aid of description : to preserve
its tranquil, mild, and serious beauty, its unimpas-
rioued dignity, and at the same time keep tin
Itrongest hold upon our sympathy and our imag
HERMIONE. 223
ination ; and out of this exterior calm, produce the
most profound pathos, the most vivid impression of
life and internal power : it is this which renders
the character of Hermione one of Shakspeare's
masterpieces.
Hermione is a queen, a matron, and a mother '
she is good and beautiful, and royally descended.
A majestic sweetness, a grand and gracious simplic-
ity, an easy, unforced, yet dignified self-possession,
are in all her deportment, and in every word she
utters. She is one of those characters, of whom it
has been said proverbially, that " still waters run
deep." Her passions are not vehement, but in her
settled mind the sources of pain or pleasure, love or
resentment, are like the springs that feed the moun-
tain lakes, impenetrable, unfathomable, and inex-
haustible.
Shakspeare has conveyed (as is his custom) a
part of the character of Hermione in scattered
touches and through the impressions which she
produces on all around her. Her surpassing beauty
6 alluded to in few but strong terms :
This jealousy
Is for a precious creature ; as she is rare
Mast it be great.
Praise her but for this her out-door term,
'Which, on my faith, deserves high speech :
If one by one you wedded all the world,
Or from the all that are, took something goo4
To make a perfect woman; she yon killed
Would be unparillei3d.
524 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
I might haie looked upon my queen's foil eyes,
Have taken treasure from her lips
and left them
More rich for what they yielded.
The expressions " most sacred lady," " dread
mistress," " wovereign," with which she is addressed
or alluded to, the boundless devotion and respect
of those around her, and their confidence in her
goodness and innocence, are so many additional
trokes in the portrait
For her, my lord,
I dare my life lay down, and will do't, sir,
Please you t' accept it, that the quean is spotleai
I' the eyes of heaven, and to you.
Every inch of woman in the world,
Ay, every dram of woman's flesh is false,
If she be so.
I would not be a stander-by to hear
My sovereign mistress clouded so, without
My present vengeance taken I
The mixture of playful courtesy, queenly dignity
tnd lady-like sweetness, with which she prevails OB
Polixenes to prolong his visit, is charming.
HERMIONK.
You'll stay!
POLIXKNES.
No, madam.
HERMIOMK.
Nay, but yon wilt
BKRMIONE, 22
POLIXENEB.
may not, verily.
HERMIONE.
Verily!
fou put me off with limber vows; but I,
Tho' you would seek t' unsphere the stars with oathi
Should still say, " Sir, no going! " Verily,
You shall not go ! A lady's verily is
As potent as a lord's. Will you go yet?
Force me to keep you as a prisoner,
Not like a guest V
And though the situation of Hermione admits but
of few general reflections, one little speech, inimi-
tably beautiful and characteristic, has become almost
proverbial from its truth. She says :
One good deed, dying tongueless,
Slaughters a thousand, waiting upon that.
Our praises are our wajres; you may ride us
With cne soft kiss a thousand furlongs, ere
With spur we heat an acre.
She receives the first intimation of her husband's
jealous suspicions with incredulous astonishment.
It is not that, like Desdemona, she does not or can-
not understand ; but she will not. When he ac-
cuses her more plainly, she replies with a calm
iigmiy :
Should a villain say so-
The most replenished villnin in the world
He were as much more villain : you, my lord.
D but mistake.
1ft
226 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
This characteristic composure of temper ncvei
forsakes her ; and yet it is so delineated that the
impression is that of grandeur, and never bordert
upon pride or coldness : it is the fortitude of a
gentle bu' a strong mind, conscious of its own in-
nocence. Nothing can be more affecting than her
calm reply to Leontes, who, in his jealous rage,
heaps insult upon insult, and accuses her before her
jwn attendants, as no better " than one of those to
whom the vulgar give bold titles."
How will this grieve you,
When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that
You have thus published me ! Gentle my lord,
You scarce can right me thoroughly then, to say
You did mistake.
Her mild dignity and saint-like patience, com-
bined as they are with the strongest sense of the
cruel injustice of her husband, thrill us with admi-
ration as well as pity ; and we cannot but see and
feel, that for Hermione to give way to tears and
feminine complaints under such a blow, would be
quite incompatible with the character. Thus SIM
lays of herself, as she is led to prison :
There's some ill planet reigns:
I must be patient till the heavens look
With an aspect more favorable. Good my lord*,
I am not prone to weeping, as our sex
Commonly are ; the want of which vain dew
Perchauce shall dry your pities ; but I have
That honorable grief lodged here, that burn*
IIKRMIONI!. 227
Worse than tears drown. Beseech you all, my lordq
With thought so qualified as your charities
Shall best instru:t you, measure me : and so
The king's will be performed.
When she is brought to trial for supposed crimes,
tailed on to defend herself, " standing to prate and
talk for life and honor, before who please to come
and hear," the sense of her ignominious situation
all its shame and all its horror press upon her, and
would apparently crush even her magnanimous
ipirit, but for the consciousness of her own worth
and innocence, and the necessity that exists for a*
erting and defending both.
If powers divine
Behold our human actions, (as they do,
I doubt not, then, but innocence shall make
False accusation blush, and tyranny
Tremble at patience.
*****
For life, I prize it
As I weigh grief, which I would spare. For honor
'Tis a derivative from me to mine,
And only that I stand for.
Her earnest, eloquent justification of herself, and
her lofty sense of female honor, are rendered more
affecting and impressive by that chilling despair
that contempt for a life which has been made bitter
to her through unkindness, which is betrayed in
*very word of her speech, though so calmly char-
acteristic. When she enumerates the unmerited in-
tuits which have been heaped upon her, it is with
828 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
wit asperity or reproach, yet in a tone which showi
now completely the iron has entered hor sool
Thus, when Leontes threatens her with death :
Sir, spare year threats ;
The bug which you would fright me with, I seek.
To ine can life be no commodity;
The crown and comfort of my life, your favor,
I do give lost ; for I do feel it gone,
But know not how it went. My second joy,
The first-fruits of my body, from his presence
I am barr'd, like one infectious. My third comfort
Starr' d most unluckily! is from my breast,
The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth,
Hilled out to murder. Myself on every post
Proclaimed a strumpet; with immodest hatred.
The childbed privilege denied, which 'longs
To women of all fashion. Lastly, hurried
Here to this place, i' the open air, before
I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege,
Tell me what blessings I have here alive,
That I should fear to die. Therefore, proceed,
But yet hear this; mistake me not. No! life,
I prize it not a straw: but for mine honor.
( Which I would free,) if I shall be condemned
Vpon surmises; all proof sleeping else,
But what your jealousies awake; I tell you,
'Tis rigor and not law.
The character of Hcrmione is considered open
to criticism on one point I have heard it remark
d tuat when she secludes herself from the worlo
for stxteen years, during which time she is mourned
u de.id by her repentant husband, and is not woo
to relent fVom her resolve by his sorrow, his re-
DERMIONE. 221
toorse, his constancy to her memory ; such conduct^
wgues the critic, is unfeeling as it is inconceivable
in a tender and virtuous woman. Would Imogen
have done so, who is so generously ready to grant
a pardon before it be asked ? or Desdemona, who
does not forgive because she cannot even resent ?
No, assuredly ; but this is only another proof of
the wonderful delicacy and consistency with which
Shakspeare has discriminated the characters of all
three. The incident of Hermione's supposed death
and concealment for sixteen years, is not indeed
very probable in itself, nor very likely to occur in
every-day life. But besides all the probability nec-
essary for the. purposes of poetry, it has all the
likelihood it can derive from the peculiar character
of Hermione, who is precisely the woman who
could and would have acted in this manner. In
such a mind as hers, the sense of a cruel injury, in-
flicted by one she had loved and trusted, without
awakening any violent angei or any desire of ven-
geance, would sink deep almost incurably and
lastingly deep. So far she is most unlike eithei
Imogen or Desdemona, who are portrayed as much
more flexible in temper ; but then the circumstance*
under which she is wronged are very different, and
far more unpardonable. The self-created, frantic
jealousy of Leontes is very distinct from that of
Othello, writhing under the arts of lago : or that of
Posthumus, whose understanding has been cheated
by the most damning evidence of his wife's infidel-
*r The jealousy which in Othello and Posthumui
J80 HARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
IB an error of judgment, in Leontes is a vice of tM
Mood ; lie suspects without cause, condemns without
proof; he is without excuse unless the mixture ol
pride, passion, and imagination, and the predispo-
rition to jealousy with which Shakspeare has pop-
trayed him, be considered as an excuse. Hermione
has been openly insulted : he to whom she gav
herself, her heart, her soul, has stooped to the weak-
ness and baseness of suspicion ; has doubted her
truth, has wronged her love, has sunk in her esteem,
and forfeited her confidence. She has been branded
with vile names; her son, her eldest hope, is dead
dead through the false accusation which has stuck
infamy on his mother's name ; and her innocent
babe, stained with illegitimacy, disowned and re-
jected, has been exposed to a cruel death. Can
we believe that the mere tardy acknowledgment of
her innocence could make amends for wrongs and
agonies such as these ? or heal a heart which must
have bled inwardly, consumed by that untold grief,
" which burns worse than tears drown ? " Keeping
in view the peculiar character of Hermione, such
as she is delineated, is she one either to forgive
hastily or forget quickly? and though sle might, in
her solitude, mourn over her repentant husband,
would his repentance suffice to restore him at onc
to his place in her heart : to efface from her strong
and reflecting mind the recollection of his miserable
weakness ? or can we fancy this high-souled woma
> left childless through the injury which has bee
indicted OK her, widowed in heart by the unwortb
IIKHMIOXE. 231
jness of him sae loved, a spectacle of gnef to all
to her husband a continual reproach and humilia-
tion walking through the parade of royalty in the
court which had witnessed her anguish, her shame,
her degradation, and her despair ? Methinks that
the want of feeling, nature, delicacy, and consist-
ency, would lie in such an exhibition as this. In
a mind like Hermione's, where the strength of feel-
ing is founded in the power of thought, and where
there is little of impulse or imagination, " the
depth, but not the tumult of the soul," * there are
but two influences which predominate over the
will, time and religion. And what then remained,
but that, wounded in heart and spirit, she should
retire from the world ? not to brood over her
wrongs, but to study forgiveness, and wait the ful-
filment of the oracle which had promised the ter-
mination of her sorrows. Thus a premature rec-
onciliation would not only have been painfullj
inconsistent with the character ; it would also have
deprived us of that most beautiful scene, in which
Hermione is discovered to her husband as the statue
w image of herself. And here we have another
Uistance of that admirable art, with which the
-The gods approve
The depth, and not the tumult of the soul.
WORDSWORTH.
' H poevait y avoir des vagues majestueuses et non de 1'oragt
an son cceur," was finely observed o" Madame de Stael In bar
naturer years ; it woulc' have beea *riie of Hermione at any
ri~l of her life.
232 CHARACTERS OF TH* JFFECTIONb.
dramatic character is fitted to the circumstances in
which it is placed : that perfect command ove nef
own feelings, that complete self-possession nece*-
laiy to this extraordinary situation, la consistent
with all that we imagine of Hermione: in any
other woman it would be so incredible as to shock
all our ideas of probability.
This scene, then, is not only one of the most
picturesque and striking instances of stage effect to
be found in the ancient or modern drama, but by
the skilful manner in which it is prepared, it has,
wonderful as it appears, all the merit of consistency
and truth. The grief, the love, the remorse and
impatience of Leontes, are finely contrasted with
the astonishment and admiration of Perdita, who,
gazing on the figure of her mother like one en-
tranced, looks as if she were also turned to marble.
There is here one little instance of tender remem-
brance in Leontes, which adds to the charming
impression of Hermione's character.
Chide me, dear stone ! that I may say indeed
Thou art Hermione; or rather thou art she
In thy not chiding, for she was as tender
As infancy and grace.
Thus she stood,
Even with such life of majesty warm life
As now it coldly stands when first I woo'd her I
Fhb effect produced on the different persons of th
Irama by this living statue an effect which at tb
HERMIOXK. 23.
lame moment Is, and' is not illusion the manne?
m which the feelings of the spectators become
entangled between the conviction of death and the
impression of life, the idea of a deception and the
feeling of a reality ; and the exquisite coloring of
poetry -and touches of natural feeling with which
the whole is wrought up, till wonder, expectation,
and intense pleasure, hold our pulse and breath
luspended on the event, are quite inimitable.
The expressions used here by Leontes,
Thus she stood,
Even with such life of majesty warm Ufe.
The fixture of her eye has motion in't.
And we are mock'd by art!
And oy Polixines,
The very life seems warm upon her lip,
Appear strangely applied to a statue, such as w
usually imagine it of the cold colorless marble;
but it is evident that in this scene Hermione per-
sonates one of those images or effigies, such as we
may see in the old gothic cathedrals, in which the
tone, or marble, was colored after nature. I
remember coriing suddenly upon one of these
effigies, either at Basle or at Fribourg, which made
me start : the figure was large as life ; the drapery
of crimson, powdered with stars of gold ; the face
and eyes, and hair, tinted af:er nature, though
<aded by time : it stood In a gothic niche, over a
tomb, as I think, and in a kind of dim uncertain
tljht It would have been very easy for a living
S94 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
person to represent such an effigy, particularly if
it had been painted by that " rare Italian master
Julio Romano,"* who, as we are informed, wai
the reputed author of this wonderful statue.
The moment when Hermione descends from hei
pedestal, to the sound of soft music, and throwi
herself without speaking into her husband's arms,
is one of inexpressible interest. It appears to me
that her silence during the whole of this scene
(except where she invokes a blessing on her
daughter's head) is in the finest taste as a poetical
beauty, besides being an admirable trait of char-
acter. The misfortunes of Hermione, her long
religious seclusion, the wonderful and almost super-
natural part she has just enacted, have invested
her with such a sacred and awful charm, that any
words put into her mouth, must, I think, have
injured the solemn and profound pathos of the
situation.
There are several among Shakspeare's char-
acters which exercise a far stronger power over
our feelings, our fancy, our understanding, than
that of Hermione ; but not one, unless perhapa
Cordelia, constructed upon so high and pure
* principle. It is the union of gentleness with
power which constitutes the perfection of mental
grace. Thus among the ancients, with whom the
graces were also the charities, (to show, perhapa,
that while form alone may constitute beauty, send*
toent is necessary to grace,) one and the
Winter'* TaJo, act v seen* 11
HF.RMIONE. 2S3
word signified equally strength and virtue. Thil
feeling, earned into the fine arts, was the secret of
ihe antique grace the grace of repose. The
game eternal nature the same sense of immutable
truth and beauty, which revealed this sublime
principle of art to the ancient Greeks, revealed it
to the genius of Shakspeare ; and the character
of Hermione, in which we have the same largeness
of conception and delicacy of execution, the same
effect of suffering without passion, and grandeur
without effort, is an instance, I think, that he felt
within himself, and by intuition, what we study all
our lives in the remains of ancient art. The calm,
regular, classical beauty of Hermione's character
is the more impressive from the wild and gothic
accompaniments of her story, and the beautiful
relief afforded by the pastoral and romantic grace
which is thrown around her daughter Perdita.
The character of Paulina, in the Winter's Tale,
though it has obtained but little notice, and no
critical remark, (that I have seen,) is yet one of
the striking beauties of the play : and it has its
moral too. As we see running through the whole
universe that principle of contrast which may be
called the life of nature, so we behold it every
where illustrated in Shakspeare: upon this prin-
ciple he has placed Emilia beside Desdemona, the
nurse beside Juliet; the clowns and dairy-maids,
and the merry peddler thief Autolycus round Flori-
eel and Perdita' and made Paulina the friend of
Bermione.
86 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
Paulina does not fill any ostensible office ne*i
flie person of the queen, but is a lady of high rank
in the court the wife of the Lord Antigones. She
is a character strongly drawn from real and com-
mon life a clever, generous, strong-minded, warm-
hearted woman, fearless in asserting the truth, firm
in her sense of right, enthusiastic in all her affec-
tions ; quick in thought, resolute in word, and ener-
getic in action ; but heedless, hot-tempered, impa-
tient, loud, bold, voluble, and turbulent of tongue ;
regardless of the feelings of those for whom she would
sacrifice her life, and injuring from excess of zeal
those whom she most wishes to serve. How many
Buch are there in the world ! But Paulina, though
a very termagant, is yet a poetical termagant in
her way ; and the manner in which all the evil
and dangerous tendencies of such a temper are
placed before us, even while the individual char-
acter preserves the strongest hold upon our respect
and admiration, forms an impressive lesson, as well
as a natural and delightful portrait.
In the scene, for instance, where she brings the
infant before Leontes, with the hope of softening
him to a sense of his injustice " an office which,"
as she observes, " becomes a woman best " her
want of self-government, her bitter, inconsiderate
reproaches, only add, as we might easily suppose
to his fury.
PAULINA.
I say I coma
From your good qaeeu I
HERMIONE. 23?
LEGNTKS.
Good queen !
PAULINA.
Good queen, my lord, good queen : I say good quean;
And would by combat make her good, so were I
A man, the worst about you.
LEONTES
Force her hence.
PAULINA.
Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes,
First hand me: on mine own accord I'll off;
But first I'll do mine errand. The good queen
(For she is good) hath brought you forth a daughter--
Here 'tis; commends it to your blessing.
LEONTES.
Traitors !
Will you not push her out ! Give her the bastard.
PAULINA.
Forever
Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou
Tak'st up the princess by that forced baseness
Which he has put upon't!
He dreads his wife.
PAULtNA.
So, I would you did ; then 'twere past all doubt
You'd call your children your's
LEONTS3
A callat,
Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her hnoband
And now bai's nw ! this bra. is none of mine.
138 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
PAULINA.
It is yours,
And might we lay the old proverb to your charge,
So like you, 'tis the worse.
******
LEONTES.
A gross hag!
And lozel, thou art worthy to be hang'd,
That wilt not stay her tongue.
ANTIOONES.
Hang all the husbands
That cannot do that feat, you'll leave yourself
Hardly one subject.
LEONTES.
Once more, take her hence.
PAULINA.
A most unworthy and unnatural lord
Can do no more.
LEONTES.
I'll have thee burn'd.
PAULINA.
I care not:
It is an heretic that makes the fire,
Not she which burns in't.
Here, while we honor her courage and hei
affection, we cannot help regretting her violence.
We see, too, in Paulina, what we so often see is
real life, that it is not those who are most suscepti-
We in their own temper and feelings, who are most
delicate and forbearing towards the feelings of
others. She does not comprehend, or will noi
allow for the sensitive weakness of a mind leaf
HERMIONE. 239
firmly tempered than her own. There is a reply
of Leontes to one of her cutting speeches, which
a full of feeling, and a lesson to those, who, with
the best intentions in the world, force the painful
truth, like a knife, into the already lacerated heart
PAULINA.
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 unparallel'd.
LEONTES.
I think so. Kill'd!
She I kill'd'? I did so: but thou 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.
OLEOMENES.
Not at all, good lady:
You might have spoken a thousand things that would
Have done the time more benefit, and grac'd
Your kindness better.
We can only excuse Paulina by recollecting that
it is a part of her purpose to keep alive in th
heart of Leontes the remembrance of his queen's
perfections, and of his own cruel injustice. It is
admirable, too, that Hermione and Paulina, while
sufficiently approximated to afford all the pleasure
of contrast, are never brought too nearly in contact
on the scene or in the dialogue ;* for this would
* Only in the last scene when, with solemnity befitting th
occasion, Paulina invokes the majestic figure to " descend, and
be (tone no more," and where she presents her daughter to br,
" Tarn, goc^i lady ! oar Perdita in found.'
240 AUACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
have been a fault in taste, and have necessarily
weakened the effect of both characters: either
the serene grandeur of Hermione would have sub-
dued and overawed the fiery spirit of Paulina, or
the impetuous temper of the latter must have dis-
turbed in some respect our impression of the calm,
majestic, and somewhat melancholy beauty of
Uermione.
DESDEMONA.
THE character of Hermione is addressed more to
the imagination ; that of Desdemona to the feel-
ings. All that can render sorrow majestic is
gathered round Hermione ; all that can render
misery heart-breaking is assembled round Desde-
mona. The wronged but self-sustained virtue of
Hermione commands our veneration ; the injured
and defenceless innocence of Desdemona so wring*
the soul, " that all for pity we could die."
Desdemona, as a character, comes nearest to
Miranda, both in herself as a woman, and in the
perfect simplicity and unity of the delineation ;
me figures are differently draped the proportions
are the same. There is the same modesty, tender-
ness, and grace ; the same artless devotion in the
affections, the same predisposition to wonder, to
pity, to admire ; the same almost ethereal refine-
ment and delicacy ; but all is pure poetic nature
vithin Miranda and around her : Desdemona if
DESDEMONA. 241
more associated with the palpable realities of every-
day existence, and we see the forms and habits of
society tinting her language and deportment ; no
two beings can be more alike in character nor
Uiore distinct as individuals.
The love of Desdenona for Othello appears at
first such a violation of all probabilities, that her
father at 0-2*3 imputes it to magic, " to spells and
mixtures powerful o'er the blood."
She, in spite of nature,
Of years, of country, credit, every thing,
To fall in love with what she feared to look on!
And the devilish malignity of lago, whose coarse
mind cannot conceive an affection founded purely
in sentiment, derives from her love itself a strong
argument against her.
Ay, there's the point, as to be bold with you,
Not to affect any proposed matches
Of her own clime, complexion, and degree,
Whereto, we see, in all things nature tends,* &o.
Notwithstanding this disparity of age, character,
country, complexion, we, who are admitted into the
lecret, see her love rise naturally and necessarily
out of the leading propensities of her nature.
At the period of the story a spirit of wild ad-
venture had seized all Europe. The discovery of
both Indies was yet recent ; over the shores of the
western hemisphere still fable and mystery hung.
* Ait ill. scene 3.
M
42 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
irith all their dim enchantments, visionary terrcra,
and golden promises ! perilous expeditions and
distant voyages were every day undertaken fron?
hope of plunder, or mere love of enterprise ; and
from 'heso the adventurers returned with tales of
" Antics vast and desarts wild of cannibals that
did each other eat of Anthropophagi, and men
whose heads did grow beneath their shoulders."
