Shakespeare's heroines; characteristics of women, moral, poetical and historical

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Shakespeare's heroines; characteristics o

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JULIET

From the Painting by P. H. Calderon

Shakespeare's Heroines

SHAKESPEARE'S
HEROINES

Characteristics of Women, Moral,
Poetical and Historical

BY

ANNA JAIVIESON

Hi ^ ^

WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS

FROM PAINTINGS BY CELEBRATED ARTISTS

NEW YORK ''\}i^i^\\

A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS ^,.

i\

i\i>i^j

i>s^

TO

FANNY KEMBLE,

THIS LITTLE WORK
IS

DEDICATED.

•PREFACE.

In preparing" for the press this little work, the
author has endeavored to render it more worthy
of the approbation and kindly feeling with which
it has been received: she cannot 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 Shakespeare, that bond of sympathy
among all who speak his language, and to the
subject of the work, not to its own merits, that
she attributes the success it has met with, — suc-
cess 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 pleas-
ure and gratitude.

In this Edition there are many corrections, and .
some additions, which the author hopes may be
deemed improvements. She has ' 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 recognized with pleas-
ure, like dear domestic faces ; and if the memory
fail at the moment to recall the lines or the sen-
timent to which the attention is directly required, .
few like to interrupt the course of thought, or

CONTENTS

IMstorical CbarMters

.j/k CLEOPATRA— Antony and Cleopatra

OC TAVIA— Antony and Cleopatr a

VOLUMNIA— Cariolanus

CONSTANCE— King John

QUEEN ELINOR— King Joha

BLANCHE— King John .

MARGARET OF ANJOU— Henry VI.

QUEEN KATHERINE OP ARRAGON—
Henry VIII

i^ LADY MACBETH— Macbeth

FAQB
249

287

292

333
336
343

SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES.

CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT.

PORTIA.

We hear it asserted, not seldom by way of com-
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
the reverse of a compliment. fThe 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 intellectual energy does not contra-
dict 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 the character, than we ever find
them in woment\with whom talent, however pre-
dominant, is irrii much greater degree modified
by the sympathies and moral qualities.

In thinking over all the distinguished women
I can at this moment call to mind, I recollect but

2 Sbaftcspeate's t>ctoinc0.

one who, in the exercise of a rare talent, belied
her sex; but the moral qualities had been first
perverted.^ It is from not knowing, or not al-
lowing this general principle, that men of genius
have committed some signal mistakes. They
have given us exquisite and just delineations of
the more peculiar characteristics of women, as
modesty, grace, tenderness; and when they have
attempted to portray them with the powers com-
mon to both sexes, as wit, energy, intellect, they
have blundered in some respect ; they could form
no conception of intellect which was not mas-
culine, and therefore have either suppressed the
feminine attributes altogether and drawn coarse
caricatures, or they have made them completely
artificial.'' Women distinguished for wit may
sometimes appear masculine and flippant, but the
cause must be sought elsewhere than in nature,
.who disclaims' all such. Hence the witty and in-
tellectual ladies of our comedies and novels are
all in the fashion of some particular time; they

^Artemisia Gentileschi, an Italian artist of the seven-
teenth century, painted one or two pictures, considered
admirable as works of art, of which the subjects are the
most vicious and barbarous conceivable. I remember
one of these in the gallery of Florence, which I looked
at once, but once, and wished then, as I do now, for the
privilege of burning it to ashes.

'Lucy Ashton, in the "Bride of Lammermoor,'' may
be placed next to Desdemona; Diana Vernon is (com-
paratively) a failure, as every woman will allow; while
the masculine Lady Geraldine, in Miss Edgeworth's tale
of "Ennui," and the intellectual Corinne, are consistent,
essential women : the distinction is more easily felt than
analyzed.

f>ott{a. 3

are lilce some old portraits which can still amuse
and please by the beauty of the workmanship,
in spite of the graceless costume or grotesque
accompaniments, but from which we turn to wor-
ship with ever new delight the Floras and god-
desses of Titian, the saints anjd the virgins of
Raffaelle and Domenichino. So the Millamants
and Belindas, the Lady Townleys and Lady Tea-
zles, 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, be-
cause, when compared with others, they are at
once distinguished by their mental superiority.
In Portia, is intellect kindled into romance by
a poetical imagination; in Isabel, it is intellect
elevated by religious principle; in Beatrice, in-
tellect animated by spirit; in Rosalind, intellect,
softened by sensibility. The wit which is lav-
ished on each is profound, or pointed, or spark-
ling, or playful — ^but always feminine: like spir-
its distilled from flowers, it always reminds us
of its origin; it is a volatile essence, sweet as
powerful; and to pursue the comparison a step
further, the wit of Portia is like attar of roses,
rich and concentrated ; that of Rosalind, like cot-
ton dipped in aromatic vinegar; the wit of Bea-
trice is like sal-volatile, and that of Isabel like
the incense wafted to heaven. Of these four ex-
quisite characters, considered as dramatic and
poetical conceptions, it is difficult to pronounce

4 Sbaftc0peate'6 ibetoince.

which is most perfect in its way, most admirably
drawn, most highly finished. But if considered
in another point of view, as women and indi-
viduals, 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 to-
gether in woman, and presenting a complete per-
sonification of Petrarch's exquisite epitome of
female perfection:

II 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 Shakespeare 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 predilection for servant-maids, and his
preference of the Fannys and the Pamela's over
the Clementinas and Clarissas. Schlegel, who
has given several pages to a rapturous eulogy
on the "Merchant of Venice," simply designates
Portia as a "rich, beautiful, clever heiress."
Whether the fault lie in the writer or translator,
I do protest against the word clever.* Portia

' I am informed that the original German word is gets-
treiche; literally, rich in soul or spirit, a just and beau-
tiful epithet. — 2nd Edit.

poctfa. 5

clever! What an epithet to apply to this heav-
enly compound of talent, feeling, wisdom, beauty,

, and gentleness ! 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 much the pos-
session of high powers as dexterity in the adapta-
tion of certain faculties (not necessarily of a high
order) to a certain end or aim — not always the

. worthiest. It implies something commonplace,
inasmuch as it speaks the presence of the active
and perceptive, with a deficiency of the feeling
and reflective powers; and, applied to a woman,
does it not almost invariably suggest the idea of
something we should distrust or shrink from, if
not allied to a higher nature? The profligate
French women who ruled the councils of Europe
in the middle of the last century, were clever
women; and that philosopher ess, Madame du
Chatelet, who managed at one and the same mo-
ment the thread of an intrigue, her cards at
piquet, and a calculation in algebra, was a very
clever woman! 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 baf-
fle the Jew, she might have been pronounced a
clever woman. But what Portia does is forgot-
ten in what she is. . The rare and harmonious
blending of energy, reflection, and feeUng, in
her fine character, makes the epithet clever sound
like a discord as applied to her, and places her
infinitely beyond the slight praise of Richardson

Sbaftespeare's tietoinee,

aad Schlegel, neither of whom appears to have
fully comprehended her.

Th^se and other critics have been apparently
so dazzled and engrossed by the amazing char-
acter of Shylock, that Portia has received less
than jiUStice at their hands ; while the fact is, that
Shylock is not a finer or more finished charac-
ter in his way than Portia is in hers. These two
spteodid figures are worthy of each other —
worthy of being placed together within the same
rich framework of enchanting poetry and glo-
rious and graceful forms. She hangs beside the
terrible inexorable Jew, the brilliant lights of her
character set off by the shadowy power of his,
like a magnificent beauty-breathing Titian by the
side of a gorgeous Rembrandt.

Portia IS endued with her own share of those
delightful qualities which Shakespeare has lav-
ished on many of his female characters; but be-
sides 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 decision of purpose, and her
buoyancy of spirit. These are innate; she has
other distinguishing qualities more external, and
which are the result of the circumstances in
which she is placed. Thus she is the heiress of
a princely name and countless wealth; a train
of obedient pleasures have ever waited round
her; and from infancy she has breathed an at-
mosphere redolent of perfume and blandishment.
Accordingly there is a commanding grace, a high-

©ottfa. 7

bred, airy elegance, a spirit of magnificence, in
all that she does and says, as one to whom splen-
dor 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 fountains, and haunting music. She
is full of penetrative wisdom, and genuine ten-
derness, and lively wit; but as she has never
known want, or grief, or fear, or disappoint-
ment, her wisdom is without a touch of the som-
bre 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 Ven-
ice" is founded on two different tales; and in
weaving together his double plot in so masterly
a manner, Shakespeare has rejected altogether
the character of the astutious lady of Belmont
with her magic potions, who figures in the Ital-
ian novel. With yet more refinement, he has
thrown out all the licentious part of the story,
which some of his contemporary dramatists
would have seized on with avidity, and made the
best or the worst of it possible ; and he has sub-
stituted the trial of the caskets from another
source.* We are not told expressly where Bel-

*In the "Mercatante di Venezia,'' of Ser. Giovanni,
we have the whole story of Antonio and Bassanio, and
part of the story but not the character of Portia. The
incident of the caskets is from the "Gesta Romano-

8 Sbaftespearc's "fcerofncs.

mont is situated; but as Bassanio takes ship to
go thither from Venice, and as we find them
afterwards ordering horses from Belmont to
Padua, we will imagine Portia's he^feditary pal-
ace as standing on some lovely promontory be-
tween Venice and Trieste, overlooking the blue
Adriatic, with the Friuli mountains or the Eu-
ganean hills' for its background, such as we often
see in one of Claude's or Poussin's elysian land-
scapes. In a scene, in a home like this, Shake-
speare, having first exorcised the original pos-
sessor, has placed his Portia: and so endowed
her, that all the wild, strange, and moving cir-
cumstances of the story become natural, prob-
able, and necessary in connection 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 brook to see fair Portia.

The sudden plan which she forms for the re-
lease of her husband's friend, her disguise, and
her deportment as the young and learned doc-

portfa. 9

tor, would appear forced and improbable in anj'
other woman, but in Portia are the simple and
natural result of her 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 gen-
erous purpose, are all in perfect keeping, and
nothing appears forced — ^nothing is 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 intel-
lectual 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 car-
rying 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 de-
liver her husband's friend, and to maintain her
husband's honor by the discharge of his just
debt, though paid out of her own wealth ten
times over. It is evident that she would rather
owe the safety of Antonio to anything rather
than the legal quibble with which her cousin Bel-

' In that age, delicate points of law were not deter-
mined by the ordinary judges of the provinces, but by
doctors of law, who were called from Bologna, Padua,
and other places celebrated for their legal colleges.

10 Sbaftespeare's iDerofncs.

lario has armed her, and which she reserves as
a last resource. Thus all the speeches addressed
to Shylock in the first instance are either direct
or indirect experiments on his temper and feel-
ings. She must be understood, from the begin-
ning to the end, as examining with intense anx-
iety the effect of her own words on his mind
and countenance; as watching for that relenting
spirit which she hopes to awaken either by rea-
son or persuasion. She begins by an appeal to
his 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' ava^^-
rice :

Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee.

Then she appeals, in the same breath, both to
his avarice and his pity :

Be merciful!
Take thrice thy money. Bid me tear the bond.

All that she says afterwards — her strong ex-
pressions, which are calculated to strike a shud-
dering horror through the nerves ; the reflections
she interposes, her delays and circumlocution to
give time for any latent feeling of commisera-
tion to display itself ; all, all are premeditated, and
tend in the same manner to the object she has in
view. Thus —

Portia. 11

You must prepare your bosom for his knife.
Therefore lay bare your bosom !

These two speeches, though addressed appa-
rently to Antonio, are spoken at Shylock, and
are evidently intended to penetrate his bosom.
In the same spirit she asks for the balance to
weigh the pound of flesh; and entreats of Shy-
lock to have a surgeon ready —

Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge.
To stop his wounds lest he do bleed to death!

SHYLOCK.

Is it not so nominated in the bond?

PORTIA.

It is not so express' d — 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 hu-
manity is absolutely extinct in the bosom of the
Jew, that she calls on Antonio, as a last resource,
to speak for himself. His gentle yet manly res-
ignation — the deep pathos of his farewell, and
the affectionate allusion to herself in his last .
address to Bassanio —

Commend me to your honourable wife ;

Say how I loved you, speak me fair in death, &c.

are well calculated to swell that emotion which -
through the whole scene must have been labor-
ing suppressed within her heart.

At length the crisis arrives, for patience and
womanhood can endure no longer; and when

12 Sbaftcspeate's IBerofnca.

Shylock, carrying his savage bent "to the last
hour of act," springs on his victim — "A sentence !
come, prepare!" then the smothered scorn, indig-
nation, and disgust burst forth with an impet-
uosity which interferes with the judicial solemn-
ity 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 dra-
matic 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 undercurrent 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 pos-
sible issue too overwhelming, but for the intel-
lectual relief afforded by this double source of
interest and contemplation.

I come now to that capacity for warm and

IPortia. 13

generous affection, that tenderness of heart, which
render Portia not less lovable as a woman than
admirable for her mental endowments. The af-
fections 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 Por-
tia and Bassanio, though unacknowledged to each
other, anterior to the opening of the play ! Bas-
sanio's confession very properly comes first : —

BASSANIO.

In Belmont is a lady richly left,

And she is fair, and fairer than that word.

Of wondrous virtues ; sometimes from her eyes

I did receive fair speechless messages;

^ ^ ^ *p 3|£

and prepares us for Portia's half-betrayed, un-
conscious election of this most graceful and chiv-
alrous 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 my foolish
eyes looked upon was the best deserving a fair lady.

14 Sbattespeare's tietolnes.

PORTIA.

1 remember him well ; and I remember him worthy of
thy praise.

Our interest is thus awakened for the lovers
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 sentiment and beauty, and poetry, and pas-
sion ? Too naturally frank for disguise, too mod-
est to confess her depth of love while the issue
of the trial remains in suspense, the conflict be-
tween 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 eyes,
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, then yours,
And so all yours !

The short dialogue between the lovers is ex-
quisite.

poctia. 15

BASSANIO.

Let me choose;
For, as I am, I live upon the rack.

Upon the rack, Bassanio? Then confess
What treason there is mingled with your love.

BASSANIO.

None, but that ugly treason of mistrust.
Which makes me fear the enjoying of my love.
There may as well be amity and life
'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love.

Ay ! but I fear you speak upon the rack.
Where men enforced do speak anything.

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!
O happy torment, when my torturer
Doth teach me answers for deliverance !

A prominent feature in Portia's character is
that confiding, buoyant spirit which mingles with
all her thoughts and affections. And here let
me observe, that I never yet met in real life,
nor ever read in tale or history, of any woman,
distinguished for intellect of the highest order,
who was not also remarkable for this trusting
spirit, this hopefulness and cheerfulness of tem-

16 Sba?(e0peace'0 l&etofnes.

per, wliich is compatible with the most serious
habits of thought and the most profound sen-
sibility. Lady Wortley Montagu was one in-
stance; and Madame de Stael furnishes another
much more memorable. In her Corinne, whom
she drew from herself, this natural brightness of
temper is a prominent part of the character. A
disposition to doubt, to suspiect, and to despond,
in the young, argues, in general, some inherent
weakness, moral or physical, or some miserable
and radical error of education ; in the old, it is one
of the first symptoms of age : it speaks of the in-
fluence of sorrow and experience, and foreshows
the decay of the stronger and more generous
powers of the soul. Portia's strength of intel-
lect takes a natural tinge from the flush and
bloom of her young and prosperous existence,
and from her fervid 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 the caskets, she
suffers herself to dwell for one moment on the
possibility of disappointment and misery.

Let music sound while he doth make his choice ;
Then if he lose, he makes a swan-like end.
Fading in music : that the comparison
May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream
And wat'ry death-bed for him.

Then immediately follows that revulsion of
feeling, so beautifully characteristic of the hope-
ful, trusting, mounting spirit of this noble crea-
ture.

Portia. 17

But he may win!
And what is music then? — then music is
Even as the flourish, 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
comes 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 daugh-
ter of Laomedon, are all precisely what would
have suggested themselves to the fine poetical
imagination of Portia 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 ; yet she makes
us feel that, as the sudden joy overpowers her
almost to fainting, the disappointment would as
certainly have killed her.

How all the other passions fleet to air,
As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac'd despair,
And shudd'ring fear, and green-ey'd jealousy!
O love I be moderate, allay thy ecstasy ;

18 Sbaftespeatc's Ibetoinea.

In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess:
I feel too much thy blessing; make it less,
For fear I surfeit !

Her subsequent surrender of herself in heart "
and soul, of her maiden freedom, and her vast
possessions, can never be read without deep emo- '
tion ; 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 Belmont, but the serious, measured self-pos-
session of her address to her lover, when all sus-
pense is over, and all concealment superfluous,
is most beautifully consistent with the charac- '
ter. It isj-tn-truth^ an awful moment, that in ■
which a gifted wOTmBifii-st -discovers, that, be-
sides talents and powera,-&he-lias^- also passions '
and affections; when she-first Jiegins to suspect
their vast importance in the sum of her exist-
ence; when she first confeSses-4hat her happi-
ness is no longer in her own=keeping, but is sur-
rendered for ever and for^ever into the domin-'
ion 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 calculation the sources
of feeling; and mingled, they rush together, a
torrent as deep as strong. Because Portia is en-
dued with that enlarged comprehension which
looks before and after, she does not feel the less,
but the more: because from the height of her

portfa. 19

commanding intellect she can contemplate the
force, the tendency, the consequences of her own
sentiments — ^because she is fully sensible of her
own situation and the value of all she concedes
— the concession is not made with less entire-
ness and devotion of heart, less confidence in the
truth and worth of her lover, than when Juliet,
in a similar moment, but without any such in-
trusive reflections — any check but the instinctive
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 breathed
from a moon-lit balcony, but spoken openly in
the presence of her attendants and vassals, there
is nothing of the passionate self-abandonment of
Juliet, nor of the artless simplicity of Miranda,
but a consciousness and a tender seriousness, ap-
. proaching to solemnity, which are not less touch-
ing:

You 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 times myself;

A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times

More rich; that only to stand high in your account,

I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends

Exceed account; but the full sum of me

Is sum of something; which to term in gross,

* "Romeo and Juliet," act ii. scene 2.

20 Sbaftcspeare's Detofnes.

Is an unlesson'd girl, unschobl'd, unpractised,

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 what is 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, the
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 herself and all her countless wealth)
is consistent with a reflecting mind, and a spirit
at once tender, reasonable, and magnanimous.

It is not only in the trial scene that Portia's
acuteness, eloquence, and lively intelligence are
revealed to us ; they are displayed in the first in-
stance, and kept up consistently to the end. Her
reflections, arising from the most usual aspects
of nature and from the commonest incidents of
life, are in such a poetical spirit, and are at the
same time 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.

pottfa. 21

I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done,
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 mean-
ing as of tenderness ; and her portrait of a young
coxcomb, in the same scene, is touched with a
truth and spirit which show with what a keen
observing eye she has looked upon men and
things.

■ I'll hold thee any wager.

When we are both accoutred like young men,

I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two.

And wear my dagger with a braver grace;

And speak between the change of man and boy

With a reed voice ; and turn two mincing steps

Into a manly stride ; a,nd speak of frays

Like a fine bragging youth ; and tell quaint lies —

How honourable ladies sought my love.

Which I denying, they fell sick and died;

I could not do with all: 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 shall swear I have discontinued school

Above a twelvemonth.

22 Sbaftespeare's "Iberolnca.

And in the description of her various suitors,
in the first scene with Nerissa, what infinite
power, wit, and vivacity! She half checks her-
self as she is about to give the reins to her sport-
ive 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, "misprising what she looks on." In
fact, I can scarce conceive a greater contrast
than between the vivacity 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 as well as her lively
and romantic disposition; and as I have seen in
an Italian garden a fountain flinging round its
wreaths of showery light, while the many-col-
ored Iris hung brooding above it, in its calm and
soul- felt glory; so in Portia the wit is ever kept
subordinate to the poetry, and we still feel the
tender, the intellectual, and the imaginative part
of the character, as superior to, and presiding
over, its spirit and vivacity.

*In the last act, Shylock and his machinations
being dismissed from our thoughts, and the rest
of the dramatis personce assembled together at
Belmont, all our interest and all our attention
are rivetted on Portia, and the conclusion leaves
the most delightful impression on the fancy. The
playful equivoque of the rings, the sportive trick
she puts on her husband, and her thorough en-

^ottfa. 23

joyment of the jest, which she checks just as it
is proceeding beyond the bounds of propriety,
show how little she was displeased by the sac-
rifice of her gift, and are all consistent with her
bright and buoyant spirit. In conclusion, when
Portia invites her company to enter her palace
to refresh themselves after their travels, and talk
over "these events at full," the imagination, un-
willing to lose sight of the brilliant group, fol-
lows 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-
tient faculties should be so exquisitely blended
and proportioned to each other — and these again,
in harmony with all outward aspects and influ-
ences — probably never existed ; certainly could not
now exist. A woman constituted like Portia, and
placed in this age and in the actual state of so-
ciety, would find society armed against her; and
instead of being like Portia, a gracious, happy,
beloved, and loving creature, would be a victim,
immolated in fire to that multitudinous Moloch
termed Opinion. With her, the world without
would be at war with the world within: in the
perpetual strife, either her nature would "be sub-
dued to the element it worked in," and, bending
to a necessity it could neither escape nor ap-

21 SbaTiespeate's Ibetofnes.

prove, lose at last something of its original
brightness, or otherwise — a perpetual spirit of
resistance cherished as a safeguard, might per-
haps in the end destroy the equipage; 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
itself ? Where, but in heaven ?

Camiola, in Massinger's "Maid of Honour," is
said to emulate Portia; and the real story of Ca-
miola (for she is an historical personage) is very
beautiful. She was a lady of Messina, who lived
in the beginning of the fourteenth century; and
was the contemporary of Queen Joanna, of Pe-
trarch, and Boccaccio. It fell out in those days that
Prince Orlando of Arragon, the younger brother
of the King of Sicily, having taken the command
of a naval armament against the Neapolitans,
was defeated, wounded, taken prisoner, and con-
fined by Robert of Naples (the father of Queen
Joanna) in one of his strongest castles. As the
prince had distinguished 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 displeas-
ure against his brother, and imputed to him the
defeat of his armament, refused either to nego-
tiate for his release or to pay the ransom de-
manded.

Orlando, who was celebrated for his fine per-

Portia. 25

son and reckless valor, was apparently doomed
to languish away the rest of his life in a dun-
geon, when Camiola Turinga, a rich Sicilian heir-
ess, devoted the half of her fortune to release
him. But as such an action might expose her to
evil comments, she made it a condition that Or-
lando should marry her. The prince gladly ac-
cepted the terms, and sent her the contract of
marriage, signed by his hand ; but no sooner was
he at liberty than he 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
obligations she had heaped on this ungrateful and
ungenerous man: sentence was given against
him, and he was adjudged to Camiola, not only
as her rightful husband, but as a property which,
according to the laws of war in that age, she had
purchased with her gold. The day of marriage
was fixed; Orlando presented himself with a
splendid retinue; Camiola also appeared, dec-
orated as for her bridal; but instead of bestow-
ing her hand on the recreant, she reproached him
in the presence of all with his breach of faith,
declared her utter contempt for his baseness, and
then freely bestowing on him the sum paid for
his ransom, as a gift worthy of his mean soul,
she turned away, and dedicated herself 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,

26 SbaTteepeare's Stetoinea.

passed the rest of his life as a dishonored man,
and died in obscurity.

Camiola, in "The Maid of Honour," 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
tenderness; but not only do pain and disquiet,
and the change induced by unkind and inaus-
picious influences, enter into this sweet picture
to mar and cloud its happy beauty, but the por-
trait itself may; be pronounced out of drawing;
— for Massinger apparently had not sufficient
delicacy of sentiment to work out his own con-
ception of the character with perfect consistency.
In his adaptation of the story he represents the
mutual love of Orlando and Camiola as exist-
ing previous to the captivity of the former,
and on his part declared with many vows of eter-
nal faith; yet she requires a written contract of
marriage before she liberates him. It will per-
haps be said that she has penetrated his weak-
ness, and anticipates his falsehood. Miserable,
excuse ! — ^how could a magnanimous woman love
a man whose falsehood she believes but possible?
— or loving him, how could she deign to secure
herself by such means against the consequences?
Shakespeare and Nature never committed such
a solecism. Camiola doubts before she has been
wronged; the firmness and assurance in herself
border on harshness. What in Portia is the gen-
tle wisdom of a noble nature appears in Camiola
too much a spirit of calculation; it savors a lit-

Portia. 27

tie of the counting-house. As Portia is the heir-
ess of Belmont, and Camiola a merchant's daugh-
ter, the distinction may be proper and character-
istic, but it is not in favor of Camiola. The con-
trast may be thus illustrated :

CAMIOLA.

You have heard of Bertoldo's captivity, and the king's
neglect, the greatness of his ransom; fifty thousand
crowns, Adorni! Two parts of my estate! Yet I so
love the gentleman, for to you I will confess my weak-
ness, that I purpose now, when he is forsaken by the
king and his own hopes, to ransom him.

Maid of Honour, act iii.

PORTIA.

What sum owes he the Jew ?

BASSANIO.

For me — ^three thousand ducats.

PORTIA.

iWhat! no more!

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
To pay the petty debt twenty times o'er.

Merchant of Venice.

Camiola, who is a Sicilian, might as well have
been born at Amsterdam : Portia could only have
existed in Italy. Portia is profound as she is
brilliant ; Camiola is sensible and sententious : she
asserts her dignity very successfully ; but we can-
not for a moment imagine Portia as reduced to

28 Sbatsespaare's Iberolncs.

the necessity of asserting hers. The idiot Sylli,
in "The Maid of Honour," who follows Camiola
like one of the deformed dwarfs of old time, is
an intolerable violation of taste and propriety,
and it sensibly lowers our impression of the prin-
cipal character. Shakespeare would never have
placed Sir Andrew Aguecheek 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 for-
mality. Notwithstanding the dignity and the
beauty of Massinger's delineation, and the noble
self-devotion of Camiola, which I acknowledge
and admire, the two characters will admit of no
comparison as sources of contemplation and

pleasure.

*****

It is observable that something of the intel-
lectual brilliance of Portia is reflected on the
other female characters of "The Merchant of
Venice," so as to preserve in the midst of con-
trast a certain harmony and keeping. Thus Jes-
sica, though properly kept subordinate, is cer- .
tainly

A most beautiful Pagan — a most sweet Jew.

She cannot be called a sketch — or if a sketch,
she is like one of those dashed off in glowing
colors from the rainbow palette of a Rubens ; she

IPottfa. 29

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 between her and Loren-
zo; — the celebrated moonlight dialogue, for in-
stance, which we all have by hfeart. Every sen-
timent she utters interests us for her — more par-
ticularly her bashful self-reproach when flying
in the disguise of a page :

I am glad 'tis night, you do not look upon me.
For I am much asham'd of my exchange;
But love is blind, and lovers cannot see
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 Por-
tia 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 world
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:

30 Sb&keepeatc'B "berofnes;

I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the
jewels in her ear! — ^would she were hearsed at my foot,
and the ducats in her coffin!

Nerissa is a good specimen of a common ge-
nus of characters: she is a clever, confidential
waiting-woman, who has sought a little of her
lady's elegance and romance; she affects to be
lively and sententious, falls in love, and makes
her favor conditional on the fortune of the cask-
ets, and, in short, mimics her mistress with good
emphasis and discretion. Nerissa and the gay,
talkative Gratiano are as well matched as the in-
comparable Portia and her magnificent and cap-
tivating lover.

fsabella. 81

ISABELLA.

The character of Isabella, considered as a po-
etical delineation, is less mixed than that of Por-
tia; and the dissimilarity between the two ap-
pears, at first view, so complete, that we can
scarce believe that the same elements enter into
the composition 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 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
marvellous power by which qualities and endow-
ments, essentially and closely allied, are so com-
bined and modified as to produce a result alto-
gether different. "O Nature! O Shakespeare!
which of ye drew from the other ?"

Isabella is distinguished from Portia, and
strongly individualized by a certain moral gran-:
deur, a saintly grace, something of vestal dig- ,
nity and purity, 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 An-
gelo —

32 SbaftcBpeare's IBctotnee.

cunning enemy ! that to catch a saint
With saints dost bait thy hook.

This impression of her character is conveyed
from the very first, when Lucio, the libertine
jester, whose coarse, audacious wit checks at
every feather, thus expresses his respect for her :

1 would not — ^though 'tis my familiar sin
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 servants, queen o'er herself;" easy and de-
cided, as one born to command and used to it.
Isabella has also the innate dignity which ren-
ders 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 confer happiness are to her unknown.
Portia is a splendid creature, radiant with con-
fidence, hope, and joy. She is like the orange-
tree, hung at once with golden fruit and luxu-
riant 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 like a stately and grace-

Isabella. 33

ful cedar, towering on some Alpine cliff, un-
bowed and unscathed amid the storm. She gives
us the impression of one who has passed under
the ennobHng discipline of suffering and self-
denial: a melancholy charm tempers 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 in-
wardly 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 aus-
terity of life with gentleness of manner, — of in-
flexible moral principle with humility and even
bashfulness of deportment, is delineated with the
most beautiful and wonderful consistency. Thus,
when her brother sends to her to entreat her
mediation, her first feeling is fear, and a distrust
in her own powers ;

Alas ! what poor ability's in me
To do him good?

Lucio.
Essay the power you have.

ISABELLA.

My power, alas! I doubt.

In the first scene with Angelo she seems di-
vided between her love for her brother and her
sense of his fault; between her self-respect and
her maidenly bashfulness. She begins with a

34 Sbaftcspearc'a Iberolnes.

kind of hesitation, "at war 'twixt will and will
not:" and when Angelo quotes the law, and in-
sists on the justice of his sentence and the re-
sponsibility of his station, her native sense of
moral rectitude and severe principles takes the
lead, and she shrinks back :

O just, but severe law !
I had a brother then — Heaven keep your honour !

{Retiring.)

Excited and encouraged by Lucio, and sup-
ported by her own natural spirit, she returns to
the charge, — she gains energy and self-posses-
sion 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 Clau-
dio'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, ex-
horting Angelo to mercy, avails herself of pre-
cisely the same arguments and insists on the self-
same topics which Portia addressed to Shylock
in her celebrated speech ; but how beautifully and
how truly is the distinction marked! how like,
and yet how unlike! Portia's eulogy on mercy
is a piece of heavenly rhetoric; it falls on the
ear with a solemn measured harmony; it is the

fsabella. 35

voice of a descended angel addressiiig an infe-
rior nature: if not premeditated, it is at least
part of a preconcerted scheme; while Isabella's
pleadings are poured from the abundance of her
heart in broken sentences, and with the artless ve-
hemence of one who feels that life and death
hang upon her appeal. This will be best un-
derstood by placing the corresponding passages
in immediate comparison with each other:

PORTIA.

The quality of mercy is not strain'd,

It droppeth as the gentle dew 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.

PORTLA.

Consider this —
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy ;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.

36 Sbalteapeare's 'f>ecofnes.

ISABELLA.

Alas ! alas !
Why all the souls that are were forfeit once;
And He, that might the 'vantage best have took,
Found out the remedy. How would you be,
If He, which is the top of judgment, should
But judge you as you are? O, think on that;
And mercy then will breathe within your lips.
Like man new made.

The beautiful things which Isabella is made
to utter have, like the sayings of Portia, become
proverbial: but in spirit and character they are
as distinct as are the two women. In all that
Portia says we confess the power of a rich poet-
ical imagination, 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 some-
thing 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 of her convent cell:

O, it is excellent
To havtf a giant's strength ; biit 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
Split' st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak

Ifsabella. 37

Than the soft myrtle. O but man, proud man!

Drest in a little brief authority.

Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd.

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 choleri" 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 your bosom ;
■ Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know

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 in nothing good,
But graciously to know I am no' 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.

Her fine powers of reasoning, and that nat-
ural uprightness and purity which no sophistry
can warp, and no allurement betray, are farther
displayed in the second scene with Angelo.

38 Sbafieapeate's Ibecolnes.

ANGELO.

vWhat 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 rubies.
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.

ANGELO.

Then must your brother die.

ISABELLA.

And 'twere the cheaper way:
Better it were a brother died at once.
Than that a sister, by redeeming him.
Should die for ever.

Were not you then as cruel as the sentence
That you have slandered so?

ISABELLA.

Ignominy in ransom, and free pardon
Are of two houses : lawful mercy is
Nothing akin to foul redemption.

• NGELO.

You seem'd of late to make the law a tyrant;
And rather prov'd the sliding of your brother
A merriment than a vice.

ISABELLA.

O, pardon me, my lord; it oft falls out.

To have what we would have, we speak not what

we mean:
I something do excuse the thing I hate.
For his advantage that I dearly love.

ITsabella. 89

Towards the conclusion of the play we have
another instance of that rigid sense of justice
which is a prominent part of Isabella's charac-
ter, and almost silences her earnest intercession
for her brother, when his fault is placed between
her plea and her conscience. The Duke con-
demns the villain 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 all I

O Isabel ! will you not lend a knee ?

Isabella, thus urged, breaks silence, and ap-
peals to the Duke, not with supplication, or per-
suasion, but with grave argument, and a kind
of dignified humility and conscious power, which
are finely characteristic of the individual woman.

Most bounteous sir
Look, if it please you, on this man condemn'd.
As if my brother liv'd ; I partly think
A due sincerity governed his deeds
Till he did look on me: since it is so.
Let him not die. My brother had but justice.
In that he did the thing for which he died.
For Angelo,

His art did not o'ertake his bad intent.
That perish'd by the way ; thoughts are no subjects.
Intents but merely thoughts.

J

40 Sbalftespeare's Iberoines.

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 sex has a peculiar softness, beauty, and pro-
priety. 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 weakness she acknowledges.

ANGELO.

Nay, women are frail, too.

ISABELLA.

Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves;
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 in-
terest 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 natural. It is the strong undercur-
rent 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 com-
posure of the religious recluse, which, by the
very force of contrast, powerfully impress the
imagination. As we see in real life that where,

Teabella. 41

iroin some external or habitual cause, a strong
control is exercised over naturally quick feel-
ings and an impetuous temper, they display them-
selves with a proportionate vehemence when that
restraint is removed; so the very violence with
which her passion bursts forth, when opposed
or under the influence of strong excitement, is
admirably characteristic.

Thus in her exclamation, when she first allows
herself to perceive Angelo's vile design —

ISABELLA.

Ha! little honour to be much believ'd,

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 outstretch'd throat, I'll tell the world

Aloud, what man thou art!

And again, where she finds that the "outward
sainted deputy" has deceived her —

O, I will to him, and pluck out his eyes!
Unhappy Claudio! wretched Isabel!
Injurious world ! most damned Angelo !

She places at first a strong and high-souled
confidence in her brother's fortitude and magna-
nimity/ 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 honour.
That had he 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.

42 Bb&licsveate's fjeroines.

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
almost fearful; and both are carried to an ex-
treme, which is perfectly in character:

O faithless coward! O 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 I 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 save thee.

The whole of this scene with Claudio is inex-
pressibly 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 wis-
dom and unequalled beauty did not invest them
with an immortal freshness and vigor, and a per-
petual charm.

The story of "Measure for Measure" is a tradi-
tion of great antiquity, of which there are sev-
eral ^ versions, narrative and dramatic. A con-
temptible tragedy, the "Promos and Cassandra"
of George Whetstone, is supposed, from various
coincidences, to have furnished Shakespeare with
the groundwork of the play; but the character
of Isabella is, in conception and execution, all his
own. The commentators have collected with in-

fsabelta. 43

finite 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 her over without
a word. One critic, a lady-critic too, whose name
I will be so merciful as to suppress, treats Isa-
bella as a coarse vixen. Hazlitt, with that strange
perversion of sentiment and want of taste which
sometimes mingle with his piercing and power-
ful intellect, dismisses'^Isabella with a slight re-
mark, that "we are not greatly 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 crit-
icism? Upon what ground can we read the play
from beginning to end, and doubt the angel-
purity of Isabella, or contemplate her possible
lapse from virtue? Such gratuitous mistrust is
here a sin 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 -
sums up her character as "amiable, pious, sensi-
ble, resolute, determined, and eloquent;" but his
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 al-
low him to be more minute. Of the play alto-
gether, he observes very beautifully "that the
title 'Measure for Measure' is in reality a misno-

44 Sbafteepeare's Ibctoincs.

mer, 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 na-
ture of the subject, which prevents us from tak-
ing a cordial interest in it." Of all the charac-
ters, Isabella alone has our sympathy. But
though she triumphs in the conclusion, her tri-
umph is not produced in a pleasing manner.
There are too many disguises and tricks, too
many "by-paths' and indirect crooked ways," to
conduct us to the natural and foreseen catas-
trophe, which the Duke's presence throughout
renders inevitable. This Duke seems to have a
predilection for bringing about justice by a most
unjustifiable succession of falsehoods and coun-
terplots. He really deserves Lucio's satirical des-
ignation, who somewhere styles him "The Fan-
tastical Duke of Dark Corners." But Isabella
is' ever consistent in her pure and upright sim-
plicity, and in the midst of this simulation, ex-
presses 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 re-
ligious' novice, and his station, habit, and author-
ity, as her spiritual director, demand this sacri-
fice. 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

' Act iv. scene 5.

Teabella. 45

sphere ; for though Isabella, as Duchess of Vien-
na, could not more command our highest rev-
erence than Isabel 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 in-
tellect and firm principle of such a woman as Isa-
bella, than the walls of a cloister. The philo-
sophical Duke observes in the very first scene:

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 use."

This profound and beautiful sentiment is il-
lustrated 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 poetic-
ally for any narrow and obscure situation in which
such a woman might be placed) Isabella would
not have been unhappy, but happiness would
have been the result of an effort, or of the con-
centration of her great mental powers to some
particular purpose; as St. Theresa's intellect, en-
thusiasm, tenderness, restless activity, and burn-
ing eloquence, governed by one overpowering
sentiment of devotion, rendered her the most
extraordinary of saints. Isabella, like St. The-
resa, complains that the rules of her order are

* Use, i.e. usury, interest.

46 SbaTiespeate's f)eroine0.

not sufficiently severe, and from the same cause,
— ^that from the consciousness of strong in-
tellectual and imaginative power, and of over-
flowing sensibility, she desires a more "strict re-
straint," or, from the continual involuntary strug-
gle against the trammels imposed, feels its ne-
cessity.

ISABELLA.

And have you nuns no further privileges?

FRANCISCA.

Are not these large enough?

ISABELLA.

Yes, truly; I speak, not as desiring more.
But rather wishing a more strict restraint
Upon the sisterhood.

Such women as Desdemona and Ophelia would
have 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
concerned. Isabella, "dedicate to nothing tem-
poral," might have found resignation through
self-government, or have become a religious en-
thusiast 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 trappings of power and state,
the gemmed coronal, the ermined robe, she would
have regarded as the outward emblems of her

fsabella.

47

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."

is Sbafteapeare's t)eto(ne0.

BEATRICE.

Shakespeare has exhibited in Beatrice a spir-
ited and faithful portrait of the fine lady of his
own time. The deportment, language, manners,
and allusions are those of a particular class in
a particular age; but the individual and dramatic
character which forms the groundwork is
strongly discriminated, and being taken from
general nature, belongs to every age. In_£.ea;;_
trice-Jugh-iiitelleet and high- animal spirits meet,
and exdte each other like fire and air. In her
wit (which is brilliant without being imaginative)-
there is a touch of insolence, not unfrequent in
women when the wit predominates over reflec-
tion and imagination. 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 riot only an ex-
uberance of wit andi^gaiety, but of heart, and soul,
and energy of spirit ^ird-is no more like, the fine
ladies of modern comedy, — whose wit consists
in a temporary allusion or a play upon words.

;»eatcfce. 49

and whose petulance is displayed in a toss of the
head, a flirt of the fan, or a flourish of the pocket-
handkerchief, — ^than one of our modern dandies
is like Sir Philip Sydney. ,

In Beatrice Shakespeare has contrived that the
poetry of the character shall not only soften, but
iieighten its comic effect. We are not only in-
clined to forgive Beatrice all her scornful airs,
all her biting jests, all her assumption of supe-
riority; but they amuse and delight us the more,
when we find her, with all the headlong simplicity
of a child, falling at once into the snare laid for
her affections'; when we see her, who thought
a man of God's making not good enough for
her, who disdained to be o'ermastered by "a piece
of valiant dust," stooping like the rest of her
sex, vailing her proud spirit, and taming her
wild heart to the loving hand of him whom she
had scorned, flouted, and misused, "past the en-
durance of a block." And we are yet more com-
pletely won by her generous, enthusiastic attach-
ment to her cousin. When the father of Hero
believes the tale of her guilt ; when Claudio, her
lover, without remorse or a lingering doubt, con-
signs her to shame; when the Friar remains si-
lent, and the generous Benedick himself knows
not what to say, Beatrice, confident in her affec-
tions, 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,

O, on my soul, my cousin is belied!

50 Sbaftespeate'0 feetoines.

Schlegel, in his remarks on the play of "Much
Ado about Nothing," has given us an amusing
instance of that sense of reality with which we
are impressed by Shakespeare'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 not un-
likely; and the same inference would lead us to
suppose that this mutual inclination had com-
menced before the opening of the play. The
very first words uttered by Beatrice are an in-
quiry after Benedick, though expressed with her
usual arch impertinence : —

I pray you, is Signior Montanto returned from the
wars, or no?

I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in
these wars? But how many hath he killed? for indeed
I promised to eat all of his killing.

And in the unprovoked hostility with which she
falls upon him in his absence, in the pertinacity
and bitterness of her satire, there is certainly
great argument that he occupies much more of
her thoughts than she would have been willing
to confess, even to herself. In the same man-
ner, Benedick betrays a lurking partiality for his .
fascinating enemy; he shows that he has looked
upon her with no careless eye, when he says,

There's her cousin (meaning Beatrice), an she were
not possessed with a fury, excels her as much in beauty
as the first of May does the last of December.

JBeatrfce. 51

Infinite skill, as well as humor, is shown in
making this pair of airy beings the exact coun-
terpart of each other ; but of the two portraits,
thafof Benedick is by far the most pleasing, be-
cause the i ndependence and g ay in difference of
temgeri" the laughing jle%nc£jof love and mar-
riage, the satirical freedom of expression, com-
mon to both, are more becoming to the mascu-
line than to the feminine character. Any woman
might love such a cavalier as Benedick, and be
proud of his affection ; his valor, his wit, and his
gaiety sit so gracefully upon him! and his light
scoffs against the power of love are but just suf-
ficient to render more piquant the conquest of
this "heretic in despite of beauty." But a man
might well be pardoned who should shrink from
encountering such a spirit as that of Beatrice,
unless, indeed, he had "served an apprenticeship
to the taming school." The wit of Beatrice is less
good-humored than that pF Benedick ^ oT, froni
"the difference of sex, appears so. It is observ-
able, that th^power is throughout on her 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 she con-
stantly 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 pro-
voking the merry warfare:

52 Sbaftespeare's Iberoincs.

I wonder that 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
itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her pres-
ence.

It is clear that she cannot for a moment en-
dure his neglect, and he can as little tolerate her
scorn. Nothing that Benedick addresses to Bea-
trice personally can equal the malicious force of
some of her attacks upon him: he is either re-
strained by a feeling of natural gallantry, 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 him-
self, 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 extrav-
agance and exaggeration, that he betrays at once
how deep is his mortification, 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, and
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, how-

SBeattfcc. 53

ever natural and expected, comes upon us with
all the force of a surprise, cannot be surpassed;
and how exquisitely characteristic the mutual
avowal !

BENEDICK.

By my sword, Beatrice, thou 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
him eat it that says I love not you.

BEATRICE.

Will you not eat your word?

BENEDICK.

With no sauce that can be devised to it: I protest I
love thee.

BEATRICE.

Why, then, God forgive me!

BENEDICK.

What offence, sweet Beatrice?

BEATRICK

You stayed me in a happy hour. I was about to pro-
iest I loved you.

BENEDICK.

And do it with all thy heart

BEATRICE.

I love you with so much of my heart, that there is
none left to protest

54 Sbafiespeate'e ibetoines.

But here again the dominion rests with Bea-
trice, 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 ex-
cess of fondness; but with Beatrice temper has
still the mastery. The affection of Benedick in-
duces him to challenge his intimate friend for her
sake, but the affection of Beatrice does not pre-
vent her from risking the life of her lover.

The charactA- of Hero is well contrasted with
that of Beatrice, and their mutual attachment
is very 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 su-
periority, abashes her by her raillery, dictates to
her, answers for her, and would fain inspire her
gentle-hearted cousin with some of her own as-
surance.

Yes, faith, it is my cousin's duty to make a curtsey,
and say, "Father, as it please you ;" but yet for all that,
cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make an-
other curtsey, and say, "Father, as it please me."

But Shakespeare knew well how to make one
character subordinate to another, without sac-
rificing the slightest portion of its effect; and
Hero, added to her grace and softness, and all
the interest which attaches to her as the senti-
mental heroine of the play, possesses an intel-
lectual beauty of her own. When she has Bea-
trice at an advantage, she repays her with in-

:{Seatrice. 55

terest, in the severe, but most animated and ele-
gant picture she draws of her cousin's imperious
character and unbridled levity of tongue. The
portrait is a little overcharged, because admin-
istered as a corrective, and intended to be over-
heard :

But Nature never fram'd a woman's hear^
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice :
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprising what they look on ; and her wit
Values itself so highly, that to her
All matter else seems weak; she cannot love.
Nor take no shaoe nor project of affection.
She is so self-endeared.

URSULA.

Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.

HERO.

No; not to be so odd, and from all fashions.
As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable:
But who dare tell her so? If I should speak.
She'd mock me into air: O, she would laugh me
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-
self.

56 Sbalftespeare's f>eTO{ne0.

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, arid she is infinitely more struck by what
is said in praise of Benedick, and the history of
his supposed love for her, than by the dispraise
of herself. The immediate success of the trick
is a most natural consequence of the. self-assur-
ance and magnanimity of her character ; she is so
at:customed to 'assert dominion over the spirits
of others, that she cannot suspect the possibil-
ity of a plot laid against herself.

A_ haughty, excitable, and violent temper is
another of the characteristics of Beatrice; but
there is more of impulse than of passion in her
vehemence. In the marriage scene, where she
has beheld her gentle-spirited cousin, — whom she
loves the more for those very qualities which are
most unlike her own,— slandered, deserted, and
devoted to public shame, her indignation, and
the eagerness with which she hungers and thirsts
after revenge, are, like the rest of her charac-
ter, open, ardent, impetuous, but not deep or
implacable. When she bursts into that out-
rageous speech —

Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath
slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O
that I were a man ! What ! bear her in hand until they
come to take hands; and then with public accusation,
uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour — O God, that I
were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-
place !

JBeattfce. 57

And when she commends her lover, as the first
proof of his affection, "to kill Claudio," the very
consciousness of the exaggeration — of the con-
trast between the real good-nature of Beatrice
and the fierce 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' of Beatrice are capable of a gen-
eral application, or engrave themselves distinctly
on the memory; they contain more mirth than
matter; and though wit be the predominant fea-
ture in the dramatic portrait, Beatrice more
charms and dazzles us by what she is than by
what she says. It is not merely her sparkling
repartees and saucy Jests, ^t is ,lhe soul of wit,
_and_the spirit. of gaiety in forming the whole
characterj; — ^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 con-
gratulation or sympathy; rather with an ac-
knowledgment that they are well matched, and
worthy of each other, than with any well-founded
expectation of their domestic 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 to wilful to live peace-
ably together. We have some misgivings about
Beatrice — some apprehensions that poor Bene-
dick will not escape the "predestinate scratched

68 Sbiikeepente's "tbetolnee.

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 air selfishness, and all paltry
struggles for power — when we perceive, in the
midst of her 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 scold, the native good-hu-
mor of the one, the really fine understanding of
the other, and the value they so evidently attach
to each other's esteem, will ensure them a toler-
able portion of domestic felicity, and in this hope
we leave them.

IRosalinO. 69

ROSALIND.

I COME now to Rosalind, whom I should Kave
ranked before Beatrice, inasmuch as the greater
degree of her sex's softnessand sensibility, united
with equal wit and intellect, give her the supe-
. riority as a woman ; but that as a dramatic char-
acter she is inferior in force. The portrait is
one of infinitely more ds'ipacy and variety, but
of less sh]engthjind_ depth. It is easy to seize
on the prominent features in the mind of Bea-
trice, but extremely difficult to catch and fix the
more fanciful graces of Rosalind. She is like
a compound of essences, so volatile in their na-
ture, and so exquisitely blended, that on any at-
tempt to analyze them they seem to escape us.
To what else shall we compare her, all^ngljgn^
ing 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 "charm of earliest birds" ? — to some wild and
beautiful melody, such as some shepherd boy
might "pipe to Amaryllis 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

60 SbaT;espeare'0 Ibetoinee.

to the very sunshine itself ? for so her i genial
spirit touches into life and beauty whatever it
shines on !

But this impression, though produced by the
complete development of the character, and in
the end possessing the whole fancy, is not im-
mediate. The first introduction of Rosalind is
less striking than interesting; we see her a de-
pendent, almost a captive, in the house of her
usurping uncle; her genial spirits are subdued
by her situation, and the remembrance of her
banished father: her playfulness is under a tem-
porary 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 pensive-
ness of her demeanor in the first instance, ren-
der archness and gaiety afterwards more grace-
ful and more fascinating.

Though Rosalind is a princess, she is a prin-
cess of Arcady ; and, notwithstanding the charjn-
ing efifect 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 ap- .
pendages of her rank. She was not made to
"lord it o'er a fair mansion," and take state upon
her, like the all-accomplished Portia; but to
.breathe the free air of heaven, and frolic among
green leaves. She was not made to stand the
siege of daring profligacy, and oppose high ac-

IRosalfnO. 61

tion and high passion to the assaults of adverse
fortune, like Isabel ; but to "fleet the time care-
lessly as they did i' the golden age." She was
not made to bandy wit with lords, and tread
courtly measures with plumed and warlike cav-
aliers, like Beatrice; but to dance on the green-
sward, and "murmur among living brooks a
music sweeter than their own."

Though sprightliness is the distinguishing!!
characl&risE[c~df' 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 other-
wise as distinct as the situations are dissimilar.
The age, the manners, the circumstances, in which
Shakespeare has placed his Portia, are not be-
yond the bounds of probability ; nay, have a cer-
tain reality and locality. We fancy her a con-
temporary of the Raffaelles and the Ariostos ;
the sea-wedded Venice, its merchants and Mag-
nificos, the Rialto and the long canals, — rise up
before us when we think of her. But Rosalind
is surrounded with the purely ideal and imagi-
native; the reality is in the characters and in the
sentiments, not in the circumstances or situation.
Portia is dignified, splendid and romantic ; Rosa-
lind is j)lay_ful, pastoral, and picturesque: both
are in the highest degree poetical, W the one
is epic and the other lyric.

Everything about Rosalind breathes of "youth

62 SbaRespeace'0 Heroines.

'and youth's sweet prime." She is fresh as the
morning, sweet as the dew-awakened blossoms,
and Ught 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^ equdly_uncQnscious : but in Beatrice
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 ail 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 tenderhess as mirth, and in her most pet-
ulant 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. Shake-
speare did not make the modesty of his women
depend on their dress, as we shall see further
when we come to Viola and Imogen. Rosalind
has in truth "no doublet and hose in her disposi-
tion." How her heart seems to throb and flut-
ter under her page's vest! What depth of love
in her passion for Orlando ! whether disguised
beneath a saucy playfulness, or breaking forth
with a fond patience, or half-betrayed in that
beautiful scene where she faints at the sight of
the kerchief stained with his blood! Here her
recovery of her self-possession — her fears lest she
should have revealed her sex — her presence of
mind, and quick-witted excuse :

1RoaaHn5. 63

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 beau-
tifully is the dialojjue managed between herself
and Orlando! how well she assumes the airs of
a saucy page, without throwing off her femi-
nine sweetness ! How her wit flutters free as air
over every subject! with what a careless grace,
yet with what exquisite propriety!

For innocence hath a privilege in her
To dignify arch jests and laughing eyes.

And if the freedom of some of the expressions
used by Rosalind or Beatrice be objected to, let
it be remembered that this was not' the fault of
Shakespeare or the women, but generally of the
age. Portia, Beatrice, Rosalind, and the rest,
lived in times when more importance was at-
tached to things than to words; now we think
more of words than of things : and happy are we
in these later days of super-refinement, if we are
to be saved by our verbal morality. But this
is meddling with the province of the melancholy
Jaques, and our argument is Rosalind.

The impression left upon our hearts and minds ,
by the character of Rosalind — by the mixture of
j)layfulness, sensibility, and what the French
(and we for lack of a better expression) call
naivete — is like a delicious strain of music. There
is a depth of delight, and a subtlety of words to
express that delight, which is enchanting. Yet

64 Sbaftespeate'0 Ibecoinee.

when we call to mind particular speeches and
passages, we find that they have a relative beauty
and propriety, which renders it difficult to sep-
arate them from the context without injuring
their effect. She says some jof the most charm-
ing 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 in the skirts of the forest, like fringe
upon a petticoat.

] Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves
fas well a dark house and a whip, as madmen do; and
Hthe reason why they are not so punished and cured is,
|hat the lunacy is so ordinary, that the whippers are in
Jove too.

A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to
be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands, to see
other men's: then, to have seen much, and to have
nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

'In Shakespeare's time there were people in Ireland
(there may be such still, for aught I know) who under-
took to charm rats to death, by chanting certain verses
which acted as a spell. "Rhyme them to death, as they
do rats in Ireland," is a line in one of Ben Jonson's
comedies: this will explain Rosalind's humorous allu-
sion.

IRosalind. 65

Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look, you lisp, and
wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own
country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost
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'll warrant him heart-whole.

Men have died from time to time, and worms have
eaten them — ^but not for love.

I 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
courageous 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
taunting address to Phebe, beautiful and cele-
brated as 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
yields to Rosalind than is eclipsed by her. She
is as full of sweetness, kindness, and intelligence,
quite as susceptible, and almost as witty, though
she makes less display of wit. She is described
as less fair and less gifted ; yet the attempt to ex-
cite 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 thou wilt show more bright, and seem more vir-
tuous.
When she is gone—

66 Sbafiespeate'g Ibetoines.

fails to awaken in the generous heart o- Celia
any other feeling than an increased tenderness
and sympathy for her cousin. To Celia, Shake-
speare has given some of the most striking and
animated parts of the dialogue ; and in particular,
that exquisite description of the friendship be-
tween her and Rosalind —

If she be a traitor.
Why, so am I ; we have still slept together.
Rose at an instant, learn' d, play'd, eat together.
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans.
Still we were coupled and inseparable.

The feeling of interest and admiration thus
excited 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.

Phebe is quite an Arcadian coquette; she is a
piece of pastoral poetry. Audrey is only rustic.
A very amusing effect is produced by the con-
trast 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 Syl-
vius, Shakespeare has anticipated all the beau-
ties of the Italian pastoral, and surpassed Tasso
and Guarini. We find two among the most
poetical passages of the play appropriate to Phebe
— ^the taunting speech to Sylvius, and the descrip-
tion of Rosalind in her page's costume; which
last is finer than the portrait of Bathyllus in
Anacreon.

JuHet. 67

CHARACTERS OF
PASSION AND IMAGINATION.

JULIET.

O Love! thou teacher, O Grief! thou tamer,
and Time, thou healer of 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
unborn joys — gay colorings of the dawn of ex-
istence! 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 entrancing melodies — gleams of sun-
nier skies and fairer climes — Italian moonlights,
and airs that "breathe of the sweet south," — now,
if it be possible, revive to my imagination — live
once more to my heart ! Come thronging around
me, all inspirations that wait on passion, on
power, on beauty; give me to tread, not bold,
and yet unblamed, within the inmost sanctuary
o£ Shakespeare's' genius, in Juliet's moonlight
bower and Miranda's enchanted isle!

4: ^ ^ ^ H<

It is not without emotion that I attempt to
touch on the character of Juliet. Such beauti-

68 Sbaftcspeare's Iberofnee.

ful things have already been said of her — only
to be exceeded in beauty by the subject that in-
spired them! — it is impossible to say anything
better; but it is possible to say something more.
Such, in fact, is the simplicity, the truth, and the
loveliness of Juliet's character, that we are not
at first aware of its complexity , its depth, and its ?
variety.^ There is in it anjntensity of passioafa
sinrfeness of purpose, an entirenessfa complete-
ness o'feSect, which we feel as a whole ; and td
attempt to analyze the impression thus conveyed
at once to soul and sense is as if, while hanging
over a half-blown rose, and revelling in its in-
toxicating perfume, we should pull it asunder,
leaflet by leaflet, the better to display its bloom
and fragrance. Yet how otherwise should we
disclose the wonders of its formation, or do jus-
tice 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 Roche-
foucauld, that there is but one love, though a
thousand dififerent copies, yet the true sentiment
itself has as many dififerent aspects as the hu-
man 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. The love that is wild
and passionate in the south, is deep and con-
templative in the north ; as the Spanish or Roman,
girl perhaps poisons a rival, or stabs herself

Juliet. 69

for the sake of a living lover, and the German
or Russian girl pines into the grave for love of
the false, the absent, or the dead. Love is ar-
dent 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 Shakespeare's women, being essentially
lyomen, either love or have loved, or are capable
of loving; but Juliet is love itself. The passion
js her state of beins[ , and out of it she has no

. existence. It is the soul within her soul ; the^
pulse within..,her heart; the life-blood along her
v^ins, "blending with every atom of her frame.'''
The love that is so chaste and dignified in Por-'

■ tia — so airy-delicate and fearless in Miranda—^
so sweetly confiding in Perdita — so playfully.
fond in Rosalind — so constant in Imogen — so de-
voted in Desdemona — so fervent in Helen — so
tender in Viola — is each and all of these in Ju-
liet. All these remind us of her; but she re-
minds us of nothing but her own sweet self; or
if she does, it is of the Gismunda, or the Lisetta,
or the Fiametta of Boccaccio, to whom she is
allied, not in the character or circumstances, but
in the truly Italian spirit, the glowing, national
complexion of the portrait.

There was an Italian painter who said that the
secret of all effect in color consisted in white
upon black, and black upon white. How per-
fectly did Shakespeare understand this secret of
effect ! and how beautifully has he exemplified it
in Juliet!

70 Sbaliespcatc's iberolnes.

So shows a snowy dove trooping with crowSt
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 dis-
cord; all pure nature, in the midst of polished
and artificial life. Tuliet. like Portia, is the fos -
ter-child of opulence and splendor; she dwells
in a fair city^she has beer nurtured in a pal-
ace — s he clasps her robe with jewels — she braids ^
Tier nair with rainbo w-tinted nearls : but in her-
self she has no more cop npftinn witVi tln^ <'r^p-

pmgS ai-r innd bpr tVian tVip lr.-irp1y PvrttiV |png-

jlanted from sor" p F.Hpp-HVp rUmate has with
'the carved and p^ilded cnnsprvato ry whinh hTi"
reared and sheltp rprf ifg in-^iii-iont h^r,i-^\y

But in this vivid impression of contrast there
is nothing abrupt or harsh. A tissue of beau-
tiful poetry weaves together t^he principal figures
and the subordinate personages. The consistent
truth of the costume, and the exquisite grada-
tions of relief with which the most opposite hues
are approximated, blend all into harmony. Ro-
meo and Juliet are not poetical beings placed on
a prosaic background; nor are they, like Thekla
and Max in the "Wallenstein," two angels of
light amid the darkest 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 sub-
ject of the drama. The poetry, too, the richest

Julfet. 71

that can possibly be conceived, is interfused
through all the characters ; the splendid imagery
lavished upon all with the careless prodigal-
ity of genius ; and the whole is lighted up into
such a sunny brilliance of effect, as though Shake-
speare had really transported himself into Italy
and had drunk to intoxication of her genial at-
mosphere. How truly it has been said, that "al-
though Romeo and Juliet are in love, they are
not love-sick I " What a false idea would any-
thing of the mere whining amoroso give us of
Romeo, such as he really is in Shakespeare —
the noble, gallant, ardent, brave, and witty ! And
Juliet — with even less truth could the phrase or
idea apply to her! The picture in "Twelfth
Night" of the wan girl dying of love, "who pined
in thought, and with a green and yellow melan^
choly," would never surely occur to us when
thinking on the enamoured and impassioned Ju-
liet, in whose bosom love keeps a fiery vigil,
kindling tenderness into enthusiasm, enthusiasgi i-^'
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 youtjj;
• of. life, and of the very sap of life. We have in-
deed the struggle, of love against .evil destinies
and a thorny world; the pain, the grief, the an-
guish, 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

72 Sbafteepeaie'B "fccrotnes.

round the whole, and the blue sky of Italy bends
over all ! i

In the delineation of that sentiment /which
forms the groundwork of the drama, notjiing in
fact can equal the power of the picture, | but its
inexpressible sweetness and its perfect gr^ce : the
passion which has taken possession of Juliet's
whole soul has the force, the rapidity, the resist-
less violence of the torrent; but she is herself
as "moving delicate7' as fair, as soft, as flexible
as the willow that bends over it, whose ligh't
leaves tremble even with the motion of the cur-
rent which hurries beneath them. But at the
same time that the pervading sentiirient is never
lost sight of, and is one and the same through-
out, the individual part of the character in all
its variety is developed, and marked with the
nicest discrimination. For instance, — the sim-
1 . plicity of Juliet is verv different from the simplic-
ity of Miranda ! her innocence is not the inno -
cence of a desert islan^ . The energy she dis-
plays does not once remind us of the moral gran-
deur of Isabel, or the intellectual power of Por-
tia; — it is foun ded in the strength of passion .
not in tiie strength ot character: it is accidental
fathe rthan inherent, rismg with the tide nf fetj'l-
jng or temper, and with it subsiding. Her ro-
mance is not the pastoral romance of Perdita, nor
the fanciful romance of Viola; it is the romance
of a tender heart and a poetical imagination. 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

Sutt:t. 73

nurse have perhaps warned her against "flatter-
ing 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 faithfully.

That conscious shrinking from her own confes-
sion —

Fain would I dwell on form; fain, fain deny
What I have spoke!

The ingenuous simplicity of her avowal —

Or, if thou think'st I am too quickly won,

I'll frown, 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,

And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour 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
she throws herself for forbearance and pardon
upon the tenderness of him she loves, even for
the love she bears him —

Therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love.
Which the dark night hath so discovered.

74 SbaRespeare'g Iberofnes.

In the alternative, which she afterwards places
before her lover with such a charming nlixture
of conscious delicacy and girlish simplicity, there
is that jealousy of female honor which , precept
and education have infused into her mind, with-
out one real doubt of his truth, or the slightest
hesitation in her self-abandonment ; for she does
not even wait to hear his asseverations :

But if thou mean'st not well, I do beseech thee
To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief.

ROMEO.

So thrive my soul

JULIET.

A thousand times, good night!

But all these flutterings between native im-
pulses and maiden fears become gradually ab-
sorbed, swept away, lost, and swallowed up in
the depth and enthusiasm of confiding love.

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep ; the more I give to you
The more I have — for both are infinite!

What 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 flowing 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?

Juliet. 75

What was there 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,
not dramatic.^

J I remember no dramatic character conveying
/the same impression of singleness of purpose, and

*I must allude, but with reluctance, to another char-
acter, which I have heard likened to Juliet, and often
quoted as the heroine par excellence of amatory fic-
tion — I mean the Julie of Rousseau's "Nouvelle Heloise."
I protest against her altogether. As a creation of fancy
the portrait is a compound of the most gross and glar-
ing inconsistencies; as false and impossible to the re-
flecting and philosophical mind as the fabled Syrens,
Hamadryads, and Centaurs to the eye of the anatomist.
As a woman, Julie belongs neither to nature nor to arti-
ficial society; and if the pages of melting and dazzling
eloquence in which Rousseau has garnished out his idol
did not blind and intoxicate us, as the incense and the
garlands did the votaries of Isis, we should be dis-
gusted. Rousseau, having composed his Julie of the
commonest clay of the earth, does not animate her
with fire from heaven, but breathes his own spirit into
her, and then calls the "impetticoated" paradox a
woman. He makes her a peg on which to hang his own ■
visions and sentiments; — and what sentiments! but that
I fear to soil my pages, I would pick out a few of them,
and show the difference between this strange combina-
tion of youth and innocence, philosophy and pedantry,
sophistical prudery and detestable grossierete, and our
own Juliet. No! if we seek a French Juliet, we must
go far, far back to the real Heloise, to her eloquence,
her sensibility, her fervor of passion, her devotedness of
truth. She, at least, married the man she loved, and
loved the man she married, and more than died for
him; — ^but enough of both.

7G Sbaftcapearc's Iberoines.

Hevotion of heart and soul, except the Thekla
of Schiller's "Wallenstein" ; she is the German
Juliet; far unequal, indeed, but conceived, nev-
ertheless, 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 the national distinc-
tion in the character of the passion leaves to
Thekla a strong cast of originality. The Prin-
cess 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 impres-
sion of her softness 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 round 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 of the unobtrusive simplicity of Juliet's first
appearance; but the impression is different: the
one is the shrinking violet, the other the unex-
panded rosebud. Thekla and Max Piccolomini

JuUct. 77

are, like Romeo and Juliet, divided by the hatred
of their fathers. The death of Max, and the res-
olute despair of Thekla, are also points of re-
, semblance ; 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
My heart more from thee — so decorum dictates:
But where in this place wouldst thou seek for truth
If in my mouth thou didst not find it?

The same confidence, innocence, and fervor of
^ffection distinguish both heroines : but the love
of Juliet is more vehement, the love of Thekla
is 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!" As
women, they would divide the loves and suffrages
of mankind, but not as dramatic characters: the
moment we come to look nearer, we acknowledge
that it is indeed "rashness and ignorance to com-
pare Schiller with Shakespeare."* Thekla is a
fine conception in the German spirit, but Juliet
is a lovely and palpable creation. The coloring

'Coleridge, Preface to "Wallenstein."

78 SbaFicspeare'6 Iberofncs.

in which Schiller has arrayed his Thekla is pale,
sombre, vague, compared with the strong indi-
vidual marking, the rich glow of life and real-
ity, which distinguish Juliet. One contrast in
particular has always struck me: the two beau-
tiful speeches in the first interview between Max
and Thekla, that in which she describes her fa-
ther's astrological chamber, and that in which
he replies with reflections on the influence of the
stars, are said to "form in themselves a fine
poem." They do so; but never would Shake-
speare have placed such extraneous description
and reflection in the mouths of his lovers. Ro-
meo and Juliet speak of themselves only ; they
see only themselves in the universe ; all "things
else are as an idle matter. Not a word they ut-
ter, though every word is poetry, not a sentiment
or description, though dressed in the most luxu-
riant imagery, but has a direct relation to them-
selves, or to the situation in which they are placed
and the feelings that engross them : and besides,
it may be remarked of Thekla, and generally of
all tragedy heroines in love, that, however beau-
tifully and distinctly characterized, we see the
passion only under one or two aspects at most,
or in conflict with some one circumstance or con-
tending duty or feeling. In Juliet alone we find
it exhibited under every variety of aspect, and
every gradation of feeling it could possibly as-
sume 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.

Juliet. 79

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-
self, and unsuspected by others. Her silence and
her filial deference are charming —

I'll look to like, if looking liking move :
But no more deep will I endart mine eye
Than your consent shall give it strength to fly.

Much 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!

and which could make the dark vault of death
"a feasting presence full of light." Without anv
elaborate description, we behold Juliet, as she is
reflected in the heart of her lover, like a singfe
bright star mirrored in the bosom of a deep,
transparent 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 thou yet so fair?
there is life and death, beauty and horror, rap-

80 Sbaftespeace's "IbetofneB.

ture and anguish combined. The Friar's descrip-
tion of her approach,

O, so light a step
,Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint!

and then her father's similitude,

Death lies on her, like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field; —

all these mingle into a beautiful picture of youth-
ful, airy, delicate grace, — feminine sweetness, and
patrician elegance.

And our impression of Juliet's loveliness and
sensibility is enhanced, when we find it overcom-
ing in the bosom of Romeo a previnns Inve for
another — His visionary passion for the cold, in-
accessible Rosaline forms but the prologue, the
threshold, to the true, the real sentiment which
succeeds to it. This incident, which is found in
the original story, has been retained by Shake-
speare with equal feeling and judgment; and
far from being a fault in taste and sentiment,
far from prejudicing us against Romeo, by cast-
ing on him, at the outset of the piece, the stig-
ma of inconstancy, it becomes, if properly con-
sidered, a beauty in the drama, and adds a fresh
stroke of truth to the portrait 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 to-
wards Romeo by seeing him ''fancy sick and pale

Juliet. 81

of cheer" for love of a cold beauty. We must
remember that in those times every young cav-
alier 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 fan-
cy's queen; and the more rigorous the beauty,
and the more hopeless the love, the more honor-
able the slavery. To go about "metamorphosed
by a mistress," as Speed humorously expresses
it;^ to maintain her supremacy in charms 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 of the time — all those who were the mir-
rors "in which the noble youth did dress them-
selves" — were of this fantastic school of gal-
lantry, the last remains of the age of chivalry;
and it was especially prevalent in Italy. Shake-
speare has ridiculed it in many places with ex-
quisite humor; but he wished to show us that it
has its serious as well as its comic aspect. Ro-
meo, then, is introduced to us with perfect truth
of costume, as the thrall of a dreaming, fanciful
passion for the scornful Rosaline, who had for-
sworn 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.*

" In "The Two Gentlemen of Verona."

•There is an allusion to this court language of love
in "All's Well that Ends Well," where Helena says.

82 Sbaftespearc'0 Iberoinc^,

Why, then, O brawling love, O loving hate,
O anything, of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness, serious vanity,
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs :

Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes ;
Being vex'd, a s*ea nourish'd with lovers' tears.

But when once he has beheld Juliet, and
quaffed intoxicating draughts of hope and love
from her soft glance, how all these airy fancies
fade before the soul-absorbing reality ! The lam-
bent fire that played round his heart burns to that
heart's very core. We no longer find him adorn-
ing his lamentations in picked phrases, or mak-
ing a confidant of gay companions; he is no
longer "for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in ;"
but all is concentrated, earnest, rapturous, in the
feeling and the expression. Compare, for in-
stance, the sparkling antithetical passages just
quoted with one or two of his passionate speeches
to, or of, Juliet :

There shall your master have a thousand loves —

* * * * if

A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,

A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear,

His humble ambition, proud humility,

His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet.

His faith, his sweet disaster ; with a world

Of pretty, fond, adoptious Christendoms,

That blinking Cupid gossips. — Act i. scene I.

The courtly poets of Elizabeth's time, who copied the
Italian sonneteers of the sixteenth century, are full of
these quaint conceits.

JuUet. 83

Heaven is here,
Where Juliet lives! &c.

Ah, Juliet ! if the measure of thy joy-
Be heap'd 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 in her sight.

How different! and how finely the distinction
is drawn ! His first passion is indulged as a wak-
ing dream, a reverie of the fancy; it is depress-
ing, indolent, fantastic : his second elevates him
to the third heaven, or hurries him to despair.
It rushes to its object through all impediments,
defies all dangers, and seeks at last a triumphant
grave in the arms of her he so loved. Thus
Romeo's previous 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 distinction between the fan-
cied and the real sentiment. It adds a deeper ef-
fect to the beauty of Juliet ; it interests us in the
commencement for the tender and romantic Ro-
meo; and gives an individual reality to his char-
acter, 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-

84 Sbaftcspeare'6 Iberolnes.

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 parents,
and in the scenes with the nurse, we seem to have
before us the whole of her previous education
and habits; we see her on the one hand l^ppt '"
severe subjection bv her a^ ft^'"'' rf""''"^i' ^nd on
the other, fondled and spoiled by a foolish old
nurse — a situation perfectly accordant with the
manners of the time. Then Lady Capulet comes
sweeping by with her train of velvet, her black
hood, her fan, and her rosary — the very beau-
ideal of a proud Italian matron of the fifteenth
century, whose offer to poison Romeo in revenge
for the death of Tybalt, stamps her with one very
characteristic trait of the age and country. Yet
she loves her daughter; and there is a touch of
remorseful tenderness in her lamentation over
her, which adds to our impression 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 catch'd 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
discrimination. In the prosaic homeliness of the

JuHct. 85

outline, and the magical illusion of the coloring,
§he reminds us of some of the maryellojis Dutch
paintings, from which, with .all their coarseness,.
we start back as from a reality. Her low hu-.
mor, her shallow garrulity, mixed with the dot-
age and petulance of age, her subserviency, her
secrecy, and her total want of elevated princi-
ple, or even common honesty, are brought before
us like a living and palpable truth.
_ Among these harsh and inferior snirits is jTii-
liet placed : her haughty parents, and her plebeian
nurse, not only throw into beautiful relief her
own native softness and elegance, but are at once
the cause and the excuse of her subsequent con-
duct. She trembles before her stern mother and
her violent father; but, like a petted rl^ilrl^ nltpr -
nately 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 in-
fancy 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 Shakespeare had placed her in
connection with any commonplace dramatic wait-
ing-woman? — even with Portia's adroit Nerissa,
or Desdemona's Emilia? By giving her the
Nurse for her confidante, the sweetness and dig-
nity of Juliet's character are preserved inviolate
to the fancy, even in the midst of all the romance
and wilfulness of passion.

The natural result of these extremes of subjec- '
,tion and independence is exhibited in the charac-

ter of Juliet as It gradually opens upon us. We

86 Sbaliespeate's 'heroines.

behold it in the mixture of self-will and timidity.
of strength and weakness, of confidence and re-
serve^ which are developed as the action of the
play proceed^. We see it in the fond eagerness
of the indulged girl, for whose impatience the
"nimblest of the lightning-winged loyes" had
been too slow a messenger ; in her petulance with
her nurse; in those bursts of yehement feeling
which prepare us for the climax of passion at
the catastrophe; in her inyectives against Romeo,
when she hears of the death of Tybalt ; liii "her
indignation when the Nurse echoes* those re-
proaches, and the rising of her temper against
unwonted contradiction :

NURSE.

Shame come to Romeo!

JULIET.

Blister'd 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 virisife
and honor of her lover:

Upon his brow Shame is ashamed to sit,

For 'tis a throne where Honour may be crown'd

Sole monarch of the universal earth!

And this, by one of those quick transitions of
feeling which belong to the character, is imme-
diately succeeded by a gush of tenderness ino
self-reproach — -*

Juliet. 87

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, Ju-
liet is represented as at first bewildered by the
fearful destiny that closes round her; reverse
is new and terrible to one nursed in the lap of
luxury, and whose energies are yet untried.

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 ap-
peals to her 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
confiding affection, of habitual dependence —

O God ! O 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 unveil§ to Juliet
the weakness and the baseness of her confidante
is the moment which reveals her to herself. She
does not break into upbraidings ; it is no moment

88 Sbafieapeate'e tjctoince,

for anger ; it I'g ^nrrprJiilnngjimaypp^pnt, .■-.iicceedefl
by the extremity of scorn an d abhorrence, whic h
takes pos session of her mind. She assumes a t
once.anilasserts.all her own superiorit y, an d rises
tojnaj.estyjn the s treng^th of her d espair.

JULIET.

Speakest thou from thy heart?

NURSE.

Ay, and from my soul too; — or else
Beshrew them both!

JULIET.

Amen!

^ This final severing of all the old familiar ties
of her childhoods

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 advice.

This scene is the crisis in thf ^Ti^rfipft^r- and
^lenceforth we see Juliet assume a new aspect.
The fond, impatient ^ timid ^irl puts nn the wife
and the woman: she has learned heroism from

?ulfet. 89^

suffering, and subtlety from oppression. It is
idle to criticize her dissembling submission to her
father and mother ; a higher duty has taken place
of that which she owed to them; a more sacrqd
tie has severed all others. Her parents are pic-
tured as they are, that no feeling for them may
interfere in the slightest degree with our sym-
pathy for the lovers. In the mind of Juliet there
is no struggle between her filial and her conjug al
duties, and there ought to be none. The Friar,
her spiritual director, dismisses her with these in-
structions : —

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 unstain'd wife:" and the
artifice to which she has recourse, which she is
even instructed to use, in no respect impairs the
beauty of the character; we regard it with pain
and pity, but excuse it, as the natural and inevit-
able consequence of the situation in which she is
placed. Nor should we forget that the dissimula-
tion, as well as the courage of Juliet, though they
spring from passion, 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

90 Sbaftespearc'g Iberoines.

remedies which would first suggest themselves
to a gentle and virtuous nature, and grasps her
dagger only as the last resource against dishonor
and violated faith :

God join'd my heart with Romeo's — thou our 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 pas-
sion and terror, preserving, to a certain degree,
that moral and feminine dignity which harmon-
izes with our best feelings, and commands our
unreproved sympathy.

I reserve my remarks on the catastrophe, which
demands separate consideration; and return to
trace from the opening another and distinguish-
ing trait in Juliet's character.

In the extreme Y iYacity of h er imagination^ a nd
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 in-
tellectual and moral faculties, that it does not give
us the idea of excess. It is subject to her no-
bler reason ; it adorns and heightens all her feel-
ings ; it does not overwhelm or mislead them. In
Juliet, it is rather a part of her southern tempera-
ment, controlling and modifying the rest of her
character; springing from her sensibility, hur-
ried along by her passions, animating her joys,

5uUct. 91

darkening her sorrows, exaggerating her ter-
rors, and, in the end, overpowering her reason.

With Juliet. imagin; itinn is. m thf firQt ip.;fanpp,

if not the source , th^. medium nf passion^ and
passion again kindles her imagination. It is
Through the power of imagination that the elo-
quence of Juliet is sn vividly poetical : that every
feeling, every sentiment comes to her, clothed in
the richest imagery, and is thus reflected from
her mind to ours. The poetry is not 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 sum-
mer air. To particularize is' almost impossible,
since the whole of the dialogue appropriated to
■ Tuliet is n"p rirb stream n f imagery : she speaks
in pictures. And sometimes they are crowded
one upon another : thus 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,

O, for a falconftr's voice
To lure this tassel-gentle back again !
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud ;
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies.
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine
With repetition of my Romeo's name.

92 Sbaftespeate's Ibetolnes.

Here there are three images in the course of
six lines. In the same scene, the speech of twen-
ty-two lines, beginning.

Thou knowest 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 its simplicity, though perhaps without exam-
ining the cause of an omission which certainly
is not fortuitous. The reason lies in the situa-
tion and in the feeling of the moment ; where con-
fusion, and anxiety, and earnest self-defence pre-
dominate, the excitability and play of the imag-
ination would be checked and subdued for the
time.

In the soliloquy of the second act, where she
is chiding at the Nurse's delay: —

O, she is lame! Love's heralds should be thoughts.
That ten time's faster glide than the sun's beams,
Driving back shadows over low'ring hills:
Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw Love,
And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings!

How beautiful ! how the lines mount and float re-
sponsive to the sense I She goes on —

Had she affections, and warm 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!

The famous soliloquy, "Gallop apace, ye fiery-

5ulfet. 93

footed steeds," teems with luxuriant imagery.
The fond adjuration, "Come night ! come Romeo !
come thou day in night!" expresses that fulness
of enthusiastic admiration for her lover which
possesses her whole soul ; but expresses it as only
Juliet could or would have expressed it, — ^in a
bold and beautiful metaphor. Let it be remem-
bered, that in this speech Juliet is not supposed
to be addressing an audience, nor even a con-
fidante ; 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 com-
ment 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 infantile in her per-
fect simplicity, so playful and fantastic in the
imagery and language, that the charm of senti-
ment and innocence is thrown over the whole;
and her impatience, to use her own expression,
is 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 despair has a most powerful effect.