With just such stories did Raleigh and Clifford,
and their followers return from the New World:
and thus by their splendid or fearful exaggerations,
which the imperfect knowledge of those times could
not refute, was the passion for the romantic and
marvellous nourished at home, particularly among
the women. A cavalier of those days had no nearer
no surer way to his mistress's heart, than by enter-
taining her with these wondrous narratives. What
was a general feature of his time, Shakspeare seized
and adapted to his purpose with the most exquisite
felicity of effect. Desdemona, leaving her house-
hold cares in haste, to hang breathless on Othello's
tales, was doubtless a picture from the life ; and
her inexperience and her quick imagination lend
it an added propriety : then her compassionate dis-
position is interested by all the disastrous chances,
hair-breadth 'scapes, and moving accidents by
flood and field, of which he has to tell ; and her
exceeding gentleness and timidity, and her do-
mestic turn of mind, render her more easily cap-
tivated by the military renown, the valor, and lofty
'bearing of the noble Moor
DESDKMOXA. 241
And to his honors and his valiant parts
Does she her soul and fortunes consecrate.
The confession and the excuse for her l.ve ii
irell placed in the mouth of Desdemona, while the
history of the rise of that love, and of his course
yf wooing, is, with the most graceful propriety, as
far as she is concerned, spoken by Othello, and in
her absence. The last two lines summing up the
whole
She loved me for the dangers I had passed,
And I loved her that she did pity them
comprise whole volumes of sentiment and meta-
physics.
Desdemona displays at times a transient energy,
arising from the power of affection, but gentle-
ness gives the prevailing tone to the character
gentleness in its excess gentleness verging on pas-
liveness gentleness, which not only cannot resent,
but cannot resist.
OTHELLO.
Then of so gentle a condition !
IAGO.
Ay ! too gentle.
OTHELLO.
Nay, that's certain
Here the exceeding sc/tness of Desdemona
temper is turned against her by lago, so that it
luddenly strikes Othello in a. new point of view
44 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
fcs the inability to resist temptation ; but to us wh.
perceive the character as a whole, this extreme
gentleness of nature is yet delineated with snch
exceeding refinement, that the effect never ap
proaches to feebleness. It is true that once her
extreme timidity leads her in a moment of con-
fusion and terror to prevaricate about the fatal
handkerchief. This handkerchief, in the original
rtory of Cinthio, is merely one of those embroider-
ed handkerchiefs which were as fashionable in
Shakspeare's time as in our own ; but the minute
description of it as " lavorato alia morisco sottilis-
Bimamente," * suggested to the poetical fancy of
Shakspeare one of the most exquisite and charac-
teristic passages in the whole play. Othello maket
poor Desdemona believe that the handkerchief wai
a talisman.
There's magic in the web of it
A sibyl, that had numbered in the world
The sun to make two hundred compasses,
In her prophetic fury sew'd the work:
The worms were hallowed that did breed the silk,
And it was dyed in mummy, which the skilful
Conserv'd of maidens' hearts.
DESDEMONA.
Indeed! is't true?
OTHELLO.
Most veritable, therefore look to't well.
Whteh being Interpreted into modern English. DIMS*, J
Ddtfcre, nothing more than that the pattern was what w DM
iall fra
DESDEMONA. 241
DESDEMONA.
then would to heaven that I had never seen it
OTHELLO.
Ha! wherefore!
DESDEMONA.
Why do you speak so startingly and raah?
OTHELLO.
Is' t lost, Is't gone ? Speak, is it oat of the wmy 2
DESDKMOXA.
Hearens bless us!
OTHELLO.
Say yon?
DESDEMONA.
It is not lost but what an' if it were?
OTHELLO.
Ha!
DESDEMONA.
I say it is not lost.
OTHELLO.
Fetch it, let me see it.
DESDEMONA.
Why so I can, sir, but I will not now, &c.
Desdemona, whose soft credulity, whose turn fbi
the marvellous, whose susceptible imagination bad
first directed her thoughts and affections to
Othello, is precisely the woman to be frightened
wit of her senses by such a tale as this, and be
trayed by her fears into a momentary tergiversa-
vion. It is most natural Li such a being, and -show*
M6 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
us that even in the sweetest natures there can be
no completeness and consistency -without mora.
energy.*
With the most perfect artlessness, she has some-
thing of the instinctive, unconscious address of hex
tex ; as when she appeals to her father
So much duty as my mother show'd
To you, preferring you before her father,
So much I challenge, that I may profess
Due to the Moor, my lord.
And when she is pleading for Cassio
What! Michael Cassio!
That came a wooing with you; and many a time.
When I have spoken of you disparagingly,
Hath ta'en your part?
In persons who unite great sensibility and lively
fancy, I have often observed this particular species
of address, which is always unconscious of itself,
and consists in the power of placing ourselves in
* There is an incident in the original tale, " H More di
Venezia," which could not well be transferred to the drama, but
which is very effective, and adds, I think, to the circumstantial
horrors of the story. Desdemona does not accidentally drop th
handkerchief; it is stolen from her by lago's little :hlld, an
Infant of three years old, whom he trains and bribes to the theft
The love of Desdemona for this child, her little playfellow the
pretty description of her taking it in her arms and caressing it,
while it profits by Its situation to steal the handkerchief from
her bosom, are well imagined, and beautifully told; and th
(ircumstance of lago employing his own innocent child as ton
Instrument of his infernal villa ny. adds a deeper, and, in truth
to unnecessary touch of the fiend, to his fiendish character.
DKSDEMOFA. 247
fee position of another, and imagining, rather than
perceiving, what is in their hearts. We women
have this address (if so it can be called} naturally,
but I have seldom met with it in men. It is not
inconsistent with extreme simplicity of character,
and quite distinct from that kind of art which is
the result of natural acuteness and habits of ob-
servation quick to perceive the foibles of others,
and as quick to turn them to its own purposes ;
which is always conscious of itself, and, if united
with strong intellect, seldom perceptible to others.
In the mention of her mother, and the appeal to
Othello's self-love, Desdemona has no design formed
on conclusions previously drawn ; but her intuitive
quickness of feeling, added to her imagination, lead
her more safely to the same results, and the dis-
tinction is as truly as it is delicately drawn.
When Othello first outrages her in a manner
which appears inexplicable, she seeks and finds
excuses for him. She is so innocent that not only
ihe cannot believe herself suspected, but she can-
not conceive the existence of guilt in others.
Sometning, sure, of state,
Either from Venice, or some unhatch'd practice
Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him,
Hath puddled his clear spirit.
'Tis even so
Nay, we must think, men are not gods,
Nor of them look for such observances
As fit the bridaL
4nd when the direct accusation of crime ia fhmj
148 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
on her in the vilest terms, it does not anger bo!
itun her, as if it transfixed her whole being ; she
attempts no reply, no defence ; and reproach of
resistance never enters her thought
Good friend, go to him for by this light of heaven
I know not how I lost him : here I kneel :
If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love,
Either hi discourse of thought or actual doed ;
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense,
Delighted them in any other form ;
Or that I do not yet, and ever did,
And ever will, though he do shake me off
To beggarly divorcement, love him dearly,
Comfort forswear me ! Unkindness may do ;jn ch,
And his unkindness may defeat my life,
But never taint my love.
And there is one stroke of consummate delicacy
surprising, when we remember the latitude of ex-
pression prevailing in Shakspeare's time, and which
he allowed to his other women generally : she SAfti
on recovering from her stupefaction
Am I that name, lago ?
IAGO.
What name, sweet lady?
DESDEMONA.
That which she says my lord did say I waa.
So completely did Shakspeare enter into the an-
gelic refinement of the character.
Endued with that temper which is the origin of
superstition in love as <o religion, which, in fact
DF.SDKMOXA. 249
love itself a religion, she not only does not
utter an upbraiding, but nothing that Othello does
or says, no outjage, no injustice, can tear away the
charm with winch her imagination had invested
him, or impair her faith in his honor ; " Would you
had never seen him ! " exclaims Emilia.
DESDEMOXA.
So would not I ! my love doth so approve him,
That even his stubbornness, his checks and frowns
Have grace and favor in them.
There is another peculiarity, which, in reading
the play of Othello, we rather feel than perceive :
through the whole of the dialogue appropriated to
Desdemona, there is not one general observation.
Words are with her the vehicle of sentiment, and
never of reflection ; so that I cannot find through-
out a sentence of general application. The same
remark applies to Miranda : and to no other female
character of any importance or interest ; not even
to Ophelia.
The rest of what I wished to say of Desdemona,
has been anticipated by an anonymous critic, and
BO beautifully, so justly, so eloquently expressed,
that I with pleasure erase my own page, to maka
room for his.
" Othello," observes this writer, " is no love
tory ; all that is below tragedy in the passion of
love, is taken away at once, by the awful character
of Othello ; for such he seems to us to be designed
to be. He appears never as a lover, but at once
is a husband : and the relation of his love made
850 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
dignified, as it is a husband's justification of hii
marriage, is also dignified, as it is a soldier's rela-
tion of his stern and perilous life. His love itself,
as long as it is happy, is perfectly calm and serene
the protecting tenderness of a husband. It is cot
till it is disordered, that it appears as a passion :
then is shown a power in contention with itself
a mighty being struck with death, and bringing up
from all the depths of life convulsions and agonies.
It is no exhibition of the power of the passion of
love, but of the passion of life, vitally wounded, and
self over-mastering. If Desdemona had been really
guilty, the greatness would have been destroyed,
because his love would have been unworthy, false.
But she is good, and his love is most perfect, just,
and good. That a man should place his perfect
love on a wretched thing, is miserably debasing,
and shocking to thought ; but that loving perfectly
and well, he should by hellish human circumven-
tion be brought to distrust and dread, and abjure
his own perfect love, is most mournful indeed it
is the infirmity of our good nature wrestling in vain
with the strong powers of evil. Moreover, he
would, had Desdemona been false, have been the
mere victim of fate ; whereas he is now in a man-
ner his own victim. His happy love was hcroio
tenderness ; his injured love is terrible passion
and disordered power, engendered within itself to
its own destruction, is the height of all tragedy.
" The character of Othello is perhaps the moel
Ifreatly drawn, the most heroic of any of Shak
DESDKMOXA. 251
peare's actors ; bat it is, perhaps, that one also of
which his reader last acquires the intelligence.
The intellectual and warlike energy of his mind
his tenderness of affection his loftiness of spirit
his frank, generous magnanimity impetuosity like
a thunderbolt and that dark, fierce flood of boil-
ing passion, polluting even his imagination, com-
pose a character entirely original, most difficult to
delineate, but perfectly delineated."
Emilia in this play is a perfect portrait from com-
mon life, a masterpiece in the Flemish style : and
though not necessary as a contrast, it cannot be
but that the thorough vulgarity, the loose princi-
ples of this plebeian woman, united to a high de-
gree of" spirit, energetic feeling, strong sense and
low cunning, serve to place in brighter relief the
exquisite refinement, the moral grace, the unblen>
ished truth, and the soft submission of Desdemona.
On the other perfections of this tragedy, consid-
ered as a production of genius on the wonderful
characters of Othello and lago on the skill with
which the plot is conducted, and its simplicity
which a word unravels,* and on the overpowering
horror of the catastrophe eloquence and analyt-
ical criticism have been exhausted ; I will only add t
that the source of the pathos throughout of thai
* Consequences are so lii ksd together, that the exclamation of
Emilia,
thou dull Moor.' That handkerchief thou speakest of
1 found by fortu ae, and did give my husband !
b sufficient to reveal to Othello the whole history of hi* raia
252 CHARACTERS OF TUB AFFECTION*.
pathos which at once softens and deepens the tragl\
effect lies in the character of Desdemona, Nc
woman differently constituted could have excited
the same intense and painful compassion, without
losing something of that exalted charm, which in-
vests her from beginning to end, which we are apt
to impute to the interest of the situation, and to the
poetical coloring, but which lies, in fact, in the very
essence of the character. Desdemona, with all her
timid flexibility and soft acquiescence, is not weak ;
for the negative alone is weak ; and the mere pres-
ence of goodness and affection implies in itself a
ipecies of power ; power without consciousness,
power without effort, power with repose that soul
of grace !
I know a Desdemona in real life, one in whom the
absence of intellectual power is never felt as a defi-
ciency, not the absence of energy of will as impair-
ing the dignity, nor the most imperturbable serenity,
as a want of feeling : one in whom thoughts appear
mere instincts, the sentiment of rectitude supplies
the principle, and virtue itself seems rather a nec-
essary state of being, than an imposed law. No
shade of sin or vanity has yet stolen over that
bright innocence. No discord within has marred
the loveliness without no strife of the factitious
world without has disturbed the harmony within.
The comprehension of evil appears forever fhui
out, as if goodness had converted all tilings to
itself; and all to the pure in heart must necessarily
be pure. The impression produced is exactly that
IMOGEN. 255
t/f the character of Desdemona ; genius is a rare
thing, but abstract goodness is rarer. In Desde-
mona, we cannot but feel that the slightest manifes-
tation of intellectual power or active will would
have injured the dramatic effect. She is a victim
consecrated from the first, " an offering without
blemish," alone worthy of the grand final sacrifice ;
all harmony, all grace, all purity, all tenderness, all
truth ! But, alas ! to see her fluttering like a
cherub in the talons of a fiend ! to see her O
poor Desdemona !
IMOGEN.
WE come to Imogen. Others of Shakspeares
characters are, as dramatic and poetical concep-
tions, more striking, more brilliant, more powerful ;
but of all his women, considered as individuals
rather than as heroines, Imogen is the most perfect.
Portia and Juliet are pictured to the fancy with
more force of contrast, more depth of light and
shade ; Viola and Miranda, with more aerial deli-
cacy of outline ; but there is no female portrait that
can be compared to Imogen as a woman none in
which so great a variety of tints are mingled to-
gether into such perfect harmony. In her, we have
\\l the fervor of youthful tenderness, all the ro-
jaance of youthful fancy, all the enchantment of
Jeal grace, the bloom of beauty, the brightnesi
tf intellect and the dignity of rank, taking a pe-
864 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
culiar hue from the conjugal character which M
ehed over all, like a consecration and a holy charm.
In Othello and the Winter's Tale, the interest ex-
cited for Desdemona and Hermione is divided with
others : but in Cymbeline, Imogen is the angel of
light, whose lovely presence pervades and animate*
the whole piece. The character altogether may be
pronounced finer, more complex in its elements,
and more fully developed in all its parts, than those
of Hermione and Desdemona ; but the position in
which she is placed is not, I think, so fine at least,
not so effective, as a tragic situation.
Shakspeare has borrowed the chief circumstance*
of Imogen's story from one of Boccaccio's tales.*
A company of Italian merchants who are assem-
bled in a tavern at Paris, are represented as con-
versing on the subject of their wives : all of them
express themselves with levity, or sekpticism, or
BCorn, on the virtue of women, except a young
Ginoese merchant named Bernabo, who maintains,
that by the especial favor of Heaven he possesses a
wife no less chaste than beautiful. Heated by the
wine, and excited by the arguments and the coarse
raillery of another young merchant, Ambrogiolo,
Bernabo proceeds to enumerate the various perfec-
tions and accomplishments of his Zinevra. He
praises her loveliness, her submission, and her dis-
cretion her skill in embroidery, her graceful ser-
vice, in which the best trained page of the court
could not exceed her ; and he adds, as rarer ao
Decamerone. Novella, 9mo. Oiornata, 2do.
IMOGEN. 254
roniplishments, that she could mount a horse, fly a
hawk, write and read, and cast up accounts, as well
as any merchant of them all. His enthusiasm only
excites the laughter and mockery of his compan-
ions, particularly of Ambrogiolo, who, by the most
artful mixture of contradiction and argument,
rouses the anger of Bernabo, and he at length ex-
claims, that he would willingly stake his life, his head,
on the virtue of his wife. This leads to the wager
which forms so important an incident in the drama.
Ambrogiolo bets one thousand florins of gold
against five thousand, that Zinevra, like the rest of
her sex, is accessible to temptation that in less
than three months he will undermine her virtue,
and bring her husband the most undeniable proofs
of her falsehood. He sets off for Genoa, in order
U accomplish his purpose ; but on his arrival, all
that he learns, and all that he beholds with hjs own
eyes, of the discreet and noble character of the
lady, make him despair of success by fair means ;
he therefore has recourse to the basest treachery.
By bribing an old woman in the service of Zin-
evra, he is conveyed to her sleeping apartment, con-
cealed in a trunk, from which he issues in the dead
of the night ; he takes note of the furniture of the
chamber, makes himself master of her purse, her
morning robe, or cymar, and her girdle, and of a
certain mark on her person. He repeats these ob-
servations for two nights, and, furnished with these
evidences of Zinevra's guilt, he returns to Paris,
tnd lays them before the wretched husband. Bor-
B66 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
nabo rejects every proof of his wife's infidelity
except that which finally convinces Posthumus
When Ambrogioto mentions the " mole, cinque-
potted," he stands like one who has received a
poniard in his heart ; without further dispute he
pays down the forfeit, and filled with rage and
despair both at the loss of his money and the false-
hood of his wife, he returns towards Genoa ; he
retires to his country house, and sends a messenger
to the city with letters to Zinevra, desiring that she
would come and meet him, but with secret orders
to the man to despatch her by the way. The ser-
vant prepares to execute his master's command,
but overcome by her entreaties for mercy, and his
own remorse, he spares her life, on condition that
she will fly from the country forever. He then
disguises her in his own cloak and cap, and brings
back to her husband the assurance that she is
killed, and that her body has been devoured by the
wolves. In the disguise of a mariner, Zinevra
then embarks on board a vessel bound to the Le-
vant, and on arriving at Alexandria, she is taken
into the service of the Sultan of Egypt, under the
name of Sicurano; she gains the confidence of her
master, who, not suspecting her sex, sends Ser as
captain of the guard which was appointed for the
protection of the merchants at the fair of Acre.
Here she accidentally meets Ambrogiolo, and sees
in his possession the purse and girdle, which she
immediately recognizes as her own. In reply tc
her inquiries, he relates with fiendish exultatioi
IMOGEN. 257
the manner in which he had obtained possession of
them, and she persuades him to go back with her
to Alexandria. She then sends a messenger to
Genoa in the name of the Sultan, and induces her
husband to come and settle in Alexandria. At a
proper opportunity, she summons both to the pres-
ence of the Sultan, obliges Ambrogiolo to make a
full confession of his treachery, and wrings from
her husband the avowal of his supposed murder of
herself : then falling at the feet of the Sultan dis-
covers her real name and sex, to the great amaze-
ment of all. Bernabo is pardoned at the prayer
of his wife, and Ambrogiolo is condemned to be
fastened to a stake, smeared with honey, and left
to be devoured by the flies and locusts. This hor-
rible sentence is executed ; while Zinevra, enriched
by the presents of the Sultan, and the forfeit wealth
of Ambrogiolo, returns with her husband to Genoa,
where she lives in great honor and happiness, and
maintains her reputation of virtue to the end of
her life.
These are the materials from which Shakspeare
has draw the dramatic situation of Imogen. He
has also endowed her with several of the qualities
which are attributed to Zinevra ; but for the essen-
tial truth and beauty of the individual character,
for the sweet coloring of pathos, and sentiment,
and poetry interfused through the whole, he is in-
debted onl}- to nature and himself.
It would be a waste of words to refute certain
uitics who have accused Shakspeare of a want of
5.18 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
judgment in the adoption of the story ; of having
transferred the manners of a set of intoxicated
merchants and a merchant's wife to heroes and
princesses, and of having entirely destroyed the
interest of the catastrophe.* The truth is, that
Shakspeare has wrought out the materials before
him with the most luxuriant fancy and the most
wonderful skill. As for the various anachronisms,
And the confusion of names, dates, and manners,
over which Dr. Johnson exults in no measured
terms, the confusion is nowhere but in his own
heavy obtuseness of sentiment and perception, and
his want of poetical faith. Look into the old Italian
poets, whom we read continually with still increas-
ing pleasure ; does any one think of sitting down
to disprove the existence of Ariodante, king of
Scotland ? or to prove that the mention of Proteus
and Pluto, baptism and the Virgin Mary, in a
breath, amounts to an anachronism ? Shakspeare,
by throwing his story far back into a remote and
uncertain age, has blended, by his " own omnipo-
tent will," the marvellous, the heroic, the ideal,
and the classical, the extreme of refinement and
the extreme of simplicity, into one of the loveliest
fictions of romantic poetry ; and, to use SchlegePi
expression, " has made the social manners of the
latest times harmonize with heroic deeds, and even
Irith the appearances of the gods.f
But, admirable as is the conduct of the whoU
* Vidt Dr. Johnson, and Dnnlop's History of Fiction.
* BM Haditt and SchJegel on the catastrophe of Cymbeltn*
IMOGEN. 259
p(ay, rich in variety of character and in pictu-
resque incident, its chief beauty and interest is
derived from Imogen.
When Ferdinand tells Miranda that she was
M created of every creature's best," he speaks like
A lover, or refers only to her personal charms : the
same expression might be applied critically to the
character of Imogen ; for, as the portrait of Miranda
is produced by resolving the female character into
its original elements, so that of Imogen unites the
greatest number of those qualities which we imag-
ine to constitute excellency in woman.
Imogen, like Juliet, conveys to our mind the
impression of extreme simplicity in the midst of the
most wouderful complexity. To conceive her aright,
we must take some peculiar tint from many char-
acters, and so mingle them, that, like the combina-
tion of hues in a sunbeam, the effect shall be as
one to the eye. We must imagine something of
the romantic enthusiasm of J;aiet, of the truth and
constancy of Helen, of the dignified purity of
Isabel, of the tender sweetness of Viola, of the self-
possession and intellect of Portia combined to-
gether so equally and so harmoniously, that we can
scarcely say that one quality predominates over
the other. But Imogen is less imaginative than
Juliet, less spirited and intellectual than Portia,
less serious than Helen and Isabel; her dignity ifl
Hot so imposing as that of Hermione, it stands more
n the defensive , her submission,though unbounded,
not so passive as that of Desdemoua ; and thu%
160 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFKCTIOHS
while she resembles each of these characters in-
dividually, she stands wholly distinct from alL
It is true, that the conjugal tenderness of Imogen
is at once the chief subject of the drama, and the
pervading charm of her character ; but it is not
true, I think, that she is merely interesting from
her tenderness and constancy to her husband. We
we so completely let into the essence of Imogen's
nature, thai we feel as if we had known and loved
her before she was married to Posthumus, and
that her conjugal virtues are a charm superadded,
like the color laid upon a beautiful groundwork.
Neither does it appear to me, that Posthumus is
unworthy of Imogen, or only interesting on Imogen's
account. His character, like those of all the other
persons of the drama, is kept subordinate to hers :
but this could not be otherwise, for she is the proper
subject the heroine of the poem. Every thing ia
done to ennoble Posthumus, and justify her love
for him ; and though we certainly approve him
more for her sake than for his own, we are early
prepared to view him with Imogen's eyes ; and not
only excuse, but sympathize in her admiration of
one
Who sat 'mongst men like a descended god.