It is the same shaping spirit of imagination
which, in the scene with the Friar, heaps together

94 Sbafie0peate'5 ibetoinea.

all images of horror that ever hung upon a trou-
bled dream.

O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,
From off the battlements of yonder tower;
Or walk in thievish ways ; or bid me lurk
Where serpents are ; chain me with roaring bears ;
Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house
O'ercover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones;
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 tremble!

But she immediately adds,

And I will do it without fear or doubt,
To live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love.

In the scene w here she drinks the sleeping po-
tion, altho ugh her spiri t does not quail nQr..her
determination falter for a n 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 creations, and she sees her cousin Ty-
balt'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-feather'd raven I wolfish ravening lamb, &c.

° Juliet, courageously drinking off the potion, after she
has placed before herself in the most fearful colors all
its possible consequences, is compared by Schlegel to
the famous story of Alexander and his physician.

Julfet. 95

Yet this highly figurative and antithetical ex-
/uberance of language is defended by Schlegel
I on strong and just grounds ; and to me also it ap-
pears naturkl, however critics may argue against
its taste or propriety.^ The warmth and vivacitv
of Tuliet's fancy , which pl^ivs J,iVe a 1i{yl7t nvpr
every part of her character — ^which animates
every line she utters — which kindles every thought
into a picture, and clothes her emotions in visible
images, would naturally, under strong and un-
usual excitement, and in the conflict of oppos-
ing sentiments', run into some extravagance of
diction.

With regard to the termination of the play,
which has been a subject of much critical argu-
ment, it is well known that Shakespeare, follow-
ing the old English versions, has departed from
the original story of Da Porta ;'' and I am inclined

° 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 love and pity.
And what if in a world of sin
(O, sorrow and shame should this be true I)
Such giddiness of heart and brain
Comes seldom, save from rage and pain,
So talks as it's most used to do ? — Coleridge.

These lines seem to me to form the truest comment
on Juliet's wild exclamations against Romeo.

' The "Giulietta" of Luigi da Porta was written about
1520. In a popular little book published in 1565, thirty
years before Shakespeare wrote his tragedy, the name

96 Sbafteepeate's Iberofnea.

to believe that Da Porta, 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 certainly improved it ; but that
which is effective in a narrative is not always cal-
culated for the drama; and I cannot but agree
with Schlegel, that Shakespeare 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

of Juliet occurs as an example of faithful love, and is
thus explained by a note in the margin. "Juliet, a noble
maiden of the citie of Verona, which 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." This note, which furnishes, in brief, the
whole argument of Shakespeare's play, might possibly
have made the first impression on his fancy. In the
novel of Da Porta the catastrophe is altogether differ-
ent. After the death of Romeo, the Friar Lorenzo en-
deavors to persuade Juliet to leave the fatal monument.
She refuses ; and throwing herself back on the dead body
of her husband, she resolutely holds her breath and
dies. — "E voltatasi al giacente corpo di Romeo, il cui
capo sopra un origliere, che con lei nell' area era state
lasciato, posto aveva; gli occhi meglio rinchiusi aven-
dogli, e di lagrime il freddo volto bagnandogli, disse:
'Che debbo senza di te in vita pivi fare, signor mio? a
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 ricordan-
dosi, deliberando di piu non vivere, raccolto a se il fiato,
e per buono spazio tenutolo, e poscia con un gran grido
fuori mandandolo, sopra il morto corpo, morta ricadde."
There is nothing so improbable in the story of Romeo

Juliet. 97

in Lear, might also have adopted these additional
circumstances of horror in the fate of the lovers,
and have so treated them as to harrow up our
very soul — had it been his object to do so? 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? Young, innocent, loving and beloved,
they descend together into the tomb : but Shake-
speare has made that tomb a shrine of martyred

and Juliet as to make us doubt the tradition that it is a
real fact. "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 fact, giving
the date 1303, and showing a tomb. It is a plain, open,
and partly decayed sarcophagus, with withered leaves
in it, in a wild and desolate conventual garden — once a
cemetery, now ruined, to the very graves! The situa-
tion struck me as very appropriate to the legend, being
blighted as their love." He might have added, that
when Verona itself, with its amphitheatre and its Pal-
ladian structures, lies level with the earth, the very spot
on which it stood will still be consecrated by the mem-
ory of Juliet.

When in Italy, I met a gentleman, who being then
"dans le genre romantique" wore a fragment of Juliet's
tomb set in a ring.

98 Sftaftespcate's Derotnes.

and sainted affection consecrated for the worship
of all hearts, — not a dark charnel-vault, haunted
by spectres of pain, rage, and desperation. Ro-
meo and Juliet are pictured lovely in death as in
life; the sympathy they inspire does not oppress
us with that suffocating sense of horror which
in the altered tragedy makes the fall of the cur-
tain a relief; but all pain is lost in the tender-
ness 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 rap-
turous 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?

The profound slumber in which her senses
have been steeped for so many hours has tran-
quillized 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?

She is answered at once.

Thy husband in thy bosom here lies dead

This is enough: she sees at once the whole hor-
ror of her situation — she sees it with a quiet and

JuHet, 99

resolved despair — she utters no reproach against
the Friar, makes no inquiries, no complaints', ex-
cept that affecting remonstrance —

O churl — drink all, and leave no friendly drop
To help me after!

All that is left her is to die, and she dies. The
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 melan-
choly 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
conceived and cherished without any certafn ob-
ject, may be compared to a shell thrown from
a mortar by night: it rises calmly in a brilliant
track, and 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 poet-
ical aspect is the union of passion and imagina-
tion ; and accordingly to one of these, or to both,
all the qualities of Juliet's mind and heart (un-
folding and varying as the action of the drama
proceeds) may be finally traced : the former con-
centrating all those natural impulses, fervent af-
fections, and high energies, which lend the char-

100 Sbakespeace'0 "betoines.

acter Its internal charm, its moral power, and in-
dividual interest; the latter diverging into all
those splendid and luxuriant accompaniments
which invest it with its external 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 develop the character, appears but
its natural and necessary result. "Le mystere
de I'existence," said Madame de Stael to her
daughter, "c'est le rapport de nos erreurs avec
nos peines."

Ifelena. 101

HELENA.

In the character of Juliet we have seen the
passionate and Jhe imaginative,. blei],de.d in an
equal degree, and in the highest conceivable de-
gree as combined with delicate female nature.
In Helena we have a modification of character
altogether distinct; allied, indeed, to Juliet as a
picture of fervent, enthusiastic, self-forgetting

. love, but differing wholly from her in other re-
spects ; for Helen is thejanion of strength of pas-

..don withTstrength ol character.

To be Iremblirigly alive to gentle impressions,
and yet to be able to preserve, when the prosecu-
tion of a design requires it, an immovable heart
amidst even the most imperious causes of sub-
duing emotion, is perhaps not an impossible con-
stitution of mind, but it is the utmost and rarest
endowment of humanity."* Such a character, al-
most as difficult to delineate in fiction as to find
in real life, has Shakespeare 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
imaginative; and, as a character she bears the
same relation to Juliet that Isabel bears to Por-
tia. There is equal unity of purpose and effect,
with much less of the glow of imagery and the

•Foster's "Essays."

102 Sbaftespeare'B Iberotneg.

external coloring of 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 thought-'
ful, not the brilliant side of intellect. Both Hel-
ena 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 principle, 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 self-consuming in silent languishment — not
pining in thought — not passive and "desponding
over its idol" — but patient and hopeful, strong in
its own 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 circumstance; it has nothing of the
picturesque charm or glowing romance of Ju-
liet; 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 indifference,
and rejects her hand with scorn. She marries
him against his will ; he leaves her with contumely
on the day of their marriage, and makes his re-
turn to her arms depend on conditions apparently
impossible.' All the circumstances and details

" I have read somewhere that the play of which Hel-
ena is the heroine ("All's Well that Ends Well") was

\ Mclcna. 103

with which Helena is surrounded are shocking
to our feelmgs and wounding to our delicacy;
and yet the\beauty of the character is made to
triumph oveiy all ; and Shakespeare, resting for
all his effect da its internal resources and its gen-
uine truth ana sweetness, has not even availed
himself of soi^^e extraneous advantages with
which Helen is represented in the originar story.
She is the Gilett^ di Narbonna of Boccaccio. In
the Italian tale, CJiletta is the daughter of a cel-
ebrated physician attached to the court of Rous-
sillon; she is reprkented as a rich heiress, who
rejects many suitors of worth and rank in con-
sequence of her secret attachment to the young
Bertram de Roussillpn. She cures the King of
France of a grievous distemper, by one of her
father's prescriptions; and she asks and receives
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
absence 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 rev-
. erenced by his subjects. In the meantime, the
count, instead 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

at nrst entitled by Shakespeare "Love's Labour Won."
Why the title was altered, or by whom, I cannot dis-
cover.

104 Sbalsespcate's Ijctotnes.

her fervent love for Bertram. But Helena, in
the play, derives no dignity or interest fxQju place
or circumstance, arid YesTs 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 captive ;
Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn'd to serve
Humbly call'd mistress.

As her dignity is derived from mental power,
without any alloy of pride, so her humility has
a peculiar grace. If she feels and repines over
her lowly birth, it is merely as an obstacle which
separates her from the man she loves. She is
more sensible to his greatness than her own lit-
tleness: she is continually looking from herself
up to him, not from him 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 kin-
dled by youthful romance: it appears to have
taken root in her being, to have grown with her
years, and to have gradually absorbed 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, way-
ward, 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

Melcnu. 105

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 consists a part of the wonder-
ful beauty of the character of Helena — a part
of its womanly truth, which Johnson, who ac-
cuses Bertram, arid those who so plausibly de-
fend him, did not understand. If it never hap-
pened in real life that a woman, richly endued
with heaven's best ^ifts, loved with all her heart,
and soul, and strength^a^man unegual_to_or_un-,
worthy of her, and to whose faults herself alone
was blind, I would give up the point; but if it
be in nature, why should it not be in Shakespeare ?
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 loves him ! a woman's reason, but here, and
sometimes eleswhere, all-sufficient. \'k\',<-

And although Helena tells herself that she
loves in vain, a conviction stronger than reason
tells her that she does not:ier love is like a re-
ligion, pure, holy, and deep: the blessedness to
whicir~she has lifted her thoughts is for ever
before her ; to despair would be a crime — ^it would
1)6 to cast herself away and die. The faith of
her affection, combining with the natural energy
of her character, believing 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.

106 Sbaftcspcarc'0,f)ctoine0.

where Bertram, with obvious reluctance and dis-
dain, accepts her hand, which the king, his feudal
lord and guardian, forces on him. Her maid-
enly feeling is at first shocked, and she shrinks
back —

That you are well restor'd, my lord, I am glad:
Let the rest go.

But shall she weakly relinquish the golden op-
portunity, and dash the cup from her lips at the
moment 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, after compromising her feminine delicacy
by the public disclosure of her preference, be
thrust back into shame, "to blush out the remain-
der of her life," and die a poor, lost, scorned
thing? This would be very pretty and interest-
ing, and characteristic 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 unpardonable
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 noth-
ing. She cannot conceive that he to whom she
has devoted her heart and truth, her soul, her

Melena. 107

life, her service, must not one day love her in re-
turn, and once her own beyond the reach of fate,
that her cares, her caresses, her unwearied, pa-
tient tenderness, will not at last "win her lord
to look upon her" —

.... For time will bring on summer,
When briers 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; which hallows
and dignifies the surrender of her woman's pride,
making it a sacrifice on which virtue and love
throw a mingled incense.

IhfLS££n£injvliich_.tbe_Countess .extfttts .from,.
Hp1f.n^he confession of her love must, as an il-
lustrationT B Fgivetn TereT" IfiSTpef hSps , thefinest
in the whole play, an3~ brings out all the striking
jjpints of TTeKn's ^character, To which I have al-
ready 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 sol-
emn utterance, she recovers her presence of mind, -
and asserts her native dignity. In her justifica-
tion of her feelings and her conduct there is
neither sophistry, nor self-deception, nor pre- -
sumption, but a noble simplicity combined with
the most impassioned earnestness ; while the lan-
guage 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.

108 Sbaliespeare'6 tterofnes.

HELENA.

What is your pleasure, madam?

COUNTESS.

You know, Helen, I am a mother to you.

HELENA.

Mine honourable mistress.

COUNTESS.

Nay, a mother:
Why not a mother? When I said a mother,
Methought you saw a serpent: what's in mother,
That you start at it ? I say, I am your mother ;
And put you in the catalogue of those
That were enwombed mine: 'tis often seen
Adoption strives with nature; and choice breeds
A native slip to us frpm foreign seeds.
You ne'er oppress'd ine 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 distemper'd messenger of wet.
The many-color'd Iris, rounds thine eye?
Why? — ^that you are my daughter?

HELENA.

That I am not

COUNTESS.

I say, I am your mother.

HELENA.

Pardon, madam:
The Count Roussillon cannot be my brother.
I am from humble, he from honour'd name;
No note upon my parents, his all noble:
My master, my dear lord he is: and T
His servant live, and will his vassal die:
He must not be my brother.

«clcna. 109

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 mothers,

I care no more for, than I do for heaven,"

So I were not his sister ; can't no other,

But I, your daughter, he must be my brother?

COUNTESS.

Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law;
God shield, you mean it not ! daughter and mother
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 gross
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 thee,
As heaven shall work in me for thy avail.
To tell me truly.

HELENA.

Good madam, pardon me I

COUNTESS.

Do you love my son ?

HELENA.

Your pardon, noble mistress!
"i.e. I care as much for as I do for heaven.

110 SbaFieepeare's Ibecoinea.

COUNTESS.

Lore you my son?

HELENA.

Do not you love him, madam?

COUNTESS.

Go not about; my love hath in 't a bond,
Whereof the world takes note : come, come, disclose
The state of your affection; for your passions
Have to the full appeach'd.

Then I confess.
Here on my knee, before high heaven and you
That before you, and next unto high heaven,
I love your son : —

My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love.
Be not offended; for it hurts not him
That he is 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 intenible 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 yourself.
Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth.
Did ever in so true a flame of liking
Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both herself and love; O 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.

Mclcna. Ill

This old Countess of Roussillon is a charming
sketch. She is like one of Titian's old women,
who still, amid their wrinkles, remind us of that
soul of beauty and sensibility which must have
animated them when young. She is a fine con-
trast to Lady Capulet — benign, cheerful, and af-
fectionate; 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 secret attachment for her son,
shfe observes —

This thorn
Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong,
It is the show and seal of nature's truth,
iWhen 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. y

This is very skilfully, as well as delicately con-
ceived. In rejecting those poetical and accidental

112 Sbaftespeare's Ibcroines.

advantages which Giletta possesses in the orig-
inal story, Shakespeare has substituted the beau-
tiful character of the CounteSs; and he has con-
trived that, as the character qi Helena should rest
for its internal charm on the depth of her own
affections, so it should depend for its external
interest on the affection she inspires. The en-
thusiastic tenderness of the Countess, the admira-
tion and respect of the king, Lafeu, and all who
are brought in connection 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 imagined, 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 con-
sistent 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 fitiest passages in the
serious scenes are those appropriated to her. They
are familiar, and celebrated as quotations; but,
fully to understand their beauty and truth, they
should be considered relatively to her character

Helena. 113

and situation. Thus, when in speaking of Ber-
tram she says "that he is one to whom she wishes
well," the consciousness of the disproportion be-
tween her words and her feelings draws from her
this beautiful and affecting observation, so just
in itself, and so true to her situation 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 which
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 suppose

What hath been cannot be.

He that of greatest works is finisher,
Oft does them by the weakest minister:
So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown.
When judges have been babes.

Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
Where most it promises ; and oft it hits
Where hope is coldest and despair most sitSi

114 Sbafiespeare's Ibecoines.

Her sentiments in the same manner are re-
markable for the union of profound sense with
the most passionate feeling; and when her lan-
guage is figurative, which is seldom, the picture
presented to us is invariably touched either with
a serious, a lofty, or a melancholy 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 beautifully :

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!"

In her soliloquy after she has been forsaken
by Bertram, the beauty lies in the intense feel--
ing, 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 the sentiment and the pathos .
of the situation. She has been reading his cruel
letter.

Till I have no wife I have nothing in France.
'Tis bitter !

Helena. 115

Nothing in France, until he has no wife !

Thou shalt have none, Roussillon, none in France;

Then hast thou all again. Poor lord; is't I

That chase thee from thy country, and expose

Those tender limbs of thine to the event

Of the none-sparing war? And is it I

That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou

Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark

Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers, *-^

ThatjijlajjpQn the violent jgeed'oF fire,

Fly with^ f alse_ aimj move the still^piercing air.

That sings with piercing, do not touch my lofdl

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 air of paradise did fan the house.
And angels ofiiced all : I will be gone.

Though I cannot go to the length of those
who have defended Bertram on almost every
point, still I think the censure which Johnson
has passed on the character is much too severe.
Bertram is certainly not a pattern hero of ro-
mance, but full of faults such as we meet with
every day in men of his age and class. He is
a bold, ardent, self-willed youth, just dismissed
into the world from domestic indulgence, with
an excess of aristocratic and military pride, but
not without some sense of true honor and gen-

116 SbaRespcare's f)ero(nc6.

erosity. I have lately read a defence of Ber-
tram's character, written with much elegance and
plausibility. "The young Count," says this cri-
tic, "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 con-
sequence of an illustrious education. The glare
of his birthright has dazzled his young faculties.
Perhaps the first words he could distinguish were
from the important nurse, giving elaborate di-
rections 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 spelling-
book had the arms of the family emblaz-
oned on the cover. He had been accus-
tomed to hear himself called the great, the mighty
son of Roussillon, ever since he was a helpless
child. A succession of complacent tutors would
by no means destroy the illusion; and it is from
their hands that Shakespeare receives him while
yet in his minority. An overweening pride of
birth is Bertram's great foible. To cure him of
this, Shakespeare sends him to the wars, that he
may win fame for himself, and thus exchange a
sliadow for a reality. There the greafidignity
, that his valor acquired for him places him on an
equality with any one of his ancestors, and he
is no longer beholden to them alone for the
world's observance. Thus in his own person he
discovers there is something better than mere
hereditary honors, and his heart is prepared to

Helena. 117

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 in-
stance, his spirit should revolt at the idea of mar-
rying 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 indisputable, threatens him
with the extremity of his wrath and vengeance,
that he should submit himself to a hard neces-
sity was too consistent with the manners of the
time to be called cowardice. Such forced mar-
riages were not uncommon even in our own coun-
try, when the right of wardship, now vested in
the Lord Chancellor, was exercised with uncon-
trolled and often cruel despotism by the sover-
eign.

There is an old ballad, in which the king be-
stows a maid of low degree on a noble of his
court, and the undisguised scorn and reluctance
of the knight, and the pertinacity of the lady, are
in point :

He brought her dowa full forty pound

Tyed up within a glove:
"Fair maid, I'll give the same to thee.

Go seek another love."

"O, ni have none of your gold," she said,
"Nor I'll have none of your fee;

But your fair bodye I must have.
The king hath granted me."

118 SbaRcspeare's IBeroincs.

Sir William ran and fetched her then

Five hundred pounds in gold,.
Saying, "Fair maid, take 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 any shepherd's brat

Should be a ladye of mine!""

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 Shakespeare, we see, has not de-
fended, but corrected him. The- latter part of
the play is more perplexing than pleasing. We
do not indeed repine with Dr. Johnson, that Ber-
tram, after all his misdemeanors, is "dismissed
to happiness;" but, notwithstanding the clever
defence that has been made for him, he has our
pardon rather than our sympathy; and for mine
own part, I could find it easier to love Bertram
as Helena does, than to excuse him — her love
for him is his best excuse.

" Percy's "Reliques." "

perOfta. 119

PERDITA.

In Viola and Perdita the distinguishing traits
are the same — sentiment and elegance : thus we
associate them together, though nothing can be
more distinct to the fancy than the Doric grace
of Perdita, compared to the romantic sweetness
of Viola. They are created out of the same ma-
terials, and are equal to each other in the ten-
derness, delicacy, and poetical beauty of the con-
ception. They are both more imaginative than
passionate; but Perdita is the more imaginative
of the two. She is the union of the pastoral and
romantic with the classical and poetical, as if a
dryad of the woods had turned shepherdess.
The perfections with which the poet has so lav-
ishly endowed her sit upon her with a certain
careless and picturesque grace, "as though they
had fallen upon her unawares." Thus Belphoebe,
in the "Fairy Queen," issues from the flowering
forest with hair and garments all besprinkled
with the leaves and blossoms they had entangled
in her flight ; and so arrayed by chance and "heed-
less hap," takes all hearts with "stately presence
and with princely port," — most like to Perdita !

The story of Florizel and Perdita is but an
episode in the "Winter's Tale;" and the char-
acter of Perdita is properly kept subordinate to
that of her mother, Hermione: yet the picture

120 Sbaftespeace's "toexoincs.

is perfectly finished in every part; — ^Juliet her-
self is not more firmly and distinctly drawn. But
the coloring in Perdita is more silvery light and
delicate; the pervading sentiment more touched
with the ideal; compared with Juliet, she is like
a Guido hung beside a Giorgione, or one of Pae-
siello's airs heard after one of Mozart's.

The qualities which impart to Perdita her dis-
tinct individuality are the beautiful combination
of the pastoral with the elegant, of simplicity with
elevation, of spirit with sweetness. The exqui-
site delicacy of the picture is apparent. To un-
derstand and appreciate its effective truth and
nature we should place Perdita beside some of
the nymphs of Arcadia, or the Clorises and Syl-
vias of the Italian pastorals, who, however grace-
ful in themselves, 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, "vermeil tinctur'd," and informed with
an airy spirit, that knew "all wiles of woman's
wits," fades and dissolves away when placed next
to the real Florimel, in her warm, breathing, hu-
man loveliness.

Perdita does not appear till the fourth act, and
the whole of the character is developed in the
course of a single scene (the third), with a com-
pleteness of effect which leaves nothing to be re-
quired, nothing to be supplied. She is first in-
troduced in the dialogue between herself and
Florizel, where she compares her own lowly state
to his princely rank, and expresses her fears of

©etOfta. 121

the issue of their unequal attachment. With all her
timidity and her sense of the distance which Sep-
arates her from her lover, she breathes not a sin-
gle word which could lead us to impugn either
her delicacy or her dignity.

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 you the queen on 't.

PERDITA.

Sir, my gracious lord.

To chide at your extremes it not becomes me ;
O, pardon that I name them : your high self.
The gracious mark o' the land, you have obscur'd
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 exqui-
site passages :

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 you
A wave o'er the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that ; move still, still so, and own
No other function.

122 Sbahcspcare'e Iberoinca.

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 nobil-
ity of soul shines forth through her pastoral dis-
guise is thus brought before us at once :

This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever
Ran on the greensward ; nothing she does or seems,
But smacks of something greater than herself;
Too noble for this place.

Her 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
looking on; she bears the royal frown without
quailing; but the moment he is gone, the imme-
diate recollection of herself, of her humble state,
of her hapless love, is full of beauty, tenderness,
and nature :

Even here undone!
I was not much afeard: for once, or twice,
I was about to speak ; and tell him plainly
The self-same sun that shines upon his couft
Hides not his visage from our cottage, but
Looks on alike.

Will 't please you, sir, be gone?
I told you what would come of this. Beseech you,
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 you 'twould be thus?
How often said, my dignity would last
But till 'twere known?

petdita. 123

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.

* * * * ^i

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!

Perdita has another characteristic, which lends
.to the poetical delicacy of the delineation a cer-
tain strength and moral elevation wrhich is pe-
culiarly 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 loyer. In this spirit is her an-
swer to Camillo, who says, courtier-like,

Besides, you know
Prosperity's the very bond of love;
Whose fresh complexion, and whose heart together,
Aflaiction alters.

To which she replies,

One of these is true;
I think aiHiction may subdue the cheek,
But not take in the mind. /

In that elegant scene where she receives the
guests at the sheep-shearing, and distributes the
flowers, there is in the full flow of the poetry a
most beautiful and striking touch of individual

124 Sbaftespeare's Ibcrolnes.

character: but here it is impossible to mutilate
the dialogue.

Reverend sirs,
For you there's rosemary and rue ; these keep
Seeming and savour all the winter long;
Grace and remembrance be to you both.
And welcome to our shearing !

POLIXENES.

Shepherdess
(A fair one you are), well you fit our ages
With flowers of winter!

Sir, the year growing ancient.
Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth
Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' the season
Are our carnations and streak'd gilliflowers.
Which some call nature's bastards: of that kind
Our rustic garden's barren; and I care not
To get slips of them.

POLIXENES.

Wherefore, gentle maiden,
Do you neglect them?

For I have heard it said
There is an art, which, in their piedness, shares
With great creating nature.

POLIXENES.

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, we marry
A gentle scion to the wildest stock ;

iPerOfta. 125

And make conceive a bark of baser kind
By bud of nobler race. This is an art
Which does mend nature — change it rather; but
The art itself is nature.

FERDITA.

So it is.

POUXENES.

Then make your garden rich in gillyvors,"
And do not call them bastards.

PERDITA.

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 reason-
ing of Polixenes : she gives up the argument, but,
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 soul like music and fragrance mingled;
we seem to inhale the blended odors of a thou-
sand flowers, till the sense faints with their sweet-
ness ; and she concludes with a touch of passion-
ate sentiment, which melts into the very heart :

O Proserpina!
For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou lett'st fall
From Dis's waggon! daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,

" Gillyflowers.

126 Sbafteepeare's Ibecoines.

Of 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! O! 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?

PERDITA.

No, like a bank, for Love to lie and play on ;
Not like a corse : or if, — not to be buried.
But quick, and in mine arms !

This love of truth, this conscientiousness,
which forms so distinct a feature in the char-
acter of Perdita, and mingles with its picturesque
delicacy a certain firmness and dignity, is main-
tained consistently to the last. When the two
lovers fly together from Bohemia, and take ref-
urge 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 art-
fully instructed by the old counsellor Camillo.
During this scene Perdita does not utter a word.
In the strait in which they are placed, she can-
not deny the story which Florizel relates — she
will not confirm it. Her silence, in spite 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 instinctively, and
she exclaims, with emotion,

IPct&fta, 127

The heaven sets spies upon us — will not have
Our contract celebrated.

After this scene Perdita says very little. The
description of her grief, while listening to the
relation of her mother's death —

One of the prettiest touches of all was, when at the
relation of the queen's death, with the manner how she
came to 't, how attentiveness wounded his daughter ; till,
from one sign of dolour to another, she did, with an
alas! I would fain say, bleed tears —

her deportment, too, as she stands gazing on the
statue of Hermione, fixed in wonder, admiration,
and sorrow, as if she, too, were marble —

O royal piece!
There's magic in thy majesty, which has
From thy admiring daughter took the spirits, f

Standing like stone with thee ! —

are touches of character conveyed indirectly, and
which serve to give a more finished eifect to this
beautiful picture.

128 Sbaiicspe&te'si Iberofnee.

VIOLA'.

As the innate dignity of Perdita pierces
through her rustic disguise, so the exquisite re-
finement of Vipla triumphs over her mascuHne
attire. Viola is, perhaps, in a degree less ele-
vated and ideal than Perdita, but with a touch
of sentiment more profound and heart-stirring;
she is "deep-learn'd in the lore of love," — at
least, theoretically, — and speaks as masterly on
the subject as Perdita does of flowers.

DUKE.

How dost thou like this tune?

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 sufifering, such a deadly life—
In your denial I would find no sense,
I would not understand it.

OLIVIA.

■ Why, what would you?

Vtola. 129

VIOLA.

Make me a willow cabin at your 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 the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out, Olivia! O! 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 exam-
ine 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 ship-
wrecked on the coast of Illyria; she is alone and
without protection in a strange country. She
wishes to enter into the service of the Countess
Olivia ; but she is assured that this is impossible ;
"for the lady, having recently lost an only and
beloved brother, has abjured the sight of men,
has shut herself up in her palace, and will admit
no kind of suit." In this perplexity, Viola re-
members to have heard her father speak with
praise and admiration of Orsino, the duke of the
country; and having ascertained that he is not
married, and that therefore his court is not a
proper asylum for her in her feminine character,

"i.e. cansons, songs.

130 Sbaftcspcare's Ibetolnes.

she attires 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 prob-
ability here for all the purposes of poetry. To
pursue the thread of Viola's destiny; — she is en-
gaged 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 attractions, his taste for music,
his chivalrous tenderness, and his unrequited love,
is really a very fascinating and poetical person-
age, though a Httle passionate and fantastic — had
already made some impression on Viola's imag-
ination; and when she comes to play the con-
fidante, and to be loaded with favors and kind-
ness in her assumed character, that she should
be touched by a passion made up of pity, admira-
tion, gratitude, and tenderness, does not, I think,
in any way detract from the genuine sweetness
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 es-
pecial profit of well-bred young ladies; but is it
not in truth and in nature? Did it ever fail to
charm or to mterest, to seize on the coldest fancy,
to touch the most insensible heart?

Viola then is the chosen favorite of the ena-
moured Duke, and becomes his messenger to

^

IDfoIa. 131

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 ex-
quisitely is the character of Viola fitted to her
part, carrying her through the ordeal with all
the inward and spintualgrace of modesty ! What
Tieautiful propriety in the distinction drawn be-
tween 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 Rosa-
lind, 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 consciousness of her feminine
nature is for ever breaking through her mas-
querade :

And on her cheek is ready with a blush.
Modest as morning, when she coldly eyes
The youthful Phoebus.

She plays her part well, but never forgets,
nor allows us to forget, that she is playing a
part.

" Percy's "Reliques," vol. iii. See the ballad of "The
Lady turning Serving Man."

132 Sbalieepeate'd f)eto{ne0.

OLIVIA.

Are you a comedian?

VIOLA.

No, my profound heart ! and yet, by the very fangs of
malice I swear, I am not that I play!

And thus she comments on it :

Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does mucti.
How easy is it for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms I
Alas! our frailty is the cause, not w&

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 d^eg,_ silent, patient love
of Viola for the Duke, we have the ladylike wil-
fulness 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 herself." She has never in
her life been opposed: the first contradiction,
therefore, rouses all the woman in her, and turns
a caprice into a headlong passion: yet she apol-
ogizes for herself —

IDiola. 138

I have said too much unto a heart of stone,
And laid mine honour 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, honour saved, may upon asking give?

The distance of rank which separates the coun-
tess from the youthful page — the real sex of
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, Mal-
volio, in the midst of her own distress, — ^all these
circumstances raise Olivia in our fancy, and ren-
der her caprice for the page a source of amuse-
ment and interest, not a subject of reproach,
"Twelfth Night" is a genuine comedy — a perpet-
ual spring of the gayest and the sweetest fan-
cies. In artificial society, men and women are
divided into caste and classes, and it is rarely that
extremes in character or manners can approx-
imate. To blend into one harmonious picture
the utmost grace and refinement of sentiment, and
the broadest effects of humor, the most poignant
wit and the most indulgent benignity; in short,
to bring before us, in the same scene, Viola and

134 Sbahcspcare'g Iberofnes.

Olivia, with Malvolio and Sir Toby, belonged
only to Nature and to Shakespeare.

A woman's affections, however strong, are sen-
timents 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, act-
ing upon the will, animating all the other facul-
ties, and again influenced by them. This is the
most complex 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,
appears more refined; more a sentiment than a
passion — a compound of impulse and fancy, while
the reflective powers and moral energies are more
faintly developed. The same remark applies also
to Julia and Silvia in "The Two Gentlemen of
Verona," and, in a greater degree, to Hermia and
Helena in the "Midsummer Night's Dream." In
the two latter, though perfectly discriminated,
love takes the visionary, fanciful cast which be-
longs to the whole piece; it is scarcely a passion
or a sentiment, but a dreamy enchantment, a
reverie, which a fairy spell dissolves or fixes at
pleasure.

®pbe[ia. 13S

OPHELIA.,

But there was yet another possible modifica-
tion of the sentiment, as combined with female
nature; and this Shakespeare has shown to us.
He has portrayed two beings, in whom all in-
tellectual and moral energy is in a manner latent,
if existing; in whom love is an unconscious im-
pulse, and imagination lends the external charm
and hue, not the interiial power ; in *whom the
feminine character appears resolved into its very
elementary principles — as modesty, grace,^^ ten-
derness. Without these a woman is no woman,
but a thing which, luckily, wants a name yet;
with these, though every other faculty were pas-
sive or deficient, she might still be herself. These
are the inherent qualities with which God sent
us into the world: they may be perverted by a
bad education — they may be obscured by harsh
and evil destinies — they may be overpowered by
the development of some particular mental power,
the predominance of some passion; but they are

"By this word, as used here, I would be understood
to mean that inexpressible something within the soul
which tends to the good, the beautiful, the true, and is
the antipodes to the vulgar, the violent, and the false;
that which we see diffused externally over the form and
movements where there is perfect innocence and un-
consciousness, as in children.

136 Sbaftespearc's "Iberolnes.

never wholly crushed out of the woman s soul,
while it retains those faculties which render it
responsible to its Creator. Shakespeare then has
shown us that these elemental feminine qualities,
modesty, grace, tenderness, when expanded under
genial influences, suffice to constitute a perfect
and happy human creature; — such is Miranda.
When thrown alone amid harsh and adverse des-
tinies, and amid the trammels and corruptions of
society, without energy to resist, or will to act,
or strength to endure, the end must needs be deso-
lation.

Ophelia — poor Ophelia! Oh, far too soft, too
good, too fair, to be cast annpng 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 sev-
ered from the billow, which a breath disperses;
— such is the character of Ophelia : so exquisitely
delicate, it seems 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 her own. Her sorrow
asks not words, but tears; and her madness has

©pbelfa. 137

precisely the same effect that would be produced
by the spectacle of real insanity, if brought be-
fore us: we fell inclined to turn away, and veil
our eyes in reverential pity and too painful sym-
pathy.

Beyond every character that Shakespeare has
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, with-
out reference to the wondrous power which called
her into life. The effect (and what an effect!)
is produced by means so simple, by strokes so
few and so unobtrusive, that we take no thought
of them. It is so purely natural and unsophis-
ticated, yet so profound in its pathos, that, as
Hazlitt observes, it takes us back to the old bal-
lads; we forget that, in its perfect artlesstiess,
it is the supreme and consummate 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 such 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 is apparently her favorite attendant.
The affection of the wicked queen for this gen-

"i.e. in the story of the drama; for in the original
"History of Amleth the Dane," from which Shakespeare
drew his materials, there is a woman introduced who is
employed as an instrument to seduce Amleth, but not
even the germ of the character of Ophelia.

138 SbaRespeare's fteroines.

tie and innocent creature is one of those beauti-
ful and redeeming touches, one of those penetrat-
ing glances into the secret springs of natural and
feminine feeling, which we find only in Shake-
speare. Gertrude, who is not so wholly aban-
doned 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 she is intro-
duced as scattering flowers on the grave of Ophe-
Ha 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 night-
ingales singing in the Grove of the Furies in
Sophocles.^^

Again, in the father of Ophelia, the Lord
Chamberlain Polonius — the shrewd, wary, sub-
tle, pompous, 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 per-
fect purity, like a seraph that had wandered out
of bounds, and yet breathed on earth the air of
Paradise. When her father and her brother find
it necessary to warn her simplicity, give her les-
sons of worldly wisdom, and instruct her "to. be

" In the "CEdipus Cobneus."

®pbelia. 139

scanter of her maiden persence," for that Ham-
let'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 and 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 hither, with its silver pinions
shining against the black thunder-cloud, till, after
a few giddy whirls, it fell, blinded, affrighted,
and bewildered, into the turbid wave beneath, and
was swallowed up for ever. It reminded me then
of the fate of Ophelia; and now, when I think
of her, I see again before me that poor dove, beat-
ing with weary wing, bewildered amid the storm.
It is the helplessness of Ophelia, arising merely
from her innocence, and pictured without any in-
dication of weakness, which melts us with such
profound pity. She is so young, that neither her -
mind nor her person have attained maturity : she
is not aware of the nature of her own feelings ;
they are prematurely developed in their full force
before she has strength to bear them ; and love and
grief together rend and shatter the frail texture-
of her existence, like the burning fluid poured
into a crystal vase. She says very little, and
what she does say seems rather intended to hide
than to reveal the emotions of her heart; yet in

140 SMkesvente's Iberoinea.

those few words we are jjiade as perfectly ac-
quainted 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 Ju-
liet. Passion with Juliet seems innate, a part
of her being, "as dwells the gather'd lightning
in the cloud;" and we never fancy her but with
the dark splendid eyes and Titian-like complex-
ion of the south: while in Ophelia we recognize
as distinctly the pensive, fair-haired, blue-eyed
daughter of the north, whose heart seems to vi-
brate to the passion she has inspired, more con-
scious of being_Joved than,:,of _ iQiKJjjg ; and ^^ef,
aIasT~lovingTn~TEe~sillnt depths of her young
heart far more than she is loved.

When her brother warns her against Hamlet's
importunities —

For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour,
Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood,
A violet in the youth of primy nature.
Forward not permanent, sweet not lasting,
The perfume and the suppliance of a minutfr—
--^ ~^No more! —

r

she repli^~witH~'a~Ein3~of half-coJracipusness,
No more but so? ^--^^

LAERTES.

Think it no more.

He concludes his admonition— with— that most
beautiful passage, in which the soundest sense,
the most excellent advice, is conveyed in a strain
of the most exquisite poetry :

©pbelfa. 141

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 disclosed:
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 th' 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 a puflf'd and reckless libertine.

Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads.

And recks not his own rede."

When her father, immediately afterwards,
catechizes her on the same subject, he extorts
from her, in short sentences uttered with- bash-
ful reluctance, the confession of Hamlet's, love
for her, but not a word of her love for him. The
whole scene is managed with inexpressible deli-
cacy: it is one of those instances, common in
Shakespeare, in which we are allowed to perceive
what is passing in the mind of a person without
any consciousness on their part. Only Ophelia
herself is unaware that while she is admitting
the extent of Hamlet's courtship, she is also be-
traying how deep is the impression it has made,
how entire the love with which it is returned.

" "And recks not his own rede," i.e. heeds not his own
lesson..

142 Sbaftespeare's f>ero(ne0.

POLONIUS.

What is between you? give me up the truth!

OPHELIA.

He hath, njy lord, of late made many tenders
Of his affection to me.

POLONIUS.

Affection! puh! you spealc like a green girl.

Unsifted in such perilous circumstance.

Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?

OPHELIA.

I do not know, my lord, what I should think.

POLONIUS.

Marry, I'll teach you: think yourself a baby.
That you have ta'en these tenders for true pay
Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly;
Or (not to crack the wind of the poor phrase,
Wronging it thus) you'll tender me a fool.

My lord, he hath importun'd me with love
In honourable fashion.

POLONIUS.

Ay, fashion you may call it. Go to, go to.

OPHELIA.

And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord,
With all the vows of heaven.

Ay, springes to catch woodcocks.

.... This is for all :

I would not, in plain terms, 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.

I 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 is the delineation of a man of genius in/
contest with the powers cii_tbis-world.._Xhe weale^
ness of volition, the j|]lt3lulity__Qf__gur£0s^nie Z
contemplative sensibility, the subtlety of" thought,
always shrinking from action, and always occu-
pit<A lii "thinking too precisely on the event,"
united to immense intellectual power, render him
linspeakably interesting : and yet I doubt whether
any woman, who would have been capable of un-
derstanding and appreciating such a man, would
have passionately loved him. Let us for a mo-
ment imagine any one of Shakespeare's most
beautiful and striking female characters in im-
mediate connection with Hamlet. The gentle
Desdemona would never have despatched her
household cares in haste, to listen to his philo-
sophical speculations, his dark conflicts with his
own spirit. Such a woman as Portia would have
studied him ; Juliet would have pitied him ; Rosa-
lind would have turned him over with a smile
to the melancholy Jaques; 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. Ophe-
lia, the young, fair, inexperienced girl, facile to
every impression, fond in her simplicity, and cred-
ulous in her innocence, loves Hamlet; not from

144 SbaRespearc'B f)ei:ofnes.

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 admi.-ation, "the expectancy
and rose of the fair state; ' the star of the court
in which she moves, the first who has ever whis-
pered soft vows in her ear : and what can be more
natural ?

But is it not singular, that while no one en-
tertains a doubt of Ophelia's love for Hamlet —
though never once expressed by herself, or as-
serted by others, in the whole course of the dfama
— 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 his suit with almost all the holy
vows of heaven;" although in the letter which
Polonius intercepted Hamlet declares that he
loves her "best, O, most best !" though he asserts
himself, with the wildest vehemence,

I loved Ophelia; forty thousand brothers
Could not, with all their quantity of love,
Make up my sum:

still I have heard the question canvassed; I have
even heard it denied that Hamlet did love Ophe-
lia. The author of the finest remarks I have
yet seen on the play and character of Hamlet,
leans to this opinion. As the observations I al-
lude to are contained 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

®pbelia. 145

piece of criticism, upon the principle and for the
reason I have already 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 Shakespeare's soul
all the grandeur of a mighty operation of na-
ture; and when we think or speak of him, it
should be with humility where we do not under-
stand, and a conviction that it is rather to the
narrowness of our own mind than to any fail-
ing in the art of the great magician that we ought
to attribute any sense of weakness which may
assail us during the contemplation of his created;
worlds.

"Shakespeare 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 shad-
owed out only in the colors of poetry. When
a character deals solely or chiefly with this world
and its events, when it acts and is acted upon
by objects that have a palpable existence, we see
it distinctly, as it were cast in a material mould,
as if it partook of the fixed and settled linea-
ments of the things on which it lavishes its sen-
sibilities and its passions. We see in such cases
the vision of an individual soul, as we see
the vision of an individual countenance. We can
describe both, and can let a stranger into our
knowledge. But, how tell in words so pure, so
fine, so ideal an abstraction as Hamlet ? We can,
indeed, figure to ourselves, generally, his princely
form, that outshone all others in manly beauty,

146 SbaftCBpeare's IBerofnes.

and adorn it with the consummation of all lib-
eral 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' observed of all observers.

"But when we would penetrate into his spirit,
meditate on those things on which he meditates, .
accompany him even unto the brink of eternity,
fluctuate with him on the ghastly sea of despair,
soar with him into the purest and serenest re-
gions of human thought, feel with him the curse
of beholding iniquity, and the troubled delight
of thinking on innocence, and gentleness, and
beauty ; come with him from all the glorious '
dreams cherished by a noble spirit in the halls
of wisdom and philosophy, of a sudden into the
gloomy courts of sin, and incest, and murder;
shudder with him over the broken and shattered
fragments of all the fairest creations of his fancy ;
be borne with him at once from calm, and lofty,
and delighted speculations, into the very heart
of fear, and horror, and tribulations; have the.
agonies and the guilt of our mortal world brought
into immediate contact with the world beyond the
grave, and the influence of an awful shadow'
hanging for ever on our thoughts ; be present at
a fearful combat between all the stirred-up pas-
sions of humanity in the soul of man, a combat
in which one and all of these passions are alter-
nately victorious and overcome; — I say, that

©pbelta. 147

when we are thus placed and acted upon, how
is it possible to draw a character of this sub-
lime drama, or of the mysterious being who is
its moving spirit ? In him, his character and sit-
uation, there is a concentration of all the inter-
ests that belong to humanity. There is scarcely
a trait of frailty or of grandeur, which may have
endeared to us our most beloved friends in real
life, that is not to be found in Hamlet. Un-
doubtedly Shakespeare 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 al-
most altogether in the character of one single
person. Who ever knew a Hamlet in real life?
yet who, ideal as the character is, feels not its
reality ? This is the wonder. We love him, not,
we think of him, not because he is witty, because
he was melancholy, because he was filial ; but we
love him because he existed, and was himself.
This is the sum total of the impression. I believe
that, of every other character, either in tragic
or epic poetry, the story makes part of the con-
ception; but of Hamlet, the deep and permanent
interest is the conception of himself. This seems
to belong, not to the character being more per-
fectly drawn, but to there being a more intense
conception of individual human life than per-
haps 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 oneness of being which we

148 SbaRespeare'6 Iberotnes.

cannot distinctly behold, but which we believe
to be there; and thus irreconcilable circum-
stances, 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
make her the object of an engrossing passion to
so majestic a spirit t-s Hamlet."

Now, though it be with reluctance, and even
considerable mistrust of myself, that I differ from
a critic who can thus feel and write, I do not
think so: — I do think, with submission, that the
love of Hamlet for Ophelia is deep, is real, and
is precisely the kind of love which such a man
as Hamlet would feel for such a woman as Ophe-
lia.

When the heathens would represent their Jove
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 Supreme Being is described as coming in His
glory, He is upborne on the wings of cherubim,
and His emblem is the dove. Even so our blessed
religion, which has revealed deeper mysteries in
the human soul than ever were dreamt of by phi-
losophy, till she went hand-in-hand with faith,
has taught us to pay that worship to the symbols
of purity and innocence 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

©pbclfa. 149

may be represented, without detracting from its
grandeur, as reposing upon the tender virgin in-
nocence 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 a nature in which there is (I think) much
more of contemplation and sensibility than ac-
tion or passion — is the feeling and conviction with
which I 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 issue among critics, philosophers, aye, and
physicians. To me it seems that he is not so far
disordered as to cease to be a responsible human
being — ^that were too pitiable: but rather that
his mind is shaken from its equilibrium and be-
wildered by the horrors of his situation — horrors
which his fine and subtle intellect, his strong
imagination, and his tendency to 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 impor-
tuned her with love were before the opening of
the drama — before his father's spirit revisited
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 hor-
rors ; without guilt he endures all its shame. A
loathing of the crime he is called on to revenge.

150 Sbaftespeate's "betofnea.

which revenge is again abhorrent to his nature,
has set him at strife with himself; the supernat-
ural visitation has perturbed his soul to its in-
most 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 terrible destiny with hers: he can-
not marry her: he cannot reveal to her, young,
gentle, innocent as she is, the terrific influences'
which have changed the whole current of his
life and purposes. In his distraction he over-
acts the painful part to which he had tasked him-
self ; 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 that with such angry violence,
that unwittingly he killed it.

In the scene with Hamlet,^^ in which he madly
outrages her and upbraids himself, Ophelia says
very little : there are two short sentences in which
she replies to his wild, abrupt discourse —

HAMLET.

I did love you once.

OPHEtlA.

Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.
"Act iii. scene I.

©pbclla. 151

HAMLET.

You should not have believed me: for virtue cannot
so inoculate 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 mean-
ing, of love, of sorrow, of despair, conveyed in
these two simple phrases. Here, and in the so-
liloquy afterwards, where she says,

And I of ladies most deject and wretched,
That suck'd the honey of his music vows,

are the only allusions to herself and her own
feelings in the course of the play ; and these, ut-
tered almost without consciousness on her own
part, contain the revelation of a life of love, and
disclose the secret burthen of a heart bursting
with its own unuttered grief. She believes Ham-
let crazed; she is repulsed, she is forsaken, she
is outraged, where she had bestowed her young
heart,, with all its hopes and wishes; her father
is slain by the hand of her lover, as it is sup-
posed, in a paroxysm of insanity: she is entan-
gled inextricably in a web of horrors whicl^ 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

152 Sbalsespeate's Iberoinea.

hope — past cure ! There is the frenzy of excited
passion — there is the madness caused by intense
and continued thought — there is the delirium of
fevered nerves; but Ophelia's madness is distinct
from these: it is not the suspension, but the ut-
ter destruction of the reasoning powers; it is
the total imbecility vi^hich, as medical peopl'e well
know, frequently follows some terrible shock to
the spirits. Constance is frantic; Lear is mad;
Ophelia is insane. Her sweet mind lies in frag-
ments before us — a pitiful spectacle! Her wild,
rambling fancies; her aimless, broken speeches;
her quick transitions from gaiety to sadness-:r.
each equally purposeless and causeless; her
snatches of old ballads, such as perhaps her nurse
sang her to sleep with in her infancy — are all
so true to the life that we forget to wonder, and
can only weep. It belonged to Shakespeare alone
so to temper such a picture that we can endure
to dwell upon it —

Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favour and to prettiness.

That in her madness she should exchange her
bashful silence for empty babbling, her sweet
maidenly demeanor for the impatient restless-
ness that spurns at straws, and say and^ sing^ pre-
cisely what she~ neTer— would or could have ut-~
tered had she been in possession of her reason,
V, is so far from being an impropriety, that it is
\p additional stroke of nature. It is one of the
symptoms in this species of insanity, as we are
assured by physicians. I have myself known one

©pbcKa. 153

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 us like a torrent which hurries along in its
dark and resistless course all the personages' of
the drama towards a catastrophe which is not
brought about by 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 has been compared, or rather
contrasted, with the Greek Orestes, being, like
him, called on ta ayenge a crime by a crime, tor-
mented iby remorseful doubts, and pursued by
distraction, so, to me, the character of Ophelia
bears a certain relation to that of the Greek Iphi-
genia,"^ 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 sweet-
ness, 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 its
mischiefs over innocence, as it is of virtue to

" Goethe. See the analysis of "Hamlet" in "Wilhelm
Meister."
^ The "Iphigenia in Aulis" of Euripides,

154 SbaRespcarc's Ibcrotncs.

extend 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 pun-
ished or rewarded."^^ But there's a heaven above
us.

' Goethe.

Jbicattda* 155

MIRANDA.

We might have deemed it impossible to go be-
. yond Viola, Perdita, and Ophelia, as pictures of
feminine beauty — to exceed the one in tender
delicacy, the other in ideal grace, and the last in
simplicity — if Shakespeare had not done this;
and he alone 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 beau-
tiful, modest, and tender, and she is these only;
they comprise her whole being, external and in-
ternal. She is so perfectly unsophisticated, so
delicately refined, that she is all but ethereal. Let
us imagine any other woman placed beside Miran-
da — even one of Shakespeare's own loveliest and
sweetest creations — there is not one of them that
could sustain 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,"

155 Sbafte0peat6'6 Iberofneg.

What, then, has Shakespeare done? — "O won-
drous 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 subtile essence of this ethereal sprite, this
creature of elemental light and air, that "ran upon
the winds, rode the curl'd clouds, and in the col-
ors of the rainbow lived," Miranda herself ap-
pears a palpable reality, a woman, "breathing
thoughtful breath," a woman, walking the earth
in her mortal loveliness, with a heart as frail-
strung, as passion-touched, as ever 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 these 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, liut we are made to feel that she could not
possibly be otherwise than as she is portrayed.

yasftanda. 157

She has never beheld 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 solitude, 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 rocks and woods, the many-shaped,
many-tinted clouds, and the silent stars; her
playmates the ocean billows, that stooped their
foamy crests and ran rippling to kiss her feet.
Ariel and his attendant sprites hovered over her
head, ministered duteous to her every wish, and
presented before her pageants of beauty and gran-
deur. The very air, made vocal by her father's
art, floated in music around her. If we can pre-
suppose such a situation with all its circum-
stances, do we not behold in the character of
Miranda not only the credible, but the natural,
the necessary results of such a situation? She
retains her woman's heart, for that is unalter-
able 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 can
be more charming and consistent than the effect
which she produces upon others, who never hav-
ing beheld anything resembling her, approach
her as "a wonder," as something celestial :

Be sure ! the goddess on whom these airs attend !

158 Sbaftcspeate'0 iDerofneg.

And again —

What is this maid?
Is she the goddess who hath sever'd us.
And brought us thus together?

And Ferdinand exclaims, while gazing on her,

My spirits as in a dream are all bound up !
My father's loss, the weakness which I feel,
The wreck of all my friends, or this man's threats,
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.

Contrasted with the impression of her refined
and dignified beauty, and its effect on all behold-
ers, is Miranda's own soft simplicity, her vir-
gin innocence, her total ignorance of the conven-
tional forms and language of society. It is most
natural that, in a being thus constituted, the first
tears should spring from compassion, "suffering
with those that she saw suffer" —

O the cry did knock
Against my very heart. Poor souls ! they perish'd.
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 swallow'd.
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 as-
sumed dignity standing in its own defence. Her
bashfulness is less a quality th.an an instinct; it

^Iran6a. 159

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 Fer-
dinand and Miranda. In Ferdinand, who is a
noble creature, we have all the chivalrous mag-
nanimity with which man, in a high state of
civilization, disguises his real superiority, and
does humble homage to the being of whose des-
tiny he disposes; while Miranda, the mere child
of nature, is struck with wonder at her own new
emotions. Only conscious of her own weakness
as a woman, and ignorant of those usages of so-
ciety 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 his feet.

MIRANDA.

Alas, now ! I pray you,
Work not so hard. I would the lightning had
Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin'd to pile!
Pray set it down and rest you. When this burns,
'Twill weep for having wearied you. My father
Is hard at study; pray now, rest yourself:
He's safe for these three hours.

FERDINAND.

O most dear mistress.
The sun will set before I shall discharge
What I must strive to do.

MIRANDA.

If you'll sit down,
I'll bear your logs the while. Pray give me that,
I'll carry it to the pile.

160 Sbafteapcare'g Iberolncs.

FERDINAND.

No, precious creature;
I'd rather crack my sinews, break my back,
Than you should such dishonour undergo
While I sit lazy by.

MIRANDA.

It would become me.
As well as it does you; and I should do it
With much more ease ; for my good will is to it
And yours it is 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 is your name?

MIRANDA.

Miranda. — O my father,
I have broke your best to say so !

FERDINANa

Admir'd Miranda!
Indeed, the top of admiration : worth
What's dearest in the world! Full many a lady
I have ey'd with best regard : and many a time
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear. For several virtues
Have I lik'd several women; never any
With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow'd
And put it to the foil. But you, O you.
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature's best!

Atcanda. 161

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
I am skill-less of; but, by my modesty
(The 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 precepts
I therein do 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 to 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 me?

FERDINAND.

O heaven ! O 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! I
Beyond all limit of what else i' the world.
Do love, prize, honour you.

MIRANDA.

I am a fool.
To weep at what I am glad of.

162 Sbalieapeare's 'E>erofnes.

FERDINAND.

Wherefore weep you ?

MIKANDA.

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!

And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!

I am your wife, if you will marry me;

If not, I'll die your maid. To be your fellow

You may deny me; but Til be your servant

Whether you will or no !

FERDINAND.

My mistress, dearest I
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 in 't And 'now farewell
Till half an hour hence.

As Miranda, being what she is, could only
have had a Ferdinand for her lover, and an Ariel
for an attendant, so she could have had with pro-
priety no 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 his magical powers, his super-
human wisdom, his moral worth and grandeur.

flblranOa. 163

and his kingly dignity, is one of the most sub-
lime 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 min-
gles again as a man with his fellow-men. He is
as distinct a being from the necromancers and
astrologers celebrated in Shakespeare's age as can
well be imagined :^^ and all the wizards of poetry
and fiction, even Faust and St. Leon, sink into
commonplaces before the princely, the philo-
sophic, the benevolent Prosper©.

The Bermuda Isles, in which Shakespeare has
placed the scene of the "Tempest," were discov-
ered in his time: Sir George Somers and his
companions having been wrecked there in a ter-
rible storm,^* brought back a most fearful account
of those unknown islands, which they described
as "a land of devils — a most prodigious and en-
chanted place, subject to continual tempests and
supernatural visitings." Such was the idea en-
tertained of the "still-vext Bermoothes" in Shake-
speare's age: but later travellers describe them
as perfect regions of enchantment in a far dif-

" Such as Cornelius Agrippa, Michael Scott, Dr. Dee.
The last was the contemporary of Shakespeare.

" In 1609, about three years before Shakespeare pro-
duced the "Tempest," which, though placed first in all
the editions of his works, was one of the last of his
dramas.

164 Sbafteepeare's "Cerofnes.

ferent sense; as so many fairy Edens, clustered
like a knot of gems upon the bosom of the At-
lantic, 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 blos-
soms in which Ariel might have slumbered, and
ever-verdant bowers in which Ferdinand and
Miranda might have strayed: so that Shake-
speare, in blending the wild relations of the ship-
wrecked 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
the occasion of the nuptials of the Princess Eliza-
beth, the eldest daughter of James I., with Fred-
eric, the elector palatine. It is hardly necessary
to remind the reader of the fate of this amiable
but most unhappy 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 to-
gether, as principally distinguished by the pre-
dominance of passion and fancy, appear to me to
rise, in the scale of ideality and simplicity, from
Juliet to Miranda; the last being in comparison
so refined, so elevated above all stain of earth,
that we can only acknowledge her in connection

ilbiranda. 165

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 Fesole," 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 transparent 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, com-
pleted the intoxication of the senses. But I
looked from the earth to the sky, and immediately
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 be-
neath it, such is the character of Miranda com-
pared to that of Juliet.

166 Sbafteepeate's f^ecoinee.

CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS.

HERMIONE.

Characters in which the affections and the
moral qualities predominate over fancy and all
that bears the name of passion are not, when we
meet with them in real life, the most striking
and interesting, nor the easiest to be understood
and appreciated; but they are those on which, in
the long run, we repose with increasing con-
fidence and ever-new delight. Such characters
are not easily exhibited in the colors of poetry,
and when we meet with them there, we are re-
minded of the effect of Raffaelle's picture. Sir
Joshua Reynolds assures us that it took him three
weeks to discover the beauty of the frescoes in
the Vatican; and many, if they spoke trutli,
would prefer one of Titian's or Murillo's Vir-
gins to one of Raffaelle's heavenly Madonnas.
The less there is of marked expression or vivid
color in a countenance or character, the more dif-
ficult to delineate it in such a manner as to cap-
tivate 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-

Metmfone. 167

faelle and Correggio have achieved it in one case,
and only Shakespeare in the other.

When, by the presence or the agency of some
predominant and exciting power, the feelings and
affections are 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 col-
ors more or less vigorous: but where all is calm
without and around, to dive into the profound-
est abysses of character, trace the affections
where they lie hidden like the ocean springs, wind
into the most intricate involutions of the heart,
patiently unravel its most delicate fibres, and in
a few graceful touches place before us the dis-
tinct and visible result, — to do this demanded
power of another and a rarer kind.

There are several of Shakespeare's characters
which are especially distinguished by this pro-
found feeling in the conception, and subdued har-
mony of tone in the delineation. To them may be
particularly applied the ingenious simile which
Goethe has used to illustrate generally all Shake-
speare's characters 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 in-
dex 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 interest-

168 Sbaftespeate'0 Iberoincs.

ing. They are all gentle, beautiful, and inno-
cent; all are models of conjugal submission,
truth, and tenderness; and all are victims 6i the
unfounded jealousy of their husbands. So far
the parallel is close, but' here the reserr(tlance
ceases; the circumstances of each situaticjn are
varied with wonderful skill, and the char^icters,
which are as different as it is possible to in^agine,
conceived and discriminated with a power of
truth and a delicacy of feeling yet more aston-
ishing.

Critically speaking the character of Hermione
is the most simple in point of dramatic effect;
that of Imogen is the most varied and complex.
Hermione is most distinguished by her magna-
nimity and her fortitude, Desdemona by her
gentleness and refined grace, while Imogen com-
bines 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 de-
pend on individual taste.

Hermione is the heroine of the three first acts
of the Winter's Tale. She is the wife of Leon-
tes, 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 suspects her of infidelity with his friend
Polixenes, king of Bohemia: the suspicion once
admitted, and working on a jealous, passionate,
and vindictive mind, becomes a settled and con-
firmed opinion. Hermione is thrown into a dun-
geon; her new-born infant is taken from her.

«ettiUonc. 169

and, by the order of her husband, frantic with
jealousy, exposed to death on a desert shore;
she is herself brought to a public trial for treason
and incontinency, defends herself nobly, and is
pronounced innocent by the oracle. But at the
very moment that she is acquitted, she learns of
the death of the prince her son, who

Conceiving the dishonour of his mother,
Had straight declined, droop'd, took it deeply,
Fasten'd and fix'd the shame on 't in himself.
Threw off his spirit, appetite, and sleep.
And downright languish'd.

She swoons away with grief, and her supposed
death concludes the third act. The two last acts
are occupied with the adventures of her daugh-
ter Perdita ; and with the restoration of Perdita
to the arms of her mother, and the reconciliation
of Hermione 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 weak-
ness. To conceive a character in which there
enters so much of the negative, required perhaps
no rare and astonishing effort of genius, such as
created a Juliet, a Miranda, or a Lady Macbeth :
but to delineate such a character in the poetical
form, to develop it through the medium of ac-
tion and dialogue, without the aid of description ;
to preserve its tranquil, mild, and serious beauty,
its unimpassioned dignity, and at the same time

170 SbaReepearc's Iberofnes.

keep the strongest hold upon our sympathy |' and
our imagination; and out of this exterior calm
produce the most profound pathos, the most Mvid
impression of life and internal power: — it is this
which renders the character of Hermione one of
Shakespeare'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 sim-
plicity, an easy, unforced, yet dignified self-pos-
session, 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 vehe-
ment, but in her settled mind the sources of pain
or pleasure, love or resentment, are like the
springs that feed the mountain lakes, impenetra-
ble, unfathomable, and inexhaustible.

Shakespeare 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 is alluded to in few but strong terms : — >

This jealousy
Is for a precious creature: as she's rare,
Must it be great.

Praise her but for this her without-door form
(Which, on my faith, deserves high speech).

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.

Wermfonc. 171

I might have look'd upon my queen's full eyes,
Have taken treasure from her lips,
.... and left them
More rich for what they yielded.

The expressions "most sacred lady," "dread
mistress," "sovereign," with which she is ad-
dressed or alluded to, the boundless devotion and
respect of those around her, and their confidence
in her goodness and innocence, are so many ad-
ditional strokes 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 queen is spotless
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.

I would not be a stander-by to hear
My sovereign mistress clouded so, without
My present vengeance taken?

The mixture of playful courtesy, queenly dig-
nity, and lady-like sweetness, with which she pre- .
vails on Polixenes to prolong his visit, is charns-
ing.

EERMIONE.

You'll stay?

POLIXENES.

No, madam.

HERMIOXE.

Nay, but you will.

J72 Sbaftespeare's iberoineg.

FOLIXENES.

I may not, verily.

HERMIONE.

Verily!
You put me off with limber vows ; but I,
Tho' you would seek t' unsphere the stafs with oaths.
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?

And though the situation of Hermione admits
but of few general reflections, one little speech,
inimitably beautiful and characteristic, has be-
come almost proverbial from its truth. She says :

One good deed, dying tongueless.
Slaughters a thousand, waiting upon that.
Our praises are our wages; you may ride us
With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs, ere
With spur we heat an acre.

She receives the first intimation of her hus-
band's jealous suspicions with incredulous aston-
ishment. It is not that, like Desdemona, she
does not or cannot understand; but she will not.
When he accuses her more plainly, she replies
with a calm dignity :

Should a villain say so—
The most replenish'd villain in the world —
He were as much more villain; you, my lord.
Do but mistake.

This characteristic composure of temper never

Wermtone. 173

forsakes her; and yet it is so delineated that the
impression is that of grandeur, and never bor-
ders upon pride or coldness: it is the fortitude
. of a gentle but a strong mind, conscious of its
own innocence. Nothing can be more affecting
than her calm reply to Leontes, who, in his jeal-
ous rage, heaps insult upon insult, and accuses
her. before her own 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 publish'd 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 ad-
miration 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
she says 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 favourable. Good my lords,
I am not prone to weeping, as our sex
Commonly are; the want of which vain dew
Perchance shall dry your pities : but I have
That honourable grief lodged here that burns
Worse than tears drown. Beseech you all, my lords.
With thoughts so qualified as your charities
Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so
The king's will be performed.

174 Sbaftespearc's IBeroines.

When she is brought to trial for supposed
crimes, called on to defend herself, "standing
to prate and talk for life and honor before who
please to come and hear," the sense of her igno-
minious situation — all its shame and all its hor-
ror press upon her, and would apparently crush
even her magnanimous spirit, but for the con-
sciousness of her own worth and innocence, and
the necessity that exists for asserting and de-
fending both.

If powers divine
Behold our human action (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 honour
'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 ren-
dered more affecting and impressive by that chill-
ing despair, that contempt for a life which has
been made bitter to her through unkindness,
which is betrayed in every word of her speech,
though so calmly characteristic. When she enu-
merates the unmerited insults which have been
heaped upon her, it is without asperity or re-
proach, yet in a tone which shows how completely
the iron has entered her soul. Thus when Leon-
tes threatens her with death : —

Mcrmlone. 175

Sir, spare your threats :
The bug which you would fright me with I seek.
To me can life be no commodity;
The crown and comfort of my life, your favour,
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,
Haled out to murder. Myself on every post
Proclaimed a strumpet; with immodest hatred.
The child-bed 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 honour
(Which I would free), if I shall be condemn'd
Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else
But what your jealousies awake, I tell you
'Tis rigour and not law.

The character of Hermione is considered open
to criticism on one point. I have heard it re-
marked, that when she secludes herself from the
world for sixteen years, during which time she
is mourned as dead by her repentant husband,
and is not won to relent from her resolve by his
sorrow, his remorse, his constancy to her mem-
ory: such conduct, argues 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

176 Sbakespeare's "bctoinea.

because she cannot even resent? No, assuredly;
but this is only another proof of the wonderful
delicacy and consistency with which Shakespeare
has discriminated the characters of all three. The
incident of Hermione's supposed death and con-
cealment 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 maimer. In
such a mind as hers, the sense of cruel injury,
inflicted by one she had loved and trusted, with-
out awakening any violent anger or any desire
of vengeance, would sink deep — almost incur-
ably and lastingly deep. So far she is most un-
like either Imogen or Desdemona, who are por-
trayed as much more flexible in temper ; but then
the circumstances under which she is wronged
are very diflFerent, and far more unpardonable.
The self-created, frantic jealousy of Leontes is
very distinct from that of Othello, writhing un-
der the arts of lago; or that of Posthumus, whose
understanding has been cheated by the most
damning evidence of his wife's infidelity. The
jealousy which in Othello and Posthumus is an
error of judgment, in Leontes is a vice of the
blood ; he suspects without cause, condemns with-
out proof ; he is without excuse — unless the mix-
ture of pride, passion, and imagination, and the
predisposition to jealousy, with which Shake-
speare has portrayed him, be considered as an ex-

Itermfone. 177

cuse. Hermione has been openly insulted: he
to whom she gave herself, her heart, her soul,
has stooped to the weakness and baseness of sus-
picion; 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 in-
famy 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 un-
told grief "which burns worse than tears drown" ?
Keeping in view the peculiar character of Her-
mione, such as she is delineated, is she one either
to forgive hastily or forget quickly? and though
she might, in her solitude, mourn over her re-
pentant husband, would his repentance suffice
to restore him at once 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 woman — ^left childless
through the injury which has been inflicted on her,
widowed in her heart by the unworthiness of him
she loved, a spectacle of grief to all — to her hus-
band a continual reproach and humiliation — walk-
ing 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 con-

178 Sbatieepeare's 1bevolnc9i

sistency would lie in such an exhibition as this.
In a mind like Hermione's, where the strength
of feeling is founded in the power of thought,
and where there is little of impulse or imagina-
tion, — "the depth, but not the tumult of the
soul,"^ — there are but two influences which pre-
dominate 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 for-
giveness, and wait the fulfilment of the oracle
which had promised the termination of her sor-
rows. Thus a premature reconciliation would
not only have been painfully 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 or image
of herself. And here we have another instance
of that admirable art with which the dramatic
character is fitted to the circumstances in which
it is placed; that perfect command over her own
feelings, that complete self-possession necessary
to this extraordinary situation, is 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 ef-
fect to be found in the ancient or modem drama,
but by the skilful manner in which it is prepared

' The gods approve

The depth, and not the tumult of the soul.

Wordsworth.

Itermfone. 179

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 con-
trasted with the astonishment and admiration of
Perdita, who, gazing on the figure of her mother
like one entranced, looks as if she were also
turned to marble. There is here one little in-
stance of tender remembrance 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 !

The effect produced on the different persons
of the drama by this living statue — an effect
which at the same moment is and is not illusion
— ^the manner in which the feelings of the spec-
tators 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 nat-
ural feeling with which the whole is wrought up,
till wonder, expectation, and intense pleasure hold
our pulse and breath suspended on the event, are
quite inimitable.

The expressions used here by Leontes,

Thus she stood.
Even with such life of majesty — xjuarm life.

180 Sbaftcspeare'5 Iberolnes.

The fixture of her eye has motion in 't.
And we are mock'd with art!

and by Polixenes,

The very life seems warm upon her lip,

appear strangely applied to a statue, such as we
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 stone or marble was colored after nature. I
remember coming suddenly upon one of these ef-
figies, 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 after nature, though
faded by time: it stood in a Gothic niche, over
a tomb, as I think, and in a kind of dim, uncer-
tain light. It would have been very easy for
a living person to repres^t such an effigy, par-
ticularly if it had been painted by that "rare Ital-
ian master, Julio Romano,"^ who, as we are in-
formed, was the reputed author of this wonder-
ful statue.

The moment when Hermione descends from
her pedestal to the sound of soft music, and
throws herself, without speaking, into her hus-
band'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 bless-
ing on her daughter's head) is in the finest taste

' "Winter's Tale," act v. scene 3.

Ketmtone. 181

as a poetical beauty, besides being an admirable
trait of character. The misfortunes of Hermione,
her long religious seclusion, the wonderful and
almost supernatural 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 Shakespeare's char-
acters which exercise a far stronger power over
our feelings, our fancy, our understanding, than
that of Hermione; but notione — unless-, perhaps,
Cordelia — constructed upon so high and pure a
principle. It is the union of gentleness with
power which constitutes the perfection of men-
tal grace. Thus among the ancients, with whom
the graces were also the charities (to show, per-
haps, that while form alone may constitute beauty,
sentiment is necessary to grace), one and the
same word signified equally strength and virtue.
This feeling, carried into the fine arts, was the
secret of the antique grace — the grace of repose.
The same eternal nature — ^the same sense of im-
mutable truth and beauty — which revealed this
sublime principle of art to the ancient Greeks,
revealed it to the genius of Shakespeare ; and the
character of Hermione, in which we have the
same largeness of conception and delicacy of ex-
ecution — ^the same effect of suffering without
passion, and grandeur without effort — is an in-
stance, 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, clas-

182 Sbaftcspeare's Ibcrofnes.

sical beauty of Hermione's character is the more
impressive from the wild and Gothic accompani-
ments of her story, and the beautiful relief af-
forded 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 everywhere illustrated in Shakespeare: upon
this principle he has placed Emilia beside Des-
demona, the nurse beside Juliet; the clowns and
dairy-maids, and the merry peddlar thief Autol-
ycus, round Florizel and Perdita; and made
Paulina the friend of Hermione.

Paulina does not fill any ostensible office near
the person of the queen, but is a lady of high
rank in the court — the wife of the Lord Antig-
ones. She is a character strongly drawn from
real and common life — a clever, generous, strong-
minded, warm-hearted woman, fearless in assert-
ing the truth, firm in her sense of right, enthu-
siastic in all her affections ; quick in thought, res-
olute in word, and energetic in action ; but heed-
less, hot-tempered, impatient, loud, bold, voluble,
and turbulent of tongue; regardless of the feel-
ings of those for whom she would sacrifice her
life, and injuring from excess of zeal those whom
she most wishes to serve. How many such are
there in the world ! But Paulina, though a very

Wccmione. 183

termagant, is yet a poetical termagant in her way ;
and the manner in which all the evil and dan-
gerous tendencies of such a temper are placed
before us, even while the individual character
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 soft-
ening him to a sense of his injustice — ^''an office
which," as she observes, "becomes a woman best"
— her want of self-government, her bitter, in-
considerate reproaches, only add, as we might
easily suppose, to his fury.

PAULINA.

I say I come
From your good queen !

LEONTES.

Good queen!

PAULINA.

Good queen, my lord, good queen : I say, good queen :
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 daugh-
ter-
Here 'tis; commends it to your blessing.

184 Sbaftespeatc's Ibetofnes.

LEONTES.

Traitors !
Will you not push her out? Give her the bastard.

PAULINA.

For ever
Unvenerable be' thy hands, if thou
Tak'st up the princess by that forced baseness
Which he has put upon 't!

LEONTES.

He dreads his wife.

PAULINA.

So I would you did ; then 'twere past all doubt
You'd call your children yours.

LEONTES.

A callat.
Of boundless tongue : who late hath beat her husband
And now baits me ! — This brat is none of mine !

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.

ANTIGONES.

Hang all the husbands
That cannot do that feat, you'll leave yourself
Hardly one subject.

LEONTES.

Once more, take her hence I

PAULINA.

A most unworthy and unnatural lord
Can do no more.

SBetmtone. 185

LEONTES.

I'll ha' thee burned.

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 her
affection, we cannot' help regretting her violence.
We see, too, in Paulina, what we so often see in
real life, that it is not those who are most sus-
ceptible in their own temper and feelings who
are most delicate and forbearing towards the feel-
ings of others. She does not comprehend, or
will not allow for, the sensitive weakness of a
mind less firmly tempered than her own. There
is a reply of Leontes to one of her cutting
speeches which is 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.

186 Sbaliespcace's Ibetolncg.

CUnMENES.

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
the heart of Leontes the remembrance of his
queen's perfections, and of his own cruel injus-
tice. It is admirable, too, that Hermione and
Paulina, while sufficiently approximated to af-
ford all the pleasure of contrast, are never
brought too nearly in contact on the scene or in
the dialogue;' for this would have been a fault
in taste, and have necessarily weakened the ef-
fect of both characters : either the serene gran-
deur of Hermione would have subdued and over-
awed the fiery spirit of Paulina, or the impetu-
ous temper of the latter must have disturbed in
some respect our impression of the calm, majes-
tic, and somewhat melancholy beauty of Her-
mione.

° Only in the last scene, when with solemnity, befit-
ting the occasion, Paulina invokes the majestic figure tO'
"descend, and be stone no more," and where she pres-
ents her daughter to her, "Turn, good lady I our Ferdita
is found."

Missing Page

Missing Page

Bes^emona. 189

Anthropophagi, and men whose heads did grow
beneath their shoulders." With just such sto-
ries did Raleigh and Clifford, and their followers
return from the New World: and thus by their
splendid or fearful exaggerations, which the im-
perfect knowledge of those times could not re-
fute, was the passion for the romantic and mar-
veUous nourished at home, particularly among
the women. /^ cavalier of those days had no
nearer, no surer way to his mistress's „hea_rt than
by entertaining her wTtTi these wondrous nar-
ratives. What was a general feature of his time
Shakespeare seized and adapted to his purpose
with the most exquisite felicity of effect. Des-
demona, leaving her household 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 disposition 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 domestic turn of mind, render .
her more easily captivated by the military renown, .
the valor, and lofty bearing of the noble Moor —

And to his honours and his valiant parts
Does she her soul and fortunes consecrate.

The confession and the excuse for her love is
well placed in the mouth of Desdemona, while
the history of the rise of that love, and of his
course of wooing, is, with the most graceful

190 Sbaftespcare'B ftetofneg.

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
metaphysics.

Desdemona displays at times a transient en-
ergy, arising from the power of affection, but
gentleness gives the prevailing tone to the char-
acter — gentleness in its excess — ^gentleness verg-
ing on passiveness — ^gentleness, Avhich not only
cannot resent — ^but cannot resist.

OTHELLO.

Then of so gentle a condition!

L^GO.

Ay! too gentle

OTHELLO.

Nay, that's certain.

Here the exceeding softness of Desdempna!s
temper is turrie9'"agamsf her by lago, so that it
suddenly strikes Othello in a new point of view,
as the inability to resist temptation; but to us
who perceive the character as a whole, this ex-
treme gentleness of nature is yet delineated with
such exceeding refinement, that the effect never
approaches to feebleness. It is true that once
extreme timidity leads her in a moment of con-
fusion and terror to prevaricate about the fatal

DesDemona. 191

handkerchief. This handkerchief, in the original
/ story of Cinthio, is merely one of those embroid-
ered handkerchiefs which were as fashionable in
Shakespeare's time as in our own ; but the minute
description of it as "lavorato alia morisco sottilis-
simamente,"^ suggested to the poetical fancy of
Shakespeare one of the most exquisite and char-
acteristic passages in the whole play. Othello
makes poor Desdemona believe that the hand-
kerchief was a talisman.

There's magick in the web of it:
A sybil, that had number'd in the world
The sun to course two hundred compasses.
In her prophetick fury sew'd the work:
The worms were hallow'd that did breed the silk.
And it was dyed in mummy, which the skillful
Conserv'd of maidens' hearts.

DESDEMONA.

Indeed I is 't true?

OTHELLO.

Most veritable, therefore, look to 't well.

DESDEMONA.

Then would to heaven that I had never seen it I

OTHELLO.

Ha! wherefore!

DESDEMONA.

Why do you speak so startingly and rash?

• Which being interpreted into modern English means,
I believe, nothing more than that the pattern was what
we now call arabesque.

192 SbaRespeatc's tiexoinee.

OTHELLO.

Is 't lost— is 't gone? Speak, is 't out of the way?

DESDEMONA.

Heaven bless us!

OTHELLO.

Say you?

DESDEMONA.

It is not lost: But what an if it were?

OTHELLO.

Ha!

DESDEMONA.

I say, it is not lost

OTHELLO.

Fetch 't, let me see t

DESDEMONA.

Why, so I can, sir, but I will not now, &c.

Desdemona, whose soft credulity, whose turn
for the marvellous, whose susceptible imagina-
tion had first directed her thoughts and affections
to Othello, is precisely the woman to be fright-
ened out of her senses by such a tale as this, and
betrayed by her fears into a momentary ter-
giversation. It is most natural in such a being,
an3~§ht)ws-us that even in the sweetest natures
there can be na completeness and consistency
witjiout moral energy.*

' There is an incident in the original tale, "II Moro di
Venezia," which could not well be transferred to the
drama, but which is very effective, and adds, I think.

)B)e0demona. 193

With tfie most perfect artlessness, she has
something of the in stinctive, unc onscious address
of her §£x; as when she appeals to her fatHeF^^^

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 so many a time.
When I have spoke 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 the position of another, and imagifi-
ing, rather than perceiving, what is iti^ their
hearts. We women have this address^(ii so it
can be called*) naturally, but I hav«' seldom met
with it in men. It is not incossgistent with ex-

to the circumstantial horrors oti^riie story. Desdemona
does not accidentally drop the /handkerchief ; it is stolen
from her by lago's little ithild, an infant of three
years old, whom he trains^r bribes to the theft. The
love of Desdemona for t'lffg child, her little playfellow —
the pretty description of her taking it in her arms and
caressing it, while ij^^ofits by its situation to steal the
handkerchief fromfher bosom, are well imagined, and
beautifully told^and the circumstance of lago em-
ploying his o-vwji innocent child as the instrument of his
infernal villa^y, adds a deeper, and, in truth, an un-
necessary tou(,;ji of the fiend to his fiendish charagter.

194 SbaReepeate's Ibetoines.

treme simplicity of character, and quite distinct
from that kind of art which is the result of nat-
ural acuteness and habits of observation — quick
to perceive the foibles of others; and as quick
to turn them to its own purposes; which is al-
ways 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 imag-
ination, lead her more safely to the same results,
and the distinction is as truly as it is delicately
drawn.