*****
Who lived in court, which it is rare to do,
Most praised, most loved :
A sample to the youngest ; to the more mature,
A glass that feated them.
And with what beauty and delicacy is
IMOGEN. 261
and matronly character discriminated ! Her love
for her husband is as deep as Juliet's for her lover,
but without any of that headlong vehemence, that
fluttering amid hope, fear, and transport that
giddy intoxication of heart and sense, which be-
longs to the novelty of passion, which we feel once,
and but once, in our lives. We see her love for
Posthumus acting upon her mind with the force of
an habitual feeling, heightened by enthusiastic
passion, and hallowed by the sense of duty. She
asserts and justifies her affection with energy in-
deed, but with a calm and wife-like dignity :
CYMBELLNE.
Thou took'st a beggar, would'st have made my throne
A seat for baseness.
IMOGEN.
No, I rather added a lustre to it
CYMBELLNE.
thou vile one!
Sir,
It is your fault that I have loved PosthnmuB ;
You bred him as my playfellow, and he is
A man worth any woman ; overbuys me,
Almost the sum he pays.
Compare also, as examples of the most delicate
Uscrimination of character and feeling, the parting
scene Between Imogen and Posthumus, that between
(tomec and Juliet, and that between Troilus and
Z62 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTION*
Cressida : compare the confiding matronly tendei*
Hess, the deep but resigned sorrow of Imogen, with
{he despairing agony of Juliet, and the petulant
grief of Cressida.
When Posthumus Is driven into exile, he
to take a last farewell of his wife :
IMOGEN.
My dearest husband,
I something fear my father's wrth, but nothing
(Always reserved my holy duty) what
His rage can do on me. You must be gone,
And I shall here abide the hourly shot
Of angry eyes : not comforted to live,
But that there is this jewel in the world
That I may see again.
POSTHUMUS.
My queen ! my mistress I
O, lady, wep no more ! lest I give cause
To be suspected of more tenderness
Than doth become a man. I will remain
The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight trotk
*****
Should we be taking leave
As long a term as yet we have to live,
The loathness to depart would grow Adieu I
IMOGEN.
Nay, stay a little:
Wore yon but riding forth to air yourself,
Such parting were too petty. Look hero, IOT,
This diamaud was m- mother's; take it, heart'
But keep it till you woo another wife,
When Imogen is dead !
IMOGEN. 263
Imogen, in whose tenderness there is nothing
jealous or fantastic, does not seriously apprehend
that her husband will woo another wife when she
is dead. It is one of those fond fancies which
women are apt to express in moments of feeling,
merely for the pleasure of hearing a protestation
to the contrary. When Posthumus leaves her, she
does not burst forth in eloquent lamentation ; but
that silent, stunning, overwhelming sorrow, which
renders the mind insensible to all things else, it
represented with equal force and simplicity.
IMOGEN.
There cannot be a pinch in death
More sharp than this is.
CTMBELINE.
disloyal thing,
That should'st repair my youth ; thou heapest
A year's age on met
IMOGEN.
I beseech you, sir,
Harm not yourself with your vexation ; I
Am senseless of your wrath ; a touch more rare *
Subdues all pangs, all fears.
OYMBELINB.
Past grace? obedience?
IMOGEN.
Past hope, and in despair that way past grace.
In the same circumstances, the impetuous excited
* More rare '. t. more exquisitely poignant.
164 CHARACTERS OF THE AFIECTIONS.
feelings of Juliet, and her vivid imagination, lend
gomething far more wildly agitated, more intensely
poetical and passionate to her grief.
JULIET.
Art than gone so? My love, my lord, my friend '
I must hear from thee every day i' the hour,
For in a minute there are many days
by this count I shall be much in years,
Ere I again behold my Romeo !
ROMEO.
Farewell I I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.
JULIET.
O ! think'st thou we shall ever meet again?
ROMEO.
1 doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come.
JULIET.
God I I have an ill-divining soul:
Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb :
Either my eye-sight fails, or thou look'st pale,
We have no sympathy with the pouting di*
appointment of Cressida, which is just like that of
a spoilt child which has lost its sugar-plum, without
tenderness, passions, or poetry : and, in short, per
fectly characteristic of that vain, fickle, d-ssolute.
keartless woman, " unstable as water."
IMOGEN. 965
CRESSIDA.
And is it true that I must go from Troy?
TROILUS.
A hateful truth.
CRESSIDA.
What, and from Troilus too?
TROILUS.
From Troy and Treilus.
CRESSIDA.
Is it poasible?
TROILUS,
And suddenly,
CRESSIDA.
I most then to the Greeks ?
TROILUS.
No remedy.
CRESSIDA.
A woeful Cressid 'mongst the merry Greeks I
When shall we see again?
TROILUS.
Hear me, my love. Be tliou but true of heart
CRESSIDA.
I true! How now? what wicked deem is thai?
T3OILU8.
Nay, we must use expostulation kindly,
For it is parting from us ;
! speak not, be thou true, as fearing thee;
For I will throw my glove to Death himself
CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
That there's no maculation in thy heart ;
But be thou true, say I, to fashion in
My sequent protestation. Be thou true,
And I will see thee.
CRESSIDA.J
heaven* ! be true again
heavens ! you love me not
TKOH.CS.
Die I a villain, then !
In this I do not call your faith in question,
So mainly as my merit
- But be not tempted.
CBESSLDA.
Do you think I will?
In the eagerness of Imogen to meet her husband
there is all a wife's fondness, mixed up with the
breathless hurry arising from a sudden and joyftu
lurprise ; but nothing of the picturesque eloquence,
the ardent, exuberant, Italian imagination of Juliet,
who, to gratify her impatience, would have her
heralds thoughts ; press into her service the nim-
ble pinioned doves, and wind-swift Cupids, change
the course of nature, and lash the steeds of Phoeboi
to the west. Imogen only thinks " one score of
miles, 'twixt sun and sun," slow travelling for
lover, and wishes for a horse with wings
for a horse with wings ! Hear'st thou, Pioanio ?
He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell m
IMOGEN. 26'
How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs
May plod it in a week, why may not I
Glide thithir in a day? Then, true Pisanio,
(Who long's." like me, to see thy lord who long'st
let me bate, but not like me yet long'st,
But in a fainter kind not like me,
For mine's beyond beyond,) say, and speak thick
(Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing
To the smothering of the sense) how far is it
To this same blessed Milford ? And by the way,
Tell me how Wales was made so happy, as
To inherit such a haven. But, first of all,
How we may steal from hence ; and for the gap
That we shall make in time, from our hence going
And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence*
Why should excuse be born, or e'er begot?
We'll talk of that hereafter. Pr'ythee speak,
How many score of miles may we well ride
'Twixt hour and hour?
PISANIO.
One score, 'twixt sun and sun,
Madam,'s enough for you; and too much too.
IMOGEN.
Why, one that rode to his execution, man,
Could never go so slow !
There are two or three other passages bearing
on the conjugal tenderness of Imogen, which must
De noticed for the extreme intensity of the feeling,
*nd the unadorned elegance of the expression.
1 would thou grew'st unto tne shores o' the haven
And question' dst every sail : if he should write,
And I not have it, 'twere a paper lost
1G8 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
As offer' J mercy is. What was the last
That he spake to thee?
PI8AJJIO.
'Twas, His queen! hia quern I
IMOGEN.
Then wav'd his hankerchief ?
PISANIO.
And kiss'd it, mad%m.
IMOGEN.
Senseless linen ! happier therein than I !
And that was all?
PISANIO.
No, madam; for so long
As he oonld make me with this eye or ear
Distinguish him from others, he did keep
The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief
Still waving, as the fits and stirs of his mind
Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on,
How swift his ship.
IMOGEN.
Thou shoold'st have made him
As little as a crow, or less, ere left
To after-eye him.
PISANIO.
Madam, so I did.
IMOGEN.
1 wonld have broke my eye-strings; cracked theaa,
To look npon him; till the diminution
Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle ;
Nay, followed him, till he had melted from
The smallness of a gnat to air; and then
Have turn'd mine eye, and wept.
IMOGEN. 269
Two little incidents, which are introduced with
the most unobtrusive simplicity, convey the strong-
est impression of her tenderness for her husband,
Bnd with that perfect unconsciousness on her part,
which adds to the effect. Thus when she has lost
her bracelet
Go, bid my woman
Search for a jewel, that too casually,
Hath left my arm. It was thy master's : 'shrew me,
If I would lose it for a revenue
Of any king in Europe. I do think
I saw't this morning; confident I am,
Last night 'twas on mine arm 1 kiss'd it.
1 hope it has not gone to tell my lord
That lieisi aught but lie.
It has been well observed, that our consciousness
that the bracelet is really gone to bear false witness
against her, adds an inexpressibly touching effect
to the simplicity and tenderness of the sentiment.
And again, when she opens her bosom to meet
the death to which her husband has doomed her,
he finds his letters preserved next her heart.
What's here I
The letters of the loyal Leonatus ?
Soft, we'll no defence.
The scene in which Posthumus stakes his ring
on the virtue of his wife, and gives lachimo per-
mission to tempt her, is taken from the story. The
baseness and folly of such conduct have been justly
censured ; but Shakspeare, feeling that Posthumus
needed every excuse, has managed the quarrelling
cene between him and lachimo with the most ad>
270 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
mirable skill. The manner in which his high spirit
is gradually worked up by the taunts of this Italiar
fiend, is contrived with far more probability, and
much less coarseness, than in the original tale. In
the end he is not the challenger, but the challenged;
and could hardly (except on a moral principle,
much too refined for those rude times) have declined
the wager without compromising his own courage
and his faith in the honor of Imogen.
IACHIMO.
I durst attempt it against any lady in the world.
POSTHUMU8.
You are a great deal abused in too bold a persuasion;
and I doubt not you sustain what you're worthy of, by
your attempt.
IACHIMO.
What's that?
POSTHUMCS.
A repulse: though your attempt, as you call it, deserr*
more a punishment too.
PHILARIO.
Gentlemen, enough of this. It came in too suddenly
let it die as it was born, and I pray you be better ao-
quainted.
IACHIMO.
Would I had put my estate and my neighbor's on the
approbation of what I have said !
POSTHUMCS.
What lady would you choose to assail?
IACHIMO.
Toon, whom in constancy you think stands to safe
IMOGEN. 271
In the interview between Imogen and lachimo,
he does not begin his attack on her virtue by a
direct accusation against Posthumus ; but by dark
hints and half-uttered insinuations, such as lago
uses to madden Othello, he intimates that her hus-
band, in his absence from her, has betrayed her love
and truth, and forgotten her in the arms of another.
All that Imogen says in this scene is comprised in a
few lines a brief question, or a more brief remark.
The proud and delicate reserve with which she
veils the anguish she suffers, is inimitably beautiful.
The strongest expression of reproach he can draw
from her, is only, " My lord, I fear, has forgot
Britain." When he continues in the same strain,
she exclaims in an agony, " Let me hear no more."
When he urges her to revenge, she asks, with all
the simplicity of virtue, " How should I be re-
venged? " And when he explains to her how she
is to be avenged, her sudden burst of indignation,
and her immediate perception of his treachery,
and the motive for it, are powerfully fine: it is
not only the anger of a woman whose delicacy has
been shocked, but the spirit of a princess insulted
in her court.
Away ! I do condemn mine ears, that have
So long attended thee. If thou wert honorable,
Thou would' st have told this tale for virtue not
For such an end thou seek'st, as base as strange
Thou wrong' st a gentleman, who is as far
From thy report as thou from honor ; and
Solicit'st here a lady that disdains
Thee and toe devi! alike.
872 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
It has been remarked, that " her readiness U
pardon lachimo's false imputation, and his designi
against herself, is a good lesson to prudes, and may
show that where there is a real attachment to virtue,
there is no need of an outrageous antipathy to
vice."*
This is true ; but can we fail to perceive that the
instant and ready forgiveness of Imogen is ac-
counted for, and rendered more graceful and char-
acteristic by the very means which lachimo employs
to win it ? He pours forth the most enthusiastic
praises of her husband, professes that he merely
made this trial of her out of his exceeding love for
Posthumus, and she is pacified at once ; but, with
exceeding delicacy of feeling, she is represented as
maintaining her dignified reserve and her brevity
of speech to the end of the scene, f
We must also observe how beautifully the char-
acter of Imogen is distinguished from those of De9-
demona and Hermione. When she is made ac-
quainted with her husband's cruel suspicions, we
Bee in her deportment neither the meek submission
of the former, nor the calm resolute dignity of the
latter. The first effect produced on her by her
husband's letter is conveyed to the fancy by the
exclamation of Pisanio, who is gazing on her as sh
reads.
What shall I need to draw my svord? The paper
Characters of Shakflpcare's Playi.
fidt act i. Been* 7.
IMOGEN. 278
Has cut her throat already! No, 'tis slander,
Whose edge is sharper than the sword !
And in her first exclamations we trace, besides as-
tonishment and anguish, and the acute sense of the
injustice inflicted on her, a flash of indignant spirit,
which we do not find in Desdemona or Hermione
False to his bed! What is it to be false?
To lie in watch there, and to think of him ?
To weep 'twixt clock and clock ? If sleep charge nature,
To break it with a fearful dream of him,
And cry myself awake ? that's false to his bed,
Is it?
This is followed by that affecting lamentation
over the falsehood and injustice of her husband, in
which she betrays no atom of jealousy or wounded
self-love, but observes in the extremity of her an-
guish, that after his lapse from truth, " all good
seeming would be discredited," and she then re-
signs herself to his will with the most entire sub-
mission.
In the original story, Zinevra prevails on the
servant to spare her, by her exclamations and en-
treaties for mercy. " The lady, seeing the poniard,
and hearing those words, exclaimed in terror,
' Alas ! have pity on me for the love of Heaven I
do not become the slayer of one who never offend-
ed thee, only to pleasure another. God, who
knows all things, knows that I have never done
that which could merit auch a reward from my
husband's hand.' "
IS
174 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIOHB.
Now let us turn to Shakspeare. Imogen say*,--
Come, fellow, be thon honest;
Do thou thy master's bidding: when thon. seest him,
A little witness my obedience. Look !
I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart.
Fear not; 'tis empty of all things but grief:
Thy master is not there, who was, indeed,
The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike!
The devoted attachment of Pisanio to his royal
mistress, all through the piece, is one of those side
touches by which Shakspeare knew how to give
additional effect to his characters.
Cloten is odious ; * but we must not overlook the
peculiar fitness and propriety of his character, in
connection with that of Imogen. He is precisely
the kind of man who would be most intolerable to
such a woman. He is a fool, so is Slender, and
The character of Cloten has been pronounced by aora un-
natural, by others inconsistent, and by others obsolete. Th
following passage occurs in one of Miss Seward'g letters, vol. ill
p. 246: " It is curious that Shakspeare should, in so singular
character as Cloten, have given the exact prototype of a being
whom I once knew. The unmeaning frown of countenance, thi
hunting gait, the burst of voice, the bustling insignificance, UM
fever and ague fits of valor, the froward tetchiness, the unprin-
cipled malice, and, what is more curious, those occasional gleam*
of good sense amidst the floating clouds of folly which generally
darkened and confused the man's brain, and which, in the char-
acter of Cloten, we are apt to impute to a violation of unity U
character; but in the some-time Captain C , I saw that thf
tortrait of Cloten was not out of nature."
IMOGEN. 27fl
Sir Andrew Aguecheek : but the folly of Cloten is
not only ridiculous, but hateful ; it arises not so
much from a want of understanding as a total want
of heart ; it is' the perversion of sentiment, rather
than the deficiency of intellect ; he has occasional
gleams of sense, but never a touch of feeling.
Imogen describe? herself not only as " sprighted
with a fool," but as " frighted and anger"d worse."
No other fool but Cloten a compound of the boo-
by and the villain could excite in such a mind aa
Imogen's the same mixture of terror, contempt,
and abhorrence. The stupid, obstinate malignity
of Cloten, and the wicked machinations of the
queen
A father cruel, and a step-dame false,
A foolish suitor to a wedded lady
justify whatever might need excuse in the conduct
of Imogen as her concealed marriage and her
flight from her father's court and serve to call out
several of the most beautiful and striking parts
of her character: particularly that decision and
vivacity of temper, which in her harmonize so
beautifully with exceeding delicacy, sweetness, and
lubmission.
In the scene with her detested suitor, there is at
first a careless majesty of disdain, which is aduura-
ble.
I am much sorry sir,
Yon put me to forget a lady's manners,
By being so verbal ; * and learn now, foi all,
1. i.ftiU of vordt.
176 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS
That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce,
By the very truth of it, I care not for you,
And am so near the lack of charity,
(T' accuse myself,) I hate you; which I had rather
You felt, than make 't my boast.
But when he dares to provoke her, by reviling
the absent Posthumus, her indignation heighteni
ner scorn, and her scorn sets a keener edge on hoi
indignation.
CLOTEN.
For the contract you pretend with that base wretch,
One bred of alms, and fostered with cold dishes,
With scraps o' the court; it is no contract, none.
IMOGEN.
Profane fellow!
Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more,
But what thou art, besides, thou wert too baso
To be his groom ; thou wert dignified enough,
Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made
Comparative for your virtues, to be styl'd
The under hangman of his kingdom ; and hated
For being preferr'd so well.
He never can meet more mischance than come
To be but nam'd of thee. His meanest garment
That ever hath but clipp'd his body, is dearer
In my respect, than all the hairs above thee,
Were tlwy all made such men.
Ono thing more must be particularly remarked
because it serves to individualize the character
Irom the beginning to the end of the poem. W*
ire constantly sensible that Imogen, besides being
IMOGEN 271
ft tendei and devoted woman, is a princess and a
beauty, at the same time that she is ever superior
to her position and her external charms. There is,
for instance, a certain airy majesty of deportment
a spirit of accustomed command breaking out
every now and then the dignity, without the as-
sumption of rank and royal birth, which is appar-
ent in the scene with Cloten and elsewhere ; and
we have not only a general impression that Imogen,
like other heroines, is beautiful, but the peculiar
style and character of her beauty is placed before
us : we have an image of the most luxuriant love-
liness, combined with exceeding delicacy, and even
fragility of person : of the most refined elegance,
and the most exquisite modesty, set forth in one or
two passages of description ; as when lachimo is
contemplating her asleep :
Cytherea,
How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh lily,
And whiter than the sheets.
'Tis her breathing that
Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' the tnpor
Bows toward her; and would underpeop her lids
To see the enclos'd lights, now canopied
Under those windows, white and azure, lac'd
W?th blue of heaven's own tinctl
The preservation of her feminine character
\mder her masculine attire ; her delicacy, her
modesty, and her timidity, are managed with the
lame perfect consistency and unconscious grace as
b Viola. And we must r.ct forget that her " neat
178 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFKCTIONft.
rookery," which is so prettily eulogized by Gnide>
rius:
He cuts out roots in characters,
And sauc'd our broths, as Juno had been sick,
And he her dieter,
formed part of the education of a princess in those
remote times.
Few reflections of a general nature are put into
the mouth of Imogen ; and what she says is more
remarkable for sense, truth, and tender feeling
than for wit, or wisdom, or power of imagination
The following little touch of poetry reminds us of
Juliet :
Ere I could
Give him that parting kiss, which I had set
Between two charming words, comes in my father;
And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north,
Shakes all our buds from growing.
Her exclamation on opening her husband's letter
reminds us of the profound and thoughtful tender*
ness of Helen :
learned indeed were that astronomer
That knew the stars, as I his characters !
He'd lay the future open.
The following are more in the manner at
babel;
Most miserable
Is the desire that's glcrious : bless'd be those,
How mean soe'er, that have their honest will*,
That seasons comfort,
IMOGEN. S7I
Against self-slaughter
There Is a prohibition so divine
That cravens my weak hand.
Thus may poor fools
Believe false teachers; though those that are betray' d
Do feel the reason sharply, yet the traitor
Stands in worse case of woe, -
Are we not brothers ?
So man and man should be ;
But clay and clay differs in dignity,
Whose dust is both alike.
Will poor folks lie
That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis
A punishment or trial ? Yes : no wonder,
When rich ones scarce tell true : to lapse in fulness
Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood
Is worse in kings than beggars.
The sentence which follows, and which I believe
has become proverbial, has much of the manner of
Portia, both in the thought and the expression :
Hath Britain all the sun that shines ? Day, night,
Are they not but in Britain ? I' the world's volum
Our Britain seems as of it, but not in it ;
In a great pool, a swan's nest; pr'ythee, think
There's livers out of Britain.
* * * * *
The catastrophe of this play has been much
admired for the peculiar skill with which all the
various threads of interest are gathered together
tt last, and entwined with the destiny of Imogen.
it may be added, that one of its chief beauties if
280 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
the manner in which the character of Imogen \i
not only preserved, but rises upon us to the con-
clusion with added grace : her instantaneous for-
pveness of her husband before he even asks it,
when she flings herself at once into his arms
Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?
and her magnanimous reply to her father, when he
tells her, that by the discovery of her two brothcn
he has lost a kingdom
No I have gain'd two worlds by it
clothing a noble sentiment in a noble image, give
the finishing touches of excellence to this most
enchanting portrait.
On the whole, Imogen is a lovely compound of
goodness, truth, and affection, with just so much of
passion and intellect and poetry, as serve to lend
to the picture that power and glowing richness of
effect which it would otherwise have wanted ; and
of her it might be said, if we could condescend to
quote from any other poet with Shakespeare open
before us, that "her person was a paradise, and her
soul the cherub to guard it." *
CORDELIA.
THERE is in the beauty of Cordelia's chai actor
fen effect too sacred for words, and almost too deef
Dry den.
CORDELIA. 281
for tears ; within her heart is a fathomless well of
f/urest affection, but its waters sleep in silence and
obscurity, never failing in their depth and never
overflowing in their fulness. Every thing in her
seems to lie beyond our view, and affects us in a
manner which we feel rather than perceive. The
character appears to have no surface, no salient
points upon which the fancy can readily seize :
there is little external development of intellect,
less of passion, and still less of imagination. It is
completely made out in the course of a few scenes,
and we are surprised to find that in those few
scenes there is matter for a life of reflection, and
materials enough for twenty heroines. If Lear be
the grandest of Shakspeare's tragedies, Cordelia
in herself, as a human being, governed by the
purest and holiest impulses and motives, the most
refined from all dross of selfishness and passion,
approaches near to perfection ; and in her adapta-
tion, as a dramatic personage, to a determinate
plan of action, may be pronounced altogether per-
fect. The character, to speak of it critically as a
poetical conception, is not, however, to be compre-
hended at once, or easily ; and in the same manner
Cordelia, as a woman, is one whom we must have
loved before we could have known her, and known
\ier long before we could have known her truly.