When Othello first outrages her in a man-
ner which appears inexplicable, she seeks and
finds excuses for him. ^hp^j*; f^ri inn''"'p"*'; <'hat
not only_she._cannot believe herself -sixspect£d,.Jhiut
she cannot cpnceiye^he "existence of guilt in
others.

Something, 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 b'^ch observances
As fit the bridal. \

And when the direct accusatipn of crinje_is flung
on her in the vilest terms, it do'^^s not anger but
stjin.h,e.r, as if it transfixed her wJ(ole being,; she
attempts no reply, no defence; an^ reproach oi
resistance never enters her thought.}'

S>esdemona. 195

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 in discourse of thought, or actual deed;
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 I Unkindness may do much.
And his unkindness may defeat my life.
But never taint my love.

And there is one stroke of consummate deli-
cacy, surprising, when we remember the latitude
of expression prevailing in Shakespeare's time,
and which he allowed to his other women gen-
erally: she says, on recovering from her stupe-
faction —

Am I that name, lago?

lAGO.

What name, fair lady ?

DESDEMONA.

Such as, she says, my lord did say I was?

So comgletelx did,.Shakespeare enter into the an-
gelic refinement of the character,..

Endued with that temper which is the origin
of superstition in love as in religion, — ^which
in fact, makes love itself a religion,— she not only
does not utter an upbraiding, but nothing that
Othello does or says, no outrage, no injustice,
can tear away the charm with which her imagina-
tion had invested him, or impair her faith in

196 Sbaftespeate's "bevoincs.

his honor. "I would you had never seen him!"
exclaims Emilia.

DESDEMONA.

So would not I ! — my love doth so approve him.
That even his stubbornness, his checks, and frowQSt
Have grace and favour in them.

There is another peculiarity, which, in read-
ing the play of "Othello," we rather feel than
perceive: through the whole of the dialogue ap-
propriated to Desdempna, there is not one gen-
eral observation. ,x^^ds__are with- her the ve-
hicle of sentirnent, and never of reflection; so
that I cannot find throughout a sentence of gen-
eral 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 Desde-
mona has been anticipated by an anonymous
critic, and so beautifully, so justly, so eloquently
expressed, that I with pleasure erase my own
page to make room for his.

"Othello," observes this writer, "is no love
story; all that is below tragedy in the passion
of love is taken away at once, by the awful char-
acter of Othello; for such he seems to us to be
designed to be. He appears never as a lover,
but at once as a husband; and the relation of
his love made dignified, as it is a husband's jus-
tification of his marriage, is also dignified, as it
is a soldier's relation of his stern and perilous
life. His love itself, as long as it is happy, is
perfectly calm and serene — the protecting tender-

2>esdemona. 197

ness of a husband. It is not till it is disordered
that it appears as a passion: then is shown a
power in contention with itself — a. mighty be-
ing 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-overmastering. If Desdemona had been
really guilty, the greatness would have been de-
stroyed, because his love would have been un-
vfrorthy, 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 circumvention be brought to dis-
trust 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 Des-
demona been false, have been the mere victim
of fate; whereas he is now in a manner his own
victim. His- happy love was heroic tenderness;
his injured love is terrible passion; and disor-
dered power engendered within itself to its own
destruction, is the height of all tragedy.

"The character of Othello is perhaps the most
greatly drawn, the most heroic, of any of Shake-
speare's actors; but 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 — impetu-

198 Sbaliespeace'0 "Ssevoinee.

osity like a thunderbolt — and that dark, fierce
flood of boiling passion, polluting even his imag-
ination, — compose a character entirely original,
most difficult to delineate, but perfectly deline-
ated." ;

Emilia in this play is a perfect portrait from
common life, a masterpiece in the Flemish style;
and though not necessary as a contrast, it can-
not be but that the thorough vulgarity, the loose
principles, of this plebeian woman, luiited to a
high degree of spirit, energetic feeling, strong
sense, and low cunning, serve to place in brighter
relief the exquisjts. J£finemait,_J;he moral grace,
the unblemish^d_ truth, and thc-soft-sutMnissiop
pfDesdangaa.

On the other perfections of this tragedy, con-
sidered as a production of genius — on the won-
derful 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'-^€lo-
quence and analytical criticism have been ex-
hausted ; I will on ly„addj-lhat ^e source of_the
pathos throughout — of that pathos "wfiich at once
softens aiid" deepens the tragic effect — lies in
the character of Desdemona. No woman dif-

' Consequences are so linked together, that the ex-
clamation of Emilia,

thou dull Moor ! — That handkerchief thou speakest of

1 found by fortune, and did give my husband ! —

is sufficient to reveal to Othello the whole history of his
ruin.

l>e8^emona. 199

ferently constituted could have excited the same
intense and painful compassion without losing
something of that exalted charm which invests
her from beginning to end, which we are apt to
impute Jtothejnterest of the situation and to the
■poetical coloring,^^6^i.irj^KQK:ltesr:in:Jact, j^ the
veiyessence of the character. Desdemona, with

"^r her timid' flexibility .and soft acquiescence,, is
not___^e^k; for the negative alone is weak; and
the mere presence of goodness and affection im^
plies in itself a, species of. pojKer; -power withr
out consciousness, pow^r without effort, power
with repose — ^that soul of grace !

I know a Desde«iona in real life, one in whom
the absence of intellectual power is never felt as
a deficiency, nor the absence of energy of will
as impairing the dignity, nor the most imper-
turbable serenity, as a want of feeling: one in
whom thoughts appear mere instincts, the senti-

, ment of rectitude supplies the principle, and vir-
tue itself seems rather' a necessary state of be-
ing 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 — ng^strjie .. of the factitious, world with-
QUt has disturbed the harmony within. The
comprehension of evil appears for ever shut out,
as if goodness had converted all things to itself;
and all4o the pure in heart must necessarily be
pure. fThe impression produced is exactly that
of the character of Desdemona ; genius is a rare
thing, but abstract goodness is rarer. In Des-
demona we cannot but feel that the slightest

200

Sbal^espeate'0 t>eroine0.

manifestation of intellectual power or active will
would have injured the dramatic effect. She is
a victim consecrated from the first, — "an offer-
ing 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 hke a cherub, in the talons of a fiend !
— ^to see her — Q poor Desdemona !

Imosen. 201

IMOGEN.

We now come to Imogen. Others of Shake-
speare's characters are, as dramatic and poetical
conceptions, more striking, more brilliant, more
powerful; but of all his women, considered as
individuals rather than as heroines, Imogen is
Jthe 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 delicacy 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 together into such
perfect harmony. In her, we have all the fer-
vor of youthful tenderness, all the romance of
youthful fancy, all the enchantment of ideal
grace, — the bloom of beauty, the brightness of
intellect, and the dignity of rank, taking a pe-
culiar hue from the conjugal character which is
shed over all, like a consecration and a holy
charm. In "Othello" and the "Winter's Tale"
the interest excited for Desdemona and Hermione
is divided with others: but in "Cymbeline"
Imogen is the angel of light, whose lovely pres-
ence pervades and animates the whole piece. The
character altogether may be pronounced finer,
inore complex in its elements, and more fully

V
\

202 Sbahespeate's "Sjetofncs.

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.

Shakespeare has borrowed the chief circum-
stances of Imogen's story from one of Boccac-
cio's tales.*

A company of Italian merchants who are as-
sembled in a tavern at Paris are represented as
conversing on the- subject of their wives : all of
them express themselves with levity, or scep-
ticism, or scorn, on the virtue of women, except
a young Genoese merchant, named Bernabo, who
maintains, that, by the especial favor of Heaven,
he possesses a wife no less chaste than beauti-
ful. Heated by the wine, and excited by the
arguments and the coarse raillery of another
young merchant, Ambrogiolo, Bernabo proceeds
to enumerate the various perfections and accom-
plishments of his Zinevra. He praises her love-
liness, her submission, and her discretion — ^her
skill in embroidery, her graceful service, in which
the best-trained page of the court could not ex-
ceed her; and he adds, as rarer accomplishments,
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 ex-
cites the laughter and mockery of his compan-
ions, particularly of Ambrogiolo, who, by the
most artful mixture of contradiction and argu-
ment, rouses the anger of Bernabo, and he at

'Decamerone. Novella, gmo. Giortiata, sdo.

fmogen. 203

length exclaims 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 hus-
band the most undeniable proofs of her false-
hood. He sets off for Genoa, in order to ac-
complish his purpose ; but on his arrival, all that '
he learns, and all that he beholds with his 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 Zine-
vra, he is conveyed to her sleeping apartment
concealed 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 gir-
dle, and of a certain mark on her person. He
repeats these observations for two nights, and,
furnished with these evidences of Zinevra's guilt, -
he returns to Paris, and lays them before the
wretched husband. Bernabo rejects every proof
of his wife's infidelity, except that which finally
convinces Posthumus. When Ambrogiolo men-
tions the "mole, cinque-spotted," he stands like
one who has received a poniard in his heart;
without further dispute he pays down the for-
feit, and, filled with rage and despair, both at
the loss of his money and the falsehood of his

204 SbUkeepenve's Ijecofned.

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 serv-
ant 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 for ever. He then
disgiiises her in hjs 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, Zine-
vra then embarks on board a vessel bound to the
Levant, and on arriving at Alexandria she is
taken into the service of the Sultan of Egypt,
under the name of Sicurano; she gains the con-
fidence of her master, who, not suspecting her
sex, sends her 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 to her inquiries, he relates
with fiendish exultation the manner in which he
had obtained possession of them, and she per-
suades him to go back 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 presence of the Sul-
tan, obliges Ambrogiolo to make a full confes-
sion of his treachery, and wrings from her hus-

fmogeti. 205

band the avowal of his supposed murder of her-
self : then, falling at the feet of the Sultan, dis-
covers her real name and sex, to the great amaze-
. ment of all. Bemabo 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
horrible sentence is executed; while Zinevra, en-
riched by the presents of the Sultan, and the for-
feit wealth of Ambrogiolo, returns with her hus-
band to Genoa, where she lives in great honor
and happiness, and maintains her reputation for
virtue to the end of her life.

These are the materials from which Shake-
speare has drawn the dramatic situation of Imo-
gen. He has also endowed her with several of
the qualities which are attributed to Zinevra;
but for the essential truth and beauty of the in-
dividual character, for the sweet coloring of
pathos, and sentiment, and poetry, interfused
through the whole, he is indebted only to na-
ture and himself.

It would be a waste of words to refute cer-
tain critics who have accused Shakespeare of a
want of judgment in the adaption 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 de-
stroyed the interest of the catastrophe. The
truth is, that Shakespeare 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

206 Sbaltespeate's Ibetoines.

names, dates and manners, over which Dr. John-
son exults in no measured terms, the confusion
is nowhere but in his own heavy obtuseness of
sentiment and perception, and his want of poet-
ical faith. Look into the old Italian poets, whom
we read continually with still increasing pleas-
ure; does any one think of sitting down to dis-
prove the existence of Ariodante, king of Scot-
land? or to prove that the mention of Proteus
and Pluto, baptism and the Virgin Mary, in a
breath, amounts to an anachronism? Shake-
speare, by throwing his story far back into a re-
mote and uncertain age, has blended, by his "own
omnipotent will," the marvellous, the heroic, the
ideal, and the classical — the extreme of refine-
ment and the extreme of simplicity — into one of
the loveliest fictions of romantic poetry; and, to
use Schlegel's expression, "has made the social
manners of the latest times harmonize with heroic
deeds, and even with the appearance of the
gods.""

But admirable as is the conduct of the whole
play, rich in variety of character and in pictur-
esque incident, its chief beauty and interest is
derived from Imogen.

When Ferdinand tells Miranda that she was
"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

• See Hazlitt and Schlegel on the catastrophe of "Cynv
bellne."

fmogen. 207

of Miranda is produced by resolving the female
character into its original elements, so tiiat of
Imogen unites the greatest number of those quali-
ties which we imagine to constitute excellence
in woman.

Imogen, like Juliet, conveys to our mind the
impression of extreme simplicity in the midst of
the most wonderful complexity. To conceive
her aright, we must take some peculiar tint from
many characters, and so mingle them, that, like
the combination of hues in a sunbeam, the effect
shall be as one to the eye. We must imagine
something of the romantic enthusiasm of Juliet,
of the truth and constancy of Helen, of the dig-
nified purity of Isabel, of the tender sweetness
of Viola, of the seli-possession and intellect of
Portia, combined together so equally and so har-
moniously that we can scarcely say that one qual-
ity 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 is not so imposing as that
of Hermione, it stands more on the defensive;
her submission, though unbounded, is not so
passive as that of Desdemona; and thus, while
she resembles each of these characters individ-
ually, she stands wholly distinct from all.

It is true that the conjugal tenderness of Imo-
gen is at once the chief subject of the drama and
the pervading charm of her character; but if is
not true, I think, that she is merely interesting
from her tenderness and constancy to her hus-
band. We are so completely let into the essence

208 Sbakespeate's Ibcroinea.

of Imogen's nature, that 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 char-
acter, 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. Everything is 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 ex-
cuse, 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 lov'd:
A sample to the youngest; to the more mature
A glass that feated them.

And with what beauty and delicacy Is her con-
jugal and matronly character discriminated ! Her
love for her husband is as deep as Juliet's for
her lover, but without any of that headlong vehe-
mence, that fluttering amid hope, fear, and trans-
port, — that giddy intoxication of heart and sense,
which belongs 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

Imogen. 209

by enthusiastic passion, and hallowed by the sense
of duty. She asserts and justifies her affection
with energy indeed, but with a calm and wife-
like dignity.

CYMBELINE.

Thou took'st a beggar, would'st have made my throne
A seat for baseness.

A lustre to it

IMOGEN.

No, I rather added

CYMBELINE.

O thou vile onel

IMOGEN.

Sir,
It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus;
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 deli-
cate discrimination of character and feeling, the
parting scene between Imogen and Posthumus,
that between Romeo and Juliet, and that between
Triolus and Cressida ; compare the confiding, ma-
tronly tenderness, the deep but resigned sorrow
of Imogen, with the despairing agony of Juliet
and the petulant grief of Cressida.

When Posthumus is driven into exile, he comes
to take a last farewell of his wife:

IMOGEN.

My dearest husband,
I something fear my father's wrath; but nothing;

210 Sbaliespeate's Iberoities.

(Always reserv'd 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, weep 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 troth.

, Should we be taking leave
As long a term as yet we have to live.
The lothness to depart would grow. — Adieu !

IMOGEN.

Nay, stay a little:

Were you but riding forth to air yourself,
Such parting were too petty. Look here, love.
This diamond was my mother's: take it, heart;
But keep it till you woo another wife.
When Imogen is dead!

Imogen, in whose tenderness there is nothing
jealous or fantastic, does not seriously appre-
hend that her husband will woo another wife,
when she is dead. It is one of those fond fan-,
cies which women are apt to express in moments
of feeling, merely for the pleasure of hearing _
a protestation to the contrary. When Posthiunus
leaves her, she does not burst forth in eloquent
lamentation ; but that silent, stunning, over-
whelming sorrow, which renders the mind in-
sensible to all things else, is represented with
equal force and simplicity.

Imogen. 211

IMOGEN.

There cannot be a pinch in death
More sharp than this is.

CYMBELINE.

O disloyal thing,
That should'st repair my youth; thou heapest
A year's age on me !

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.

CYMBELINE.

Past grace? obedience?

IMOGEN.

Past hope, and in despair, — that way; past grace.

In the same circumstances, the impetuous, excited
feelings of Juliet, and her vivid imagination, lend
something far more wildly agitated, more in-
tensely poetical and passionate, to her grief.

JULIET.

Art thou gone so? My lord, my love, my friend t
I must hear from thee every day i' the hour,
For in a minute there are many days : —
O! by this count I shall be much in years.
Ere I again behold my Romeo !

KOMEO.

Farewell! I will omit no opportunity.
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

" More rare — ie. most exquisitely poignant.

212 Sbaftcapcate'g Detoinee.

JULIET.

O! think'st thou, we shall ever meet again?

ROMEO.

I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come.

JULIET.

O God ! 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 eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale.

We have no sympathy with the pouting disap-
pointment of Cressida, which is just like that of
a spoilt child which has lost its suger-plum, with-
out tenderness, passion, or poetry; and, in short,
perfectly characteristic of that vain, fickle, dis-
solute, heartless woman, — "unstable as water."

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 Troilus.

CRESSIDA.

Is 't possible?

TROILUS.

And suddenly.

fmoficn. 213

CRESSIDA.

I must then to the Grecians?

TROILUS.

No remedy.

CRESSIDA.

A woeful Cressid 'mongst the merry Greeks I
When shall we see again?

TROILUS.

Hear me, my love : Be thou but true of heart —

CRESSIDA.

I true? How now? what wicked deem is this?

TROILUS.

Nay, we must use expostulation kindly.
For it is parting from us; —
I speak not, 'be thou true,' as fearing thee;
For I will throw my glove to Death himself.
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.

O heavens ! 'be true' again ?
O heavens ! you love me not.

TROILUS. '

Die I a villain, then!

In this I do not call your faith in question.

So mainly as my merit.

. . . ■ . But be not tempted.

CRESSIDA.

Do you think I will ?

*********
In the eagerness of Imogen to meet her hus-

214 Sbabespeate'e Ibetofnes.

band there is all a wife's fondness, mixed up with
the breathless hurry arising from a sudden and
joyful surprise; but nothing of the picturesque
eloquence, the ardent, exuberant Italian imagina-
tion of Juliet, who, to gratify her impatience,
would have her heralds thoughts, — ^press into her
service the nimble-pinioned doves and wind-swift
Cupids, — change the course of nature, and lash
the steeds of Phoebus to the west. Imogen only
thinks "one score of miles, 'twixt sun and sun,"
slow travelling for a lover, and wishes for a horse
with wings —

O for a horse with wings! Hear'st thou, Pisanio?
He is at Milford Haven : Read, and tell me
How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs
May plod it in a week, why may not I
Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio,
(Who long' St, like me, to see thy lord — who long'st —
O let me 'bate, — but not like me ; yet long'st, —
But in a fainter kind: — O 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 it is
To this same blessed Milford: And, by th' way,
Tell me how Wales was made so happy, as
T' 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.

Iftnoden. 21S

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
be noticed for the extreme intensity of the feel-
ing, and the unadorned elegance of the expres-
sion:

I would thou grew'st unto the shores o' the haven
And question'dst every sail : if he should write.
And I not have it, 'twere a paper lost
As offer'd mercy is. What was the last
That he spake to thee?

PISANIO.

'Twas, "His queen ! fais queen I"

IMOGEN.

Then wav'd his handkerchief?

PISANIO.

And kiss'd it, madam.

IMOGEN.

Senseless linen ! happier therein than I ! —
And that was all?

PISANIO.

No, madam ; for so long
As he could 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 stir of 's mind
Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on.
How swift his ship.

IMOGEN.

Thou should'st have made him
As little as a crow, or less, ere left
To after-eye him.

216 SbaMeepeate's Decofnee.

PISANIO.

Madam, so I did.

IMOGEN.

I would have broke my eye-strings ; crack'd them, but

To look upon him; till the diminution

Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle ;

Nay, follow'd him, till he had melted from

The smallness of a gnat to air ; and then

Have turn'd mine eye, and wept.

Two little incidents, which are introduced with
the most unobtrusive simplicity, convey the
strongest impression of her tenderness for her
husband, and 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 mine arm. It was thy master's ; 'shrew me,

If I would lose it for a revenue

Of any king's in Europe. I do think

I saw 't this morning; confident I am

Last night 'twas on mine arm — I kiss'd if.

J hope it be not gone, to tell my lord

That I kiss aught but he.

It has been well observed, that our conscious-
ness that the bracelet is really gone to bear false
witness against her adds an inexpressibly touch-
ing 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,
she finds his letters preserved next her heart.

Soft, we'll no defence

What's here?
The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus? —

fmoflen. 217

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 Shakespeare, feeling that
Posthumus needed every excuse, has managed
the quarrelling scene between him and lachimo
with- the most admirable skill. The manner in
which his high spirit is gradually worked up by
the taunts of .this Italian 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 re-
fined for those rude times) have declined the wa-
ger without compromising his own courage, and
his faith in the honor of Imogen.

lACHIMO.

I durst attempt it against any lady in the world.

POSTHUMUS.

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.

lACHIMO.

What's that?

POSTHUMUS.

A repulse: though your attempt, as you call it, de-
serve 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 ac-
quainted.

218 SbaRcepcare's 1bero(ncs.

'Would I had put my estate, and my neighbour's, on
the approbation of what I have spoke!

POSTHUMUS.

What lady would you choose to assail ?

lACHIMO.

Yours; whom in constancy, you think, stands so
safe.

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 suf-
fers is inimitably beautiful. The strongest ex-
pression 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 sim-
plicity of virtue, "How should I be revenged?"
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.

Imogen. 219

Away! — ^I do condemn mine ears, that have
So long attended thee.— If thou wert honourable,
Thou would'st have told this tale for virtue, not
For such an end thou seek'st; as base as strange.
That wrong' St a gentleman, who is far
From thy report, as thou from honour, and
Solicit'st here a lady, that disdains
Thee and the devil alike.

It has been remarked that "her readiness to
pardon lachimo's false imputation, and his de-
signs against hersejf, is a good lesson to prudes,
and may show that where there is a real attach-
ment 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
accounted for, and rendered more graceful and
characteristic, by the very means which lachimo
employs to win it? He pours forth the most en-
thusiastic praises of her husband, professes that
he merely made this trial of her out of his ex-
ceeding 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.^^

We must also observe how beautifully the char-
acter of Imogen is distinguished from those of
Desdemona and Hermione. When she is made
acquainted with her husband's cruel suspicions,
we see in her deportment neither the meek sub-
mission of the former nor the calm, resolute dig-

" Vide act i. scene 7.

220 SbaTiespeate's Ibccoines.

nity 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 gaz-
ing on her as she reads :

What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper
Has cut her throat already! — No, 'tis slander;
Whose edge is sharper than the sword!

And in her first exclamations we trace, besides
astonishment and anguish, and the acute sense
of the injustice inflicted on her, a flash of in-
dignant spirit, which we do not find in Desde-
mona or Hermione.

False to his bed! — What! is it to be false

To lie in watch there, and to think on 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 anguish, that after his lapse from truth
"all good seeming would be discredited," and
she then resigns herself to his will with the most .
entire submission.

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 tlie love of heaven!

Imogen. ~ 221

do not become the slayer of one who never of-
fended thee only to pleasure another ! God, who
knows all things, knows that I have never done
that which could merit such a reward from my
husband's hand.' "

Now let us turn to Shakespeare. Imogen says :

Come fellow, be thou honest;
Do thou thy master's bidding : when thou 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 Shakespeare knew how to
give additional effect to his characters.

Cloten is odious;" but we must not overlook

"The character of Cloten has been pronounced by
some unnatural, by Others inconsistent, and by others
obsolete. The following passage occurs in one of
Miss Seward's letters, vol. iii. p. 246:— "It is curious
that Shakespeare should, in so singular a character as
Cloten, have given the exact prototype of a being whom
I once knew. The unmeaning frown of countenance,
the shuffling gait, the burst of voice, the bustling insig-
nificance, the fever and ague fits of valour, the froward
techiness, the unprincipled malice, and what is more
curious, those occasional gleams of good sense amidst •
the floating clouds of folly which generally darkened
and confused the man's brain, and which, in the charac-
ter of Cloten, we are apt to impute to a violation of

unity in character ; but in the sometime Captain C I

saw that the portrait of Cloten was not out of nature."

222 Sbaheepeare's Ibetoines.

the peculiar fitness and propriety of his charac-
ter 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 Sir Andrew Aguecheek: but the
folly of Cloten is not only ridiculous, but hate-
ful; it arises not so much from a want of un-
derstanding 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 describes
herself not only as "sprighted with a fool." but
as "frighted and anger'd worse." No other fool
but Cloten — a compound of the booby and the vil-
lain — could excite in such a mind as Imogen's
the same mixture of terror, contempt, and ab-
horrence. 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 con-
duct 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 submission.

In the scene with her detested suitor, there is
at first a careless majesty of disdain which is
admirable.

Imogen. 223

I am much sorry, sir.
You put me to forget a lady's manners,
By being so verbal ;" and learn now, for all.
That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce.
By th' 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 heightens
her scorn, and her scorn sets a keener edge on
her indignation.

CLOTEN.

For
The contract you pretend with that base wretch,
(One bred of alms, andfoster'd 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 base
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 mean'st garment.
That ever hath but clipp'd his body, is dearer
In my respect than all the hairs about thee,
Were they all made such men.

"i.e. full of words.

224 Sbaftespeate'g Iberofnes.

One thing more must be particularly remarked,
because it serves to individualize the character
from the beginning to the end of the poem. We
are constantly sensible that Imogen, besides be-
ing a tender 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 assumption, of rank and royal birth,
which is apparent in the scene with Cloten and
elsewhere. And we have not only a general im-
pression that Imogen, like other heroines, is beau-
tiful, but the peculiar style and character of her
beauty is placed before us : we have an image
of the most luxuriant loveliness combined with
exceeding delicacy, and even fragility, of per-
son, of the most refined elegance and the most
exquisite modesty, set forth in one or two pas-
sages of description ; as when lachimo is contem-
plating 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 taper
Bows toward her; and would underpeep her lids,
To see the enclosed lights, now canopied
Under these windows: white and azure, lac'd
With blue of heaven's own tinct !

The preservation of her feminine character un-
der her masculine attire, her delicacy, her mod-

Ifmoflcn. 225

esty, and her timidity, are managed with the same
perfect consistency and unconscious grace as in
Viola. And we "must not forget that her "neat
cookery," which is so prettily eulogized by Gui-
derius —

He cut our 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 imagina-
tion. The following little touch of poetry re-
minds us of Juliet :

Ere I could
Give him that parting kiss, which I had set
Between two charming words, come in my father.
And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north,
Shakes all our buds from growing.

Her exclamation on opening her husband's let-
ter reminds us of the profound and thoughtful
tenderness of Helen :

O! learn'd 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 of Isa-
bel:

226 Sbaftespeate's lBero(ncs.

Most miserable
Is the desire that's glorious : Bless'd be those,
How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills.
Which seasons comfort.

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 treason 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 be-
lieve 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 volume
Our Britain seems as of it, but not in 't;
In a great pool, a swan's nest ; pr'ythee, think
There's livers out of Britain.

fmogen. 227

The catastrophe of this play has been much ad-
mired for the peculiar skill with which all the va-
rious threads of interest are gathered together at
last, and entwined with the destiny of Imogen.
It may be added, that one of its chief beauties
is the manner in which the character of Imogen
is not only preserved, but rises upon us to the
conclusion with added grace: her instantaneous
forgiveness 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 broth-
ers she 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 glow-
ing 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 per-
son was a paradise, and her soul the cherub to
guard it.""

"Dryden.

228 Sbafiespeate's f>erofne0.

CORDELIA. .

There is in the beauty of Cordelia's charac-,
ter an effect too sacred for words, and almost too
deep for tears; vyithin her heart is a fs^thomless^
well of purest affection,^ut_its_ waters sleep in
silence qnd. obscurity,— never failmg iri~tfieir
depth and never overflowing in their fulness.
Everything in her seems to lie beyond our view,
and aifects us in "a'manrief 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 develop-
ment of intellect, less, of passion, and still less
of imagination. It is completely made out in the
course ol 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
Shakespeare'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 adaptation of a dra-
matic personage to a determinate plan of action,
may be pronounced altogether perfect. The char-
acter, to speak of it critically as a poetical concep-
tion, is not, however, to be comprehended at once,
or easily; and in the same manner Cordelia, as

OotdeUa. 229

a woman, is one whom we must nave loved before
we could have known, and known her long be-
fore we could have known her truly.

Most people, I believe, have heard the story
of the young German artist Miiller, who, while
employed in copying and engraving Raffaelle's
Madonna del Sisto, was so penetrated by its celes-
tial beauty, so distrusted his own power to do jus-
tice to it, that between admiration and despair
he fell into a sadness ; thence, through the usual
gradations, into a melancholy; thence into mad-
ness; and died just as he had put the finishing
stroke to his own matchless work, which had oc-
cupied him for eight years. With some slight
tinge of this concentrated kind of enthusiasm I
have learned to contemplate the character of Cor-
delia; 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 impression 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 acknowledg-
ment of her excellence can neither satisfy those
who have studied the character, nor convey a
just conception of it to the mere reader. Amid

230 Sbalfteepeace'g Iberofnes.

the awful, the overpowering interest of the story,
amid the terrible convulsions of passion and suf-
fering, and pictures of moral and physical wretch-
edness which harrow up the soul, the tender in-
fluence of Cordelia, like that of a celestial vis-
itant, is felt and acknowledged without being
quite understood. Like a soft star that shines
for a moment from behind a stormy cloud, and
the next is swallowed up in tempest and dark-
ness, the impression it leaves is beautiful and
deep, 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 Shakespeare's characters — a proof of what I
have advanced in the first instance, that, from
the simplicity with which the character is dra-
matically treated, and the small space it occupies,
few are aware of its internal power or its won-
derful depth of purpose.

It appears to me that the whole character rests
upon the two sublimest principles of human ac-
tion — the love of truth and the sense of duty;
but these, when they stand alone (as in the "An-
tigone"), are apt to strike us as severe and cold.
Shakespeare has, therefore, wreathed them round
with the dearest attributes of our feminine na-
ture, the power of feeUng and inspiring affection.
The first part of the play shows us how Corde-
lia is loved, the second part how she can lojre.
To her father she is the object of a secret pref-
emce; his agony at her supposed unkindness

Gotdelia. 231

draws from him the confession that he had loved
her most, and "thought to set his rest on her kind
nursery." Till then she had been "his best ob-
ject, the argument of his praise, balm of his age,
most best, most dearest!" The faithful and
worthy Kent is ready to brave death and exile
in her defence; and afterwards a further impres-
sion 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 sor-
row 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 maj-
esty : —

O 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 this 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 fare-
well to her sisters, of whose real character she
is perfectly aware : —

232 SbaRcspcare's "Iberoines.

The jewels of our father! with wash'd eyes

Cordelia leaves you! I know you what you arc.

And, like a sister, am most loath to call

Your faults as they are named. Use well our father ;

To your professed bosoms I commit him.

But yet, alas I stood I within his grace,

I would prefer him to a better place:

So farewell to you both.

GONESIL.

Prescribe not us our duties !

The modest pride with which she replies to
the Duke of Burgundy is admirable: this whole
passage is too illustrative of the peculiar charac-
ter of Cordelia, as well as too exquisite, to be
mutilated : —

I yet beseech your majesty
(If, for I want that glib' and oily art,
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, nor other foulness.
No unchaste action or dishonour'd step.
That hath depriv'd me of your grace and favour:
But even for want of that, for which I am richer;
A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue
That I am glad I have not, tho' not to have it
Hath lost me in your liking.

Better thou
Hadst not been born, than not to have pleas'd me
better.

FRANCE.

Is it but this? a tardiness in nature.

That often leaves the history unspoke

That it intends to do? — My lord of Burgundy,

CotOelia. 233

What say you to the lady? Love is not love,
When it is mingled with respects that stand
Aloof from th' entire point. Will you have her?
She is herself a dowry.

BURGUNDY.

Royal Lear,
Give but that portion which yourself propos'd.
And here I take Cordelia by the hand.
Duchess of Burgundy.

LEAR.

Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm.

BURGUNDY.

I am sorry, then, you have so 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 ! that art most rich, being poor ;
Most choice, forsaken; and most lov'd, despis'd!
Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon.

She takes up arms, "not for ambition, but a
dear father's right." In her speech, after her
defeat, we have calm fortitude and elevation of
soul, arising from the consciousness of duty, and
lifting her above all consideration of self. She
observes —

We are not the first.
Who, with best meaning, have incurr'd the worst!

She thinks and fears only for her father : —

234 SbaRespearc'tJ •fceroincs.

For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down ;
Myself could else out-frown false fortune's frown.

To complete the picture, her very voice is char-
acteristic, "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 Shake-
speare'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
conjugal virtues of Imogen, still they would re-
main perfectly distinct as women. What is it,
then, which lends to Cordelia that peculiar and
individual truth of character which distinguishes
her from every other human being?

It is a natural reserve, a tardiness of disposi-
tion, "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, making the outward demonstration
invariably fall short of what we know to be the
feeling within. Not only is the portrait singu-
larly beautiful and interesting in itself, but the
conduct of Cordelia, and the part which she bears
in the beginning of the story, is rendered con-
sistent and natural by the wonderful truth and
delicacy with which this peculiar disposition is
sustained throughout the play.

CotOelfa. 235

In early youth, and more particularly if we are
gifted with a lively imagination, such a charac-
ter as that of Cordelia is calculated above every
other to impress and captivate us. Anything like
mystery, anything 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 tenderness, which re-
vives in us the withered affections and feelings,
buried but not dead. Then the excess of love,
is welcomed, not repelled: it is gracious to us
as the sun and dew to the seared and riven trunk,
with its few green leaves. Lear is old — "four-
score and upwards" — 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 says to his daughters, "I gave ye all !" we feel
that he requires all in return, with a jealous, rest-
less, exacting affection which defeats its own .
wishes. How many such are there in the world !
How many to sympathize with the fiery, fond
old man, when he shrinks, as if petrified, from
Cordelia's quiet, calm reply!

236 Sbaiiespeare's ibetoines.

LEAR.

Now our joy.
Although our last and least, . . .

What can you say, to draw

A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak I

CORDELIA.

Nothing, my lord.

LEAK.

Nothing?

CORDELIA.

Nothing.

LEAS.

Nothing can come of nothing: speak again I

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
penetrated 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 disdains and abhors, — even into the opposite
extreme? In such a case, as she says herself,

What shall Cordelia do? — ^love and 'be silent?

For the very expressions of Lear —

What can you say, to draw
A third more opulent than your sisters?

CorOeHa. 237

are enough to strike dtamb for ever a generous,
delicate, but shy disposition, such as is Corde-
lia's, by 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 nat-
urally, repressed : and through the whole play we
trace the same peculiar and individual disposi-
tion — the same absence of all display — ^the same
sobriety of speech veiling the most profound af-
fections — ^the same quiet steadiness of purpose —
the same shrinking from all exhibition of emo-
tion.

"Tous let sentiments naturels ont leur pudeur"
was a viva voce observation of Mme. de Stael,
when disgusted by the sentimental affection of
her 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 sis-
ters and the wretched condition of Lear, we seem
to have her before us :

KENT.

Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstra-
tion of grief?

GENTLEMAN.

Ay, sir, she took them, read them in my presence;
And now and then an ample tear trill'd down
Her delicate cheek. It seem'd, she was a queen
Over her passion; who, most rebel-like,
Sought to be king o'er her.

238 Sbaftespeare's IBecoincs.

KENT.

O, then it mov'd her?

GENTLEMAN.

Not to a rage

Faith, once, or twice, she heav'd the name of "father,"

Pantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart;

Cried, Sisters! sisters' Shame of ladies! Sisierst

What? i' the storm! i' the night?

Let pity not he believed! There 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
us of Cordelia starting away from observation,
"to deal with grief alone" — is as exquisitely beau-
tiful 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. Xk?AyMl3M.^t.b9S.aaii,.siraplicityof Cor-
delia's charactei:,,iier 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 of the innermost workings
of the human he^rt, that as there is nothing sur-
passing this scene in Shakespeare himself, so
there is nothing that can be compared to it in
any other writer.

CORDELIA.

How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty?

CorOella. ^9

LEAR.

You do me wrong to take me out o' the gravfe.
Thou art a soul in bliss ; but I am bound/
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tealrs
Do scald like molten lead.

CORDELIA,

, "'Sir, do you know me?
lem
You are a spirit, I know: wit en did you die?

CORDELIA,^

Still, still, far wide! '

PHYSICIAN.

He's scarce awake : let him alone awhile.

LEAR.

Where have I been ? — Where am I ? — Fair daylight !—
I am mightily abus'd. — I should even die with pity
To see another thus. — I know not what to say. —
I will not swear these are my hands: — diet's see;
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assur'd
Of my condition!

CORDELIA.

O ! 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 :
I am a very foolish, fond old man,
Fourscore and upward ;

Not an hour more, nor less ; and, to deal plainly,
I fear, I am not in my perfect mind.
Methinks 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

24& Sbaftespcarc's tbetoinee.

Remembers not these garments; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me;
For, a& I am a man, I think this lady
iTo be my child Cordelia.

CORDEXIA.

And so I am, I ami

I-EAR.

Be your tears wet? '-es, 'faith. I pray weep not:
If you have poison fpr me, I will drink it
I know, you do not^iove me; for your sisters
Have, as I do renumber, done me wrong:
You 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 Cor-
delia, than the single line when she and her fa-
ther are conveyed to their prison :

Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters?

The irony here is' so bitter and intense, and at
the same time so quiet, so feminine, so digni-
fied in the expression, that who but Cordelia
would have uttered it in the same manner, or
would have condensed such ample meaning into
so few and simple words ?

We lose sight of Cordelia during the whole
of the second and third and a great part of the

CorOelfa. 241

fourth act, but towards the conclusion she re-
appears. 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 redeeming angel, she descends
to mingle in the scene, "loosening the springs
of pity in our eyes," and relieving the impression
of pain and terror by those of admiration and
a tender pleasure. For the catastrophe, it is in-
deed terrible! wondrous terrible! When Lear
enters with Cordelia dead in his arms, compas-
sion 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 sensations, the catas-
trophe of Lear is not so overwhelming as the
catastrophe of Othello. We do not turn away
with the same feeling of absolute unmitigated de-
spair. Cordelia is a saint re ady pre pared for
heaven — our earth is not good enough "for her;
and'Le'arT^O who, after sufferings and tortures
"such aslKis, would wish to see his life prolonged?
What! replace a sceptre in that shaking hand?
— a crown upon that old grey head, on which the
tempest had poured in its wrath, in which the
deep dread-bolted thunders and the winged light-
nings had spent their fury? O never, never!

Let him pass! he hates him

That would, upon the rack of this rough world.

Stretch him out longer.

In the story of King Lear and his three daugh-
ters, as it is related in the "delectable and mel-

242 Sbaheepeate'e •fccroinca.

lifluous" romance of Perceforest, and in the
Chronicle of Geoffrey of Monmouth, the conclu-
sion is fortunate. Cordelia defeats her sisters,
and replaces her father on his throne. Spenser,
in his version of the story, has followed these au-
thorities. Shakespeare has preferred the catas-
trophe of the old ballad, founded apparently on
some lost tradition. I suppose it is by way of
amending his errors, and bringing back this dar-
ing 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 col-
ors 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 can-
not conceive," says Schlegel, "what ideas of art
and dramatic connection those persons have who
suppose we can at pleasure tack a double con-
clusion to a tragedy — a melancholy one for hard-
hearted spectators, and a merry one for those of.
softer mould." The fierce manners depicted in.
this play, the extremes of virtue and vice in the
persons, belong to the remote period of the story.^°
There is no attempt at character in the old nar-

" King Lear may be supposed to have lived about one
thousand years before the Christian era, being the
fourth or fifth in descent from King Brut, the great-
grandson of ^neas, and the fabulous founder of the
kingdom of Britain.

Cot&elia. 243

ratives; Regan and Goneril are monsters of in-
gratitude, and Cordelia merely distinguished by
her filial piety : whereas, in Shakespeare, this filial
piety is an affection quite distinct from the quali-
ties which serve to individualize the human be-
ing; we have .aperc'eption of innate character
agail from all acadental ^arcumstoice:" we 'see
that if Cordelia had never known l&er 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, _a woman of a steady jmind,.J>f
calm„^t„deep affections, of inflexible truth, of
few words,_and,_gfj]eseryed_deportm^^

As to "Regan and Goneril — "tigers, not daugh-
ters" — we might wish to regard them as mere
hateful chimeras, impossible as they are detest-
able; but unfortunately 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,^* who, unable to save her
father's life by the sacrifice of her own, died with
him — "infelix patris infelix proles;" but this is
all we know of her. There was the Roman daugh-
ter, too. I remember 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 perfect, — ^but it is not a Cor-
delia : only Raffaelle could have painted Cordelia.

But the character which at once suggests it-

"She is commemorated by Lord Byron. Vide
"Childe Harold," Canto iii.

244 SMMspcute's f)ecotne0.

self in. comparison with Cordelia, as the heroine
of filial tenderness and piety, is certainly the An-
tigone of Sophocles. As poetical conceptions,
they rest on the same basis : they are both pure
gJ)stractions of truth, piety, and natural affection ;
and in^otinove^ ¥s" a passiohTls Kept enEre^^t
oT sight: for though the womanly character is
sustained by making them the objects of devoted
attachment, yet to have portrayed them as influ-
enced by passion 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 distin-
guishes both heroines. The spirit, however, in
which the two characters is conceived is as dif-
ferent as possible; and we must not fail to re-
mark that Antigone, who plays a principal part
in two fine tragedies, and is distinctly and com-
pletely made out, is considered as a masterpiece,
the very triumph of the ancient classical drama;
whereas there are many among Shakespeare's
characters which are equal to Cordelia as dra-
matic conceptions, and superior to her in finishing
of outline, as well as in the richness of the poet-
ical coloring.

When CEdipus, pursued by the vengeance of
the 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 sup-
ported 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

Cotdelfa. 245

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 con-
secrated Grove of the Furies, the picture pre-
sented to us is wonderfully solemn and beautiful.
The patient, duteous tenderness of Antigone ; the
scene in which she pleads for her brother Poly-
nices, and supplicates her father to receive his of-
fending son : her remonstance 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, apparent even through the
stififness of the translation : —

Alas! I only wish'd 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. O 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 such was his desire—

A shady turf covered his lifeless limbs.

Nor unlamented fell ! for, O, 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 aflfect-
ing part of the tragedy of "CEdipus Coloneus :"
her sisterly affection, and her heroic self-devo-
tion to a religious duty, form the plot of the trag- .

246 SbaKespeare's Ibetoines.

edy called by her name. When her two brothers,
Eteocles and Polynices, had slain each other be-
fore the walls of Thebes, Creon issued an edict
forbidding the rights of sepulture to Polynices
(as the invader of his country), and awarding
instant death to those who should dare to bury
him. We know the importance which the an-
cients 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, announcing her fixed resolution
to brave the threatened punishment. Her sis-
ter Ismene shrinks from sharing the peril of such
an undertaking, and endeavors to dissuade her
from it, on which Antigone 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.

We'll rest together.

She proceeds to execute her generous purpose:
she covers with earth the mangled corse of Poly-
nices, pours over it the accustomed libations, is
detected in her pious office, and after nobly de-
fending her conduct, is led to death by command
of the tyrant. Her sister Ismene, struck with
shame and remorse, now comes forward to ac-
cuse herself as a partaker in the offence, and share
her sister's punishment; but Antigone sternly

Cot&cKa. 247

and scornfully rejects her, and after pd»iring forth
a beautiful lamentation on the misery of perish-
ing "without the nuptial song— a virgin and a
slave"— she dies d I' antique; she strangles her-
self to avoid a lingering death.

Hemon, the son of Creon, unable to save her
li^e, kills himself upon her grave: but through-
out 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
eflfect of situation, as well as a great deal of po-
etry and character: she says the most beauti-
ful 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 de-
lineation there is a severe simplicity mingled with
its Grecian grace, a unity, a grandeur, an ele-
gance, which appeal to our taste and our under-
standing, while they fill and exalt the imagina-
tion. But in Cor delia it igi not tl^f external ml-"
oring or form, it is not what she says or..dae&. I
buFwiat"lsKe is in herselfTwhat shefe ela,^thM3lcSt '
and suffers, which continiugjy^jiwa^il.„,oui:.,.5y]iiaj
pathy and^^^^erest™*The heroism of Cordelia isj
more passive and tender — ^it melts' into our heart ;
and in the veiled loveliness and unostentatious
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

248 SbaTtespeate's f>erofnes.

Antigone we give our admiration, to Cordelia
our tears. Antigone stands before us in her aus-
tere and statue-like beauty, like one of the mar-
bles of the Partheon. If Cordelia remind us of
anything 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 al-
most too angelic were she not linked to our
earthly feelings, bound to our very hearts, by
her filial love, her wrongs, her suiferings, and
her tears.

CLEOPATRA
From the Painting by Hans Makart

Shakespeare's Heroines

Cleopatra. 249

HISTORICAL CHARACTERS.

CLEOPATRA.

I CANNOT agree with one of the most philosoph-
ical of Shakespeare'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 is equally just
with regard to characters ; and in either case can
we admit it? The reverence and the simpleness
of heart with which Shakespeare has treated the
received and admitted truths of history — I mean
according to the imperfect knowledge of his time
— is admirable : his inaccuracies are few ; his gen-
eral accuracy, allowing for the distinction between
the narrative and the dramatic form, is acknowl-
edged to be wonderful. He did not steal the
precious material from the treasury of History
to debase its purity, new-stamp it arbitrarily with
eifigies and legends of his own devising, and
then attempt to pass it current, like Dryden, Ra-
cine, and the rest of those poetical coiners: he
only rubbed off the rust, purified and brightened
it, so that History herself has been known to re-
ceive it back as sterling.

Truth, wherever manifested, should 6e sacred :

250 Sbaftespeate's Ibetofnes.

so Shakespeare 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. "What-
ever in religion is holy and sublime, in virtue
amiable or grave, whatsoever hath passion or ad-
miration in all the changes of that which is called
fortune from without, or the wily subtleties and
refluxes of man's thought from within ;"'^ what-
ever is pitiful in the weakness, sublime in the
strength, or terrible in the perversion of human
intellect, — these are the domain of Tragedy. Sybil
and Muse at once, she holds aloft the book of
human fate, and is the interpreter of its myste-
ries. It is not, then, making a mock of the se-
rious sorrows of real life, nor of those human be-
ings who lived, suffered, and acted upon this
earth, to array them in her rich and stately robes,
and present 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 suffer- .
ings represented, the guilt of Lady Macbeth, the
despair of Constance, the arts of Cleopatra, and
the distresses of Katherine, had a real existence;
but it adds infinitely to the moral effect, as a sub-
ject of contemplation and a lesson of conduct.^

' Maton.

' "That the treachery of King John, the death of Ar-
thur, and the grief of Constance, had a real truth in
history, sharpens the sense of pain, while it hangs a
leaden weight on the heart and the imagination. Some-

Cleopatra. 251

I shall be able to illustrate these observations
more fully in the course of this section, in whicK
we will consider those characters which are drawn
from history ; and first, Cleopatra.

Of all Shakespeare's female characters, Miran-
da and Cleopatra appear to me the most wonder-
ful. The first, unequalled as a poetic concep-
tion : the latter miraculous as a work of art. If
We could make a regular classification of his char-
acters, these would form the two extremes of sim-
plicity and complexity ; and all his other charac-
. ters would be found to fill up some shade or grada-
tion between 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 un-
substantial, frivolous, vain, contemptible, and va-
riable, till the worthlessness be lost in the mag-
nitude, and a sense of the sublime spring from
the very elements of littleness — to do this be-
longed only to Shakespeare, that worker of mir-
acles. Cleopatra is a brilliant antithesis, a com-
pound of contradictions, of all that we most hate
with what we most admire'. The whole character

thing whispers us that we have no right to make a
mock of calamities like these, or turn the truth of
things into the puppet and plaything of our fancies." —
See "Oiaracters of Shakespeare's Plays." To consider
thus is not to consider too deeply, but not deq>Iy
enough.

252 SbaRespeate's tjctolnee,

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 continually mocks and
eludes us ? What is most astonishing in the char-
acter of Cleopatra is its antithetical construction
— its consistent inconsistency, if I may use such
an expression — which renders it quite impossi-
ble to reduce it to any elementary principles. It
will, perhaps, be found, on the whole, that vanity
and the love of p6wer predominate; but I dare
not say it is so, for these qualities and a hun-
dred others mingle into each other, and shift, and
change, and glance away, like the colors in a
peacock's train.

In some others of Shakespeare's female char-
acters also remarkable for their complexity (Por-
tia 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
continual approximation of whatever is most op- ■
posite in character, in situation, in sentiment, .
would be fatiguing, were it not so perfectly nat-
ural: the woman herself would be distracting,
if she were not so enchanting.

I Cleopatca. 253

I have Aot the slightest doubt that Shake-
speare's Cleopatra is the real historical Cleopatra
— ^the "rai* Egyptian" — individualized and placed
before us.| Her mental accomplishments, her un-
equalled 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 ten-
derness and her truth, her childish susceptibility
to flattery, her magnificent spirit, her royal pride,
the gorgeous eastern coloring of the character
— all these contradictory elements has Shaken
speare seized, mingled them in their extremes,
and fused them into one brilliant impersonation
of classical elegance. Oriental voluptuousness, and
gipsy sorcery.

What better proof can we have of the indivi3^
ual truth of the character than the admissijgg;
that Shakespeare's Cleopatra produces exactly the
same effect on us that is recorded of the real Cleo-
patra? She dazzles our faculties, perplexes our
judgment, bewilders and bewitches our fancy;
from the beginning to the end of the drama we
are conscious of a kind of fascination againsL
which our moral sense rebels, but from which
there is no escape. The epithets applied to her
perpetually by Antony and others confirm this
impression ; "enchanting queen !" — "witch" —
"spell"— "great fairy"— "cockatrice"— "serpent of
old Nile" — "thou grave' charm !" are only a few

• Grave, in the sense of mighty or potent.

254 Sbafteapeare's Ibetolnee.

of them: and who does not know by heart the
famous quotations in which this Egyptian Circe
is described, with all her infinite seductions? —

Fie! wrangling queen!
Whom every thing becomes, to chide, to laugh.
To weep ; whose every passion fully strives
To make itself, in thee, fair and admir'd.

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
exposed her feminine arts, when he says, on the
occasion of Antony's intended departure,

Cleapotra, catching but the least noise of this, dies
instantly; I have seen her die twenty times upon far
IgSorer moment.

ANTONY.

She is cunning past man's thought.

ENOBARBUS.

Alack, sir, no! her passions are made of nothing but
the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds
and waters sighs and tears; they are greater storms
and tempests than almanacks can report: this cannot
be cunning in her ; if it be, she makes a shower of rain
as well as Jove.

The whole secret of her absolute dominion over
the facile Antony may be found in one little
speech :

Cleopatra. 255

See where he is, — ^who's with him, — what he does :—
(I did not send you). If you find him sad.
Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report
That I am sudden sick : Quick ! and return.

CHARMIAN.

Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly.
You do not hold the method to enforce
The like from him.

CLEOPATRA.

What should I do I do not?

CHARMIAN.

In each thing give him way ; cross him in nothing.

CLEOPATRA.

Thou teachest, like a fool, the way to lose him.

CHARM lAIf.

Tempt him not so too far.

But Cleopatra is a mistress of her art, and knovij?
better : and what a picture of her triumpha it pet-
ulance, her imperious and imperial coquetry, is
given in her own words !

That time — O, times ! —
I laugh'd him out of patience; and that night
I laugh'd him into patience: and next morn.
Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed;
Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst
I wore his sword, Fhilippan.

When Antony enters, full of some serious pur- .
pose which he is about to impart, the woman's
perverseness and the tyrannical waywardness with
which she taunts him and plays upon his temper
are admirably depicted: —

256 Sbahespearc's Deroines.

I know, by that same eye, there's some good news.
What says the married woman ?* — You may go ;
'Would she had never given you leave to come!
Let her not say, 'tis I that keep you here;
I have no power upon you ; hers you are.

ANTONY.

The gods best know

CLEOPATRA.

O, never was there queen
So mightily betray'd ! Yet, at the first,
I saw the treasons planted.

ANTONY.

Cleopatra! —

CXEOPATRA.

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 madness.
To be entangled with those mouth-made vows,
-W^uch ibreak themselves in swearing !

ANTONY.

Most sweet queen I

CLEOPATKA.

Nay, pray you, seek no colour for your going.
But bid farewell, and go.

She recovers her dignity for a moment at the
news 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?

* Fulvia, the first wife of Antony.

Cleopatta. 257

And then follows the artful mockery with which
she tempts and provokes him, in order to discover
whether he i egrets his wife: —

O most false love !
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.

ANTONY.

Quarrel no more : but be prepar'd to know
The purposes I bear: which are, or cease.
As you shall give th' advice : By the fire
That quickens Nilus' slime, I go from hence.
Thy soldier, servant, making peace, or war.
As thou aifectest.

CLEOPATRA.

Cut my lace, Charmian, come^
But let it be. I am quickly ill, and well.
So Antony loves.

ANTONY.

My precious queen, forbear :
And give true evidence to his love, which stands
An honourable 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 honour.

ANTONY.

You'll heat my blood ; no more.

CLEOPATRA.

You can do better yet; but this is meetly.

258 Sbaftespeate's "beroinee.

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 Her-
culean 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!
Since my becomings kill me when they do not
' Eye well to you. Your honour calls you hence.
Therefore be deaf to my 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 depar-
ture; her fond repining at his absence, her vio-
lent spirit, her right royal wilfulness and impa-
tience, as if it were a wrong to her majesty, an
insult to her sceptre, 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 I might sleep out this great gap of time

My Antony is away.

Cleopatta. 259

O Charmian!
Where think'st thou he is now ? Stands he, or sits he.
Or does he walk? or is he on his horse?

happy horse to bear the weight of Antony !

Do bravely.horse ! for wot'st thou whom thou mov'sti

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'st thou my posts?

AL£XAS.

Ay, madam, twenty several messengers:
Why do you send so thick?

CLEOPATRA.

Who's born that day
When I forget to send to Antony
Shall die a beggar. — Ink and paper, Charmian.
Welcome, my good Alexas. — ^Did I, Charmian,
Ever love Caesar so?

CHARMIAN.

O that brave Qesar!

CLEOPATRA.

Be choked 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 Cxsar paragon again
My man of men!

CHARMIAN.

By your most gracious pardon,

1 sing but after you.

260 Sbaftestieare'fl t>eroined.

CXEOPATRA.

My salad days,
When I was green in judgment, — cold in blood,
To say, as I said then! — But, come, away,
Get me ink and paper : he shall have every day
A several greeting, or I'll unpeople Egypt.

We learn from Plutarch, that it was a favorite
amusement with Antony and Cleopatra to ram-
ble through the streets at night, and bandy ribald
jests with the populace of Alexandria. From
the same authority we know that they were ac-
customed to live on .the most familiar terms with
their attendants and the companions of their
revels. To these traits we must add, that with
all her violence, perverseness, egotism, and ca-
price, Cleopatra mingled a capability for warm
affections and kindly feeling, or rather, what
we should call in these days a constitutional good-
nature; and was lavishly generous to her favor-
ites and dependants. These characteristics we
find scattered through the play; they are not
only faithfully rendered by Shakespeare, but he
has made the finest use of them in his delineation
of manners. Hence the occasional freedom of
her women and her attendants, in the midst of
their fears and flatteries, becomes most natural
and consistent: hence, too, their devoted attach-
ment and fidelity, proved even in death. But,
as illustrative of Cleopatra's disposition, perhaps
the finest and most characteristic scene in the
whole play is that in which the messenger ar-
rives from Rome with the tidings of Antony's

Cleopatra. 261

marriage with Octavia. She perceives at once
with quickness that all is not well, and she has-
tens to anticipate the worst, that she may have
the pleasure of being disappointed. Her impa-
tience to know what she fears to learn, the vivac-
ity with which she gradually works herself up
into a state of excitement, and at length into
fury, is wrought out with a force of truth which
makes us recoil.

CLEOPATKA.

Antony's dead ! — If thou say so, villain,
Thou kill'st thy mistress : but well and free.
If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here
My bluest veins to kiss ; a hand, that kings
Have lipp'd, and trembled kissing.

MESSENGEaS.

First, madam, he's well.

CLEOPATRA.

Why, there's more gold. But, sirrah, mark! we use
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 !

CLE0PATR4.

Well, go to, I will.
But there's no goodness in thy face : if Antony
Be free, and healthful,— so tart a favour
To trumpet such good tidings? If not well.
Thou should'st come like a fury crown'd with snakes.

MESSENGER.

Will 't please you hear me?

262 Sbafteapeate's ibetoinee.

CLEOPATRA.

I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak'st:
Yet if thou say Antony lives, is vsrell.
Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him,
I'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail
Rich pearls upon thee.

MESSENGER.

Madan^ he's well

CLEOPATRA.

Well £aid.

MESSENGER.

And friends with Csesar.

CLEOPATRA.

Thou 'rt an honest man.

MESSENGER.

Caesar and he are greater friends than ever.

CLEOPATRA.

Make thee a fortune from me.

m'essenger.

But 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 Caesar ;

In state of health, thou say'st; and, thou sa/st, free.

messenger.

Free, madam! No: I made no such report;
He's bound unto Octavia.

CLEOPATRA.

For what good turn?

aieopatca. 268

MESSENGEB.

Madam, he's married to Octavia.

CLEOPATRA.

The most infectious pestilence upon thee!

[Strikes him down.

MESSENGER.

Good madam, patience.

CLEOPATRA.

What say you? — Hence, [Strikes him again.
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 stew'd 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 j
And I will boot thee with what gift beside
Thy modesty can beg.

MESSENGER.

He's married, madam.

CLEOPATRA.

Rogue, thou hast liv'd too long. [Draws a dagger.

MESSENGER.

Nay then I'll run.
What mean you, madam? I have made no fault

[Exit.

CHARMIAN.

Good madam, keep yourself within yourself;
The man is innocent.

264 SbaRespcarc's Iberoines.

CLEOPATRA.

Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt.
Melt Egypt into Nile! and kindly creatures
Turn all to serpents ! Call the slave again ;
Though I am mad, I will not bite him: — Call!

CHARMIAN.

He is afeard to come.

CLEOPATRA.

I will not hurt him; —
These hands do lack nobility, that they strike
A meaner than myself.

CLEOPATRA.

In praising Antony I have disprais'd Cssar.

CHARMIAN.

Many times, madam.

CLEOPATRA.

I am paid for 't now-
Lead me from hence.

I faint; O Iras, Charmian, — 'tis no matter:
Go to the fellow, good Alexas ; bid him
Report the feature of Octavia, her years.
Her inclination, — let him not leave out
The colour of her hair : Bring me word quickly. —

[Exit Alexas.
Let him for ever 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 Mardian.
Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmian,
But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber.

I have given this scene entire because I know
nothing comparable to it. The pride and ar-

Cleopatra. 265

rogance of tHe Egyptian queen, the blandishment
of the woman, the unexpected but natural tran-
sitions of temper and feeling, the contest of va-
rious passions, and at length — when the wild hur-
ricane 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 extraordinary scene. The mere idea of an
angry woman beating her menial presents some-
thing ridiculous or disgusting to the mind; in
a queen or a tragedy heroine it is still more in-
decorous ;^ 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 termagant, this
"wrangling queen, whom everything becomes,"
becomes even her fury. We know not by what
strange power it is, that, in the midst of all these
unruly gassions and childish caprices, the
poetry of the character and the fanciful and
sparkling 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 the excessive violence of Cleopa-
tra's temper: witness the story of her boxing

•The well-known violence and coarseness of Queen
Elizabeth's manners, in which she was imitated by the
women afcout her, may in Shakespeare's time have ren-
dered the image of a royal virago less offensive and less
extraordinary.

266 Sbaftespeate's Iberofnes.

the ears of her treasurer, in presence of Octavius,
as related by Plutarch. Shakespeare has made
a fine use of this anecdote also towards the con-
clusion of the drama, but it is not equal in power
to this scene with 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
information to the humors of his imperious mis-
tress, and gives her a satirical picture of her
.rival. The scene which follows, in which Cleo-
patra — artful, acute, and penetrating as she is
I — ^becomes the dupe of her feminine spite and
jealousy, nay, assists in duping herself ; and after
having cuffed the messenger for telling her truths
which are offensive, rewards him for the false-
hood which flatters her weakness; is not only
an admirable exhibition of character, but a fine
moral lesson.

She concludes, after dismissing the messen-
ger with gold and thanks,

I repent me much
That so I harried him. Why, methinks, by him,
This creature's no such thing.

CHARMIAN.

Nothing, madam.

CLEOPATRA.

The man hath seen some majesty, and should know.

Do we not fancy Cleopatra drawing herself
up with all the vain consciousness of rank and

Cleopatra. 267

beauty, as she pronounces this last line? and is
not this the very woman who celebrated her own
apotheosis, whp 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 Moonf

The despotism and insolence of her temper
are touched in some other places most admir-
ably. Thus, when she is told that the Romans
libel and abuse her, she exclaims.

Sink Rome; and their tongues rot, i

That speak against us ! ■

And when one of her attendants observes, that
"Herod of Jewry dared not look upon her but
when she were w^ell pleased," she immediately
replies, "That Herod's head I'll have.'"

When Proculeius surprises her in her monu--
ment, and snatches her poniard from her, ter-
ror 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 !

PKOCULEIUS.

O, temperance, lady! -

CLEOPATRA.

Sir, I will eat no meat; I'll not drink, sir:
(If idle talk will once be necessary,)

' She was as good as her word. See the Life of An-
tony in Plutarch.

268 SbaRespeate's f)ecoine0.

I'll not sleep neither; this mortal hoi^se I'll ruin,
Do Csesar 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 unto 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 !

In the same spirit of royal bravado, but finer
still, and worked up with a truly Oriental ex-
uberance of fancy and imagery, is her famous de-
scription of Antony, addressed to Dolabella:

Most noble empress, you have heard of me?

CLEOPATRA.

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 dreams;
Is 't not your trick?

DOLABELLA.

I understand not, madam.

CLEOPATKA.

I dreamt there was — emperor Antony;
O, such another sleep, that I might see
But such another man!

DOLABELLA.

If it might please ym,—

Oleopatta. 269

CLEOPATRA.

His face was as the heavens; and therein stuck
A sun, and moon ; wjxich kept their course, and lighted
The little O, the earth.

DOLABELLA.

Most sovereign creature;

CLEOPATRA.

His legs bestrid the ocean : his rear'd 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 in : In his livery'

Walk'd crowns and crownets : realms and islands were

As plates' dropt from his pocket.

DOLABELLA.

Cleopatra!—

CLEOPATRA.

Think you, there was, or might be, such a man
As this I dreamt of?

DOLABELLA.

Gentle madam, na

CLEOPATRA.

You lie, — up to the hearing of the gods!

There was no room left in this amazing pic-
ture for the display of that passionate maternal
tenderness which was a strong and redeeming

^ i.e. retinue.

"i.e. silver coins, from the Spanish phta.

270 Sbafteepeare's tberoines.

feature in Cleopatra's historical character; but
it is not left untouched; for when she is im-
precating mischiefs on herself she wishes, as
the last and worst of possible evils, that "thun-
der may smite Csesarion !"

In representing the mutual passion of Antony
and Cleopatra as real and fervent, Shakespeare
has adhered to the truth of history as well as
to general nature. On Antony's side it is a spe-
cies of infatuation, a single and engrossing feel-
ing: 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 by every
species of female enchantment. In Cleopatra the
passion is of a mixed nature, made up of real
attachment, combined with the love of pleasure,
;tlie love of power, and the love of ^elf. Not only
is the character most complicated, but no one
sentiment could have existed pure and unvary-
ing in such a mind as hers: her passion in it-
se;lf is true, fixed to one centre ; but, like the pen-
non streaming from the mast, it flutters and veers
with every breath of her variable temper: yet
in the midst of all her caprices, follies, and even
vices, womanly feeling is still predominant in
Cleopatra, and the change which takes place ■
in her deportment towards Antony, when their
evil fortune darkens round them, is as beauti- '
ful and interesting in itself as it is striking and
natural. Instead of the airy caprice and provok-
ing petulance she displays in the first scenes, we
have a mixture of tenderness, and artifice, and
fear, and submissive blandishment. Her be-

Olcopatta. 271

havior, for instance, after tHe battle of lA^ctium,
when she quails before the noble and tender re-
buke of her lover, is partly female subtlety and
partly natural feeling.

CLEOPATRA.

O my lord, tny lord.
Forgive my fearful sails! I little thought
You would have foUow'd.

ANTONY.

Egypt, thou knew'st too well,
My heart was to thy rudder tied by th' strings,
And thou should'st tow me after : O'er my spirit
Thy full supremacy thou knew'st; and that
V Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods
Command me.

CLEOPATRA.

O, my pardon!

ANTONY.

Now I must
To the young man send humble treaties, dodge
And palter in the shifts of lowness ; who
With half the bulk o' the world pla/d as I pleased.
Making and marring 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
All that is won or lost. Give me a kiss,
Even this repays me.

272 SbaIiespeate'0 tietolnce.

It is perfectly in keeping with the individual
character, that Cleopatra, alike destitute of moral
strength and physical courage, should cower, ter-
rified and subdued, before the masculine spirit
of her lover, when once she has fairly roused
it.

Thus Tasso's Armida.half syren, half sorceress,
in the moment of strong feeling, forgets her in-
cantations, and has recourse to persuasion, to
prayers, and to tears :

Lascia gl' incanti, e vuol provar se vega
£ supplice belta sia miglior maga.

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 Tauti 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
rages like a thousand hurricanes.

The character of Mark Antony, as delineated
by Shakespeare, reminds me of the Famese
Hercules. There is an ostentatious display of
power, an exaggerated grandeur, a colossal ef-
fect in the whole conception, sustained through-
out in the pomp of the language, which seems.

Cleopatca.

as it flows along, to resound with the ci
arms and the music of the revel. The ccjci
ness and violence of the historic portrait are \
little kept down; but every word which Antony
utters is characteristic of the arrogant but mag-
nanimous Roman, who "with half the bulk o'
the world play'd as he pleased," and was him-
self 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 won-
derfully 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 most
wonderful in Shakespeare. Cleopatra is not a
woman 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 im-
patience and pathos in her agony, are really mag-
nificent.

She faints on the body of Antony, and is re-
called to life by the cries of her women : —

IRAS.

Royal Egypt— empress I

SbaFsespeate's Ibecoinea.

CLEOPATRA.

No more, but e'en a woman ■' and commanded

By such poor passion as the maid that milks

And does the meanest chares. — It were for me

To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods;

iTo tell them, that this world did equal theirs

Till they had stolen our jewel. All's but nought;

Patience is sottish; and impatience does

Become a dog that's mad ; Then is it sin

To rush into the secret house of death.

Ere death dare come to us? How do you, women?

What, what ? good cheer ! why how now, Charraian ? '

My noble girls ! — ah, women, women ! look

Our lamp is spent, it's 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 desires, and cannot perform with simplicity
what costs her such an effort. That extreme
i; physical cowardice which was so strong a trait
^"'; in her historical character, which led to the de-
feat of Actium, which made her delay the ex-
ecution of a fatal resolve till she had "tried con-
' elusions infinite of easy ways to die," Shake- -
speare has rendered with the finest possible ef--
fect, 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-

° Cleopatra replies to the first word she hears on re-
covering her senses, "No more an empress, but a mere
woman!"

Cleopatta. 275

sounding words into a kind of false daring. Her
lively imagination suggests every incentive which
can spur her on to the deed she has resolved,
yet trembles to contemplate. She pictures to
herself all the degradations which must attend
her captivity: and let it be observed, that those
which she anticipates are precisely such as a
vain, luxurious, and haughty woman would es-
pecially dread, and which only true virtue and
magnanimity could despise. Cleopatra could
have endured the loss of freedom; but to be
led in triumph through the streets of Rome is
insufferable. She could stoop to Caesar with dis-
sembling courtesy, and meet duplicity with su-
perior art ; but "to be chastised" by the scorn-
ful or upbraiding glance of the injured Octavia
— "rather a ditch in Egypt !"

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 honour
Demuring upon me.

Now, Iras, what thinkst thou?
Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shalt 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 vapour.

DtAS.

The gods forbid!
"i.e. sedate determination.— Johnson.

276 Sbaftespeate's f>etofnes.

CLEOPATRA.

Nay, 'tis most certain, Iras: Saucy lictors

Will catch at us, like strumpets; and scald rhymo'S

Ballad us out o' tune. The quick comedians

Extemporally will stage us, and present

Our Alexandrian revels; Antony

Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see

Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness.

She then calls for her diadem, her robes of
state, and attires herself as if "again for Cyd-
nus, to meet Mark Antony." Coquette to the
last, she must make Death proud to take her,
and die, "phcenix-Uke," 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 fash-
ion," is sublime according to the Pagan ideas
of virtue, and yet none of them so powerfully
affect the imagination as the catastrophe of Cleo-
patra. 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 imagina-
tion, the pride of beauty and royalty predominat-
ing to the last, and the sumptuous and pictur-
esque accompaniments 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 circumstances of Cleopatra's clos-
ing scene. Shakespeare has shown profound
judgment and feeling in adhering closely to the

Cleopatta. 277

classical authorities ; and to say that the language
and sentiments worthily fill up the outline is the
most magnificent praise that can be given. The
magical play of fancy and the overpowering fas-
cination of the character are kept up to the last :
and when Cleopatra on applying the asp, silences
the lamentations of her women —

Peace! peace I
Dost thou not see my baby at my breast
That sucks the nurse asleep?

These few words — the contrast between the ten-
der beauty of the image and the horror of the
situation — ^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 Oc-
tavius 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 be- ■
fore us, and one masterly and comprehensive
stroke consummates this most wonderful, most
dazzling delineation.

I am not here the apologist of Cleopatra's his-
torical character nor of such women as resem-
ble her: I am considering her merely as a dra-
matic portrait of astonishing beauty, spirit and

278 Sbafteepeate's Ibetofnes.

originality. She has furnished the subject of
two Latin, sixteen French, six English, and at
least four Italian tragedies ;^^ yet Shakespeare
alone has availed himself 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 grandeur with-
out once beguiling us into sympathy with guilt
and error. Corneille has represented Cleopatra
as a model of chaste propriety, magnanimity,
constancy, and every female virtue; and the ef-
fect 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 common-
place "all for love" heroine, full of constancy
and fine sentiments. For instance :

"The "Cleopatra" of Jodelle was the first regular
French tragedy: the last French tragedy on the same
subject was the "Cleopatra" of Marmontel. For the
representation of this tragedy, Vaucanson, the celebrated
French mechanist, invented an automaton asp, which
crawled and hissed to the life, — ^to the great delight of
the Parisians. But it appears that neither Vaucanson's
asp, nor Clairon, could save "Cleopatre" from a de-
served fate. Of the English tragedies, one was written
by the Countess of Pembroke, the sister of Sir Philip
Sydney, and is, I believe, the first instance in our lan-
guage of original dramatic writing by a female.

Cleopatra, 279

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 me.
Has thrust me out to the wide world, unfurnished
Of falsehood to be happy.

Is this Antony's Cleopatra — ^the Circe of the
Nile — ^the Venus of Cydnus ? She never uttered
anything 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 char-
acter is exhibited (and it does not vary through-
out the play) I shall give one scene: if it be con-
sidered out of place, its extreme beauty will form
its best apology.

Ptolemy and his council having exhibited to
Caesar all the royal treasures in Egypt, he is so
astonished and dazzled at the vieW of the accu-
mulated wealth that he forgets the presence of
Cleopatra, and treats her with negligence. The
following scene between her and her sister Ar-
sinoe occurs immediately afterwards: —

ASSINOE.

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?

280 Sbalieepeare's tetofnes.

ARSINOE.

Yes, 'tis fit:
But then again you know what man

CLEOPATRA.

He's no man!
The shadow of a greatness hangs upon him.
And not the virtue; he is no conqueror.
Has suffered under the base dross of nature;
Poorly delivered up his power to weahh.
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 —
O 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

captains
That quarter with him, and are truly valiant.
Have flung the 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.

O I could curse myself, that was so foolish.
So fondly childish, to believe his tongue—

Cleopatta. 281

*

His promising tongue — ere I could catch his temper.
I'd trash enough to have cloy'd 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 sav'd mine

honour —
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 honour him
With tears diviner than the gods he worships;
I will not take the pains' to curse a poor thing.

EROS.

Do not; you shall not need.

CLEOPATRA.

Would I were a prisoner
To one I hate, that I might anger him !
I will love any man to break the heart of him!
Any that has the heart and will to kill him!

ARSINOE.

Take 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 love to death, and laugh at
him!

Enter Apollodorus.

282 Sba(ie0pcace'0 Iberoines.

APOLLODORUS.

Cxsar commends his service to your grace.

CLEOPATRA.

His service? What's his service?

EROS.

Pray you be patient;
iThe notile C&sar loves still.

CLEOPATRA.

What's his will?

APOLLODORUS.

He craves access unto your highness. :

CLEOPATRA. »

No;—
Say no; I will have none to trouble me. %

ARSINOE.

Good sister!—

CLEOPATRA.

None, I say ; I will be private.
Would thou hadst flung me into Nilus, keeper.
When first thou gav'st consent to bring my body
To this unthankful Csesar!

APOLLODORUS.

'Twas your will, madam.
Nay more, your charge upon me, as I honour'd yoa
You know what danger I endur'd.

CLEOPATRA.

Take this, [giving a jewel.
And carry it to that lordly Csesar sent thee ;
There's a new love, a handsome one, a rich one,^
One that will hug his mind : bid him make love to it;
Tell the ambitious broker this will suffer —

Enter Caesar.

He enters.

Cleopatta. 283

AFOLLODORUS.
CLEOPATRA.

Howl

CMSAB.

I do not use to wait, lady;
Where I am, all the doors are free and open.

CLEOPATRA.

I guess SO by your rudeness.

C^SAR.

You're not angry?
Things of your tender mould should be most gentle.
Why do you frown? Good gods, what a set anger
Have you forced into your face ! Come, I must tem-
per you.
What a coy smile was there, and a disdainful!
How like an ominous flash it broke out from you !
Defend me, love! Sweet, who has anger'd you?

CLEOPATRA.

Show him a glass ! That false face has betray'd me—
That base heart wrong'd me !

CJBSAB.

Be more sweetly angry.
I wrong'd you, fair?

CLEOPATRA.

Away with your foul flatteries;
They 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 memory
I would not speak to you.

C^SAR.

Pray you, undo this riddle.
And tell me how I've vex'd you.

281 Sbafiespeate's "betoinea.

CXEOFATRA.

Let me think first.
Whether I may put on a patience
That will with honour suffer me. Know I hate yoilj
Let that begin the story. Now I'll tell you.

C^SAR.

But do it mildly; in a noble lady.

Softness of spirit, and a sober nature.

That moves like summer winds, cool, and blows

sweetness,
Shows blessed, like herself.

CLEOPATRA.

And that great blessedness
lYou first reap'd of me; till you taught my nature.
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;
You must expect the winter of mine anger.
You flung me off — ^before the court disgraced mfr—
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 adorn'd with noble love, would kick at!
Soldiers of royal mark scorn such base purchase;
Beauty and honour are the marks they shoot at.
I spake to you then, I courted you, and woo'd you,
Call'd you dear Caesar, hung about you tenderly,
Was proud to appear your friend —

CiGSAR.

You have mistaken me.

CLEOPATRA.

But neither eye, nor favour, not a smile
Was I bless'd back withal, but shook off rudely;

Cleopatra. 286

And as you had been sold to sordid infamy.
You fell before the image of treasure,
And in your soul you worshipp'd. I stood slighted,
Forgotten, and contemned ; my soft embraces.
And those sweet kisses which you call'd Ely^um,
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!
Shall I endure?

CJESAR.

You are deceived in all this;
Upon my life you are ; 'tis your much tenderness.

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!

C^SAR.

So you shall :
My heart shall be the chariot that shall bear you :
All I have won shall wait upon you. By the gods.
The bravery of this woman's mind has fir'd me !
Dear mistress, shall I but this once

CLEOPATRA.

How! Csesar!
Have I let slip a second vanity
That gives thee hope?

CMSKR.

Yoti shall be absolute
And reign alone as queen ; you shall be anything.

CLEOPATRA.
*********

Farewell, unthankful I

CSSAR.

Stay!

CLEOPATRA.

I will not.

286 Sbaftespeare's fi}etofne0»

CSSAS.

I commanil.

CLEOPATRA.

Command and go without, sir,

I do command thee be my slave for ever.

And vex, while I laugh at thee!

CSSAS.

Thus low. Beauty [He kneels.

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 not
Cleopatra, this is not "the gipsy queen." The
sentiment here is too profound, the majesty too
real and too lofty. Cleopatra could be great
by fits and starts, but never sustained her dig-
nity upon so high a tone for ten minutes together.
The Cleopatra of Fletcher reminds us of the an-
tique colossal statue of her in the Vatican, all
grandeur and grace. Cleopatra in Dryden's
tragedy is like Guido's dying Cleopatra in the
Pitti palace, tenderly beautiful. Shakespeare's
Cleopatra is like one of those graceful and fan-
tastic pieces of antique Arabesque, in which all
anomalous shapes and impossible and wild com-
binations of form are woven together in regular
confusion and harmonious discord : and such, we
have reason to believe, was the living woman
herself, when she existed upon this earth.

Octavfa. 287

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 epithet.^^ It is possible that her beautiful
character, if brought more forward and colored
up to the historic portrait, would still be eclipsed .
by the dazzling splendor of Cleopatra's; for so
I have seen a flight of fireworks blot out for a
while the silver moon and ever burning stars.
But here, the subject of the drama being the
love of Antony and Cleopatra, Octavia is very
properly kept in the background, and far from
any competition with her rival : the interest would
otherwise have been unpleasantly divided, or
rather, Cleopatra herself must have served but .
as a foil to the tender, virtuous, 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 virtue and whose general graces speak
That which none else can utter.

" "The sober eye of dull Octavia." — Act v. scene 2.

288 Sbafiespeate's f>ecoine0.

Dryden has committed a great mistake in
bringing 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 ha:s falsified
the character of Octavia as well as that of Qeo-
patra :^* he has presented us with a regular scold-
ing-match between the rivals, in which they come
sweeping up to each other from opposite sides
of the stage, with their respective trains, like
two pea-hens in a passion. Shakespeare would
no more have brought his captivating, brilliant,
but meretricious Cleopatra into immediate com-
parison with the noble and chaste simplicity of
Octavia, than a connoisseur in art would have
placed Canova's Dansatrice, beautiful as it is,

" Octavia was never in Egypt.

" "The Octavia of Dryden is a much more important
personage than in the Antony and Cleopatra of Shake-
speare. She is, however, more cold and unamiable, for
in the very short scenes in which the Octavia of Shake-
speare is introduced, she is placed in rather an interest-
ing point of view. But Dryden has himself informed
us, that he was apprehensive that the justice of a wife's
claim would draw the audience to her side, and lessen
their interest in the lover and the mistress. He seems,
accordingly, to have studiously lowered the character
of the injured Octavia, who, in her conduct to her hus-
band, shows much duty and little love." Sir W. Scott
(in the same fine piece of criticism prefixed to Dryden's
"All for Love") gives the preference to Shakespeare's
Cleopatra.

®ctavia. 289

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 dignified 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 charac-
teristic of the two women: it betrays the jealous
pride of her who was conscious that she had
forfeited all real claim to respect; and it places
Octavia before us in all the majesty of that vir-
tue which could strike a kind of envying and re-
morseful awe even into the 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? Cap-
tives, and exposed to the rage of the Roman pop-
ulace, 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 Cleopatra, edu-

290 SbiCkespente's f>eroine0.

cated them with her own, treated them witK 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 re-
tirement, respected as the sister of Augustus, but
more for her own virtues, Octavia lost her eld-
est son Marcellus, who was expressively called
the "Hope of Rome." Her fortitude gave way
under this blow, and she fell into a deep melan-
choly, 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
certainly be added to my gallery (if I had one),
and I would hang it opposite to the dying Cleo-
patra. Virgil was commanded by Augustus to
. read aloud to his sister that book of the Eheid
in which he had commemorated the virtues and
early death of the young Marcellus. When he
came to the lines —

This youth, the blissful vision of a day.