Most people, I believe, have heard the story
of the young German artist Miiller, who, whila
employed in copying and engraving llafTuelle'*
Madonna del Sisrto, was so penetrated by its cele-
18!* CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
tial beauty, so distrusted his own power to do
justice to it, that between admiration and despair
he fell into a sadness ; thence through the visual
gradations, into a melancholy, thence into madness ;
and died just as he had put the finishing stroke to
his own matchless work, which had occupied him
for eight years. With some slight tinge of thii
concentrated kind of enthusiasm I have learned to
contemplate the character of Cordelia ; I have
looked into it till the revelation of its hidden
beauty, and an intense feeling of the wonderful
genius which created it, have filled me at once
with delight and despair. Like poor Miiller, but
with more reason, I do despair of ever conveying,
through a different and inferior medium, the im-
pression made on my own mind to the mind of
another.
Schlegel, the most eloquent of critics, concludes
his remarks on King Lear with these words : " Of
the heavenly beauty of soul of Cordelia, I will not
venture to speak." Now if I attempt what Schlegel
and others have left undone, it is because I feel
that this general acknowledgment of her excellence
can neither satisfy those who have studied the
character, nor convey a just conception of it to
the mere reader. Amid the awful, the overpower-
ing interest of the story, amid the terrible convul-
sions of passion and suffering, and pictures of
moral and physical wretchedness which harrow up
the soul, the tender influence of Cordelia, lik
that of a celestial visitant, is felt and acknowledgeC
CORDELIA. 283
irithout being quite understood. Like a soft star
mat shines for a moment from behind a stormy
cloud and the next is swallowed up in tempest
and darkness, the impression it leaves is beautiful
and dep, but vague. Speak of Cordelia to a
critic or to A general reader, all agree in the
beauty of the portrait, for all must feel it; but
when we come to details, I have heard more
various and opposite opinions relative to her than
any other of Shakspeare's characters a proof of
what I have advanced in the first instance, that
from the simplicity with which the character is
dramatically treated, and the small space it occu-
pies, few are aware of its internal power, or its
wonderful depth of purpose.
It appears to me that the whole character rests
upon the two sublimest principles of human action,
the love of truth and the sense of duty ; but these,
when they stand alone, (as in the Antigone,) are
apt to strike us as severe and cold. Shakspeare
has, therefore, wreathed them round with the
dearest attributes of our feminine nature, the
power of feeling and inspiring affection. The
first part of the play shows us how Cordelia is
loved, the second part how she can love. To
her father she is the object of a secret preference,
his agony at her supposed unkindness draws from
him the confession, that he had loved her moat,
and " thought to set his rest on her kind nursery."
Till then she had been " his best object, the argu-
ment of his praise, balm of his age, most best, most
884 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
dearest 1 " The faithful and worthy Kent ic ready
to brave death and exile in her defence : and
afterwards a farther impression of her benign
sweetness is conveyed in a simple and beautiful
manner, when we are told that " since the lady
Cordelia went to France, her father's poor fool
had much pined away." We have her sensibility
" when patience and sorrow strove which should
express her goodliest:" and all her filial tenderness
when she commits her poor father to the care of
the physician, when she hangs over him as he is
sleeping, and kisses him as she contemplates the
wreck of grief and majesty.
my dear father ! restoration hang
Its medicine on my lips : and let this kiss
Repair those violent harms that my two sisters
Have in thy reverence made !
Had you not been their father, these white flakes
Had challenged pity of them ! Was this a face
To be exposed against the warring winds,
To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder
In the most terrible and nimble stroke
Of quick cross lightning? to watch, (poor perdu!)
With thin helm ? mine enemy's dog,
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night
Against my fire.
Her mild magnanimity shines out in her fareweL
to her sisters, of whose real character she is p
fcctly aware :
Ye jewels of our father! with washed eyes
Cordelia leaves you I I know ye what ye are,
And like a sister, am most loath to call
CORDELIA. 235
I oar faults as tLey are nam'd. Use well our father,
To your professed bosoms I commit him.
But yet, alas ! stood I within his grace,
I would commend him to a better place;
So farewell to you both.
GONERIL.
Prescribe not us our duties i
The modest pride with which she replies to tha
L)uke of Burgundy is admirable ; this whole pas-
age is too illustrative of the peculiar character of
Cordelia, as well as too exquisite, to be mutilated
I yet beseech your majesty,
(If, for I want that glib and oily heart,
To speak and purpose not, since what I well intend
I'll do't before I speak,) that you make known,
It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness,
No unchaste action, or dishonored step
That hath deprived me of your grace and favor;
But even for want of that, for which I am richer ;
A still soliciting eye, and such a tongue
I am glad I have not, tho' not to have it
Hath lost me in your liking.
LEAR.
Better thou
fladst not been born, than not to have pleased me bettei
FRANCE.
Is it tut this ? a tardiness of nature,
That often leaves the history unspoke
Which it intends to do ? My lord of Burgundy,
That say you to the lady ? love is not love
Chen it is mingled with respects that stand
186 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
Alocf from the entire point. Will you hare her?
She is herself a dowry.
BURGUNDY.
Royal Lear,
Give but that portion which yourself proposed.
And here I take Cordelia by the hand
Duchess of Burgundy.
LEAR.
Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm.
BURGUNDT.
I am sorry, then, you have lost a father
That you must lose a husband.
CORDELIA.
Peace be with Burgundy !
Since that respects of fortune are his love,
I shall not be his wife.
FRANCE.
Fairest Cordelia! thou art more rich, being poor,
Most choice, forsaken, and most lov'd, despised !
Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon.
She takes up arms, " not for ambition, but a deal
lather's right." In her speech after her defeat, we
have a calm fortitude and elevation of soul, arising
from the consciousness of duty, and lifting hei
above all consideration of self. She observes,
\V e are not the first
Who with best meaning have incurred the wont I
She thinks and fears only for her father.
COB DELIA. Mi
for thee, oppressed king, am I cast down;
Myself would else out-frown false fortune's frown.
To complete the picture, her very voice is chaiv
Uteristic, " ever soft, gentle, and low ; an excel-
lent thing in woman."
But it will be said, that the qualities here ex-
emplified as sensibility, gentleness, magnanimity
fortitude, generous affection are qualities which
belong, in their perfection, to others of Shaks-
peare's characters to Imogen, for instance, who
unites them all ; and yet Imogen and Cordelia are
wholly unlike each other. Even though we should
reverse their situations, and give to Imogen the
filial devotion of Cordelia, and to Cordelia the con-
jugal virtues of Imogen, still they would remain
perfectly distinct as women. What is it, then,
which lends to Cordelia that peculiar and indi-
vidual truth of character, which distinguishes her
from every other human being ?
It is a natural reserve, a tardiness of disposition,
" which often leaves the history unspoke which it
intends to do ;" a subdued quietness of deportment
and expression, a veiled shyness thrown over all
her emotions, her language and her manner ; mak-
ing the outward demonstration invariably fall short
of what we know to be the feeling within. Not
only is the portrait singularly beautiful and inter-
esting ia itself, but the conduct of Cordelia, and
the part which she bears in the beginning of the
tory, is rendered consistent and natural by the
tronderful truth and delicacy with which thii
888 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
peculiar disposition is sustained throughout the
play.
In early youth, and more particularly if we are
gifted with a lively imagination, such a character aa
that of Cordelia is calculated above every other tc
impress and captivate us. Any thing like mystery,
any thing withheld or withdrawn from our notice,
seizes on our fancy by awakening our curiosity.
Then we are won more by what we half perceive
and half create, than by what is openly expressed
and freely bestowed. But this feeling is a part of
our young life : when time and years have chilled
us, when we can no longer afford to send our souls
abroad, nor from our own superfluity of life and
sensibility spare the materials out of which we build
a shrine for our idol then do we seek, we ask, we
\thirst for that warmth of frank, confiding tender
ness, which revives in us the withered affections
and feelings, buried but not dead. Then the ex-
cess of love is welcomed, not repelled : it is gra-
cious to us as the sun and dew to the seared and
riven trunk, with its few green leaves. Lear is old
" fourscore and upward" but we see what he
has been in former days : the ardent passions of
youth have turned to rashness and wilfulness : he is
long passed that age when we are more blessed in
what we bestow than in what we receive. When he
ays to his daughters, " I gave ye all 1 " we feel that
he requires all in return, with a jealous, restless,
txacting affection which defeats its own wishea
How many such are there in the world I How many
CORDELIA. 28
to sympathize with the fiery, fond old man, when he
shrinks as if petrified from Cordelia's quiet calm
reply!
LEAR.
Now our joy,
Although the last mt least
What can you say to draw
A third more opulent than your sisters' ? Speak '
CORDELIA.
Nothing, my lord.
LEAR.
Nothing!
OORDKUA.
Nothing.
LEAR.
Nothing can come of nothing: speak again!
CORDELIA.
Unhappy that I am ! I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty
According to my bond ; nor more, nor less.
Now this is perfectly natural. Cordelia has pen-
etrated the vile characters of her sisters. Is it
not obvious, that, in proportion as her own mind is
pure and guileless, she must be disgusted with their
gross hypocrisy and exaggeration, their empty
protestations, their " plaited cunning ; " and would
retire from all competition with what she so dis-
dains and abhors, even into the opposite extreme ?
In such a case, as she says herself
What should Cordelia do? ';ove and be silent?
For the very expressions of Lear
to
890 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
What can you say to draw
A third more opulent than your sisters' ?
are enough to strike dumb forever a generous, del
icate, but shy disposition, such as Cordelia's, bj
holding out a bribe for professions.
If Cordelia were not thus portrayed, this de-
liberate coolness would strike us as verging on
harshness or obstinacy ; but it is beautifully repre-
sented as a certain modification of character, the
necessary result of feelings habitually, if not natur-
ally, repressed: and through the whole play we
trace the same peculiar and individual disposition
the same absence of all display the same sobriety
of speech veiling the most profound affections the
same quiet steadiness of purpose the same shrink-
ing from all exhibition of emotion.
" Tous les sentimens naturels ont leur pudeur,"
was a viva voce observation of Madame de Stael,
when disgusted by the sentimental affectation of
ner imitators. This " pudeur," carried to an ex-
cess, appears to me the peculiar characteristic of
Cordelia. Thus, in the description of her deport-
ment when she receives the letter of the Earl of
Kent, informing her of the cruelty of her sisten
ami the wretched condition of Lear, we seem to
have her before us :
KENT.
Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of
grief?
GENTLEMAN.
Ay, sir, she took them, and read them in my presence
COR DELIA. 291
And now and then an ample tear stole down
Her delicate cheek. It seemed she was a queoa
Over her passion; who, most rebel-like
Sought to be king over her.
O then it moved her!
GENTLEMAN.
Not to a rage.
Faith, once or twice she heaved the name of father
Pantingly forth, as if it pressed her heart,
Cried, Sisters 1 sisters ! Shame of ladies ! Sisters I
What, f the storm f f the night f
Let pity not be believed. Then she shook
The holy water from her heavenly eyes;
* * * * #
Then away she started,
To deal with grief alone.
Here the last line the image brought before ui
of Cordelia starting away from observation, "to
deal with grief alone," is as exquisitely beautiful
as it is characteristic.
But all the passages hitherto quoted must yield
in beauty and power to that scene, in which her
poor father recognizes her, and in the intervals of
distraction asks forgiveness of his wronged child.
The subdued pathos and simplicity of Cordelia's
eharacter, her quiet but intense feeling, the misery
and humiliation of the bewildered old man, are
Brought before us in so few words, and at the same
time sustained with such a deep intuitive knowledge
f the innermost w >r lings cf the human heart, that
B92 CHARACTERS O* THE AFFECTIONS.
K there is nothing surpassing this scene in Shaki
peare himself, so there is nothing that can be com-
pared to it in any other writer.
CORDELIA.
How does my royal lord ? How fares your majesty?
LEAR.
Yon do me wrong to take me out of the grave.
Thoa art a soul in bliss ; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead .
CORDEl JA.
Sir, do you know me?
LEAR.
1 oa are a spirit, I know: when did yon die?
CORDELIA.
Still, still far wide !
PHYSICIAK.
He's scarce awake : let him alone awhile.
LEAR.
Where have I been? Where am I ? Fair daylight I
I am mightily abused. I should even die with pity
To see another thus. I know not what to say.
I will not swear these are my hands: Let's see.
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured
Of my condition.
CORDELIA.
look upon me, sir,
And hold your hands in benediction o'er me
No, sir, you must not kneel.
LEAR.
Pray, do not mock me:
1 am a very foolish, fond old man,
CORDELIA. 291
Fourscore and upwards ; and to deal plainly with you,
I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
Metkinks I should know you, and know this man,
Yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant
What place this is; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments ; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at m5
For as I am a man, I think this lady
To be my child Cordelia.
CORDELIA.
And so I am, I am.
LEAR.
Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray you weep not.
If you have poison for me I will drink it.
I know you do not love me ; for your sisters
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong:
Yoa have some cause, they have not.
CORDELIA.
No cause, no cause !
As we do not estimate Cordelia's affection for
her father by the coldness of her language, so
neither should we measure her indignation against
her sisters by the mildness of her expressions.
What, in fact, can be more eloquently significant,
and at the same time more characteristic of Cordelia,
than the single line when she and her father are
conveyed to their prison :
Shall we not see these daughter* and these sittert f
The irony here is so b : tter and intense, and at the
vune time so quiei, so feminine, so dignified in tb
expression, that who b'tf Cordelia would havt
t94 OnARACTEBS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
uttered it in the same manner, or would have con
iensed such ample meaning into so few and simple
words ?
We lose sight of Cordelia during the whole of
the second and third, and great part of the fourth
act ; but towards the conclusion she reappears.
Just as our sense of human misery and wickedness
being carried to its extreme height, becomes nearly
intolerable, " like an engine wrenching our frame
of nature from its fixed place," then, like a redeem-
ing angel, she descends to mingle in the scene,
w loosening the springs of pity in our eyes," and
relieving the impressions of pain and terror by
those of admiration and a tender pleasure. For
the catastrophe, it is indeed terrible ! wondrous ter-
rible ! When Lear enters with Cordelia dead in
his arms, compassion and awe so seize on all our
faculties, that we are left only to silence and to
tears. But if I might judge from my own sensa-
tions, the catastrophe of Lear is not so overwhelm-
ing as the catastrophe of Othello. We do not turn
away with the same feeling of absolute unmitigated
despair.' Cordelia is a saint ready prepared for
heaven our earth is not good enough for her : and
Lear ! O who, after sufferings and tortures such as
his, would wish to see his life prolonged ? What
replace a sceptre in that shaking hand ? a crown
apon that old gray head, on which the tempest had
poured in its wrath ? on which the deep dread-
Do" ted thunders and the winged lightnings baa
ipent their fury ? O never, never I
CORDELIA. 294
Lt him pass! he hates h:m
That would upon the rack of this rough world
Stretch him out longer.
In tbe story of King Lear and his three daugh-
ters, as it is related in the " delectable and
nellifluous " romance of Perceforest, and in the
Chronicle of Geoffrey of Monmouth, the conclusion
is fortunate. Cordelia defeats her sisters, and re-
places her father on his throne. Spenser, in his
version of the story, has followed these authorities
Shakspeare has preferred the catastrophe of the
old ballad, founded apparently on some lost tradi-
tion. I suppose it is by way of amending his errors,
and bringing back this daring innovator to sober
history, that it has been thought fit to alter the play
of Lear for the stage, as they have altered Romeo
and Juliet : they have converted the seraph-like
Cordelia into a puling love heroine, and sent her
off victorious at the end of the play exit with
drums and colors flying to be married to Edgar.
Now any thing more absurd, more discordant with
all our previous impressions, and with the characters
as unfolded to us, can hardly be imagined. " I
cannot conceive," says Schlegel, " what ideas of
art and dramatic connection those persons have,
who suppose we can at pleasure tack a double
conclusion to a tragedy a melancholy one for
hard-hearted spectators, and a merry one for those
of softer mould." The fierce manners depicted in
bis play, the extremes of virtue and vice in U
896 CHARACTERS OP THE AFFECTIONS.
persons, belong to the remote period of the story.*
There is no attempt at character in the old nai>
ratives ; Regan and Goneril are monsters of in-
gratitude, and Cordelia merely distinguished by he?
filial piety ; whereas, in Shakspeare, this filial piety
is an affection quite distinct from the qualities
which serve to individualize the human being; we
have a perception of innate character apart from
all accidental circumstance: we see that if Cor-
delia had never known her father, had never been
rejected from his love, had never been a born
princess or a crowned queen, she would not have
been less Cordelia ; less distinctly herself; that is,
woman of a steady mind, of calm but deep affections,,
of inflexible truth, of few words, and of reserved
deportment.
As to Regan and Goneril " tigers, not daugh-
ters" we might wish to regard them as mere
hateful chimeras, impossible as they are detestable ;
but fortunately there was once a Tullia. I know
not where to look for the prototype of Cordelia :
there was a Julia Alpinula, the young priestess of
Aventicum, f who, unable to save her father's life
by the sacrifice of her own, died with him " infeluc
patris, infelix proles" but this is all we know of
her. There was the Roman daughter, too. I re
* King Lear may be supposed to hare lived about one thousand
"ear* before the Christian era, being the forth or fifth in descent
rom King Brut, the great-grandson of Jfaeas, and the fabulouf
bander of the kingdom of Britain.
t She it commemorated by Lord Byron. Vide Childe Hr.rol&
tfcntolii.
CORDELIA. 29.
Hember seeing at Genoa, Guido's " Pieta Romana,"
in which the expression of the female bending over
the aged parent, who feeds from her bosom, is per-
fect, but it is not a Cordelia : only Raffaelle could
have painted Cordelia.
But the character which at once suggests itself
in comparison with Cordelia, as the heroine of filial
tenderness and piety, is certainly the Antigone of
Sophocles. As poetical conceptions, they rest on
the same basis : they are both pure abstractions of
truth, piety, and natural affection ; and in both,
love, as a passion, is knpt entirely out of sight : for
though the womanly character is sustained, by
making them the objects of devoted attachment
yet to have portrayed them as influenced by pas-
sion, would have destroyed that unity of purpose
and feeling which is one source of power ; and,
besides, have disturbed that serene purity and
grandeur of soul, which equally, distinguishes both
neroines. The spirit, however, in which the two
characters are conceived, is as different as possible ;
and we must not fail to remark, that Antigone, who
plays a principal part in two fine tragedies, and ia
distinctly and completely made out, is considered
fcs a masterpiece, the very triumph of the ancient
classical drama ; whereas, there are many among
Shakspeare's characters which arc equal to Cordelia
as dramatic conceptions, and superior to her in
^nishing of outline, as well as in the richness of the
poetical coloring.
When CEdipus, pursued by tne vengeance of the
898 CHARACTEBS OF THE AFFECTIONS
gods, deprived of sight by his own mad act, and
driven from Thebes by his subjects and his sons,
wanders forth, abject and forlorn, he is supported
by his daughter Antigone ; who leads him from city
to city, begs for him, and pleads for him against the
harsh, rude men, who, struck more by his guilt than
his misery, would drive him from his last asylum.
In the opening of the " CEdipus Coloneus," where
the wretched old man appears leaning on his
child, and seats himself in the consecrated Grove
of the Furies, the picture presented to us is won-
derfully solemn and beautiful. The patient, duteous
tenderness of Antigone ; the scene in which she
pleads for her brother Polynices, and supplicates
her father to receive his offending son ; her remon-
strance to Polynices, when she entreats him not to
carry the threatened war into his native country,
are finely and powerfully delineated ; and in her
lamentation over CEdipus, when he perishes in the
mysterious grove, there is a pathetic beauty, appar-
ent even through the stiffness of the translation.
Alas ! I only wished I might have died
With my poor father; wherefore should I ask
For longer life ?
O I was fond of misery with him ;
E'en what was most unlovely grew beloved
When he was with me. my dearest father
Beneath the earth now in deep darkness hid,
Worn as thou wert with age, to me thou still
Wert dear, and shall be ever.
Even as he wished he died,
In a strange land for snob was his dsir
CORDELIA. 299
A shady turf covered his lifeless limbs,
Noi nnlamented fell ! for these eyes,
My father, still shall weep for thee, nor time
E'er blot thee from my memory.
The filial piety of Antigone is the most affecting
grt of the tragedy of " (Edipus Coloneus : " her
Msterly affection, and her heroic self-devotion to a
religious duty, form the plot of the tragedy called
by her name. When her two brothers, Eteocles
and Polynices, had slain each other before the
walls of Thebes, Creon issued an edict forbidding
the rites of sepulture to Polynices, (as the invadei
of his country,) and awarding instant death to
those who should dare to bury him. We know
the importance which the ancients attached to the
funeral obsequies, as alone securing their admission
into the Elysian fields. Antigone, upon hearing
the law of Creon, which thus carried vengeance
beyond the grave, enters in the first scene, an-
nouncing her fixed resolution to brave the threat-
ened punishment : her sister Ismene shrinks from
sharing the peril of such an undertaking, and
endeavors to dissuade her from it, on which Aa-
tigone replies :
Wert thou to proffer what I do not ask
Thy poor assistance I would scorn it now ;
Act as thou wilt, I'll bury him myself:
Let me perform but that, and death is welcome.
I'll do the pious deed, and lay me down
By my dear brother; loving and beloved,
Ws'U rest together.
8ha proceeds to execute her generous purpose
JOO CHARACTERS OT THE AFFECTIONS.
ihe covers with earth the mangled corse of Poljr
nices, pours over it the accustomed libations, U
detected in her pious office, and after nobly defend-
ing her conduct, is led to death by command of
the tyrant : her sister Ismene, struck with sham*
and remorse, now comes forward to accuse her-
self as a partaker in the offence, and share her
sister's punishment; but Antigone sternly and
scornfully rejects her; and after pouring forth a
beautiful lamentation on the misery of perishing
" without the nuptial song a virgin and a slave,"
she dies a V antique she strangles herself to avoid
a lingering death.
Hemon, the son of Creon, unable to save her
life, kills himself upon her grave : but throughout
the whole tragedy we are left in doubt whether
Antigone does or does not return the affection of
this devoted lover.
Thus it will be seen that in the Antigone there
is a great deal of what may be called the effect of
situation, as well as a great deal of poetry and
character : she says the most beautiful things in
the world, performs the most heroic actions, and
all her words and actions are so placed before us
as to command our admiration. According to the
classical ideas of virtue and heroism, the character
is sublime, and in the delineation there is a severe
simplicity mingled with its Grecian grace, a unity,
a grandeur, an elegance, which appeal to our taste
ind our understanding, while they fill and exalt
ie imagination : but in Cordelia it is not th
CORDELIA. 301
sternal coloring or form, it is not what she says or
does, but what she is in herself, what she feels,
thinks, and suffers, which continually awaken
our sympathy and interest. The heroism of Cor-
delia is more passive and tender it melts into our
heart ; and in the veiled loveliness and unostenta-
tious delicacy of her character, there is an effect
more profound and artless, if it be less striking and
less elaborate than in the Grecian heroine. To
Antigone we give our admiration, to Cordelia our
tears. Antigone stands before us in her austere
and statue-like beauty, like one of the marbles of
the Parthenon. If Cordelia reminds us of any
thing on earth, it is of one of the Madonnas in the
old Italian pictures, " with downcast eyes beneath
th' almighty dove ? " and as that heavenly form is
connected with our human sympathies only by the
expression of maternal tenderness or maternal
sorrow, even so Cordelia would be almost too
angelic, were she not linked to our earthly feelings,
bound to our very hearts, by her filial love, hel
irrongs, her sufferings, and her tears
HISTORICAL CHARACTERS*
CLEOPATRA,
1 CANNOT agree with one of the most philo
wphical of Shakspeare's critics, who has asserted
" that the actual truth of particular events, in pro-
portion as we are conscious of it, is a drawback
on the pleasure as well as the dignity of
tragedy." If this observation applies at all, it w
equally just with regard to characters : and in
either case can we admit it ? The reverence and
the simpleness of heart with which Shakspeare
has treated the received and admitted truths of
history I mean according to the imperfect knowl-
edge of his time is admirable ; his inaccuracies
are fsw : his general accuracy, allowing for the
distinction between the narrative and the dramatic
form, is acknowledged to be wonderful. He did
not steal the precious material from the treasury ot
bistory, to debase its purity, new-stamp it arbi-
trarily with effigies and legends of his own devising,
and then attempt to pass it current, like Dryden,
Racine, and the rest of those poetical coiners : he
only rubbed off the rust, purified and brightened
>t, so that history herself has been known U
teceiye it back as sterling.
CLEOPATRA. 30fc
Truth, wherever manifested, should be sacred :
so Shakspeare deemed, and laid no profane hand
upon her altars. But tragedy majestic tragedy,
is worthy to stand before the sanctuary of
Truth, and to be the priestess of her oracles.
"Whatever in religion is holy and sublime, in
virtue amiable or grave, whatsoever hath passion
or admiration in all the changes of that which is
called fortune from without, or the wily subtleties
and refluxes of man's thought from within ; " *
whatever is pitiful in the weakness, sublime in the
strength, or terrible in the perversion of human
intellect, these are the domain of Tragedy. Sibyl
and Muse at once, she holds aloft the book of
human fate, and is the interpreter of its mysteries.
It is not, then, making a mock of the serious
Borrows of real life, nor of those human beings
who lived, suffered and acted upon this earth, to
array them in her rich and stately robes, and pre-
sent them before us as powers evoked from dust
and darkness, to awaken the generous sympathies,
the terror or the pity of mankind. It does not add
to the pain, as far as tragedy is a source of emotion,
that the wrongs and sufferings represented, the
guilt of Lady Macbeth, the despair of Constance,
,he arts of Cleopatra, and the distresses of Kath-
erine, had a real existence ; but it adds infinitely to
the moral effect, as a subject of contemplation and
ft lesson of conduct, f
Milton.
t " That th treachery of King John, the death of Arthur, and
104 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
I shall be able to illustrate these observation*
more fully in the course of this section, in which
we will consider those characters which are drawn
from history ; and first, Cleopatra.
Of all Shakspeare's female characters, Miranda
and Cleopatra appear to me the most wonderful
The first, unequalled as a poetic conception ; the
latter, miraculous as a work of art. If we could
make a regular classification of his characters,
these would form the two extremes of simplicity
and complexity ; and all his other characters would
be found to fill up some shade or gradation be-
tween these two.
Great crimes, springing from high passions,
grafted on high qualities, are the legitimate source
of tragic poetry. But to make the extreme of
littleness produce an effect like grandeur to make
the excess of frailty produce an effect like power-
to heap up together all that is most unsubstantial,
frivolous, vain, contemptible, and variable, till the
worthlessness be lost in the magnitude, and a sense
of the sublime spring from the very elements of
littleness, to do this, belonged only to Shakspeare
that worker of miracles. Cleopatra is a brilliant
antithesis, a compound of contradictions, of all that
MM grief of Constance, had a real truth in history, sharpens th
Hnse of pain, while it hangs a leaden weight on the bean and
the imagination. Something whispers us that we hare no right
to make a mock of calamities like these, or to turn the truth of
things into the puppet and plaything of our fancies." Set
Characters of Shakspeare's Plays. To consider <Atw if not U
toiudder too deeply, but not deeply enough.
CLEOPATRA. 805
we most hate, with what we most admire. The
whole character is the triumph of the external over
the innate ; and yet like one of her country's
hieroglyphics, though she present at first view a
splendid and perplexing anomaly, there is deep
meaning and wondrous skill in the apparent
enigma, when we come to analyze and decipher it.
But how are we to arrive at the solution of this
glorious riddle, whose dazzling complexity continu-
ally mocks and eludes us ? What is most astonish-
ing in the character of Cleopatra is its antithetical
construction its consistent inconsistency, if I may
use such an expression which renders it quite
impossible to reduce it to any elementary prin-
ciples. It will, perhaps, be found on the whole,
that vanity and the love of power predominate;
but I dare not say it is so, for these qualities and a
hundred others mingle into each other, and shift
and change, and glance away, like the colors in a
peacock's train.
In some others of Shakspeare's female char-
acters, also remarkable for their complexity,
^ Portia and Juliet, for instance,) we are struck
with the delightful sense of harmony in the midst
of contrast, so that the idea of unity and simplicity
of effect is produced in the midst of variety ; but
in Cleopatra it is the absence of unity and sim-
plicity which strikes us ; the impression is that of
perpetual and irreconcilable contrast The con-
tinual approximation of whatever is most opposite
in character, in situation, in sentiment, would b*
M
106 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
fatiguing, were it not so perfectly natural: tht
woman herself would be distracting, if she wera
not so enchanting.
I have not the slightest doubt that Shakspeare'i
Cleopatra is the real historical Cleopatra the
" Rare Egyptian " individualized and placed be-
fore us. Her mental accomplishments, her une-
qualled grace, her woman's wit and woman's wiles,
her irresistible allurements, her starts of irregular
grandeur, her bursts of ungovernable temper, her
vivacity of imagination, her petulant caprice, her
fickleness and her falsehood, her tenderness and
her truth, her childish susceptibility to flattery, her
magnificent spirit, her royal pride, the gorgeous
eastern coloring of the character ; all these con-
tradictory elements has Shakspeare seized, mingled
them in their extremes, and fused them into one
brilliant impersonation of classical elegance, Orien-
tal voluptuousness, and gipsy sorcery.
What better proof can we have of the individual
truth of the character than the admission that
Shakspeare's Cleopatra produces exactly the same
effect on us that is recorded of the real Cleopatra ?
She dazzles our faculties, perplexes our judgment,
Vewilders and bewitches our fancy ; from the be-
ginning to the end of the drama, we are conscious
if a kind of fascination against which our moral
icnse rebels, but from which there is no escapg
The epithets applied to her perpetually by Anton*
and others confirm this impression : " enchanting
tjueen I " " witch " " spell " " great fairy "-
CLEOfATRA. 807
* cockatrice * " serpent of old Nile " " thou grave
charm ! " * are only a few of them ; and who doe*
not know by heart the famous quotations in which
this Egyptian Circe is described with all her infi
nite seductions ?
Fie ! wrangling queen 1
Whom every thing becomes to chide, to laugh,
To weep ; whose every passion fully strives
To make itself, in thee, fair and admired.
Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
. Her infinite variety:
For vilest things
Become themselves in her.
And the pungent irony of Enobarbus has well ex
posed her feminine arts, when he says, on the occa-
sion of Antony's intended departure,
Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies in*
rtantly : I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorel
moment.
ANTONY.
She is cunning past man's thought.
ENOBARBUS.
Alack, sir, no ! her passions are made of nothing bat
the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her windi
ind waters, sighs and tears ; they are greater storms and
tempests than almanacs can report ; this cannot be ctn-
* Grave, in the sense of mighty or potent.
108 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
ning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as weE
w Jove.
The whole secret of her absolute dominion ovei
the facile Antony may be found in one little
ipeech :
See where he is who's with him what he dow
(I did not send you.) If you find him sad,
Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report
That I am sudden sick 1 Quick 1 and return.
CHARMIAN.
Madam, methinks if you did love him dearly,
You do not hold the method to enforce
The like frdm him.
CLEOPATRA.
What should I do, I do not?
CHARMIAN.
In each thing give him way ; cross him in nothing.
CLROPATRA.
Thou teachest like a fool : the way to lose him.
CHARMIAM.
Tempt him not too far.
But Cleopatra is a mistress of her art, and knowt
oetter : and what a picture of her triumphant pefr
ilanee, her imperious and imperial coquetry, if
jiven in her own words !
That time times!
I laugh'd him out of patience ; and that night
CLKOPA1RA. 309
1 laughed Kim into patience: and next morn,
Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed;
Then put my tires and mantles on, whilst
I wore his sword, Philippan.
When Antony enters full of some serious pur-
pose which he is abou* to impart, the woman's per-
terseness, and the tyrannical waywardness with
which she taunts him and plays upon his temper
ire admirably depicted.
I know, by that same eye, there's some good newt.
What says the married woman ? # You may go ;
Would she had never given you leave to come 1
Let her not say, 'tis I that keep you here ;
I have no power upon you; hers you are.
ANTONY.
1 he gods best know
CLEOPATRA.
0, never was there queen
So mightily betray' d I Yet at the first,
I saw the treasons planted.
ANTONY.
Cleopatra!
CLEOPATRA.
Why should I think you can be mine, and true,
Though you in swearing shake the throned gods,
Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madnM
To be entangled with those mouth-made vow,
Which break themselves in swearing!
* fulria, the first wife of Antony.
110 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
AHTOinr.
Most sweet queen I
CLEOPATRA.
Nay, pray you, seek no color for your going,
But bid farewell, and go.
She recovers her dignity for a moment at the
flews of Fulvia's death, as if roused by a blow ;
Though age from folly could not give me freedom,
It does from childishness. Can Fulvia die?
And then follows the artful mockery with which
he tempts and provokes him, in order to discover
whether he regrets his wife.
most false lovel
Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill
With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see
In Fulvia's death, how mine receiv'd shall be.
AUTONT.
Quarrel no more; but be prepared to know
The purposes I bear: which are, or cease,
As yon shall give th' advice. Now, by the fir
That quickens Nilus' shrine, I go from hence
Thy soldier, servant, making peace or war,
As thou afiectest.
CLBOrATBA.
Cut my lace, Charmian, coma '
But let it be. I am quickly ill, and well.
Bo Antony loves.
CLEOPATRA 31 1
My precious queen, forbear:
And give true evidence to his love which standi
An honorable trial.
CLEOPATRA.
So Fulvia told me.
I pr'ythee turn aside, and weep for her :
Then bid adieu to me, and say, the tears
Belong to Egypt. Good now, play one scene
Of excellent dissembling; and let it look
Like perfect honor.
ANTONY.
You'll heat my blood no more '
CLEOPATRA.
Ton can do better yet; but this is meetly.
ANTONY.
Now, by my sword
CLEOPATRA.
And target still he mends :
But this is not the best. Look, pr'ythee, Charmian,
How this Herculean Roman does become
The carriage of his chafe !
This is, indeed, most " excellent dissembling ; *
but when she has fooled and chafed the Herculean
Roman to the verge of danger, then comes that
return of tenderness which secures the power she
has tried to the utmost, and we have all the elegant,
the poetical Cleopatra in her beautiful farewell.
Forgive me I
Since my becomings kill me when they do not
Ill HISTORICAL CHARACTERS
Eye well to you. Your honor nails you hence,
Therefo-e be deaf to ray unpitied folly,
And all the gods go with you ! Upon your sword
Sit laurell'd victory ; and smooth success
Be strew'd before your feet !
Finer still are the workings of her variable mind
and lively imagination, after Antony's departure ;
her fond repining at his absence, her violent spirit,
her right royal wilfulness and impatience, as if it
were a wrong to her majesty, an insult to her
iceptre, that there should exist in her despite such
things as space and time ; and high treason to her
sovereign power, to dare to remember what she
chooses to forget
Give me to drink mandragora,
That 1 might sleep out this great gap of tune
My Antony is away.
Channian!
Where think'st thou he is now ? Stands he, or sits h&
Or does he walk ? or is he on his horse ?
happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony I
Do bravely, horse ! for wot'st thon whom thou mov'st
The demi-Atlas of this earth the arm
And burgonet of men. He's speaking now,
Or murmuring, Where's my serpent of old Nile?
For so he calls me.
Met' at thou my posts t
ALEXA8.
Ay, madam, twenty several messengers:
Why do you send so thick ?
CLEOPATRA.
Who's born that d*y
CLEOPATKA. 818
. When I forget to send to Antony,
Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, CharmiaiL
Welcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian,
Ever love Csesar so?
CHARMIAN.
that brave Caesar!
CLEOPATRA.
Be chok'd with such another emphasis !
Say, the brave Antony.
CHARMIAN.
The valiant Caesar I
CLEOPATRA.
By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth,
If thou with Csesar paragon again
My man of men 1
CHARMIAN.
By your most gracious pardon,
I sing but after you.
1 CLEOPATRA.
My salad days,
When I was green in judgment, cold in blood,
To say as I said then. But, come away
Get me some ink and paper: he shall have every day
A several greeting, or I'll unpeople Egypt.
We learn from Plutarch, that it was a favoriti
amusement with Antony and Cleopatra to ramble
through the streets at night, and bandy ribald
jests with the populace of Alexandria. From the
ame authority, we know that they were accustomed
.o live on the most familiar terms with their attend
114 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
ants and the companions of their revels. To thes
traits we must add, that with all her violence, per-
verseness, egotism, and caprice, Cleopatra mingled
a capability for warm affections and kindly feeling,
or rather what we should call in these days, a con-
stitutional good-nature ; and was lavishly generom
to her favorites and dependents. These charac-
teristics we find scattered through the play ; they
are not only faithfully rendered by Shakspeare,
but he has made the finest use of them in his de-
lineation of manners. Hence the occasional free-
dom of her women and her attendants, in the
midst of their fears and flatteries, becomes most
natural and consistent : hence, too, their devoted
attachment and fidelity, proved e w en in death.
But as illustrative of Cleopatra's disposition, per-
haps the finest and most characteristic scene : n the
whole play, is that in which the messenger M-rivea
from Rome with the tidings of Antony's marriage
with Octavia. She perceives at once with quick-
ness that all is not well, and she hastens to antici-
pate the worst, that she may have the pleasure of
being disappointed. Her impatience to know what
she fears to learn, the vivacity with which she
gradually works herself up into a state of excite*
ment, and a f length into fury, is wrought out witk
I force of tru'h which makes us recoil.
CLEOPATRA.
Antony's dead!
If thou say so, villain, thou kilTst thy mintreM
CLEOPATRA. 311
But well and free,
If thou so yield him, there is gold, and her*
My bluest veins to kiss ; a hand that kings
Have lipp'd, and trembled kissing.
MESSENGER.
First, madam, lie is well.
CLEOPATRA.
Why, there's more gold. But, sirrah, mark! w OM
To say, the dead are well : bring it to that,
The gold I give thee will I melt, and pour
Down thy ill-uttering throat.
MESSENGER.
Good madam, hear me.
CLEOPATRA.
Well, go to, I will.
But there's no goodness in thy face. If Antony
Be free and healthful, why so tart a favor
To trumpet such good tidings ? If not well,
Thou should'st come like a fury crown' d with snake*
MESSENGER.
Wil't please you hear me ?
CLEOPATRA
I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak'st ;
Yet if thou say Antony lives, is well,
Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him,
I'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail
Rich pearls upon thee.
MKSSENGKB.
Madam, he's well.
Ill HISTORICAL CHARACTER*.
CLEOPATRA.
Well said.
MESSENGER.
And friends with Caesar.
CLEOPATRA.
Thou art an honest
MESSENGER.
Caesar and he are greater friends than ever.
CLEOPATRA.
Make thee a fortune from me.
MESSENGER.
Bnt yet, madam
CLEOPATRA.
I do not like but yet it does allay
The good precedence. Fie upon but yet:
But yet is as a gaoler to bring forth
Some monstrous malefactor. Pr'ythee, friend,
Pour out thy pack of matter to mine ear,
The good and bad together. He's friends with Cesai
In state of health, thou say'st; and thou say'st fre
MESSENGER.
Free, madam! No: I made no such report,
He's bound unto Octavia.
CLEOPATRA.
For what good turn?
MESSENGER.
Madam he's married to Octariu
CLEOPATRA. .317
CLEOPATRA.
The most infectious pestilence upon thee !
[Strikes him down.
MESSENGER.
Good madam, patience.
CLEOPATRA.
What say you ? [Strikes him again.
Hence horrible villain ! or I'll spurn thine eyes
Like balls before me I'll unhair thine head
Thou shalt be whipp'd with wire, and stewed in brine
Smarting in ling'ring pickle.
MESSENGER.
Gracious madam !
I, that do bring the news, made not the match.
CLEOPATRA.
Say 'tis not so, a province I will give thee,
And make thy fortunes proud : the blow thou hadst
Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage;
And I will boot thee with what gift beside
Thy modesty can beg.
MESSENGER.
He's married, madam.
CLEOPATRA.
Rogue, thou hast lived too long. [Draws a dagger.
MESSENGER.
Nay then I'll run.
What mean you, madam? I have made no fault. [Exit
CHARMIAN.
aood madam, keep yourself within yourself;
\!he man is innocent.
118 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
CLEOPATRA.
Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt.
Melt Egypt into Nile ! and kindly creatures
Torn all to serpents ! Call the slave again ;
Though I am mad, I will not bite him Call t
CHARM IAN.
He is afraid to come.
CLEOPATRA.
I will not hurt him.
These hands do lack nobility, that they strik*
A meaner than myself.
CLEOPATRA.
In praising Antony I have dispraised Caesar.
CHARMIAH.
Many times, madam.
CLEOPATRA.
I am paid for't now
Lead me from hence.
I faint. Iras, Charmian 'tis no matter-
Go to the fellow, good Alexas; bid him
Report the features of Octavia, her yean,
Her inclination let him not leave out
The color of her hair. Bring me word quickly.
[I'-x'it Ale*
Let him forever go let him not Charmian,
Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon,
T'other way he's a Mars. Bid you Alexas
[To Mar&m
Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmiao
But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chambnr
CLEOPATBA. SIS
J have given this scene entire because 1 know
nothing comparable to it. The pride and arro-
gance of the Egyptian queen, the blandishment of
the woman, the unexpected but natural transitions
of temper and feeling, the contest of various pas-
eions, and at length when the wild hurricane has
spent its fury the melting into tears, faintness,
and languishment, are portrayed with the most
astonishing power, and truth, and skill in feminine
nature. More wonderful still is the splendor and
force of coloring which is shed over this extraor-
dinary scene. The mere idea of an angry woman
beating her menial, presents something ridiculous
or disgusting to the mind ; in a queen or a tragedy
heroine it is still more indecorous ; * yet this scene
is as far as possible from the vulgar or the comic.
Cleopatra seems privileged to " touch the brink of
all we hate " with impunity. This imperial terma-
gant, this " wrangling queen, whom every thing
Becomes," becomes even her fury. We know not
oy what strange power it is, that in the midst of all
these unruly passions and childish caprices, the
poetry of the character, and the fanciful and spark-
ling grace of the delineation are sustained and still
rule in the imagination ; but we feel that it is so.
I need hardly observe, that we have historical
authority for its excessive violence of Cleopatra's
* The well-known violence and coarseness of Queen Elizabeth 'f
manners, in which she was imitated by the women ibout her,
pay ir Shnkspeare's time have rendered the image of a royal
tr*go taw offensive and less extraordinary.
820 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
temper. Witness the story of her boxing the eaii
of her treasurer, in presence of Octavius, as related
by Plutarch. Shakspeare has made a fine use of
this anecdote also towards the conclusion of the
drama, but it is not equal in power to this scene
vrith the messenger.
The man is afterwards brought back, almost by
force, to satisfy Cleopatra's jealous anxiety, by a
description of Octavia: but this time, made wise
by experience, he takes care to adapt his informa-
tion to the humors of his imperious mistress, and
gives her a satirical picture of her rival. The
scene which follows, in which Cleopatra artful,
acute, and penetrating as she is becomes the
dupe of her feminine spite and jealousy, nay,
assists in duoing herself; and after having cuffed
the messenger for telling her truths which are
offensive, rewards him for the falsehood which flat-
ters her weakness is not only an admirable exhi-
bition of character, but a fine moral lesson.
She concludes, after dismissing the messenger
with gold and thanks,
I repent me mncn
That I so harry'd him. Why, methinks by him
This creature' s no such thing ?
CHARM I AN.
nothing, madam.
CLEOPATKA.
Th man hath seen some majesty, and should know I
Do we not fancy Cleopatra drawing herself if
CLEOPATRA. 821
with all the vain consciousness of rank and beauty
as she pronounces this last line ? and is not this the
very woman who celebrated her own apotheosis,
who arrayed herself in the robe and diadem of the
goddess Isis, and could find no titles magnificent
enough for her children but those of the Sun and
the Moon f
The despotism and insolence of her temper are
touched in some other places most admirably.
Thus, when she is told that the Romans libel and
abuse her, she exclaims,
Sink Rome, and their tongues rot
That speak against us !
And when one of her attendants observes, that
" Herod of Jewry dared not look upon her but
when she were well pleased," she immediately re-
plies, " That Herod's head I'll have." *
When Proculeius surprises her in her monu-
ment, and snatches her poniard from her, terror,
and fury, pride, passion, and disdain, swell in her
haughty soul, and seem to shake her very being.
CLEOPATRA.
Where art thou, death?
Come hither, come ! come, come and take a queen
Worth many babes and beggars 1
PROCULEIUS.
temperance, lady?
CLEOPATRA.
Sir, I will eat no meat; I'll not drink, sir:
* She -was as good *a her w/rd See the lifr of Antony in Pt
tenh
31
M2 HISTOKICAL CHARACTERS.
If idle talk will once be necessary.