Shall just be shown on earth, then snatdi'd away, &c.

the 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 after-
wards, with a magnificent spirit, ordered the poet
a gratuity of ten thousand sesterces for each line

®ctavfa.

291

of (he panegyric.*^ It is probable that the agita-
tion she suffered 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.

"In all, about two thousand pounds.

292 Sbaftespeate'0 f>erofnes.

VOLUMNIA.

OcTAViA, however, is only a beautiful sketch,
while in Volumnia Shakespeare 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, and the power she exercised over his
mind, by which, according to the story, "she
saved Rome and lost her son." Her lofty pa-
triotism, her patrician 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 posi-
tion 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 salva-
tion to her, it is clear that her maternal pride
and affection are stronger even than her patriot-
ism. Thus, when her son is exiled, she btirsts
into an imprecation against Rome and its citi-
zens:

IDolumnfa. 293

Now the red pestilence strike 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
son, "Sparta has many others as brave as he!"
but in a far different spirit she says to the Ro-
mans,

Ere you go, hear this:
As far as doth the Capitol exceed
The meanest house in Rome: so far, my son,
Whom you have banish'd, does exceed you all.

In the very first scene, and before the intro-
duction of the principal personages, one citizen
observes to another that the military exploits of
Marcius were performed » not so much for his
country's sake "as to please his mother." By
this admirable stroke of art, introduced with such
simplicity 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 for 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
needlework, conversing on his absence and dan--
ger, and are visited by Valeria —

The noble sister of Publicola,
The moon of Rome ; chaste as the icicle,
That's curded by the frost from purest snow,
And hangs on Dian's temple!

294 Sbaftespeare's f)erofne0.

Over this little scene Shakespeare, 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 mod-
est sweetness, the conjugal tenderness, and the
fond solicitude of his wife Virgilia.

VOLUMNIA.

When yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son
of my womb; when youth with comeliness pluck'd all
gaze his way; when, for a day of king's entreaties, a
mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding ;
I, — considering how honour would become such a per-
son, that it was no better than picture-like to hang by
the wall if renown made it not stir, — was pleased to let
him seek danger where he was like to find fame. To a
cruel war I sent him, from whence he returned, his brows
bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter — I sprang not
more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child, than
now in first seeing he had proved himself a man.

VIRGILIA.

But had he died in the business, madam, how then?

VOLUMNIA.

Then his good report should have been my son; I
therein would have found issue. Hear me profess sin-
cerely: had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and
none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had
rather had eleven die nobly for their country than one
voluptuously surfeit out of action.

Enter a gentlewoman.

Madam, the lady Valeria is come to visit you.

Volumnfa. 295

VIKGIUA.

Beseech you, give me leave to retire mysdL

VOLUMNIA.

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 Volsces 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 Rome :" His bloody brow

With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes ;

Like to a harvest-man, that's task'd to mow

O'er all, or lose his hire.

VIRGILIA.

His bloody brow! O jupiter, no blood!

VOLUMNIA.

Away, you fool! it more becomes a man
Than gilt his trophy. The breasts of Hecuba,
When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier
Than Hector's forehead, when it spit forth blood
At Grecian swords contemning. — Tell Valeria
We are fit to bid her welcome. [Exit Gent,

VIRGILIA.

Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius!

VOLUMNIA.

He'll beat Aufidius' head below his knee,
And tread upon his neck.

This distinction between the two females is
as interesting and beautiful as it is well sus-
tained. Thus, when the victory of Coriolanus
is proclaimed, Menenius asks, "Is he wounded?"

296 Sbafteepeare's "betofnes.

VIKGIUA.

O! no, no, no!

VOLUMNIA.

Ol he is wounded, I thank the gods for 't

And when he returns victorious from the wars,
bis high-spirited mother receives him with bless-
ings 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 and by her greater age and experience, is
exhibited with admirable truth. Volumnia, with
all her pride and spirit, has some prudence and
self-command: in her language and deportment
all is matured and matronly. The dignified tone
of authority she assumes towards her son, when
checking his headlong impetuosity, her respect
and admiration for his noble qualities, and her
strong sympathy even with the feelings she com-
bats, are all displayed in the scene in which she
prevails on him to soothe the incensed plebeians.

VOLUMNIA.

Pray be counsell'd :
I have a heart as little apt as yours, —
But yet a brain, that leads my use of anger
,To better vantage.

MENENIUS.

Well said, noble woman :
Before he should thus stoop to the herd, but that
The violent fit o' the time craves it as physic
For the whole state, I would put mine arnjour op,
Whicji I can scarcely bear.

What must I do?

Wolumnfa. 297

CORIOLANUS.

MENENIUS.

Return to the tribunes.

CORIOLANUS.

Well,

What thm? what then?

MENENIUS.

Repent what you have spoke.

CORIOLANUS.

For them ? I cannot do it to the gods ;
Must I then do 't to them?

VOLUMMIA.

You are too absolute:
Though therein you can never be too noble.
But when extremities speak.

I pr'ythee now, my son.
Go to them, with this bonnet in thy hand ;
And thus far having stretch'd it (here be with

them),
Thy knee bussing the stones (for in such business
Action is eloquence, 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 tpe 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.

298 Sbafiespeate's Ibetoines.

MENENIUS.

This but done,
Even as she speaks, why all their hearts were yours :
For they have pardons, being ask'd, as free
As words to little purpose.

VOLUMNIA.

Pr'ythee now.
Go, and be rul'd: although I know- thou hadst

rather
Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf
Than flatter him in a bower.

MENENIUS.

Only fair speech.

COMINIUS.

I think 'twill serve, if he
Can thereto frame his spirit.

VOLUMNIA.

He must, and will:—
Pr'ythee, now, say you will, and go about it.

CORIOLANUS.

Must I go show them my unbarb'd sconce? Must 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-
place :
You have put me now to such a part, which never
I shall discharge to the life.

VOLUMNIA.

I pr'ythee now, sweet son; as thou hast said.
My praises made thee first a soldier, so.
To have my praise for this, perform a part
Thou hast not done before.

IDoIumnfa. 299

CORIOLANUS.

Well, I must do 't;
Away, my disposition, and possess me
Some harlot's spirit!
*********

I will not do 't;
Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth.
And, by my body's action, teach my mind
A most inherent baseness.

VOLUMNIA.

At thy choice, then:
To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour.
Than 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.
Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me ; -
But owe thy pride thyself.

CORIOLANUS.

Pray be content.
Mother, I am going to the tnarket-place —
Chide me no more.

When the spirit of the mother and the son
are 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 strik-
ing colors, that nothing can more impress us with
the real grandeur and power of Volumnia's char-
acter than his boundless submission to her will
— ^his more than filial tenderness and respect. *'-^

300 Sbnheevc&te'B t)ecoines.

You gods! I prate,
And the most noble mother of the world
Leave unsaluted. Sink my knee i' the earth;
Of thy deep duty more impression show
Than that of common sons.

When his mother appears before him as a sup-
pliant, he exclaims,

My mother bows;
As if Olympus to a molehill should
In supplication nod.

Here the expression of reverence and the mag-
nificent 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 su-
preme 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:
Cats, 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 Coriola-
nus:

IDolumnia. 301

Hark! the trumpets!
These 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
is weeping her husband's banishment —

Leave this faint puling. And lament as I do.
In anger — Juno-like!

But the triumph of Volumnia's character, the
full display of all her grandeur of soul, her pa-
triotism, her strong afifections, and her sublime
eloquence, are reserved for her last scene, in
which she pleads for the safety of Rome, and
wins from her angry son 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 ad-
ditional 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 il-
lustrating that noble and irresistible eloquence
which was the crowning ornament of the char-
acter. One exquisite touch of nature, which is
distinguished by italics, was beyond the rheto-
rician and historian, and belongs only to the poet.

Speak to me, son :
Thou hast affectwl the fine strains of honour,
To imitate the graces of the gods;
To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' the air,

302 Sbaftcspcatc's Derofnes.

And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt
That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak?
Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man
Still to remember wrongs? Daughter, speak you:
He cares not for your weeping. — Speak thou, boy;
Perhaps, thy childishness will move him more
Than can our reasons. There's no man in the world
More bound to 's mother ; yet here he lets me prate
Like one i' the stocks. Thou hast never in thy life
Show'd thy dear mother any courtesy;
When she (poor hen!) fond of no second brood.
Has cluck'd thee to the wars, and safely home,
Loaden with honour. 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 ; fin end ;
This is the last — so we will 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.

It is an instance of Shakespeare's fine judg-
ment, that after this magnificent and touching
piece of eloquence, which saved Rome, Volumnia
should speak 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 acclamations —

Behold our patroness — ^the life of Rome!

Constance. SOS

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 Con-
stance of Bretagne; but in her these qualities
are so differently modified by circumstances and
education, that not even in fancy do we think of
. instituting a comparison between the Gothic gran-
deur of Constance and the more severe and clas-
sical dignity of the Roman matron.

The scenes and circumstances with which
Shakespeare has surrounded Constance are
strictly faithful to the old chronicles, and are
as vividly as they are accurately represented. On
the other hand, the hints on which the character
has been constructed are few and vague ; but the
portrait harmonizes so wonderfully with its his-
toric background, and with all that later re-
searches have discovered relative to the personal
adventures of Constance, that I have not the
slightest doubt of its individual truth. The re-
sult of a life of strange vicissitude; the picture
of a tameless will, and high passions, for ever
struggling in vain against a superior power; and
the real situation of women in those chivalrous

804 Sbalieepeate's fjeroinee.

times, are placed before us in a few noble scenes.
The manner in which Shakespeare 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, and reunited them into
the human form, and re-animated them with the
breathing and conscious spirit of life.

Constance of Bretagne was the only daugh-
ter and heiress of Conan IV., Duke of Bretagne;
her mother was Margaret of Scotland, the eld-
est daughter of Malcolm IV. : but little mention
is made of this princess in the old histories. She
appears to have inherited some portion of the
talent and spirit of her father, and to have trans-
mitted them to her daughter. The misfortunes
of Constance may be said to have commenced
before her birth, and took their rise in the miscon-
duct 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 less by her gallantries. Her
husband, not thinking proper to repudiate her
during his lifetime, contented himself with dis-
inheriting her son Hoel, whom he declared il-
legitimate, and bequeathed his dukedom to his
daughter Bertha, and her husband, Allan the
Black, Earl of Richmond, who were proclaimed
and acknowledged Duke and Duchess of Bre-
tagne.

Prince Hoel, so far from acquiescing in his fa-
ther's will, immediately levied an army to main-
tain his rights, and a civil war ensued between

Constance. 305

the brother and sister, which lasted for twelve
or fourteen years. Bertha, whose reputation was
not much fairer than that of her mother, Ma-
tilda, was succeeded by her son Conan IV.; he
was young, and of a feeble, vacillating temper,
and, after struggling 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 coun-
try became a scene of horrors and crimes — op-
pression and perfidy on the one hand, unavailing
struggles on the other. Ten years of civil dis-
cord ensued, during which the greatest part of
Bretagne was desolated, and nearly a third of the
population carried off by famine and pestilence.
In the end, Conan was secured in the possession
of his throne by the assistance of the English
king, who, equally subtle and ambitious, con-
trived in the course of this warfare to strip Conan
of most of his provinces by successive treaties,
alienate the Breton nobles from their lawful sov-
ereign, 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 1164. The
English king consummated his perfidious scheme
of policy, by seizing on the person of the infant
princess, before she was three years old, as a hos-
tage for her father. Afterwards, by contracting
her in marriage to his third son, Goeffrey Plan-

306 Sbaftespearc'fl ticvoines,

tagenet, he ensured, as he thought, the possession
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
contest, hid himself in some obscure retreat : even "
the date of his death is unknown. Meanwhile
Henry openly claimed the duchy in behalf of his '
son 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 barons .
into submission, murdered or imprisoned others,
and, by the most treacherous and barbarous pol-
icy, contrived to keep possession of the country'
he had thus seized. However, in order to sat-
isfy the Bretons, who were attached to the race
of their ancient sovereigns, and to give some
color to his usurpation, he caused Geoffrey and .
Constance to be solemnly crowned, at Rennes,
as Duke and Duchess of Bretagne. This was in
the year 1169, when Constance was five, and
Prince Goeffrey about eight years old. His fa-
ther, Henry, continued 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 constraint as a hostage rather than _
a sovereign ; while her husband Geoffrey, as he
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 com-
pletion of his union with Constance, although his
sole title to the dukedom was properly and legally

Constance. 307

in right of his wife. At length, in 1182, the nup-
tials were formally celebrated, 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 undutif ul, and the most formidable ;
he had all the pride of the Plantagenets, — all
the warlike accomplishments of his two elder
brothers, Henry and Richard; and was the only
one who could compete with his father in talent,
eloquence, and dissimulation. No sooner was he
the husband of Constance, and in possession of
the throne of Bretagne, than he openly opposed
his father; in other words, he maintained the
•honor and interests of his wife and her unhappy
country against the cruelties and oppression of
the English plunderers. About three years after
his marriage, he was invited to Paris, for the pur-
'pose of concluding a league, offensive and de-
fensive, 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 chi-
valrous accomplishments, distinguished himself in
the tournaments which were celebrated on the
occasion; but unfortunately, after an encounter

308 Sbalfteepeate'0 Detoinea.

with a French knight celebrated for his prowess,
he was 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 fe-
male to possess and transmit the rights of sov-
ereignty had been recognized in several instances ;
but Constance is the first 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 re-
quired that the infant prince should not bear the
name of his father, — a name which Constance,
in fond remembrance of her husband, would
have bestowed on him, — still less that of his
grandfather Henry; but that of Arthur, the re-
doubted hero of their country, whose memory
was worshipped by the populace. Though the
Arthur of romantic and fairy legends — ^the Ar-
thur of the round table — had been dead for six
centuries, they still looked for his second appear-
ance among them, according to the prophecy of
Merlin; and now, with fond and short-sighted
enthusiasm, fixed their hopes on the young Ar-
thur as one destined to redeem the glory and in-
dependence of their oppressed and miserable
country. But in the very midst of the rejoicings

Constance. 309

which succeeded the birth of the prince, his
grandfather, Henry II., 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 Con-
stance forcibly to one of his own favorite adher-
ents, Randal de Blondeville, Earl of Chester, and
conferred on him the duchy of Bretagne, to be
held as a fief of the English crown.

The Earl of Chester, though a brave knight,
and one of the greatest barons of England, had
no pretensions to so high an alliance ; nor did he
possess any qualities or personal accomplishments
which might have reconciled Constance to him
as a husband. He was a man of diminutive
stature and mean appearance, but of haughty and
ferocious manners and unbounded ambition.^' In
a conference between this Earl of Chester and
the Earl of Perche, in Lincoln Cathedral, the lat-
ter taunted Randal with his insignificant person,
and called him, contemptuously, "Dwarf." "Sayst
thou 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
as good as his word, when, on ascending the

"Sir Peter Leycester's "Antiquities of Oiester."

310 SbaKeepeate's iberoines.

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 obligation, and that she took the first op-
portunity 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 Bre-
tagne, and he administered the government with-
out the slightest reference to her will, even in
form, till 1 189, when H^nry II. died, execrating
himself and his undutiful children. Whatever
great and good qualities this monarch may have
possessed, his conduct in Bretagne was uniformly
detestable. Even the unfilial behavior of his sons
may be extenuated; for while he spent his life,
and sacrificed his peace, and violated every prin-
ciple of honor and humanity to compass their
political aggrandizement, he was guilty of atro-
cious injustice towards them, and set them a bad
example 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,
banished or massacred his oificers, and, sanctioned
by the Duchess Constance, drove Randal de
Blondeville and his followers from Bretagne: he
retired to his earldom of Chester, there to brood
over his injuries and meditate vengeance.

In the meantime Richard I. ascended the Eng-

Constance. 311

Hsh throne. Soon afterwards he embarked on
his celebrated expedition to the Holy Land, hav-
ing 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 Eu-
rope during their absence ; but it is no slight en-
comium on the character of Constance, that Bre-
tagne flourished under her government, and be-
gan to recover from the effects of twenty years
of desolating war. The seven years during which
she ruled as an independent sovereign were not
marked by any events of importance; but in the
year 1196 she caused her son Arthur, then nine
years of age, to be acknowledged Duke of Bre-
tagne by the States, and associated him with her-
self in all the acts of government.

There was more of maternal fondness than
policy in this measure, and it cost her dear. Rich-
ard, that royal firebrand, had now returned to
England : by the intrigues and representations of
Earl Randal his attention was turned to Bretagne.
He expressed extreme indignation that Constance
should have proclaimed her son Duke of Bre-
tagne, and her partner in power, without his con-
sent, he being the feudal lord and natural guard-

"By the Treaty o£ Messina, iigo.

312 Sbatiespeate's Ibetoines.

ian of the young prince. After some excuses
and representations 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 per-
fidious scenes which follow with those romantic
and chivalrous associations which illustrate the
memory of Coeur de Lion — ^the friend of Blpn-
del, and the antagonist of Saladin. Constance,
perfectly unsuspicious of the meditated treason,
accepted the invitation of her brother-in-law, and
set out from Rennes with a small but magnificent
retinue to join him at Pontorson. On the road,
and within sight of the town, the Earl of Ches-
ter was posted with a troop of Richard's sol-
diery, and while the duchess prepared to enter
the gates, where she expected to be received with
honor and welcome, he suddenly rushed from his
ambuscade, fell upon her and her suite, put the
latter to flight, and carried off Constance to the
strong castle of St. Jaques de Beuvron, where
he detained her a prisoner for eighteen months.
The chronicle does not tell us how Randal treated
his unfortunate wife during this long imprison-
ment. She was absolutely in his power ; none of
her own people were suffered to approach her,
and whatever might have been his behavior tor-
wards her, one thing alone is certain, that so far
from softening her feelings towards him, it seems
to have added ten-fold bitterness to her abhor-
rence and her scorn.

The barons of Bretagne sent the Bishop of

Constance. 313

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, mid marched his army into the
heart of the country.

All that Bretagne had suffered previously was
as nothing compared to this terrible invasion;
and all that the humane and peaceful governinent
of Constance had effected during seven years
was at once 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 defend 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 perished 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

314 Sbalteepeate's t>ecofnes.

care of William Desroches, the seneschal of her
palace, a man of mature age, of approved valor,
and devotedly attached to her family. This
faithful servant threw himself, with his young
charge, into the fortress 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 imposed by
Richard. By a treaty concluded in 1198, of
which the terms are not exactly known, Con-
stance was delivered from her captivity, though
not from her husband ; but in the following year,
when the death of Richard had restored her to
some degree of independence, the first use she
made of it was to divorce herself from 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 de 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

Constance. 316

had been abandoned by the French, and had falko
into the hands of his uncle, is now ascertained;
but according to the chronicle from which Shake-
speare drew his materials, he was killed in at-
tempting to escape from the castle of Falaise.
Constance did not live to witness this consununa-
tion of her calamities : within a few months after
Arthur was taken prisoner, 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 Castle from the age of fifteen. She
was at that time so beautiful, that she was called
proverbially, "La belle Bretonne," and by the
English the "Fair Maid of Brittany." She, like
her brother Arthur, was sacrificed to the am-
bition of her uncles.

Of the two daughters of Coiistance by Guy
de Thouars, the eldest, Alice, became Duchras
of Bretagne, and married the Count de Dreux,
of the royal blood of France. The sovereigaty
of Bretagne was transmitted through her de-
scendants in an uninterrupted line, till, by the
marriage of the celebrated Anne de Bretagne
with Charles VIII. of France, her dominions
were for ever united with the French monarchy.

In considering the real history of Ccmstance,.
three things must strike us as chiefly remark-
able.

First, that she is not accused of any vice, or

316 Sbafteapearc's Iberolnes.

any act of injustice or violence; and this praise,
though poor and negative, should have its due
weight, considering the scanty records that 're-
main of her troubled life and the period at which
she lived — a. period in which crimes of the dark-
est dye were familiar occurrences. Her father,
Conan, was considered 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 Ugolino 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 event recorded with-
out any particular comment by the old chroniclers
of Bretagne. It also appears that during those
intervals when Constance administered the gov-
ernment of her states with some degree of in-
dependence, the country prospered under her
sway; 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 unceremonious style the levities of her -
great-grandmother Matilda, her grandmother
Bertha, her godmother Constance, and her
mother-in-law Elinor, treat the name and mem-
ory of our Lady Constance with uniform respect.

Her third marriage, with Guy De Thouars, -
has been censured as impolitic, but has also been
defended : it can hardly, considering her age and
the circumstances in which she was placed, be
a just subject of reproach. During her hated

Constance. 317

union with Randal de Blondeville, and the years
passed in a species of widowhood, she conducted
herself with propriety : at least I can find no rea-
son to judge otherwise.

Lastly, we are struck by the fearless, deter-
mined spirit, amounting at times to rashness,
which Constance displayed on several occasions,
when left to the 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 the hands of others, and a
victim to the superior craft or power of her ene-
mies. The inference is unavoidable; there must
have existed in the mind of Constance, with all
her noble and amiable qualities, a deficiency
somewhere, — a want of firmness, a want of judg-
ment or wariness, and a total want of self-con-
trol.

In the play of "King John," the three prin-
cipal characters are the King, Falconbridge, and
Lady Constance. The first is drawn forcibly
and accurately from history; it reminds us of.
Titian's portrait 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. Falcon-
bridge is the spirited creation of the poet.^' Con-

"Malone says, that, "in expanding the character of
the* bastard, Shakespeare seems to have proceeded on
the following slight hint in an old play on the story of
King John:

318 Sbaftespeate's Ibetofnea.

stance 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 obscure background, starts
before us into a strong relief and palpable, breath-
ing reality upon the page of Shakespeare.

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
which she is placed, every sentiment she utters,
has a reference to him; and she is represented
through the whole of the scenes in which she is
engaged, as 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 whjch her story forms the sub-
ject,^' we see her but in one point of view, namely,
as a mere impersonation of the maternal feeling.
The poetry of the situation is everything, the
character nothing. Interesting as she is, take
Merope out of the circumstances in which she is

Next them a bastard of the king's deceased —
A hardy wild-head, rough and venturous."

It is easy to say this; yet who but Shakespeare could
have expanded the last line into a Falconbridge ?

"The Greek "Merope," which was esteemed one of
the finest of the'tragedies of Euripides, is unhappily lost ;
those of Maffei, Alfieri, and Voltaire, are well known.
There is another "Merope," in Italian, which I have not
seen : the English "Merope" is merely a bad translation
from Voltaire.

Conetance. 319

placed, — take away her son, for whom she trem-
blek from the first scene to the last, and Merope
in herself is nothing ; she melts away into a name,
to which we can affix 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-
stance, she assumes before us an individuality
perfectly distinct from the circumstances around '
her. The action calls forth her maternal feel-
ings, and places them in the most prominent point
of view; but with Constance, as with a real hu-
man being, the maternal affections are a power-
ful instinct, modified by other faculties, senti-
ments, and impulses, making up the individual
character. We think of her as a mother, be-
cause, as a mother distracted for 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 from what we-
see, as certainly and as completely as if we had
kiiown her whole course of life.

That which strikes us as the principal attri-
bute of Constance is power — ^power of imagina-
tion, of will, of passion, of affection, of pride:
the moral energy, that faculty which is princi- '
pally exercised in self-control, and gives con-
sistency to the rest, is deficient; or rather, to
speak more correctly, the extraordinary develop-
ment of sensibility and imagination, which lends

320 Sbal5C0peatc's "fceroines.

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 graip-
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 im-
patience, and the tears, are all most true to fem-
inine nature. The energy of Constance, not be-
ing based upon strength of character, rises and
falls with the tide of passion. Her haughty spirit
swells against resistance, and is excited into
frenzy by sorrow and disappointment; while
neither from her towering pride nor her strength
of intellect can she borrow patience to submit
or fortitude to endure. It is, therefore, with
perfect truth of nature, that Constance is first
introduced as pleading for peace :

Stay for an answer to your embassy,
Lest unadvis'd you stain your swords with blood.
My Lord Chatillon may from England bring
That right in peace, which here we urge in war;
And then we shall repent each drop of blood
That hot rash haste so indirectly shed.

And that the same woman, when all her passions
are roused by the sense of injury, should after-
wards exclaim.

War, war ! No peace ! peace is to me a war !

Constance. 321

that she sKouId 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 domin-
ion 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 predom-
inate 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 sense of injury, and her-
self a reigning sovereign — ^by birth and right, if
not in fact : yet when bereaved of her son, grief
not only "fills the room up of her absent child,"
but seems to absorb every other faculty and feel-
ing — even pride and anger. It is 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."

O lord ! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son !
My life, my joy, my food, ray all the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure!

No other feeling can be traced through the whole
of her frantic scene: it is grief only, a mother's
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
addressed the cold, wily Cardinal :

322 Sbaftcspeare'B Ibetofncs.

And, Father Cardinal, I have heard you say,

That we shall see and know our friends in heaven:

If that be true, I shall see my boy again;

For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child.

To him that did but yesterday suspire.

There was not such a gracious creature born;

But now will canker — sorrow eat my bud.

And chase the native beauty from his cheek.

And he will look as hollow as a ghost;

As dim and meagre as an ague's fit ;

And so he'll die; and, rising so again.

When I shall meet him in the court of heaven

I shall not know him : therefore never, never

Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

The bewildered pathos and poetry of this ad-
dress could be natural in no woman who did not
unite, like Constance, the most passionate sen-
sibility with the most vivid imagination.

It is true that Queen Elinor calls her on one
occasion "ambitious Constance;" but the epithet
is rather the natural expression of Elinor's own
fear and hatred than really applicable.''" Elinor,
in whom age had subdued all passions but am-
bition, dreaded the mother of Arthur as her rival
in 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 pe-
culiar 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 ambi-

" "Queen Elinor saw that if he were king, how his
mother Constance would look to bear the most rule in
the realm of England, till her son should come to a
lawful age to govern himself." — Holinshed.

Constance. 323

tion, nor even maternal affection, which in Con-
stance gives the prevailing tone to the whole char-
acter; it is the predominance of imagination. I
do not mean in the conception of the dramatic
portrait, but in the temperament of the woman
herself. In the poetical, fanciful, excitable cast
of her nriad, in the excess of the ideal power,
tinging all her affections, exalting all her sen-
timents and thoughts, and animating the expres-
sion 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,
"lament in anger, Juno-like," but rather like a
sibyl in a fury. Her sarcasms come down like
thunderbolts. In her famous address to Aus-
tria —

O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame
That bloody spoil ! thou slave ! thou wretch ! thou cow-
ard, &C.

it is as if she had concentrated the burning spirit
of scorn, and dashed it in his face; every v/ord
seems to Mister 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 ex-
pressions :

324 Sbafieepeate's Ibetofnea.

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 world!

CONSTANCE.

My bed was ever to thy son as true.

As thine was to thy husband ; and this boy

Liker in feature to his father Geoffrey,

Than thou and John in manners; being as like

As rain to water, or devil to his dam.

My boy a bastard! By my soul, I think,

His father never was so true begot;

It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother.

ELINOR.

There's a good mother, boy, that blots thy father.

CONSTANCE.

There's a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee.

ELINOR.

Come to thy grandam, child!

CONSTANCE.

Do, child ; go to it' grandam, child :
Give grandam kingdom, and it' grandam will
Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig: ;
There's a good grandam.

ARTHUR.

Good my mother, peace!
I would that I were laid in my grave :
I am not worth this coil that's made for me.

Constance. 325

ELINOK.

His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps.

CONSTANCE.

Now shame upon you, whe'r she does or no!

His grandam's wrongs, and not his mother's shames.

Draw those heaven-moving pearls from his poor

eyes
Which heaven shall take in nature of a fee;
Ay, with these crystal beads heaven shall be brib'd
To do him justice, and revenge on you.

ELINOR.

Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth!

CONSTANCR

Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth!
Call not me slanderer; thou, and thine, usurp
The dominations, royalties, and rights.
Of this oppressed boy. This is thy eldest son's son,
Infortunate in nothing but in thee.

ELINOR.

Thou unadvised scold, I can produce
A will that bars the title of thy son.

CONSTANCE.

Ay, who doubts that? A will! a wicked will*
A woman's will ; a canker'd grandam's will.

KING PHILIP.

Peace, lady: pause, or be more moderate.

And in a very opposite mood, when struggling
with the consciousness of her own helpless sit-
uation, the same susceptible and excitable fancy
still predominates :

326 Sbaftespcare'0 t>erofnes.

Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me,

For I am sick, and capable of fears.

Oppress'd with wrongs, and therefore full of fears;

A widow, husbandless, subject to fears;

A woman, naturally born to fears ;

And though thou now confess thou didst but jest

With my vex'd spirits, I cannot take a truce.

But they will quake and tremble all this day.

What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head?

Why dost thou look so sadly on my son?

What means that hand upon that breast of thine?

Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum.

Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds?

Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words?

Fellow, be gone; I cannot brook thy sight;
This news hath made thee a most ugly man.

It is the power of imagination which gives
so peculiar a tinge to the maternal tenderness of
Constance; she not only loves her son with the
fond instinct of a mother's affection, but she loves
him with her poetical imagination, exults in
his beauty and his royal birth, hangs over
him with idolatry, and sees his infant brow al-
ready encircled with the diadem. Her proud
spirit, her ardent, enthusiastic fancy, and her en-
ergetic self-will, all combine with her maternal
love to give it that tone and character which be-
longs to her only: hence that most beautiful ad-
dress to her son, which, coming from the lips of
Constance, is as full of nature and truth as of
pathos and poetry, and which we could hardly
sympathize with in any other :

Constance. 327

ARTHUR.

I do beseech you, madam, be content

CONSTANCE.

If thou, that bidd'st me be content, wert grim.
Ugly, and sland'rous to thy mother's womb.
Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains.
Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,
Patch'd with foul moles, and eye-offending marks,
I would not care — I then would be content;
For then I should not love thee ; no, nor thou
Become thy great girth, nor deserve a crown.
But thou art fair ; and at thy birth, dear boy !
Nature and Fortune join'd to make thee great:
Of Nature's gifts thou may'st with lilies boast,
And with the half-blown rose. But Fortune, O !
She is corrupted, chang'd, and won from thee;
She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John;
And with her golden hand hath pluck'd on France
To tread down fair respect of sovereignty.

It is this exceeding vivacity of imagination
which in the end turns sorrow to frenzy. Con-
stance is not only a bereaved and doting mother,
but a generous woman, betrayed by her own rash
confidence, in whose mind the sense of injury
mingling with the sense of grief, and her impet-
uous temper conflicting with her pride, combine
to overset her reason; yet she is not mad: and
how admirably, how forcibly, she herself draws
the distinction between the frantic violence of
uncontrolled feeling and actual madness! —

Thou art not holy to belie me so ;

I am not mad : this hair I tear is mine ;

My name is Constance : I was Geoffrey's wife ;

328 Sbaftespearc'a 1bcroine0.

Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost!
I am not mad; — ^I would to heaven, I were!
For then, 'tis like I should forget myself:
O ! if I could, what grief should I forget !

Not only has Constance words at will, and fast
as the passionate feelings rise in her mind they
are poured forth with vivid, overpowering elo-
quence ; but, like Juliet, she may be said to speak
in pictures. For instance —

• Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum,
Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds?

And throughout the whole dialogue there is
the same overflow of eloquence, the same splen-
dor of diction, the same luxuriance of imagery;
yet with an added grandeur, arising from habits
of command, from the age, the rank, and the ma-
tronly character of Constance. Thus Juliet pours
forth her love like a Muse in a rapture: Con-
stance raves in her sorrow like a Pythoness pos-
sessed with the spirit of pain. The love of Ju-
liet is deep and infinite as the boundless sea ; the
grief of Constance is so great, that nothing but
the round world itself is able to sustain it

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud ;
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stout
To me, and to the state of my great grief,
• Let kings assemble; for my grief's so great,
That no supporter but the huge firm earth
Can hold it up : here I and Sorrow sit ;
Here is my throne, — ^bid kings come bow to it.

An image more majestic, more wonderfully

Constance. 329

sublime, was never presented to tHe fancy; yet
almost equal as a flight of poetry is her apos-
trophe to the heavens :

Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjur'd kings!
A widow cries; — be husband to me, heavens!

And again —

O ! that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth !
Then with a passion would I shake the world !

Not only do her thoughts start into images, but
her feelings become persons : grief haunts her as
a living presence:

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words.
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
StuflFs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief.

And death is welcomed as a bridegroom; she
sees the visionary monster as Juliet saw "the
bloody Tybalt festering in his shroud," and heaps
one ghastly image upon another with all the wild
luxuriance of a distempered fancy :

O amiable lovely Death!
Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness!
Arise forth from the couch of lasting night.
Thou hate and terror to prosperity,
And I will kiss thy detestable bones ;
And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows;
And ring these fingers with thy household worms;
And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust

330 SbaRespearc's "fcerolnes.

And be a carrion monster like thyself:
Come, grin on me; and I will think thou smil'st.
And buss thee as thy wife ! Misery's love,
O! come to me!

CojKtaace, Wiho is a majestic being, is majestic
in her very frenzy. Majesty is also the charac-
teristic of Hermione; but what a difference be-
tween her silent, lofty, uncomplaining despair, '
and the eloquent grief of Constance, whose wild
lamentations, which come bursting forth clothed
in the grandest, the most poetical imagery, not
only melt, but absolutely electrify us !

On the whole, it may be said that pride and
maternal affection form the basis of the charac-
ter of Constance as it is exhibited to us ; but that
these passions, in an equal degree, common to
many human beings, assume their peculiar and
individual tinge from an extraordinary develop-
ment of intellect and fancy. It is the energy
of passion which lends the character its concen-
trated power, as it is the prevalence of imagina-
tion throughout which dilates it" into magnifi-
cence.

Some of the most splendid poetry to be met
with in Shakespeare may be found in the parts
of Juliet and Constance; the most splendid, per-
haps, excepting only the parts of Lear and
Othello; and for the same reason, — that Lear
and Othello as men, and Juliet and Constance
as women, are distinguished by the predominance
of the same faculties — passion and imagination.

The sole deviation from history which may
be considered as essentially interfering with the

Constance. 331

truth of the situation is the entire omission of
the character of Guy de Thouars, so that Con-
stance is incorrectly represented as in a state
of widowhood at a period when, in point of'
fact, she was married. It may be observed that
her marriage took place just at the period of the
opening' of the drama; that Guy de Thouars'
played no conspicuous part in the affairs of Bre-
tagne till after the death of Constance, and that
the mere presence of this personage, altogether
superfluous in the action, would have completely "
destroyed the dramatic interest of the situation:'-
— and what a situation! One more magnificent
was never placed before the mind's eye than that
of Constance, when, deserted and betrayed, she
stands alone in her despair, amid her false
friends and her ruthless enemies 1^* The image
of the /nother-eagle, wounded and bleeding to.
death, yet stretched over her young in an atti-
tude of defiance while all the baser birds of prey
are clamoring around her eyrie, gives but a faint
idea of the moral sublimity of this scene. Con-
sidered merely as a poetical or dramatic picture,
the grouping is wonderfully fine: on one side,,
the vulture ambition of that mean-souled tyrant,
John; on the other, the selfish, calculating pol-
icy of Philip ; between them, balancing their pas- -
sions in his hand, the cold, subtle, heartless
Legate; the fiery, reckless Falconbridge ; the
princely Louis; the still unconquered spirit of
that wrangling queen, old Elinor; the bridal

" King John, Act iii. scene i.

332

Sba(!espeate's Ibetofnes.

loveliness and modesty of Blanche; the boyish
grace and innocence of young Arthur ; and Con-
stance in the midst of them, in all the state of
her great grief, a grand impersonation of pride
and passion, helpless at once and desperate, —
form an assemblage of figures, each perfect in its
kind, and, taken all together, not surpassed for
the variety, force, and splendor of the dramatic
and picturesque effect.

Queen BIfnor. 333

j QUEEN ELINOR.

Elinor of Guienne, and Blanche of Castile,
who form part of the group around Constance,
are sketches merely, but they are strictly his-
torical portraits, and full of truth and spirit.

At the period when Shakespeare has brought
these three women on the scene together, Elinor
of Guienne (the daughter of the last Duke of
Guienne and Aquitaine, and, like Constance, the
heiress of a sovereign duchy), was near the
close of her long, various, and unquiet life — she
was nearly seventy: and, as in early youth her
violent passions had overborne both principle
and policy, so, in her old age we see the same
character, only modified by time: her strong in-
tellect and love of power, unbridled by conscience
or principle, surviving when other passions were
extinguished, and rendered more dangerous by
a degree of subtlety and self-command to which
her youth had been a stranger. Her personal
and avowed hatred for Constance, together with
its motives, are mentioned by the old historians.
Holinshed expressly says that Queen Elinor was
mightily set against her grandson Arthur, rather
moved thereto by envy conceived against his
mother, than by any fault of the young prince,
for that she knew and dreaded the high spirit
of the Lady Constance.

334 Sbaftespcate'6 iberolnes.

Shakespeare has rendered this with equal spirit
and fidelity :

QUEEN ELINOR.

What now, my son? have I not ever said

How that ambitious Constance would not cease.

Till she had kindled France, and all the world

Upon the right and party of her son.

This might have been prevented and made whole,

With very easy arguments of love!

Which now the manage of two kingdoms must

With fearful bloody issue arbitrate.

KING JOHN.

Our strong possession, and our right for us ;

QUEEN ELINOR.

Yoxit strong possession, much more than your right;
Or else it must go wrong with you and me:
So much my conscience whispers in your ear —
Which none but Heaven, and you, and I, shall hear.

Queen Elinor preserved to the end of her lif
her influence over her children, and appears to
have merited their respect. While entrusted with
the government, during the absence of Richard I.,
she ruled with a steady hand, and made herself
exceedingly popular; and as long as she lived
to direct the counsels of her son John, his af-
fairs prospered. For that intemperate jealousy
which converted her into a domestic firebrand, .
there was at least much cause, though little ex-
cuse. Elinor had hated and wronged the hus-
band of her youth,^^ and she had afterwards to

" Louis VII. of France, whom she was accustomed to
call, in contempt, the Monk. Elinor's adventures in
Syria, whither she accompanied Louis on the second
Crusade, would form a romance.

Cineen TBllnou 335

endure the negligence and innumerable infideli-
ties of the husband whom she passionately
loved ;^' — "and so the whirlygig of time brought
in his revenges." Elinor died in 1203, a few
months after Constance, and before the murder
of Arthur — a crime which, had she lived, would
probably never have been consummated ; for the
nature of Elinor, though violent, had no tinc-
ture of the baseness and cruelty of her son.

"Henry II. of England. It is scarcely necessary to
observe that the story of fair Rosamond, as far as
Elinor is concerned, is a mere invention of some ballad-
maker of later times.

336 ' SbaIie£p,eace'0 f3etoinee.

BLANCHE.

Blanche of Castile was the daughter of Al-
phonso IX. of Castile, and the granddaughter
of Elinor. At the time that she is introduced
into the drama she was about fifteen, and her
marriage with Louis VIII., then Dauphin, took
place in the abrupt manner here represented.
It is not often that political marriages have the
same happy result. We are told by the historians
of that, time that from the moment Louis and
Blanche met, they were inspired by a mutual
passion, and that during a union of more than
twenty-six years, they 'were never known to dif-
fer, nor even spent more than a single day asun-
der.=*

In her exceeding beauty and blameless rep-
utation, her love for her husband, and strong,
domestic affections, her pride of birth and rank,
her feminine gentleness of deportment, her firm-
ness of temper, her religious bigotry, her love
of absolute power and her upright and conscien-
tious administration of it, Blanche greatly re-
sembled Maria Theresa of Austria. She was,
however, of a more cold and calculating nature;
and in proportion as she was less amiable as a
woman did she rule more happily for herself and

" Mezerai.