I'll not sleep neither ; this mortal house Til ruin,
Do Caesar what he can ! Know, sir, that I
Will not wait pinion'd at your master's court,
Nor once be chastis'd with the sober eye
Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up,
And show me to the shouting varletry
Of censuring Rome ? Rather a ditch in Egypt
Be gentle grave to me ! Rather on Nilus' mud
Lay me stark naked, and let the water-flies
Blow me into abhorring ! Rather make
My country's high pyramids my gibbet,
And hang me up in chains I
In the same spirit of royal bravado, but finei
till, and worked up with a truly Oriental exuber*
nce of fancy and imagery, is her famous descrip-
tion of Antony, addressed to Dolabella :
Most noble empress you have heard of me ?
CLBOPATKA.
I cannot tell.
DOLABELLA.
Assuredly, you know me.
CLEOPATRA.
No matter, sir, what I have heard or known.
You laugh when boys, or women, tell their
IB 't not your trick ?
DOLABELLA.
understand not, madam.
CLEOPATRA.
I dream' d there was an emperor Antony;
such another sleep, that I might
But such another man I
CLEOPATRA. 32S
DOLABELLA.
If it might please you
CLEOPATRA.
His face was as the heavens ; and therein stuck
A sun and moon; which kept their course, and lighted
The little 0, the earth.
DOLABELLA.
Most sovereign creature
CLEOPATRA.
His legs bestrid the ocean: his reared arm
Crested the world ; his voice was propertied
As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends ;
But when he meant to quail or shake the orb
He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty,
There was no winter in't; an autumn 'twas,
That grew the more by reaping. His delights
Were dolphin like ; they show'd his back above
The element they liv'd hi. In his livery *
Walk'd crowns and coronets; realms and islands wan
Aa plates f dropp'd from his pocket.
DOLABELLA
Cleopatra!
CLEOPATRA.
Think you there was, or might be, such a man
As this I dream'd of?
DOLABELLA.
Gentle madam, no.
CLEOPATRA.
You lie, up to the hearing of the gods I
There was no room left in this amazing pictur*
. . wttmw. f 1. 1. Bllvei oobu. from the Spanish flmtm
15:4 in- l i >i:ic \ I. CHARACTERS.
for the display of that passionate maternal tenclei
ness, which was a strong and redeeming feature in
Cleopatra's historical cnaracter; but it is not left
nntouche ] , for when she is imprecating mischiefs
on herself, she wishes, as the last and worst of pos-
sible evils, that " thunder may smite Caesarion ! "
7*. representing the mutual passion of Antony
ai.d Cleopatra as real and fervent, Shakspeare has
adhered to the truth of history as well as to gen-
eral nature. On Antony's side it is a species of
infatuation, a single and engrossing feeling : it is,
in short, the love of a man declined in years for a
woman very much younger than himself, and who
has subjected him to every species of female en-
chantment. In Cleopatra the passion is of a mixed
nature, made up of real attachment, combined with
the lo B of pleasure, the love of power, and the
love of self. Not only is the character most com-
plicated, but no one sentiment could have existed
pure and unvarying in such a mind as hers ; her
passion in itself is true, fixed to one centre ; but
like the pennon streaming from the mast, it flutters
and veers with every breath of her variable tem-
per : yet in the midst of all her caprices, follies,
and even vices, womanly feeling is still predomi-
nant in Cleopatra : and the change which takes
place in her (^portment towards Antony, when
their evil fortun* darkens round them, is as beauti-
ful and interesting in itself as it is striking anj
natural. Instead of the airy caprice and provohr
'tog petulance she displays in the first scenes, we
CLEOPATRA. 823
have a mixture of tenderness, and artifice, and
fear, and submissive blandishment. Her behavior,
for instance, after the battle of Actium, when she
quails before the noble and tender rebuke of her
lover, is partly female subtlety and partly natural
CLEOPATRA.
my lord, my lord,
Forgive my fearful sails ! I little thought
You would have follow'd.
ANTONY.
Egypt, thou know'st too well
My heart was to the rudder tied by the string's,
And thou should'st tow me after. O'er my spirit
Thy full supremacy thou know'st; and that
Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods
Command me.
CLEOPATRA.
0, my pardon?
ANTONY.
Now I must
To the young man send humble treaties, dodgs
And palter in the shifts of lowness ; who
With half the bulk o' the world play'd as I pleaVd,
Making and man-ing fortunes. You did know
How much you were my conqueror ; and that
My sword, made weak by my affection, would
Obey it on all cause.
CLEOPATRA.
pardon, pardon !
ANTONY.
Fall not a tear, I say ; one of them rates
.ill that is won and lost. Give me a kiM
fcven this repays met
526 HISTORICAL CHARACTKRb.
It is perfectly in keeping with the individual
character, that Cleopatra, alike destitute of nionu
strength and physical courage, should cower terri-
fied and subdued before the masculine spirit of her
lover, when once she has fairly roused it. Thus
Tasso's Armida, half siren, half sorceress, in the
moment of strong feeling, forgets her incantations,
and has recourse to persuasion, to prayers, and to
tears.
Lascia gl' incanti, e vuol provar se vaga
E supplice belta sia miglior mnga.
Though the poet afterwards gives us to under-
stand that even in this relinquishment of art there
was a more refined artifice.
Nella doglia amara
Gia tutte non oblia 1' arti e le frodi.
And something like this inspires the conduct of
Cleopatra towards Antony in his fallen fortunes.
The reader should refer to that fine scene, where
Antony surprises Thyreus kissing her hand, " that
kingly seal and plighter of high hearts," and ragea
like a thousand hurricanes.
The character of Mark Antony, as delineated by
Shakspcare, reminds me of the Farnese Hercules.
There is an ostentatious display of power, an ex-
aggerated grandeur, a colossal effect in the whole
conception, sustained throughout in the pomp of
ihe language, which seems, as it flows along, to re-
ound with the clang of arms and the music of the
revel. The coarseness and violence of the historic
portra't are a little kept down ; but every word
CLEOPATRA. 32T
which Antony utters is characteristic of the arro-
gant but magnanimous Roman, who " with half the
bulk o' the world played as he pleased," and was
himself the sport of a host of mad (and bad) pas-
sions, and the slave of a woman.
History is followed closely in all the details of
the catastrophe, and there is something wonderfully
grand in the hurried march of events towards the
conclusion. As disasters hem her round, Cleopatra
gathers up her faculties to meet them, not with the
calm fortitude of a great soul, but the haughty,
tameless spirit of a wilful woman, unused to reverse
or contradiction.
Her speech, after Antony has expired in her
arms, I have always regarded as one of the moat
wonderful in Shakspeare. Cleopatra is not a wo-
man to grieve silently. The contrast between the
violence of her passions and the weakness of her
sex, between her regal grandeur and her excess of
misery, her impetuous, unavailing struggles with
the fearful destiny which has compassed her, and
the mixture of wild impatience and pathos in her
agony, are really magnificent She faints on the
body of Antony, and is recalled to life by the
cries of her women :-r-
IRA8.
Royai Egypt empress !
CLEOPATRA.
Nc more, but e'en a woman ! * and commanded
Clef patra replies to tie first word she hears on recoverir g ivtf
rf No more on emprea, but a mere woman ! "
S'28 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
By such poor passion as the maid that milks,
And does the meanest chares. It were for nw
To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods:
To tell them that our world did equal theirs
Till they had stolen our jewel. All's but naught.
Patience is sottish, and impatience does
Become a dog that's mad. Then is it sin
To rush into the secret house of death
Ero death dare come to us ? How do you, women ?
What, what? good cheer! why how now, Charmima?
My noble girls ! ah, women, women 1 look
Our lamp is spent, is out.
We'll bury him, and then what's brave, what's noble.
Let's do it after the high Roman fashion,
And make death proud to take us.
But although Cleopatra talks of dying " after the
high Roman fashion," she fears what she most de-
sires, and cannot perform with simplicity what
costs her such an effort. That extreme physical
cowardice, which was so strong a trait in her his-
torical character, which led to the defeat of Ac-
tium, which made her delay the execution of a
fatal resolve, till she had " tried conclusions infinite
of easy ways to die," Shakspeare has rendered
with the finest possible effect, and in a manner
which heightens instead of diminishing our respect
and interest Timid by nature, she is courageous
by the mere force of will, and she lashes herself up
with high-sounding words into a kind of false dar-
ing. Her lively imagination suggests every incen-
tive which can spur her on to the deed she hai
resolved, yet trembles to contemplate. She pio
tares to herself all the degradations which must
CLEOPATRA. 329
Attend her captivity , and let it be observed, that
those which she anticipates are precisely such as a
vain, luxurious, and haughty woman would espec-
ially dread, and which only true virtue and mag-
nanimity could despise. Cleopatra could have
endured the loss of freedom ; but to be led in tri-
umph through the streets of Rome is insufferable.
She could stoop to Caesar with dissembling courtesy,
and meet duplicity with superior art ; but " to b
chastised " by the scornful or upbraiding glance of
the injured Octavia " rather a ditch in Egypt I"
If knife, drugs, serpents, have
Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe.
Your wife, Octavia, with her modest eyes,
And still conclusion,* shall acquire no honor
Demurring upon me.
Now Iras, what think'st thou ?
fhon, an Egyptian puppet, shall be shown
In Rome as well as I. Mechanic slaves,
With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall
Uplift us to the view. In their thick breaths,
Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded,
And forc'd to drink their vapor.
IRAS.
The gods forbid!
CLJEOPATKA.
Nay, 'tis most certain, Iras. Saucy lictors
Will catch at us like strumpets ; and scald rhymer*
Ballad us out o' tune. The quick comedians
Extemporally will stage us and present
* '. . Mdate determination. JOHXIOB
310 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
Onr Alexandrian revels. Antony
Shall be brought drunken forth ; and I shall M
Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness.
She then calls for her diadem, her robes of state,
%nd attires herself as if " again for Cydnus, to
meet Mark Antony." Coquette to the last, she
must make Death proud to take her, and die,
"phoenix like," as she had lived, with all the pomp
of preparation luxurious in her despair.
The death of Lucretia, of Portia, of Arria, and
others who died " after the high Roman fashion,"
is sublime according to the Pagan ideas of virtue,
and yet none of them so powerfully affect the im-
agination as the catastrophe of Cleopatra. The
idea of this frail, timid, wayward woman, dying
with heroism from the mere force of passion and
will, takes us by surprise. The Attic elegance of
her mind, her poetical imagination, the pride of
beauty and royalty predominating to the last, and
the sumptuous and picturesque accompaniment!
with which she surrounds herself in death, carry to
its extreme height that effect of contrast which
prevails through her life and character. No arts,
no invention could add to the real circumstance!
of Cleopatra's closing scene. Shakspeare ha!
ghown profound judgment and feeling in adhering
closely to the classical authorities ; and to say tha*
the language and sentiments worthily fill up the
outline, is the most magnificent praise that can b
given. The magical play of fancy and the ove*
powering fascination of the character are kept up
CLEOPATRA. 881
to ike last . and when Cleopatra, on applying th
fcsp, silences the lamentations of her women :
Peace! peace!
Dost them not see my baby at my breast,
That sucks the nurse to sleep?
These few words the contrast between the tender
beauty of the image and the horror of the situa-
tion produce an effect more intensely mournful
than all the ranting in the world. The generous
devotion of her women adds the moral charm
which alone was wanting: and when Octavius
hurries in too late to save his victim, and exclaims,
when gazing on her
She looks like sleep
As she would catch another Antony
In her strong toil of grace,
the image of her beauty and her irresistible arts,
triumphant even in death, is at once brought
before us, and one masterly and comprehensive
stroke consummates this most wonderful, most daz-
zling delineation.
I am not here the apologist of Cleopatra's histor-
ical character, nor of such women as resemble her:
I am considering her merely as a dramatic portrait
of astonishing beiuty, spirit, and originality. Sha
h\s furnished the subject of two Latin, sixteen
French, six English, and at least four Italian trag-
edies ; * yet Shakspeare alone has availed himself
* The Cleopatra of Jodelle was the first regular French tray
ljr : the last French tragedy on the same subject was tho Cite
132 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
of all the interest of the story, without falsifying
the character. He alone has dared to exhibit the
Egyptian queen with all her greatness and all her
littleness all her frailties of temper all her
paltry arts and dissolute passions yet preserved
the dramatic propriety and poetical coloring of the
character, and awakened our pity for fallen gran-
deur, without once beguiling us into sympathy with
guilt and error. Corneille has represented Cleo-
patra as a model of chaste propriety, magnanimity,
constancy, and every female virtue ; and the effect
is almost ludicrous. In our own language, we have
two very fine tragedies on the story of Cleopatra :
in that of Dryden, which is in truth a noble poem,
and which he himself considered his masterpiece,
Cleopatra is a mere commonplace " all-for-love "
heroine, full of constancy and fine sentiments.
For instance :
My love's so true,
That I can neither hide it where it is,
Nor show it where it is not. Nature meant me
A wife a silly, harmless, household dove,
Fond without art, and kind without deceit.
But fortune, that has made a mistress of mo,
Has thrust me out to the wild world, unfurnished
Of falsehood to be happy.
patrt of Marmontel. For the representation of this tragedy
Vaucanson, the celebrated French mechanist, invented an au-
tomaton nsp, which crawled and biased to the life, to the gmt
delight of the Parisians. But it appears that neither Vatican
ton's asp, nor Clairon. could save C16opatre from a deserved fat*.
Of the English tragedies, one was written by the Countess of
Pembroke, the sister of Sir Philip Sydney; and is, I believe, th
Irst instance in our language of original dramatic writing, by
CLEOPATRA. 881
la this Antony's Cleopatra the Circe ol the
Nile the "Venus of the Cydnus ? She never
ottered any thig half so mawkish in her life.
In Fletcher's " False One," Cleopatra is repre-
sented at an earlier period of her history : and to
give an idea of the aspect under which the charac-
ter is exhibited, (and it does not vary throughout
the play,) I shall give one scene ; if it be consid-
ered out of place, its extreme beauty will form its
best apology.
Ptolemy and his council having exhibited to
Csesar all the royal treasures in Egypt, he is so
astonished and dazzled at the view of the accumu-
lated wealth, that he forgets the presence of Cleo-
patra, and treats her with negligence. The follow-
ing scene between her and her sister Arsinoe occur*
immediately afterwards.
You're so impatient !
CLEOPATRA.
Have I not cause?
Women of common beauties and low births,
When they are slighted, are allowed their angers-
Why should not I, a princess, make him know
The baseness of his usage ?
ARSINOE.
Yes, 'tis fit:
put then again yon know what man
CLEOPATRA.
He's no mavf
134 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
Fhe shadow of a greatness hangs upon him,
And not the virtue ; he is no conqueror,
Has suffered under the base dross of nature;
Poorly deliver'd up his power to wealth.
The god of bed-rid men taught his eyes treason
Against the truth of love he has rais'd rebellion-
Defied his holy flames.
EROS.
He will fall back again.
And satisfy your grace.
CLEOPATRA.
Had I been old,
Or blasted in my bud, he might have show'd
Some shadow of dislike : but to prefer
The lustre of a little trash, Arsinoe,
And the poor glow-worm light of some faint jewels
Before the light of love, and soul of beauty
how it vexes me ! He is no soldier:
All honorable soldiers are Love's servants.
He is a merchant, a mere wandering merchant,
Servile to gain ; he trades for poor commodities,
And makes his conquests thefts ! Some fortunate cap
tains
That quarter with him, and are truly valiant,
Have flung th name of " Happy Caesar " on him;
Himself ne'er won it. He's so base and covetous,
He'll sell his sword for gold.
ARSINOE.
This is too bitter.
CLEOPATRA.
0, 1 could curse myself, that was so foolish.
Bo fondly childish, to believe his tongue
His promising tongue ere I could catch his temper.
CLEOPATRA. 388
f d trash enough to have cloyed his eyes withal,
(His covetous eyes,) such as I scorn to tread on,
Richer than e'er he saw yet, and more tempting;
Had I known he'd stoop' d at that, I'd saved mine aoinar
I had been happy still ! But let him take it.
And let him brag how poorly I'm rewarded;
Let him go conquer still weak wretched ladies ;
Love has his angry quiver too, his deadly,
And when he finds scorn, armed at the strongest
I am a fool to fret thus for a fool,
An old blind fool too ! I lose my health ; I will not,
I will not cry ; I will not honor him
With tears diviner than the gods he worships;
[ will not take the pains to curse a poor thing.
EROS.
Do not ; you shall not need.
CLEOPATRA.
Would I Y ere prisoner
Yo one I hate, that I might anger him I
I will love any man to break the heart of himl
Any that has the heart and will to kill him !
ARSUJOE.
fake some fair truce.
CLEOPATRA.
I will go study mischief,
And put a look on, arm'd with all my cunnings.
Shall meet him like a basilisk, and strike him.
Love! put destroying flame into mine eyes,
Into my smiles deceits, that I may torture him
That I may make him lov? to death, and laugh at him
Enter APOLLODORUB.
APOLLODORUS.
C0sar commends his service to your grace
136 HISTORICAL CHARACTEI
CLEOPATRA.
His service ? What's his service ?
EROS.
Pray yon be patta*
The noble Caesar loves still.
CLEOPATRA.
What's his wffl?
AFOLLODORUS.
He craves access unto your highness.
CLEOPATRA.
No;
Bay no; I will have none to trouble me.
Good sister I
CLEOPATRA.
None, I say. 1 will be private.
Would thou hadst flung me into Nilus, keeper,
When first thou gav'st consent to bring my body
To this unthankful Caesar!
APOLLODORU8.
'Twas your will, madam.
Nay more, your charge upon me, as I honor'd you.
You know what danger I endur'd.
CLEOPATRA.
Take this, (giving
And carry it to that lordly Caesar sent thee;
There's a new love, a handsome one, a rich one,
One that w'Jl hug his mind: bid him make love to itt
Tell the ambitious broker this will suffer
Enter
CLEOPATRA. 817
APOLLODORUS.
He enters.
CLEOPATRA.
How!
C2E8AR.
I do not use to wait, lady
Wbara I am, all the doors are free and open.
CLEOPATRA.
I guess so by your rudeness.
C/ESAR.
You're not angry?
Things of your tender mould should be most gentle.
Why should you frown? Good gods, what a set anger
Have you forc'd into your face! Come, I must temper
yon.
What a coy smile was there, and a disdainful 1
How like an ominous flash it broke out from you !
Defend me, love ! Sweet, who has anger' d you ?
CLEOPATR>
Show him a glass ! That false face has betray'd me
That base heart wrong'd me !
C/ESAR.
Be more sweetly angry.
I wrong'd yon, fair?
CLEOPATRA.
Away with your foul flatteries ;
Thev are too gross ! But that I dare be angry,
And with as great a god as Caesar is,
To show how poorly I respect his neaory
I would not speak to you.
12
138 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS
C.fiSAR.
Pray you, undo this riddle,
And tell ine how I've vexed you.
CLEOPATRA.
Let me think first,
Whether I may put on patience
That will with honor suffer me. Know I hate yoa I
Let that begin the story. Now I'll tell you.
CAESAR.
But do it mildly: in a noble lady,
Softness of spirit, and a sober nature,
That moves like summer winds, cool, vid blows
ness,
Shows blessed, like herself.
CLEOPATRA.
And that great blessedness.
You first reap'd of me; till you taught my natnr%
Like a rude storm, to talk aloud and thunder,
Sleep was not gentler than my soul, and stiller.
You had the spring of my affections,
And my fair fruits I gave you leave to taste of;
Y ou must expect the winter of mine anger.
You flung me off before the court disgraced me
When in the pride I appear'd of all my beauty
Appear'd your mistress; took unto your eyes
The common strumpet, love of hated lucre,
Courted with covetous heart the slave of nature,
Gave all your thoughts to gold, that men of glory,
And minds adorued with noble love, would kick at '
Soldiers of royal mark scorn such base purchase;
Beauty and honor are the marks they shoot at.
I spake to you then, I courted you, and woo'd you,
Called you dear Caesar, hung about you tenderly,
Was proud to appear your friend
CLEOPATRA. 889
CAESAR.
You have mistaken me.
CLEOPATRA.
Bat neither eye, nor favor, not a smile
Was I biesse<l back withal, but shook off rudely,
And as you had been sold to sordid infamy,
Von fell before the images of treasure,
And in your soul you worship'd. I stood slighted,
Forgotten, and contemned ; my soft embraces,
And those sweet kisses which you called Elysium
As letters writ in sand, no more remember'd;
The name and glory of your Cleopatra
Laugh' d at, and made a story to your captains 1
Shall I endure?
OESAR.
You are deceived in all this ;
Upon my life you are; 'tis your much tendernwfc
CLEOPATRA.
No, no; I love not that way; you are cozen'd;
I love with as much ambition as a conqueror,
And where I love will triumph t
GUBUJh
So you shall:
My heart shall be the chariot that shall bear yon:
All I have won shall wait upon you. By th<s O<1%
The bravery of this woman's mind has nrl me!
I ^ear mistress, shall I but this once
CLEOPATRA.
How! Cesar!
Have I let slip a second vanity
That ghes thee hope?
140 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
C.CSAR.
Yon shall be absolute,
And reign alone as queen; you shall be any thinj
CLEOPATRA.
*****
Farewell, unthankful !
O^ESAB.
Stay I
CLEOPATRA.
I will not
C.BSAR.
I commuid.
CLEOPATRA,
Command, and go without, sir,
I do command thee be my slave forever,
And vex, while I laugh at thee !
CJJSAR.
Thus low, beauty [He knetU
CLEOPATRA.
It is too late; when I have found thee absolute,
The man that fame reports thee, and to me,
May be I shall think better. Farewell, conqueror!
(Exit.)
Now this is magnificent poetry, but this is no1
Cleopatra, this is not " the gipsey queen." The sen-
timent here is too profound, the majesty too real, and
too lofty. Cleopatra conld be great by fits and starts,
but never sustained her dignity upon so high a ton*
for ten minutes together. The Cleopatra of Fletcher
remit ds us of the antique colossal statue of her IB
OCTAVIA. S41
the Vatican, all grandeur and graces. Cleopatra in
Dryden's tragedy is like Guide's dying Cleopatra
in the Pitti Palace, tenderly beautiful. Shaks-
peare's Cleopatra is like one of those graceful and
fantastic pieces of antique Arabesque, in which all
anomalous shapes and impossible and wild com.
biuations of form are woven together in regular
confusion and most harmonious discord : and such,
we have reason to believe, was the living woman
hers* -If, when she existed upon this earth.
OCTAVIA.
I DO not understand the observation of a late
critic, that in this play " Octavia is only a dull foil
to Cleopatra." Cleopatra requires no foil, and
Octavia is not dull, though in a moment of jealous
spleen, her accomplished rival gives her that epi-
thet.* It is possible that her beautiful character, if
brought more forward and colored up to the his-
toric portrait, would still be eclipsed by the dazzling
iplendor of Cleopatra's ; for so I have seen a flight
of fireworks blot out for a while the silver moon
nd ever-burning stars. But here the subject of
Ihe drama being the love of Antony and Cleo
" Ike sober <v>e of do!/ Octavia." Act T. wen* 2.
42 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
patra, Octavia is very properly kept in the back-
ground, and far from any competition with her
rival: the interest would otherwise have beet
unpleasantly divided, or rather Cleopatra herself
must have served but as a foil to the tender, vir-
tuous, dignified, and generous Octavia, the very
beau ideal of a noble Roman lady :
Admired Octavia, whose beauty claims
No worse a husband than the best of men;
Whose virtues and whose general graces speak
That which none else can utter.
Dryden has committed a great mistake in bring-
ing Octavia and her children on the scene, and in
immediate contact with Cleopatra. To have thus
violated the truth of history * might have been
excusable, but to sacrifice the truth of nature and
dramatic propriety, to produce a mere stage effect,
was unpardonable. In order to preserve the unity
of interest, he has falsified the character of Octavia
as well as that of Cleopatra : f he has presented us
* Octavia was never in Egypt.
t " The Octavia of Dryden is a much more important p*non-
tge than in the Antony and Cleopatra of Shakspeare. She is,
however, more cold and unamiable, for in the very short scenei
In which the Octavia of Shakspeare is introduced, she is placed
in rather an interesting point of view. But Dryden has himself
Informed us that he was apprehensive that the justice of a wife'i
c^dm would draw the audience to her side, and lessen theii
Interest in the lover and the mistress. He seems accordingly t*.
haw studiously lowered the character of the Injured Octavia
who, In her conduct to her husband, shows much duty and
little love." Sir W. Scott (in the same fine piece of criticiaa
trcflxri to Dryden's All for Love) gives the preference to Shaks
teare'g Cleopatra
OCTAVIA. S43
with a regular scolding-match between the rivals,
tn which they come sweeping up to each other
from opposite sides of the stage, with their respec-
tive trains, like two pea-hens in a passion. Shak-
speare would no more have brought his captivating,
brilliant, but meretricious Cleopatra into immediate
comparison with the noble and chaste simplicity of
Octavia, than a connoisseur in art would have
placed Canova's Dansatrice, beautiful as it is,
beside the Athenian Melpomene, or the Vestal of
the Capitol.
The character of Octavia is merely indicated in
a few touches, but every stroke tells. We see her
with " downcast eyes sedate and sweet, and looks
demure," with her modest tenderness and digni-
fied submission the very antipodes of her rival
Nor should we forget that she has furnished one of
the most graceful similes in the whole compass of
poetry, where her soft equanimity in the midst of
grief is compared to
The swan's down feather
That stands upon the swell at flood of tide,
And neither way inclines.
The fear which seems to haunt the mind of
Cleopatra, lest she should be " chastised by the
sober eye" of Octavia, is exceedingly characteristic
of the two women : it betrays the jealous pride of
fcer, who was conscious that she had forfeited all
real claim to respect ; and it places Octavia before ui
91 all the majesty of that virtue which could strike a
344 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
kind of envying and reniDrseful awe even into tha
bosom of Cleopatra. What would she have thought
and felt, had some soothsayer foretold to her the
fate of her own children, whom she so tenderly
loved ? Captives, and exposed to the rage of the
Roman populace, they owed their existence to the
generous, admirable Octavia, in whose mind there
entered no particle of littleness. She received
into her house the children of Antony and Cleo-
patra, educated them with her own, treated them
with truly maternal tenderness, and married them
nobly.
Lastly, to complete the contrast, the death of
Octavia should be put in comparison with that of
Cleopatra.
After spending several years in dignified retire-
ment, respected as the sister of Augustus, but more
for her own virtues, Octavia lost her eldest son
Marcellus, who was expressively called the " Hope
of Rome." Her fortitude gave way under thii
blow, and she fell into a deep melancholy, which
gradually wasted her health. While she was thus
declining into death, occurred that beautiful scene
which has never yet, I believe, been made the
subject of a picture, but should certainlv be added
to my gallery, (if I had one,) and I would hang it
opposite to the dying Cleopatra. Virgil was com-
manded by Augustus to read aloud to his sister
that book of the Eneid in which he had commemo-
rated the virtues and early death of the yonnf
llarrcllus. When he came to the lines
VOLUMNIA. 845
1 flls youth, the blissful vision of a day,
Shall just be shown on earth, then snatch' d away, &a
foe mother covered her face, and burst into tears.
But when Virgil mentioned her son by name,
(" Tu Marcellus eris,") which he had artfully de-
ferred till the concluding lines, Octavia, unable to
control her agitation, fainted away. She afterwards,
with a magnificent spirit, ordered the poet a gra-
tuity of ten thousand sesterces for each line of the
panegyric.* It is probable that the agitation she
Buffered on this occasion hastened the effects of her
disorder; for she died soon after, (of grief, says
the historian,) having survived Antony about
twenty years.
'tail'
VOLUMNIA.
OCTAVIA, however, is only a beautiful sketch,
while in Volumnia, Shakspeare has given us the
portrait of a Roman matron, conceived in the true
antique spirit, and finished in every part Although
Coriolanus is the hero of the play, yet much of the
interest of the action and the final catastrophe
turn upon the character of his mother, Volumnia,
nd the power she exercised over his mind, by
Irhich, according to the story, " she saved llonw
In all. about two thousani riund*.
P46 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
and lest her son." Her lofty patriotism, her patri
cian haughtiness, her maternal pride, her eloquence,
and her towering spirit, are exhibited with the
utmost power of effect; yet the truth of female
nature is beautifully preserved, and the portrait,
with all its vigor, is without harshness.
I shall begin by illustrating the relative position
and feelings of the mother and son ; as these are
of the greatest importance in the action of the
drama, and consequently most prominent in the
characters. Though Volumnia is a Roman matron,
and though her country owes its salvation to her,
it is clear that her maternal pride and affection are
stronger even than her patriotism. Thus when
her son is exiled, she burst into an imprecation
against Rome and its citizens :
Now the red pestilence strikes all trades in Rome,
And occupations perish!
Here we have the impulses of individual and
feminine nature, overpowering all national and
habitual influences. Volumnia would never have
exclaimed like the Spartan mother, of her dead
n, " Sparta has many others as brave as he ; '
bnt in a far different spirit she says to the Romans,
Ere yov. go, hear this;
As far aa doth the Capitol exceed
The meanest nonse in Rome, so far my son,
Whom you have banished, does exceed you all.
In the very first scene, and before the intro-
faction of the principal personages, one citizei
VOLUMNIA. 344
beerves to another that the military exploits of
Marcius were performed, not so much for hi
country's sake " as to please his mother.** By th'ui
admirable stroke of art, introduced with such sim-
plicity of effect, our attention is aroused, and we
are prepared in the very outset of the piece for
the important part assigned *to Volumnia, and foi
her share in producing the catastrophe.
In the first act we have a .very graceful scene,
in which the two Roman ladies, the wife and mother
of Coriolanus, are discovered at their needle-work,
conversing on his absence and danger, and are
visited by Valeria :
The noble sisters of Publicola,
The moon of Rome ; chaste as the icicle,
That's curded by the frost from purest snow,
And hangs on Dian's tempJe!
Over this little scene Shakspeare, without any
display of learning, has breathed the very spirit
of classical antiquity. The haughty temper of
Volumnia, her admiration of the valor and high
bearing of her son, and her proud but unselfish
love for him. are finely contrasted with the modest
sweetness, he conjugal tenderness, and the fond
Bolicitude of his wife Virgilia.
VOLUMNIA.
When yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son
tf my womb; when youth with comeliness pluck' d aL
faze his way; when, for a day of king's entreaties, i
Vother should not sell him an hour from her beholding
. considering how honor wool j become such a person ;
148 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
that it was no better than picture-like to hang l>y tbt
wall, if renown made it not stir, was pleased to let bin
seek danger where he was like to find fame. To a erne]
war I sent him, from whence he returned, his brows bound
with oak. I tell thee, daughter 1 sprang not more in jjj
at first hearing he was a man-child, than now in first see-
ing he had proved himself a man.
VIRGINIA.
But had he died in the business, madam? how then?
VOLCMNIA.
Then his good report should have been my son ; I therein
would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely: had
I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less deaf
khan thine and my good Marcius, I had rather eleven di
nobly for their country, than one voluptuously surfeit oat
f action.
Enter a GKNTLEWOMAS.
Madam, the lady Valeria is come to visit you.
V IRQ ILIA.
Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself.
VOLU1INIA.
Indeed you shall not.
Methinks I hear hither your husband's drum :
See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair:
As children from a bear, the Voices shunning him:
Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus
* Come on, you cowards ! you were got in fear,
Though you were born in Kome." His bloody brow
With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he e;oei}
Like to a harvest-man, that's task'd to mow
Or all, or lose his hire.
VIRGIUA.
Hii bloody brow ! Jupiter, no blood 1
VOLUMNIA. 34*
VOUJMNIA,
Away, yon fool ! it more becomes a man
Than gilt his trophy. The breast of Hecuba,
When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier
Than Hector's forehead, when it spit forth blood
At Grecian swords contending. Tell Valeria
We are fit to bid her welcome. [ExU (lem,
VIEGILJA.
Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius I
VOLUMNIA.
He'll beat Aufidius's head below his knee.
And tread upon his neck.
This distinction between the two females 19 as
interesting and beautiful as it is well sustained.
Thus when the victory of Coriolanus is proclaimed,
Menenius asks, " Is he wounded ? "
VIRGILIA.
no, no, no !
VOLUMNIA.
Yes, he is wounded I thank the gods for it !
And when he returns victorious from the wars, his
high-spirited mother receives him with blessings
and applause his gentle wife with " gracious
silence " and with tears.
The resemblance of temper in the mother and
the son, modified as it is by the difference of sex,
\nd by her greater age and experience, is exhibited
with admirable truth. Volumnia, with all her pride
&nd spirit, has some prudence and self-command
fc tier language and deportnrent all is matured and
550 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
matronly. The dignified tone of authority she
assumes towards her son, when checking his head-
long impetuosity, her respect and admiration for
his noble qualities, and her strong sympathy even
with the feelings she combats, are all displayed in
the scene in which she prevails on him to aootbi
the incensed plebeians.
VOLUMNIA.
Pray be counselTd:
I have a heart as little apt as yours,
Bat yet a brain that leads my use of anger
To better vantage.
MENEN1U8.
Well said, noble woman:
Before he should thus stoop to the herd, but that
The violent fit o' the time craves it as physio
For the whole state, I would put mine armour no.
Which I can scarcely bear.
CORIOLAN08.
What must I do?
MENENIU8.
Batum to the tribunes.
OOEIOLAJUJS.
WelL
What then? what then?
HENEHIUB
Repent what you have spokr
CORIOLANU8.
For them ? I cannot do it to the god :
Mmt I then do't to them?
VOLUMNlA. 551
VOIUMNIA.
You are too absolute)
Fhough therein you can never be too noble,
But when extremities speak.
I pr'ythee now, my son,
to them with this bonnet in thy hand ;
And thus far having stretch'd it, (here be with ttaa >
Thy knee bussing the stones, (for in such busiaew
Action is eloquent, and the eyes of the ignorant
More learned than the ears,) waving thy head,
Which often, thus, correcting thy stout heart.
Now humble, as the ripest mulberry,
That will not hold the handling. Or, say to them,
Thou art their soldier, and being bred in broils
Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess,
Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim,
In asking their good loves ; but thou wilt frame
Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far
As thou hast power and person.
MENENIUS.
This but done,
Even as she speaks, why all their hearts were youti
For they have pardons, being asked, as free
As words^o little purpose.
VOLUMNlA.
Pr'ythee now,
Go, and be rul'd : although I know thou hadst rathei
Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf
Than flatter him in a bower.
Only fair speech.
coMnoua.
T think 'twill serve, if he
Can thereto frame his spirit.
352 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
VOLUMN1A
He mtsT, vad will:
Pi 'y thee, now say you will, and go about it.
CORIOLANU8.
Must I go show them my unbarb'd sconce ? Mart I
With my base tongue give to my noble heart
A lie, that it must bear? Well, I will do't;
Yet were there but this single plot to lose,
This mould of Marcius, they to dust should grind it,
And throw it against the wind. To the market-plao*
You have put me now to such a part, which never
I shall discharge to the life.
VOLUMNIA.
[ pr'ythee now, sweet son, as thon hast said,
My praises made thee first a soldier, so
To have my praise for this, perform a part
Thou hast not done before.
CORIOLANT8.
Well, I must do't:
Away, my disposition, and possess me
Borne harlot's spirit!
*****
I will not do't:
Lest I surcease to honor mine own truth,
And by my body's action, teach my mind
A most inherent baseness.
VOLUMNTA.
At thy choice, then
To beg of thee, it Is my more dishonor,
1 han thou of them. Come all to ruin : let
Thy mother rather feel thy pride, than fear
Thy dangerous stoutness: for I mock at death
With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list
VOLUMNI.JL. Sfl
Thy yaliantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me-
But owe thy pride thyself.
CORIOLANCS,
Pray be content;
Mother, I am going to the market place
Chide me no more.
When the spirit of the mother and the son arc
brought into immediate collision, he yields before
her; the warrior who stemmed alone the whole
city of Corioli, who was ready to face " the steep
Tarpeian death, or at wild horses' heels, vagabond
exile flaying," rather than abate one jot of his
proud will shrinks at her rebuke. The haughty,
fiery, overbearing temperament of Coriolanus, is
drawn in such forcible and striking colors, that
notlung can more impress us with the real grandem
and power of Volumnia's character, than his bound-
less submission to her will his more than filial
tenderness and respect.
Yon gods ! I prate.
And the most noble mother of the world
Leave nnsaluted. Sink my knee i' the earth
Of thy deep duty more impression show
Thau that of common sons !
When his mother appears before him as a rap>
pliant, he exclaims,
My mother bows ;
As if Olympus to a molehill should
In supplication nod.
28
S54 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
Here the expression of reverence, and the magtiif-
icent image in which it is clothed, are equally
characteristic both of the mother and the son.
Her aristocratic haughtiness is a strong trait in
Volumnia's manner and character, and her supreme
contempt for the plebeians, whether they are to be
defied or cajoled, is very like what I have heard
expressed by some high-born and high-bred women
of our own day.
I muse my mother
Does not approve me further, who was wont
To call them woollen vassals; things created
To buy and sell with groats ; to show bare heads
In congregations; to yawn, be still, and wonder
When one but of my ordinance stood up
To speak of peace or war.
And Volumnia reproaching the tribunes,-
'Twas you incensed the rabble
Gate, that can judge as fitly of his worth,
As I can of those mysteries which Heaven
Will not have earth to know.
There is all the Roman spirit in her exultation
when the trumpets sound the return of Coriolanua.
Hark ! the trumpets !
ttieee are the ushers of Marcius: before him
He carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears.
And in her speech to the gentle Virgilia, who if
weeping her husband's banishment
Leave this faint puling ! and lament as 1 do.
In auger Juno-like !
VOI.UMXIA. 5A5
But the triumph of Volumnia's cliaiactei, the full
display of all her grandeur of soul, her patriotism,
her strong affections, and her sublime eloquence,
are reserved for her last scene, in which she pleads
for the safety of Rome, and wins from her angry
eon that peace which all the swords of Italy and
her confederate arms could not have purchased.
The strict and even literal adherence to the truth
of history is an additional beauty.
Her famous speech, beginning " Should we be
silent and not speak," is nearly word for word from
Plutarch, with some additional graces of expression,
and the charm of metre superadded. I shall give
the last lines of this address, as illustrating that
noble and irresistible eloquence which was the
crowning ornament of the character. One ex-
quisite touch of nature, which is distinguished by
italics, was beyond the rhetorician and historian,
and belongs only to the poet.
Speak to me, son;
Thou hast affected the fine strains of honor,
To imitate the graces of the gods;
To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' the air,
And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt
That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak?
Think'st thou it honorable for a nobleman
Still to remember wroiigs? Daughter, speak you:
He cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, boy;
Perhaps thy childishness may move him more
Than can our reasons. There is no man in the world
More bound to his mother; yet here he l<ts me prat*
Like one i' the shocks. Thou hast never in thy life
*how'd thy dear mothjr any courtesy;
156 HISTORICAL CDARACTERB.
When the, (poor hen I) fond of no second bract,
Das duetto tkee to tiie wars, and safely home,
Laden with honor. Say my request's unjust,
And spurn me back : but, if it be not so,
Thou art not honest, and the gods will plague thee
That thou restrain'st from me the duty which
To a mother's part belongs. He turns away:
Down, ladies : let us shame him with our knees.
To his surname Coriolanus 'longs more pride,
Than pity to our prayers ; down, and end ;
This is the last; so will we home to Rome,
And die among our neighbors. Nay, behold us;
This boy, that cannot tell what he would have,
But kneels, and holds up hands, for fellowship
Does reason our petition with more strength
Than thou hast to deny't.*
The corresponding passage In the old English Plutarch ran*
thus: "My son, why dost thou not answer me? Dost then
think it good altogether to give place unto thy choler and re
verge, and thinkest thou it not honesty for thee to grant thy
mother's request in so weighty a cause? Dost thou take it
honorable for a nobleman to remember the wrongs and injuriet
done him, and dost not in like case think it an honest noble-
man's part to be thankful for the goodness that parents do show
to their children, acknowledging the duty and reverence they
ought to bear unto them? No man living is more bound to
bow himself thankful in all parts and respects than thyself, who
o universally showest all ingratitude. Moreover, my son, thou
biurt sorely taken of thy country, exacting grievous paymenti
upon them in revenge of the injuries offered thee; besides, thon
hast not hitherto showed thy poor mother any courtesy. And,
therefore, it is not only honest, but due unto me, that without
Compulsion I should obtain my so just and reasonable requti*
f t.he. But since by reason I cannot persuade ye to it, to wh&i
purpose do I defer my last hope? " And with these words, her
M:I, his wife, and children, fell down upon their knee*
CONTANCE. 35 1
It is an instance of Shakspeare's fine judgment,
Ihat after this magnificent and touching piece of
eloquence, which saved Rome, Volumnia should
peak no more, for she could say nothing that
would not deteriorate from the effect thus left on
the imagination. She is at last dismissed from our
admiring gaze amid the thunder of grateful accla-
mations
Behold, our patroness, the life of Kome.
CONSTANCE.
WE have seen that in the mother of Coriolanus,
the principal qualities are exceeding pride, self-
will, strong maternal affection, great power of
imagination, and energy of temper. Precisely the
same qualities enter into the mind of Constance of
Bretagne : but in her these qualities are so dif-
ferently modified by circumstances and education,
that not even in fancy do we think of instituting a
comparison between the Gothic grandeur of Con-
tance, and the more severe and classical dignity
of the Roman matron.
The scenes and circumstances with which Shak-
ipeare has surrounded Constance, are strictly faith-
Ail to the old chronicles, and are as vividly as they
re accurately represented. On the other hand,
the hints on which the character has been con-
S58 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
itructed, are few and vague ; but the portrait
harmonizes so wonderfully with its historic back*
ground, and with all that later researches have dis-
covered relative to the personal adventures of
Constance, that I have not the slightest doubt of
its individual truth. The result of a life of strange
vicissitude; the picture of a tameless will, and high
passions, forever struggling in vain against a supe-
rior power: and the real situation of women in
those chivalrous times, are placed before us in a
few noble scenes. The manner in which Shak-
epeare has applied the scattered hints of history to
the formation of the character, reminds us of that
magician who collected the mangled limbs which
had been dispersed up and down, reunited them
into the human form, and reanimated them with
the breathing and conscious spirit of life.
Constance of Bretagne was the only daughter
and heiress of Conan IV., Duke of Bretagne ; her
mother was Margaret of Scotland, the eldest
daughter of Malcolm IV. : but little mention ia
wade of this princess in the old histories ; but she
appears to have inherited some portion of the talent
and spirit of her father, and to have transmitted
them to her daughter. The misfortunes of Con-
stance may be said to have commenced before her
birth, and took their rise in the misconduct of one
of her female ancestors. Her great-grandmother
Matilda, the wife of Conan III., was distinguished
by her beauty and imperious temper, and not lesi
Vj her gallantries. Her husband, not thinkinf
CONSTANCE. 359
proper to repudiate her during his lifetime, con*
tented himself with disinheriting her son Hoel,
whom he declared illegitimate ; and bequeathed his
dukedom to his daughter Bertha, and her husband
Allan the Black, Earl of Richmond, who were pro-
claimed and acknowledged Duke and Duchess of
Bretagne.
Prince Hoel, so far from acquiescing in his
father's will, immediately levied an army to main-
tain his rights, and a civil war ensued between the
brother and sister, which lasted for twelve or four-
teen years. Bertha, whose reputation was not
much fairer than that of her mother Matilda, was
succeeded by her son Conan IV. ; he was young,
and of a feeble, vacillating temper, and after strug-
gling for a few years against the increasing power
of his uncle Hoel, and his own rebellious barons,
he called in the aid of that politic and ambitious
monarch, Henry II. of England. This fatal step
decided the fate of his crown and his posterity ;
from the moment the English set foot in Bretagne,
that miserable country became a scene of horrors
and crimes oppression and perfidy on the one
hand, unavailing struggles on the other. Ten
years of civil discord ensued, during which the
greatest part of Bretagne was desolated, and nearly
a third of the population carried off by famine and
uestilence. In the end, Conan was secured in the
possession of his throne by the assistance of the
English king, who, equally subtle and ambitious,
tontrived in the courso of this warfare to strip
860 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
Conan of most of his provinces by successive
treaties; alienate the Breton nobles from thei?
lawful sovereign, and at length render the Duke
himself the mere vassal of his power.
In the midst of these scenes of turbulence and
bloodshed was Constance born, in the year 1164.
The English king consummated his perfidioui
scheme of policy, by seizing on the person of the
infant princess, before she was three years old, ai
a hostage for her father. Afterwards, by contract-
ing her in marriage to his third son, Geoffrey
Plantagenet, he ensured, as he thought, the posses-
sion of the duchy of Bretagne to his own posterity
From this time we hear no more of the weak,
unhappy Conan, who, retiring from a fruitless con-
test, hid himself in some obscure retreat : even the
date of his death is unknown. Meanwhile Henry
openly claimed the duchy in behalf of his sou
Geoffrey and the Lady Constance ; and their
claims not being immediately acknowledged, he
invaded Bretagne with a large army, laid waste
the country, bribed or forced some of the harona
into submission, murdered or imprisoned others,
and, by the most treacherous and barbarous policy,
contrived to keep possession of the country he had
thus seized. However, in order to satisfy the
Bretons, who were attached to the race of their
ancient sovereigns, and to give some color to hii
usurpation, he caused Geoffrey and Constance to
Oe solemnly crowned at Rennes, as Duke antf
Duchess of Bretagne. This was in the year 1169
CONSTANCE. 361
irhan Jonstance was five, and Prince Geoffrey
ibout eight, years old. His father, Henry, con-
tinued to rule, or rather to ravage and oppress, the
country in their name for about fourteen years,
during which period we do not hear of Constance.
She appears to have been kept in a species of con-
ftraint as a hostage rather +han a sovereign ; while
her husband Geoffrey, as h i grew up to manhood,
was too much engaged in keeping the Bretons in
order, and disputing his rights with his father, to
think about the completion of his union with Con-
stance, although his sole title to the dukedom was
properly and legally in right of his wife. At
length, in 1182, the nuptials were formally cele-
brated, Constance being then in her nineteenth
year. At the same time, she was recognized as
Duchess of Bretagne de son chef, (that is, in her
own right,) by two acts of legislation, which are
still preserved among the records of Bretagne, and
bear her own seal and signature.
Those domestic feuds which embittered the
whole life of Henry II., and at length broke his
heart, are well known. Of all his sons, who were
in continual rebellion against him, Geoffrey was
the most undutiful, and the most formidable : he
had all the pride of the Plantagenets, all the war-
like accomplishments of his two elder brothers,
Henry and Rirhard; and was the only one who
tould compete with his father in talent, eloquence,
wid dissimulation. No sooner was he the husband
of Constance, and in possession of the throne o/
162 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
Brctagne, than he openly opposed his father ; i
other words, he maintained the honor and interest!
of his wife and her unhappy country against the
sruelties and oppression of the English plunderers.'
About three years after his marriage, he was in-
vited to Paris for the purpose of concluding a
league, offensive and defensive, with the French
king: in this journey he was accompanied by the
Duchess Constance, and they were received and
entertained with royal magnificence. Geoffrey,
who excelled in all chivalrous accomplishments,
distinguished himself in the tournaments which
were celebrated on the occasion ; but unfortunately,
after an encounter with a French knight, cele-
brated for his prowess, he \vas accidentally flung
from his horse, and trampled to death in the lists
before he could be extricated.
Constance, being now left a widow, returned to
Bretagne, where her barons rallied round her, and
acknowledged her as their sovereign. The Salique
law did not prevail in Bretagne, and it appears that
in those times the power of a female to possess and
transmit the rights of sovereignty had been recog-
nized in several instances ; but Constance is the
rirst woman who exercised those rights in her own
person. She had one daughter, Elinor, born in
the second year of her marriage, and a few months
after her husband's death she gave birth to a son.
The States of Bretagne were filled with exultation
they required that the infant prince should not beat
YiJe Darn, Histoire d Bretagn*.
CONSTANCE. 368
the name of his father, a name which Constance,
ID fond remem jrauce of her husband, would have
Pestowed on him still less that of his grandfather
Henry ; but that of Arthur, the redoubted hero of
their country, whose memory was worshipped by
the populace. Though the Arthur of romantic
and fairy legends the Arthur of the round table,
had been dead for six centuries, they still looked
for his second appearance among them, according
to the prophecy of Merlin ; and now, with fond
and short-sighted enthusiasm, fixed their hopes on
the young Arthur as one destined to redeem the
glory and independence of their oppressed and
miserable country. But in the very midst of the
rejoicings which succeeded the birth of the prince,
his grandfather, Henry IT., demanded to have the
possession and guardianship of his person ; and on
the spirited refusal of Constance to yield her son
into his power, he invaded Bretagne with a large
army, plundering, burning, devastating the country
as he advanced. He seized Rennes, the capital, and
having by the basest treachery obtained possession
of the persons both of the young duchess and her
children, he married Constance forcibly to one of
his own favorite adherents, Randal de Blondeville,
Earl of Chester, and conferred on him the duchy
y Bretagne, to be held as a fief of the English
row a.
The Earl of Chester, though a brave knight
nd one of the greatest barons of England, had no
pretensions to so high an alliance ; nor did he po0>
164 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
less any qualities or personal accomplishment!
which might have reconciled Constance to him as
a husband. He was a man of diminutive stature
and mean appearance, but of haughty and fero-
cious manners, and unbounded ambition.* In a
conference between this Earl of Chester and the
Earl of Perche, in Lincoln cathedral, the latter
taunted Randal with his insignificant person, and
called him contemptuously ''Dwarf" " Sayst thon
so ! " replied Randal ; " I vow to God and our
lady, whose church this is, that ere long I will
seem to thee high as that steeple ! " He was aa
good as his word, when, on ascending the throne
of Brittany, the Earl of Perche became his vassal.
We cannot know what measures were used to
force this degradation on the reluctant and high-
spirited Constance ; it is only certain that she never
considered her marriage in the light of a sacred ob-
ligation, and that she took the first opportunity of
legally breaking from a chain which could scarcely
be considered as legally binding. For about a year
she was obliged to allow this detested husband the
title of Duke of Bretagne, and he administered the
government without the slightest reference to her
will, even in form, till 1189, when Henry II. died,
execrating himself and his undutiful children.
Whatever great and good qualities this monarch
may have possessed, his conduct in Bretagne wai
uniformly detestable. Even the unfilial behavioi
if his sons may be extenuated ; for while he spent
Tide Sii Peter Leicester's Antiquities of Cheater.
CONSTANCE. 355
ftis Hfe, and sacrificed his peace, and violated overy
principle of honor and humanity to compass their
political aggrandizement, he was guilty of atrocious
injustice towards them, and set them a bad exam-
ple in his own person.
The tidings of Henry's death had no sooner
reached Bretagne than the barons of that country
rose with one accord against his government, ban-
ished or massacred his officers, and, sanctioned by
the Duchess Constance, drove Randal de Blonde-
ville and his followers from Bretagne ; he retired
to his earldom of Chester, there to brood over his
injuries, and meditate vengeance.
In the mean time, Richard I. ascended the Eng-
lish throne. Soon afterwards he embarked on his
celebrated expedition to the Holy Land, having
previously declared Prince Arthur, the only son of
Constance, heir to all his dominions.*
His absence, and that of many of her own tur-
bulent barons and encroaching neighbors, left to
Constance and her harassed dominions a short
interval of profound peace. The historians of that
period, occupied by the warlike exploits of the
French and English kings in Palestine, make but
little mention of the domestic events of Europe dur-
ing their absence ; but it is no slight encomium on
the character of Constance, that Bretagne flour-
ished under her government, and began to recover
from the effects of twenty years of desolating war.
The seven years during which she ruled as aa
* By the treat? ol Messina, 1190
3C6 HISTORICAL CHARACTKR8.
independent sovereign, were not marked by any
events of importance; but in the year 1196 ah
caused her son Arthur, then nine years of age, tfl
be acknowledged Duke of Bretagne by the States,
and associated him with herself in all the acts of
government
There was more of maternal fondness than policy
in this measure, and it cost her dear. Richard,
that royal firebrand, had now returned to England :
by the intrigues and representations of Earl Ran-
dal, his attention was turned to Bretagne. He
expressed extreme indignation that Constance
should have proclaimed her son Duke of Bretagne,
and her partner in power, without his consent, be
being the feudal lord and natural guardian of the
young prince. After some excuses and represent-
ations on the part of Constance, he affected to be
pacified, and a friendly interview was appointed at
Pontorson, on the frontiers of Normandy.
We can hardly reconcile the cruel and perfidious
scenes which follow with those romantic and chiv-
alrous associations which illustrate the memory of
Coeur-de-Lion the friend of Blondel, and the an-
tagonist of Saladin. Constance, perfectly unsus-
picious of the meditated treason, accepted the
invitation of her brother-in-law, and set out from
fienncs with a small but magnificent retinue to join
him at Pontorson. On the road, and within sight
of the town, the Earl of Chester was posted with a
troop of Richard's soldiery, and while the Duchesi
prepared to enter the gates, where she expected U
CONSTANCY. 36 J
be received with honor and welcome, he suddenly
rushed from his ambuscade, fell upon her and her
uite, put the latter to flight, and carried off Con-
itance to the strong Castle of St. Jaques de Beuv-
ron, where he detained her a prisoner for eighteen
months. The chronicle does not tell us how Ran-
dal treated his unfortunate wife during this long
imprisonment. She was absolutely in his power ;
none of her own people were suffered to approach
her, and whatever might have been his behavior
towards her, one thing alone is certain, that so far
from softening her feelings towards him, it seems to
have added tenfold bitterness to her abhorrence
and her scorn.
The barons of Bretagne sent the Bishop of
Rennes to complain of this violation of faith and
justice, and to demand the restitution of the
Duchess. Richard meanly evaded and tempor-
ized : he engaged to restore Constance to liberty
on certain conditions ; but this was merely to gain
time. When the stipulated terms were complied
with, and the hostages delivered, the Bretons sent
a herald to the English king, to require him to
fulfil his part of the treaty, and restore their be-
loved Constance. Richard replied with insolent
defiance, refused to deliver up either the hostages
or Constance, and marched his army into the heart
f the country.
All that Bretagne had suffered previously was a*
nothing compared to this terrible invasion ; and all
Out the humane and peaceful government of Con-
(68 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
stance had effected during seven years was at one*
annihilated. The English barons and their savage
and mercenary followers spread themselves through
the country, which they wasted with fire and
sword. The castles of those who ventured to de-
fend themselves were razed to the ground ; the
towns and villages plundered and burnt, and the
wretched inhabitants fled to the caves and forests ;
but not even there could they find an asylum ; by
the orders, and in the presence of Richard, the
woods were set on fire, and hundreds either per-
ished in the flames, or were suffocated in the
smoke.
Constance, meanwhile, could only weep in her
captivity over the miseries of her country, and
tremble with all a mother's fears for the safety of
her son. She had placed Arthur under the care
of William Desroches, the seneschal of her palace,
a man of mature age, of approved valor, and devot-
edly attached to her family. This faithful servant
threw himself, with his young charge, into the for-
tress of Brest, where he for some time defied the
power of the English king.
But notwithstanding the brave resistance of the
nobles and people of Bretagne, they were obliged
to submit to the conditions imponed by Richard
By a treaty concluded in 1198, of which the terms
ara not exactly known, Constance was delivered
from her captivity, though not from her husband
but in the following year, when the death of Rich-
fcrd had restored her to some degree of indepen*
CONSTANCE. 369
lence, the first use she made of it was to divorce
herself fiom Randal. She took this step with her
usual precipitancy, not waiting for the sanction of
the Pope, as was the custom in those days ; and
soon afterwards she gave her hand to Guy, Count
fe Thouars, a man of courage and integrity, who
for some time maintained the cause of his wife and
her son against the power of England. Arthur
was now fourteen, and the legitimate heir of all
the dominions of his uncle Richard. Constance
placed him under the guardianship of the king of
France, who knighted the young prince with his
own hand, and solemnly swore to defend his rights
against his usurping uncle John.
It is at this moment that the play of King John
opens ; and history is followed as closely as the
dramatic form would allow, to the death of John.
The real fate of poor Arthur, after he had been
abandoned by the French, and had fallen into the
hands of his uncle, is now ascertained ; but accord-
ing to the chronicle from which Shakspeare drew
his materials, he was killed in attempting to escape
from the castle of Falaise. Constance did not live
to witness this consummation of her calamities ;
within a few months after Arthur was taken pris-
ner, in 1201, she died suddenly, before she had
Attained her thirty-ninth year ; but the cause of her
death is not specified.
Her eldest daughter Elinor, the legitimate heiress
of England, Normandy, and Bretagne, died in
captivity ; having been kept a prisoner in Bristol
24
170 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
Castle from the age of fifteen. She w;i at that
time so beautiful, that she was called proverbially
M La belle Breton ne," and by the English the
" Fair Maid of Brittany." She, like her brother
Arthur, was sacrificed to the ambition of her uncles.
Of the two daughters of Constance by Guy de
Thouars, the eldest, Alice, became Duchess of
Bretagne, and married the Count de Dreux, of the
royal blood of France. The sovereignty of Bre-
tagne was transmitted through her descendants in
an uninterrupted line, till, by the marriage of the
celebrated Anne de Bretagne with Charles VIIL
of France, her dominions were forever united with
the French monarchy.
In considering the real history of Constance,
three things must strike us as chiefly remarkable.
First, that she is not accused of any vice, or any
act of injustice or violence ; and this praise, though
poor and negative, should have its due weight, con-
sidering the scanty records that remain of her
troubled life, and the period at which she lived
a period in which crimes of the darkest dye were
familiar occurrences. Her father, Conan, was con-
sidered as a gentle and amiable prince " gentle
even to feebleness ; " yet we are told that on one
occasion he acted over again the tragedy of Ugo-
!ino and Ruggiero, when he shut up the Count de
Dol, with his two sons and his nephew, in a dungeon,
and deliberately starved them to death ; an evenf
Tecordid without any particular comment by the
old chroniclers of Bretagne. It also appears that,
CONSTANCE. 371
iuiing those intervals when Constance administered
the government of her states with some degree of
Independence, the country prospered under her
way, and that she possessed at all times the love
of her people and the respect of her nobles.
Secondly, no imputation whatever has been cast
on the honor of Constance as a wife and as a woman.
The old historians, who have treated in a very un-
ceremonious style the levities of her great-grand-
mother Matilda, her grandmother Bertha, her god-
mother Constance, and her mother-in-law Elinor^
treat the name and memory of our Lady Constance
with uniform respect
Her third marriage, with Guy de Thouars, has
been censured as impolitic, but has also been de-
fended ; it can hardly, considering her age, and
the circumstances in which she was placed, be a
just subject of reproach. During her hated union
with Randal de Blondeville, and the years passed
m a species of widowhood, she conducted herself
with propriety : at least I can find no reason to
judge otherwise.
Lastly, we are struck by the fearless, determined
spirit, amounting at times to rashness, which (3on-
itance displayed on several occasions, when left to
toe free exercise of her own power and will ; yet
we see how frequently, with all this resolution and
pride of temper, she became a mere instrument in
Jie hands of others, and a victim to the superior
iraft or power of her enemies. The inference ifl
unavoidable ; there must have existed in the mind
572 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
>f Constance, with all her noble and amiable qua!
ties, a deficiency somewhere, a want of firmness,
a want of judgment or wariness, and a total want
of self-control.
*****
In the play of King John, the three principal
characters are the King, Falconbridge, and Lady
Constance. The first is drawn forcibly and accu-
rately from history : it reminds us of Titian's por-
trait of Caesar Borgia, in which the hatefulness of
the subject is redeemed by the masterly skill of the
artist, the truth, and power, and wonderful beauty
of the execution. Falconbridge is the spirited
creation of the poet. * Constance is certainly an
historical personage ; but the form which, when
we meet it on the record of history, appears like a
pale indistinct shadow, half melted into its obscuro
background, starts before us into a strange relief
and palpable breathing reality upon the page of
Shakspeare.
Whenever we think of Constance, it is in her
maternal character. All the interest which she
excites in the drama turns upon her situation as
the mother of Arthur. Every circumstance in
Malone says, that " in expanding the character of the bM>
terd, Shakspeare scorns to hare proceeded on the following slight
feint in an old play on the story of King John :
Next them a bastard of the king's deceased
A hardy wild-head, rough and venturous."
It to easy to say this ; yet who but Shakspeare could hm
wn^d the lasi line into a Falconkridge?
CONSTANCE. 373
Which she is placed, every sentiment she utters, has
ft reference to him , and she is represented through
the whole of the scenes in which she is engaged, aa
alternately pleading for the rights, and trembling
for the existence of her son.
The same may be said of the Merope. In the
four tragedies of which her story forms the subject,*
we see her but in one point of view, namely, as a
mere impersonation of the maternal feeling. The
poetry of the situation is every thing, the character
nothing. Interesting as she is, take Merope out
of the circumstances in which she is placed, take
away her son, for whom she trembles from the first
scene to the last, and Merope in herself is nothing ;
she melts away into a name, to which we can fix
no other characteristic by which to distinguish her.
We recognize her no longer. Her position is that
of an agonized mother ; and we can no more fancy
her under a different aspect, than we can imagine
the statue of Niobe in a different attitude.
But while we contemplate the character of Con-
etance, she assumes before us an individuality per-
fectly distinct from the circumstances around her.
The action calls forth her maternal feelings, and
places them in the most prominent point of view :
but with Constance, as with a real human being,
* The Greek Merope, which was esteemed one of the finest ol
the tragedies of Euripides, is unhappily lost; those of Maffei, Al-
ter!, and Voltaire, are well known. There is another Merope in
Italian, which I hart not seen : the English Merope is merely w
ad translation from Voltaire
S74 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
Ihe maternal affections are a powerful instinct, mod-
ified by other faculties, sentiments, and impulse*,
making up the individual character. We think of
her as a mother, because, as a mother distracted
tor the loss of her son, she is immediately presented
before us, and calls forth our sympathy and our
tears ; but we infer the rest of her character fiom
what we see, as certainly and as completely as ii
we had known her whole course of life.
That which strikes us as the principal attribute
of Constance is power power of imagination, of
will, of passion, of affection, of pride : the moral
energy, that faculty which is princ-ipally exercised
in self-control, and gives consistency to the rest, is
deficient ; or rather, to speak more correctly, the
extraordinary development of sensibility and imag-
ination, which lends to the character its rich poetical
coloring, leaves the other qualities comparatively
subordinate. Hence it is that the whole complexion
of the character, notwithstanding its amazing gran-
deur, is so exquisitely feminine. The weakness of
the woman, who by the very consciousness of that
weakness is worked up to desperation and defiance,
the fluctuations of temper and the bursts of sublime
passion, the terrors, the impatience, and the tears,
re all most true to feminine nature. The energy
of Constance not being based upon strength of
character, rises and falls with the tide vf passion
Her haughty spirit swells against resistance, and it
ixcited into frenzy by sorrow and disappointnu-nt
hile neither from her towering pride, nor hei
CONSTANCE 87ft
itveugth of intellect, can she borrow patience to
lubmit, or fortitude to endure. It is, therefore, with
perfect truth of nature, that Constance is first intro-
duced as pleading for peace.
Stay for an answer to your embassy,
Lest unadvised you stain your swords with blood:
My Lord Chatillon may from England bring
That right in peace, which here we urge in ww;
And then we shall repent each drop of blood,
That hot, rash haste so indirectly shed.
And that the same woman, when all her passion*
are roused by the sense of injury, should afterwards
exclaim,
War, war! No peace! peace is to me a war!
That she should be ambitious for her son, proud of
his high birth and royal rights, and violent in de-
fending them, is most natural ; but I cannot agree
with those who think that in the mind of Constance,
ambition that is, the love of dominion for its own
sake is either a strong motive or a strong feeling :
it could hardly be so where the natural impulses
and the ideal power predominate in so high a
degree. The vehemence with which she asserts
the just and legal rights of her son is that of a fond
mother and a proud-spirited woman, stung with the
tense of injury, and herself a reigning sovereign,
by birth and right, if not in fact : yet when be-
reaved of her son, gref not only " fills the room up
?f her absent child," but seems to absorb every
ther faculty and feeling even pride and angor
176 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
It id true that she exults over him as one whom
nature and fortune had destined to be great, but
in her distraction for his loss, she thinks of him
only as her " Pretty Arthur."
lord ! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son !
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure I
No other feeling can be traced through the whole
of her frantic scene : it is grief only, a mother*!
heart-rending, soul-absorbing grief, and nothing
else. Not even indignation, or the desire of re-
venge, interfere with its soleness and intensity
An ambitious woman would hardly have thus ad-
dressed the cold, wily Cardinal :
And, Father Cardinal, I have heard you say,
That we shall see and know our friends in heaveu .
If that be true, I shall see my boy again :
Fo r since the birth of Cain, "he first male child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire,
There was not such a gracious creature born.
But now will canker eat my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow as a ghost;
As dim and merge as an ague's fit;
And so he'll die; and rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
1 shall not know him : therefore never, never.
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more^
The bewildered pathos and poetry of this addreai
eou.d be natural in r o woman, who did not unitd
like Constance, the most passionate sensibility with
t&e most vivid imagination.
COX8TANCE. 371
It is true that Queen Elinor calls her on one oc-
casion, " ambitious Constance ; " but the epithet is
father the natural expression of Elinor's own fear
and hatred than really applicable.* Elinor, in
whom age had subdued all passions but ambition,
dreaded the mother of Arthur as her rival m
power, and for that reason only opposed the claims
of the son : but I conceive, that in a woman yet in
the prime of life, and endued with the peculiar
disposition of Constance, the mere love of power
would be too much modified by fancy and feeling
to be called a passion.
In fact, it is not pride, nor temper, nor ambition,
nor even maternal affection, which in Constance
gives the prevailing tone to the whole character '
it is the predominance of imagination. I do net
mean in the conception of the dramatic portrait,
but in the temperament of the woman herself. In
the poetical, fanciful, excitable cast of her mind, in
the excess of the ideal power, tinging all her affec-
tions, exalting all her sentiments and thoughts, and
animating the expression of both, Constance can
only be compared to Juliet.
In the first place, it is through the power of
imagination that when under the influence of
excited temper, Constance is not a mere incensed
woman ; nor does she, in the style of Volumnia,
* " Queen Elinor saw that if he were king, how his motbei
Constance wouid look to bear the most rule in the realm of Eng
u I. till her son should corns of a lawful age to gcrern of him
tf " IIOLLNSHED.
i78 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.
* lament in anger, Juno-like," but rather like a
ribyl in a fury. Her sarcasms come down like
thunderbolts. In her famous address to Austria
Lymoges! Austria! thou dost shame
That bloody spoil! thou slave! thou wretch! them
coward! &c.
it is as if she had concentrated the burning spirit
of scorn, and dashed it in his face : every word
teems to blister where it falls. In the scolding
scene between her and Queen Elinor, the laconic
insolence of the latter is completely overborne by
the torrent of bitter contumely which bursts from
the lips of Constance, clothed in the most energetic,
and often in the most figurative expressions.
ELINOR.
Who is it thou dost call usurper, France?
CONSTANCE.
Let me make answer; Thy usurping son.
ELINOR.
Out insolent ! thy bastard shall be king,
That thou may'st be a queen, and check the
CONSTANCE.
My bed was ever to thy son as true,
As thine was to thy hu 