Slancbe. 337

others. There cannot be a greater contrast than
between the acute understanding, the steady tem-
per, and the cool, intriguing policy of Blanche,
— ^by which she succeeded in disuniting and de-
feating the powers arrayed against her and her
infant son, — ^and the rash, confiding temper and
susceptible imagination of Constance, which ren-
dered herself and her son easy victims to the
fraud or ambition of others. Blanche, during
forty years, held in her hands the destinies of
the greater part of Europe, and is one of the most
celebrated names recorded in history, — ^but in
what does she survive to us, except in a name?
Nor history, nor fame, though "trumpet-
tongued," could do for her what Shakespeare and
poetry have done for Constance. The earthly
reign of Blanche is over, her sceptre broken, and
her power departed. When will the reign of
Constance cease? when will her power depart?
Not while this world is a world, and there exist
in it human souls to kindle at the touch of genius,
and human hearts to throb with human sym-
pathies !

*****

There is no female character of any interest
in the play of "Richard II." The Queen (Isa-
belle of France) enacts the same passive part
in the drama that she does in history.

The same remark applies to "Henry IV." In
this admirable play there is no female character
of any importance ; but Lady Percy, the wife of
Hotspur, is a very lively and beautiful sketch:
she is sprightly, feminine, and fond, but without

338 Sbaf:e0peare's tberoinea.

anything energetic of profound, in mind or in
feeling. Her gaiety and spirit in the first scenes
are the result of youth and happiness, and noth-
ing can be more natural than the utter dejection
and brokenness of heart which follow her hus- '
band's death: she is no heroine for war or trag-
edy ; she has not thought of revenging her loss ; '
and even her grief has something soft and quiet
in its pathos. Her speech to her father-in-law,
Northumberland, in which she entreats him "not.
to go to the wars," and at the same time pro-
nounces the most beautiful eulogium on her he-
roic husband, is a perfect piece of feminine elo-
quence, both in the feeling and in the expression.
Almost every one knows by heart Lady Per--
cy's celebrated address to her husband, begin-
ning,

O, my good lord, why are you thus alone?

and that of Portia to Brutus, in "Julius Caesar,"

You have ungently, Brutus, .

Stole from my bed. '

The situation is exactly similar, the topics of
remonstance are nearly the same ; the sentiments
and the style as opposite as are the characters
of the two women. Lady Percy is evidently ac-'
customed to win more from her fiery lord by ca- '
resses than by reason: he loves her in his rough
way, "as Harry Percy's wife," but she has no
real influence over him; he has no confidence in
her.

3ISIancbe. 339

LADY PERCY.

In faith,
I'll know your business, Harry, that I will.
I fear, my brother Mortimer doth stir
About his title ; and hath sent for you.
To line his enterprise, but if you go '

HOTSPUR.

So far afoot, I shall be weary, love!

The whole scene is admirable, but unnecessary
here, because it illustrates no point of character
in her. Lady Percy has no character, properly
so called ; whereas that of Portia is very distinctly
and faithfully drawn from the outline furnished
by Plutarch, Lady Percy's fond upbraidings,,

■ and her half playful, half pouting entreaties,
scarcely gain her husband's attention. Portia,
with true matronly dignity and tenderness, pleads

. her right to share her husband's thoughts, and
proves it, too.

I grant, I am a woman, but, withal,
A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife:
I grant, I am a woman, but, withal,
! A woman well reputed, — Cato's dai^hter.
Think you, I am no stronger than my sex.
Being so father'd, and so husbanded?
**********

BRUTUS.

Yob are my true and honourable lyife:
As dear to me, as are the ruddy drops
That visit my sad heart !

Portia, as Shakespeare has truly felt and rep-
, resented the character, is but a softened reflec-

340 Sbtibespe&te's ttetofnee.

tion of that of her husband Brutus: in him we
see an excess of natural sensibility, an almost
womanish tenderness of heart, repressed by the
tenets of his austere philosophy : a stoic by pro-
fession, and in reality the reverse — acting deeds
against his nature by the strong force of prin-
ciple and will. In Portia there is the same pro-
found and passionate feeling, and all her sex's
softness and timidity, held in check by that self-
discipline, that stately dignity, which she thought
became a woman "so fathered and so husbanded."
The fact of her inflicting on herself a (voluntary
wound to try her own fortitude is perhaps the
strongest proof of this disposition. Plutarch re-
lates, that on the day on which Caesar was assas-
sinated, Portia appeared overcome with terror,
and even swooned away, but did not in her emo-
tion utter a word which could affect the conspir-
ators. Shakespeare has rendered this circum-
stance literally :

PORTIA.

I pr'ythee, boy, run to the senate-house;

Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone:

Why dost thou stay ? ,

LUCIUS.

To know my errand, madam.

PORTIA.

I would have had thee there and here again.
Ere I can tell thee what thou should'st do there.

constancy, be strong upon my side !

Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue I

1 have a man's mind, but a woman's might
.... Ah me ! how weak a thing

The heart of woman is! O, I grow faint, &c.

:iBIancbe. 341

There is another beautiful incident related by
Plutarch, which could not well be dramatized.
When Brutus and Portia parted for the last time
in the island of Nisida, she restrained all ex-
pression of grief that she might not shake his
fortitude; but afterwards, in passing through a
chamber in which there hung a picture of Hec-
tor and Andromache, she stopped, gazed upon
it for a time with a settled sorrow, and at length
burst into a passion of tears.''^

If Portia had been a Christian, and lived in later
times, she might have been another Lady Rus-
sell; but she made a poor stoic. No factitious
or external control was sufficient to restrain such
an exuberance of sensibility and fancy : and those
who praise the philosophy of Portia and the
heroism of her death, certainly mistook the char-
acter altogether.. It is evident, from the man-
ner of her death, that it was not deliberate self-
destruction, "after the high Roman fashion," but
took place in a paroxysm of madness, caused by
over-wrought and suppressed feeling, grief, ter-
ror, and suspense. Shakespeare has thus repre-
sented it:

BRUTUS.

O, Cassius ! I am sick of many griefs.

"When at Naples, I have often stood upon the rock
at the extreme point of Posilippo, and looked down
upon the little Island of Nisida, and thought of this
scene till I forgot the Lazaretto which now deforms it :
deforms it, however, to the fancy only, for the build-
ing itself, as it rises from amid the vines, the cypresses,
and fig-trees which embosom it, looks beautiful at a dis-
tance.

342 Sbaftespearc's tictoines:

CASSIUS.

Of your philosophy you make no use,
If you give place to accidental evils.

BRUTUS.

No man bears sorrow better : — Portia is dead.

CASSIUS.

Ha!— Portia?

BRUTUS.

She is dead.

CASSIUS.

How 'scap'd I killing when I cross'd you so?
O, insupportable and touching loss!-—
Upon what sickness?

BRUTUS.

Impatient of my absence,
And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony
Had made themselves so strong; — for with her

death
These tidings came; — with this she fell distract.
And, her attendants, absent, swallow'd fire.

So much for woman's philosophy

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From the Painting by I<uke Fields, R. A.

Shakespeare's Heroines

Aatgacet of Bnjou. 343

MARGARET OF ANJOU.

Malone has written an essay to prove, from
external and internal evidence, that the three
parts of "King Henry VI." were not originally
written by Shakespeare, but altered by him from
two old plays,^* with considerable improvements
and additions of his own. Burke, Porson, Dr.
Warburton, and Dr. Farmer pronounced this
piece of criticism convincing and unanswerable;
but Dr. Johnson and Steevens would not be con-
vinced, and moreover, have contrived to answer
the unanswerable. "Who shall decide when doc-
tors disagree ?" The only arbiter in such a case is
one's own individual taste and judgment. To
me it appears that the three parts of "Henry VI."
have less of poetry and passion, and more of un-
necessary verbosity and inflated language, than
the rest of Shakespeare's works; that the con-
tinual exhibition of treachery, bloodshed, and
violence is revolting, and the want of unity of
action and of a pervading interest oppressive and
fatigfuing; but also that there are splendid pas-
sages in the Second and Third Parts, such as

""The Contention of the Two Houses of York and
Lancaster," in two parts, supposed by Malone to have
been written about 1590.

344 Sbaliespeate'6 f>ecolne0.

Shakespeare alone could have written: and this
is not denied by the most sceptical.*^

Among the arguments against the authenticity
of these plays, the character of Margaret of An-
jou has not been adduced, and yet to those who
have studied Shakespeare in his own spirit it will
appear the most conclusive of all. When we com-
pare her with his other female characters, we are
struck at once by the want of family likeness:

"I abstain from making any remarks on the charac-
ter of Joan of Arc, as delineated in the First Part of
"Henry VI."; first, because I do not in my conscience
attribute it to Shakespeare; and secondly, because in
representing her according to the vulgar English tra-
ditions, as half sorceress, half enthusiast, and in the end
corrupted by pleasure and ambition, the truth of his-
tory, and the truth of nature, justice, and common sense,
are equally violated. Schiller has treated the character
nobly; but in making Joan the slave of passion, and
the victim of love instead of the victim of patriotism,
has committed, I think, a serious error in judgment and
feeling; and I cannot sympathize with Madame de
Stael's defence of him on this particular point. There
was no occasion for this deviation from the truth of
things, and from the dignity and spotless purity of the
character. This young enthusiast, with her religious
reveries, her simplicity, her heroism, her melancholy,
her sensibility, her fortitude, her perfectly feminine
bearing in all her exploits (for though she so often led
the van of battle unshrinking while death was all
around her, she never struck a blow, nor stained her
consecrated sword with blood, — another point in which
Schiller has wronged her), this heroine and martyr,
over whose last moments we shed burning tears of pity
and indignation, remains yet to be treated as a dramatic
character, and I know but one person capable of doing
this.

flSatflarct of Unjou. 345

Shakespeare was not always equal, but he had not
two manners, as they say of painters. I discern
his hand in particular parts, but I cannot recog-
nize his spirit in the conception of the whole:
he may have laid on some of the colors, but the
original design has a certain hardness and heavi-
ness, very unlike his usual style. Margaret of
Anjou, as exhibited in these tragedies, js a dra-

■ matic portrait of considerable truth, and vigor,
and consistency — ^but she is not one of Shake-
speare's women. He who knew so well in what
true greatness of spirit consisted — who could. ex-
cite our respect and sympathy even for a Lady
Macbeth, would never have given us a heroine
without a touch of heroism; he would not have
portrayed a high-hearted woman, struggling un-
subdued against the strangest vicissitudes of for-
tune, meeting reverses and disasters, such as
would have broken the most masculine spirit,
with unshaken constancy, yet left her without
a single personal quality which would excite our
interest in her bravely-endured misfortunes ; and
this, too, in the very face of history. He would

, not have given us, in lieu of the magnanimous
queen, the subtle and accomplished French-
woman, a mere "Amazonian trull," with every
coarser feature of depravity and ferocity; he
would have redeemed her from unmingled de-
testation ; he would have breathed into her some
of his own sweet spirit — ^he would have given
the woman a soul.

The old chronicler Hall informs us that Queen
Margaret "excelled all other as well in beauty

346 SbaRespcarc'6 1beto(ne0.

and favor as in wit and policy, and was in stom-
ach and courage more like to a man than to a
woman." He adds, that after the espousals of
Henry and Margaret, "the king's friends fell
from him, the lords of the realm fell in division
among themselves, the commons rebelled against
their natural prince, fields were foughten, many
thousands slain, and finally the king was deposed,
and his son slain, and his queen sent home again
with as much misery and sorrow as she was re-
ceived with pomp and triumph."

This passage seems to have furnished the
groundwork of the character, as it is developed
in these plays with no great depth or skill. Mar-
garet is portrayed with all the exterior graces of
her sex; as bold and artful, with spirit to dare,
resolution to act, and fortitude to endure; but
treacherous, haughty, dissembling, vindictive, and
fierce. The bloody struggle for power in which
she was engaged, and the companionship of the
ruthless iron men around her, seem to have left
her nothing of womanhood but the heart of a
mother — that last stronghold of our feminine na-
ture ! So far the character is consistently drawn ;
it has something of the power, but none of the
flowing ease of Shakespeare's manner. There
are fine materials not well applied, there is poetry
in some of the scenes and speeches, the situations
are often exceedingly poetical ; but in the char-
acter of Margaret herself there is not an atom
of poetry. In her artificial dignity, her plausible
wit, and her endless volubility, she would re-
mind us of some of the most admired heroines

Aacgaret of Bnjou. 347

of FrencH tragedy, but for that unlucky box on
the ear which she gives the Duchess of Glo'ster,
— a violation of tragic decorum which of course
destroys all parallel.

Having said thus much, I shall point out some
of the finest and most characteristic scenes in
which Margaret appears. The speech in which
she expresses her scorn of her meek husband,
and her impatience of the power exercised by
those fierce, overbearing barons, York, Salisbury,
Warwick, Buckingham, is very fine; and conveys

.as faithful an idea of those feudal times as of
the woman who speaks. The burst of female

. spite with which she concludes, is admirable —

Not all these lords do vex me half so much.
As that proud dame, the Lord Protector's wife.
She sweeps it through the court with troops of

ladies,
More like an empress than Duke Humphrey's wife;
Strangers in court do take her for the queen :
She bears a duke's revenues on her back,
And in her heart she scorns our poverty.
Shall I not live to be avenged on her?
Contemptuous base-born callat as she is,
She vaunted 'mongst her minions t'other day.
The very train of her worst wearing gown
Was better worth than all my father's lands,
Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter.

Her intriguing spirit, the facility with which
she enters into the murderous confederacy against
the good Duke Humphrey, the artful plausibil-
ity with which she endeavors to turn suspicion
from herself, confounding her gentle consort by

348 Sbaftespeare's Iberoines.

mere dint of words, are exceedingly character-
istic, but not the less revolting.

Her criminal love for Suffolk (which is a dra-
matic incident, not an historic fact) gives rise
to the beautiful parting scene in the third act — ■
a scene which it is impossible to read without a
thrill of emotion, hurried away by that power and
pathos which forces us to sympathize with the
eloquence of grief, yet excites not a momentary
interest either for Margaret or her lover. The
ungoverned fury of Margaret in the first in-
stance, the manner in which she calls on Suffolk
to curse his enemies, and then shrinks back over-
come by the violence of the spirit she had her-
self evoked, and terrified by the vehemence of
his imprecations ; the transition in her mind from
the extremity of rage to tears and melting fond-
ness, have been pronounced, and justly, to be in
Shakespeare's own manner.

Go, speak not to me; even now be gone. —
O, go not yet! Even thus two friends condemn'd,
Embrace, and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves,
Loather a hundred times to part than die.
Yet now farewell; and farewell life with thee!

which is followed by that beautiful and intense
burst of passion from Suffolk —

"Tis nbt the land I care for, wert thou thance;

A wilderness is populous enough.

So Suffolk had thy heavenly corripany:

For where thou art, there is the world its..

With every several pleasure in the world;

And where thou qrt not, desolation!

flbatgatct of anjott. 349

In the third part of Heriry the Sixth, Tilarga-
ret, engaged in the terrible struggle for her hus-
band's throne, appears to rather more advantage.
The indignation against Henry, who had piti-
fully yielded his son's birthright for the privilege
of reigning unmolested during his own life, is
worthy of her, and gives rise to a beautiful
speech. We are here inclined to sympathize
with her; but soon after follows the murder of
the Duke of York ; and the base revengeful spirit
and atrocious cruelty with which she insults over
him, unarmed and a prisoner, — the bitterness of
her mockery, and the unwomanly malignity with
which she presents him with the napkin stained
with the blood of his youngest son, and "bids the
father wipe his eyes withal," turn all our sym-
pathy into aversion and horror. York replies
in the celebrated speech beginning —

She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France,
Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth !

and taunts her with the poverty of her father,
the most irritating topic he could have chosen.

Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult?
It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen,
Unless the adage must be verified,
That beggars, mounted, ride their horse to death.
'Tis beauty, that doth oft malse women proud;
But, God, he Knows, thy share thereof is small : ■
'Tis virtue that doth make theni most admir'd;
The contrary doth make thee wonder'd at ;
"Tis government, that makes them seem divine;
The want thereof makes thee abominable.

350 Sbaltespeare's Deroines.

O, tiger's heart, wrapp'd in a woman's hide?
How could'st thou drain the life-blood of the child
To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,
And yet be seen to bear a woman's face?
Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;
Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless!

By such a woman as Margaret is here depicted,
such a speech could be answered only in one" way
— with her dagger's point ; and thus she answers
it.

It is some comfort to reflect that this trait of
ferocity is not historical ; the body of the Duke
of York was found, after the battle, among the
heaps of slain, and his head struck off ; but even
this was not done by the command of Margaret.

In another passage, the truth and consistency
of the character of Margaret are sacrificed to
the march of the dramatic action, with a very ill
effect. When her fortunes were at the very low-
est ebb, and she had sought refuge in the court
of the French king, Warwick, her most formida-
ble enemy, upon some disgust he had taken
against Edward the Fourth, offered to espouse
her cause, and proposed a match between the
prince, her son, and his daughter Anne of War-
wick — the "gentle Lady Anne" who figures in
"Richard the Third." In the play, Margaret em-
braces the offer without a moment's hesitation;'''

" See Henry VI. Part IH. Act iii. scene 3 —

QUEEN MARGARET.

Warwick, these words have turn'd my hate to love;
And I forgive and quite forget old faults.
And joy that thou becom'st King Henry's friend.

flSarsaret of Bniou. 351

we are disgusted by her versatile policy, and a
meanness of spirit in no way allied to the mag-
nanimous forgiveness of her terrible adversary.
The Margaret of history sternly resisted this de-
grading expedient. She could not, she said, par-
don from her heart the man who had been the
primary cause of all her misfortunes. She mis-
trusted Warwick, despised him for the motives
of his revolt from Edward, and considered that
to match her son into the family of her enemy
from mere policy, was a species of degradation.
It took Louis the Eleventh, with all his art and '
eloquence, fifteen days to wring a reluctant con-
sent, accompanied with tears, from this high-
hearted woman.

The speech of Margaret to her council of gen-
erals before the battle of Tewkesbury (act v.
scene 5) is as remarkable a specimen of false
rhetoric, as her address to the soldiers on the
eve of the fight, is of true and passionate elo-
quence.

She witnesses the final defeat of her army, the
massacre of her adherents, and the murder of.
her son; and though the savage Richard would
willingly have put an end to her misery, and ex- -
claims very pertinently —

Why should she live to fill the world with words? .

she is dragged forth unharmed, a woful spec-
tacle of extremest wretchedness, to vyhich death
would have been an undeserved relief. If we
compare the clamorous and loud exclaims of Mar-
garet after the slaughter of her son, to the rav-

352 SbaRespeare's "ftcrofnes.

ings of Constance, we shall perceive where Shake-
speare's genius did not preside, and where it did.
Margaret, in bold defiance of history, but with
fine dramatic effect, is introduced again in the
gorgeous and polluted court of Edward the
Fourth. There she stalks around the seat of her
former greatness, like a terrible phantom of de-
parted majesty, uncrowned, unsceptred, desolate,
powerless — or like a vampire thirsting for
blood — or like a grim prophetess of evil, im-
precating that ruin on the head of her enemies,
which she lived to see realized. The scene fol-
lowing the murder of the princes in the Tower,
in which Queen Elizabeth and the Duchess of
York sit down on the ground bewailing their des-
olation, and Margaret suddenly appears from be-
hind them, like the very personification of woe,
and seats herself beside them revelling in their
despair, is, in the general conception and effect,
grand and appalling.

THE DUCHESS.

O, Harry's wife, triumph not in my woes;
God witness with me, I have wept for thine.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Bear with me, I am hungry for revenge,

And now I cloy me with beholding it.

Thy Edward he is dead, that kill'd my Edward;

Thy other Edward dead, to quit my Edward:

Young York he is but boot, because both they

Match'd not the high perfection of my loss.

Thy Clarence he is dead, that stabb'd my Edward;

And the beholders of this tragic play.

iSSntQWcct Of 2lnjou. 353

The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey,

Untimely smother'd in their dusky graves.

Richard yet lives, hell's black intelligencer,

Only reserved their factor, to buy souls

And send them thither : But at hand, at hand.

Ensues his piteous and unpitied end;

Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray.

To have him suddenly convey'd from hence. —

Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray,

That I may live to say. The dog is dead.™

She could have stopped here; but the effect
thus poweffully excited is marred and weak-
ened by so much superfluous rhetoric, that we
are tempted to exclaim with the old Duchess of
York-
Why should calamity be full of words?

"Horace Walpole observes that "it is evident firom
the conduct of Shakespeare that the House of Tudor
retained all their Lancasterian prejudices even in the
reign of Queen Elizabeth. In his play of 'Richard the
Third' he seems to deduce the woes of the House of
York from the curses which Queen Margaret had
vented against them ; and he could not give that weight
to her curses, without supposing a right in her to utter
them."

354 SbaKespeare's ibecofnee.

QUEEN KATHERINE OF ARRAGON.

To have a just idea of the accuracy and beauty
of this historical portrait, we ought to bring im-
mediately before us those circumstances of Kath-
erine's life and times, and those parts of her char-
acter, which belong to a period previous to the
opening of the play. We shall then be better
able to appreciate the skill with which Shake-
speare has applied the materials before him.

Katherine of Arragon, the fourth and young-
est daughter of Ferdinand, king of Arragon, and
Isabella of Castile, was born at Alcala, whither
her mother had retired to winter after one of
the most terrible campaigns of the Moorish war
— that of 1485.

Katherine had derived from nature no daz-
zling qualities of mind, and no striking advan-
tages of person. She inherited a tincture of
Queen Isabella's haughtiness and obstinacy of
temper, but neither her beauty nor her splen-
did talents. Her education under the direction
of that extraordinary mother had implanted in
her mind the most austere principles of virtue,
the highest ideas of female decorum, the most
narrow and bigoted attachment to the forms of
religion, and that excessive pride of birth and
rank which distinguished so particularly her fam-
ily and her nation. In other respects, her under-

<a«een "Ratberine ot acragon. 3S5

standing was strong and her judgment clear. The
natural turn of her mind was simple, serious, and
domestic, and all the impulses of her heart kindly
and benevolent. Such was Katherine; such, at
least, she appears on a reference to the chronicles
of her times, and particularly from her own let-
ters, and the paipers written or dictated by her-
self which relate to her divorce ; all of which are
distinguished by the same artless simplicity of
style, the same quiet good sense, the same reso-
lute, yet gentle spirit and fervent piety.

When five years old, Katherine was solemnly
affianced to Arthur, Prince of Wales, the eldest
son of Henry VII.; and in the year 1501 she
landed in England, after narrowly escaping ship-
wreck on the southern coast, from which every
adverse wind conspired to drive her. She was
received in London with great honor, and imme-
diately on her arrival united to the young prince.
He was then fifteen, and Katherine in here sev-
enteenth year.
■f Arthur, as it is well known, survived his mar-
riage only five months; and the reluctance of
Henry VII. to refund the splendid dowry of the
Infanta, and forego the. advantages of an alliance
with the most powerful prince of Europe, sug-
gested the idea of uniting Katherine to his sec-
ond son, Henry : after some hesitation, a dispensa-
tion was procured from the pope, and she was
betrothed to Henry in her eighteenth year. The
prince, who was then only twelve years old, re-
sisted as far as he was able to do so, and appears
to have really felt a degree of horror at the idea

356 Sbaftespeate'0 f>etoine0.

of marrying his brother's widow. Nor was the
mind of King Henry at rest; as his health de-
dined, his conscience reproached him with the
equivocal nature of the union into which he had
forced his son, and the vile motiyes of avarice
and expediency which had governed him on this
occasion. A short time previous to his death, he
dissolved the engagement, and even caused Henry
to sign a paper in which he solemnly renounced
all idea of a future union with the Infanta. It
is observable, that Henry signed this paper with
reluctance, and that Katherine, instead of being
sent back to her own country, still remained in
England.

It appears that Henry, who was now about sev-
enteen, had become int€rested for Katherine, who
was gentle and amiable. The difference of years
was rather a circumstance in her favor ; for Henry
was just at that age when a youth is most likely
to be captivated by a woman older than himself;
and no sooner was he required to renounce her
than the interest she had gradually gained in his
affections became, by opposition, a strong pas-
sion. Immediately after his father's death he
declared his resolution to take for his wife the
Lady Katherine of Spain, and none other; and
when the matter was discussed in council, it was
urged that, besides the many advantages of the
match in a political point of view, she had given
so "much proof of virtue and sweetness of con-
dition, as they knew not where to parallel her."
About six weeks after his accession, June 3, 1509,
the marriage was celebrated with truly royal

(Stueen tkatbecine of Btcagon. 357

splendor, Henry being then eighteen, and Kath-
erine in her twenty-fourth year.

It has been said with truth, that if Henry had
died while Katherine was yet his wife and Wol-

, sey his minister, he would have left behind him
the character of a magnificent, popular, and ac-
complished prince, instead of that of the most
hateful ruffian and tyrant who ever swayed these
realms. Notwithstanding his occasional infideli-
ties, and his impatience at her midnight vigils,

■ her long prayers, and her religious austerities,
Katherine and Henry lived in harmony together.
He was fond of openly displaying his respect
and love for her ; and she exercised a strong and
salutary influence over his turbulent and despotic
spirit. When Henry set out on his expedition
to France, in 1513, he left Katherine regent of
the kingdom during his absence, with full pow-
ers to carry on the war against the Scots; and
the Earl of Surrey at the head of the army, as
her lieutenant-general. It is curious to find
Katherine — the pacific, domestic, and unpretend-
ing Katherine — describing herself as having "her
heart set to war," and "horrible busy" with mak-
ing "standards, banners, badges, scarfs, and the
like." Nor was this mere silken preparation-
mere da,lliance with the pomp and circumstance
of war; for, within a few weeks afterwards, her
general defeated the Scots in the famous battle
of Flodden Field, where James IV. and most of
bis nobility were slain.'"

"" Under similar circumstances, one of Katharine's

358 SbaKespeate's tberofnes.

Katherine's letter to Henry, announcing this
event, so strikingly displays the piety and ten-r
derness, the quiet simplicity, and real magnanim-
ity, of her character, that there cannot be a more
apt and beautiful illustration of the exquisite
truth and keeping of Shakespeare's portrait :

"Sir : — My Lord Howard hath send me a let-
ter, open to your Grace, within one of mine, by
the which ye shall see at length the great vic-
tory that out Lord hath sent your subjects in your
absence: and for this cause it is no need herein
to trouble your Grace with long writing; but to
my thinking this battle hath been to your Grace,
and all your realm, the greatest honour that could
be, and more than ye should win all the crown
of France; thanked be God for it! And I am
sure your Grace forgetteth not to do this, which
shall be cause to send you many more such great
victories, as I trust he shall do. My husband, for
haste, with Rougecross, I could not send your
Grace the piece of the King of Scots' coat, which
John Glyn now bringeth. In this your Grace
shall see how I can keep my promise, sending you
for your banners a king's coat. I thought to
send himself unto you, but our Englishmen's
hearts would not suffer it. It should have been
better for him to have been in peace than have
this reward; but all that God sendeth is for the

predecessors, Philippa of Hainault, had gained in her
husband's absence the battle of Neville Cross, in which
David Bruce was taken prisoner.

Queen fcatbetinc ot Bttagon. 359

best. My Lord of Surrey, my Henry, would fain
know your pleasure in the burying of the King
of Scots' body, for he hath written to me so. With
the next messenger your Grace's pleasure may be
herein known. And with this I make an end,
praying God tA send you home shortly ; for with-
out this, no joy here can be accomplished, and
for the same I pray. And now go to our Lady
at Walsyngham, that I promised so long ago to
see.
"At Woburn, the i6th day of September (1513).

"I send your Grace herein a bill, found in a
Scottishman's purse, of such things as the French
king sent to the saiii King of Scots to make war
against you, beseeching you to send Mathew
hither as soon as this messenger cometh with tid-
ings of your Grace.

"Your humble wife and true servant,

"Katherine.""

The legality of the king's marriage with Kath-
erine remained undisputed till 1527. In the
course of that year Anna BuUen first appeared at
court, and was appointed maid of honor to the
queen; and then, and not till then, did Henry's
union with his brother's wife "creep too near his
conscience." In the following year he sent spe-
cial messengers to Rome with secret instructions :
they were required to discover (among other

"Ellis's "Collection." We must keep in mind that
Katherine was a foreigner, and till after she was sev-
enteen never spoke or wrote a word of English.

360 SbtCkespeatc'a Ibetoinee.

"hard questions") whether, if the queen entered
a religious life, the king might have the pope's
dispensation to marry again ; and whether, if the i
king (for the better inducing the queen thereto) I
would enter himself into a religious life, thej
pope would dispense with the king's vow and
leave her there? ;

Poor Katharine ! We are not surprised to read
that when she understood what was intended
against her, "she labored with all those passions
which jealousy of the king's affection, sense of
her own honor, and the legitimation of her daugh-
ter, could produce, laying in conclusion the whole
fault on the cardinal." It is elsewhere said that
Wolsey bore the queen ill-will, in consequence of
her reflecting with some severity on his haughty
temper and very unclerical life.

The proceedings were pending for nearly six
years, and one of the causes of this long delay,
in spite of Henry's impatient and despotic char-
acter, is worth noting. The old chronicle tells
us, that though the men generally, artd more par-
ticularly the priests and the nobles, sided with
Henry in this matter, yet all the ladies of Eng-
land were against it. They justly felt that the
honor and welfare of no woman was secure if,
after twenty years of union, she might be thus .
deprived of all her rights as a wife: the clamor
became so loud and general, that the king was
obliged to yield to it for a time, to stop the pro-
ceedings, and to banish Anna Bullen from the
court.

Cardinal Campeggio, called by Shakespeare

<aucen IRatberine ot attagon. 361

Campeius, arrived in Englahd in October, 1528.
He at first endeavored to persuade Katherine to
avoid the disgrace and danger of contesting her
marriage, by entering a religious house; but she
rejected his advice with strong expressions of
disdain. "I am," said she, "the king's true wife,
and to him married ; and if all doctors were dead,
or law or learning far out of men's minds, at the
time of our marnage, yet I cinnot think that the
court of- Rome, arid the whole Church of England,
vi^ould have consented to a thing unlawful and
detestable, as you' call it. Still I say I am his
wife, a:nd for him Will I pray."

About two years afterwards Wolsey died (in
November, 1530), the kin'g and queen met for
the last time on the 14th of July, 1531. Until
that period some outward show of respect and
kindness had been maintained between them ; but
the king then ordered her to repair to a private
residence, and no longer to consider herself as
his lawful wife. "To which the virtuous and
mourning queen replied no more than this, that
to whatever place she removed, nothing could re-
move her from being the king's wife. And so
they bid each other farewell ; and from this time
the king never saw her more."'* He married
Anna Bullen in 1532, while the decision relating
to his former marriage was still pending. The
sentence of divorce to which Katherine never
would submit was finally pronounced by Cran-
mer in 1533; and the unhappy queen, whose

"Hall's "Chronicle."

362 Sbaftcspeare'a ©crofncs.

health had been gradually declining through these
troubles of heart, died January 29, 1536, in the,
fiftieth year of her age.

Thus the action of the play of "Henry VIII."
includes events which occurred from the impeach-
ment of the Duke of Buckingham, in 1521, to the
death of Katherine in 1536. In making the
death of Katherine precede the birth of Queen
Elizabeth, Shakespeare has committed an an-
achronism, not only pardonable, but necessary.
We must remember that the construction of the
play required a happy termination; and that the
birth of Elizabeth, before or after the death of
Katherine, involved the question of her legit-
imacy. By this slight deviation from the real
course of events, Shakespeare has not perverted
historic facts, but merely sacrificed them to a
higher principle; and in doing so has not only
preserved dramatic propriety and heightened the
poetical interest, but has given a strong proof both
of his delicacy and his judgment.

If we also call to mind that in this play Kath-
erine is properly the heroine, and exhibited from
.. the first to last as the very "queen of earthly
queens :" that the whole interest is thrown round
her and Wolsey — the one the injured rival, the
other the enemy of Anna Bullen ; and that it was
written in the reign and for the court of Eliza-
beth, we shall yet further appreciate the moral
greatness of the poet's mind, which disdained to
sacrifice justice and the truth of nature to any
time-serving expediency.

Schlegel observes somewhere, that in the literal

duccn Ikatbcritie of Stragon. 363

accuracy and apparent artlessness with which
Shakespeare has adapted some of the events and
characters of history to his dramatic purposes, he.
has shown equally his genius and his wisdom. -
This, like most of Schlegel's remarks, is pro-
found and true; and in this respect Katherine of.
Arragon may rank as the triumph of Shake-
speare's genius and his wisdom. There is noth-
ing in the whole range of poetical fiction in any
respect resembling or approaching her; there is
nothing comparable, I suppose, but Katherine's"
own portrait by Holbein, which, equally true to-
the life, is yet as far inferior as Katherine's per-
son was inferior to her mind. Not only has
Shakespeare given us here a delineation as faith-
ful, of a peculiar modification of character, but
he has bequeathed us a precious moral lesson
in this proof that virtue alone, (by which I mean-
here the union of truth or conscience with benev-
olent affection — the one the highest law, the other
the purest impulse of the soul), — that such vir-
tue is a sufficient source of the deepest pathos and
power without any mixture of foreign or external
ornament : for who but Shakespeare would have .
brought before us a queen and a heroine of trag-
edy, stripped her of all pomp of place and cir-
cumstance, dispensed with all the usual sources
of poetical interest, as youth, beauty, grace, fancy,
commanding intellect; and without any appeal-
to our imagination, without any violation of his-
torical truth, or any sacrifices of the other dra-
matic personages for the sake of effect, could de-
pend on the moral principle alone to touch the

864 Sbaftespeare's Detoinea.

very springs of feeling in our bosoms, and melt
and elevate our hearts through the purest and
holiest impulses of our nature?

The character, when analyzed, is, in the first
place, distinguished by truth. I do not only mean
its truth to nature, or its relative truth arising
from its historic fidelity and dramatic consistency,
but truth as a quality of the soul ; this is the basis
of the character. We often hear it remarked,
that those who are themselves perfectly true and
artless, are in this world the more easily and fre-
quently deceived — a commonplace fallacy: for we
^hall ever find that truth is as undeceived as it
is undeceiving, and that those who are true to
themselves and others may now and then be mis-
taken, or, in particular instances, duped, by the
intervention of some other affection or quality
of the mind; but they are generally free from
illusion, and they are seldom imposed upon in
the long run by. the shows of things and super-
fices of characters. It is by this integrity of heart
and clearness of understanding, this light of truth
within her own soul, and not through any acute-
ness of intellect, that Katherine detects and ex-
poses the real character of Wolsey, though un-
able either to unravel his designs or defeat them.

My lord, my lord,
I am a simple woman, much too weak
T' oppose your cunning.

She rather intuitively feels than knows his du-
plicity, and in the dignity of her simplicity she
towers above his arrogance as much as she scorns

(Slueen fcatberine of artagon. 365

his crooked policy. With this essential truth are
combined many other qualities, natural or ac-
quired, all made out with the same uncompromis-
ing breath of execution and fidelity of pencil,
united with the utmost delicacy of feeling. For
instance, the apparent contradiction arising from
the contrast between Katherine's natural disposi-
tion and the situation in which she is placed ; her
lofty Castilian pride and her extreme simplicity
of language and deportment; the inflexible reso-
lution with which she asserts her right, and her
soft resignation to unkindness and wrong; her
warmth of temper breaking through the meek-
ness of a spirit subdued by a deep sense of reli-
gion, and a degree of austerity tinging her real
benevolence ; — all these qualities, opposed yet har-
monizing, has Shakespeare placed before us in
a few admirable scenes.

Katherine is at first introduced as pleading
before the king in behalf of the commonalty, who
had been driven by the extortions of Wolsey into
some illegal excesses. In this scene, whi^h is
true to history, we have her upright reasoning
mind, her steadiness of purpose, her piety and
benevolence, placed in a strong light. The un-
shrinking dignity with which she opposes .with-
out descending to brave the cardinal, the stern
rebuke addressed to the Duke of Buckingham's
surveyor, are finely characteristic; and by thus
exhibiting Katherine as invested with all her con-
jugal rights and influence, and royal state, the
subsequent situations are rendered more impres-
sive. She is placed in the first instance on such

366 Sbaftcspcate's "©etofnca.

a height in our esteem and reverence, that in the
midst of her abandonment and degradation, and
the profound pity she afterwards inspires, the
first effect remains unimpaired, and she never
falls beneath it.

In the beginning of the second act we are pre-
pared for the proceedings of the divorce, and our
respect for Katherine is heightened by the gen-
eral sympathy for "the good queen," as she is
expressively entitled, and by the following beau-
tiful eulogium on her character uttered by the
Duke of Norfolk :

He (Wolsey) counsels a divorce — the loss of her
That like a jewel hath hung twenty years
About his neck, yet never lost her lustre.
Of her that loves him with that excellence
That angels love good men with. Even of her.
That when the greatest stroke of fortune falls.
Will bless the king !

The scene in which Anna Bullen is introduced
as expressing her grief and sympathy for her
royal mistress is exquisitely graceful.

Here's the pang that pinches ;
His highness having lived so long with her, and she
So good a lady, that no tongue could ever
Pronounce dishonour of her, — by my life.
She never knew harm doing! O now, after
So many courses of the sun enthron'd.
Still growing in a majesty and pomp, — the which
To leave is a thousandfold more bitter than
'Tis sweet at first to acquire. After this process,
To give her the avaunt! it is a pity
.Would move a monster.

dueen 'Katbecine ot Httagon. 367

OLD LADY.

Hearts of most hard temper
Mdt and lament for her.

ANNE.

O, God's will! much better
She ne'er had known pomp: though it be temporal.
Yet if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce
It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance, panging
As soul and body's severing.

OLD LADY.

Alas, poor lady!
She's a stranger now again.

ANNE.

So much the more
Must pity drop upon her. Verily,
I swear 'tis better to be lowly born.
And range with humble livers in content.
Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief.
And wear a golden sorrow.

How completely, in the few passages appro-
priated to Anna Bullen, is her character por-
trayed! with what a delicate and yet luxuriant
grace is she sketched off, with her gaiety and her
beauty, her levity, her extreme mobility, her
sweetness of disposition, her tenderness of heart,
and, in short, all her femalities! How nobly has
Shakespeare done justice to the two women, and
heightened our interest in both, by placing the
praises of Katherine in the mouth of Anna Bul-
len; and how characteristic of the latter, that
she should first express unbounded pity for her
mistress, insisting chiefly on her fall from her
regal state and worldly pomp, thus betraying her
own disposition —

368 Sbaftespcare'fl Ijetofncs.

For she that had all the fair parts of woman.
Had, too* a wornarfs heart ; which ever yet
Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty.

That she should call the loss of temporal pomp,
once enjoyed, "a sufferance equal to soul and
body's severing;" that she should immediately
protest that she woilld not herself be a queen —
"No, good troth! not for all the riches under
heaven !" — ^and not long afterwards ascend with-
out reluctance that throne and bed from which
her royal mistress had been so cruelly divorced!
— how natural ! The portrait is not less true and
masterly than that of Katherine; but the char-
acter is overborne by the superior moral firm-
ness and intrinsic excellence of the latter. That
we may be more fully sensible of this contrast,
the beautiful scene just alluded to immediately
precedes Katherine's trial at Blackfriars, and the
description of Anna Bullen's triumphant beauty
at her coronation is placed immediately before the
dying scene of Katherine; yet with equal good
taste and good feeling Shakespeare has constantly
avoided all personal collision between the two
characters ; nor does Anna Bullen ever appear as
queen except in the pageant of the procession,
which in reading the play is scarcety noticed.

To return to Katherine. The whole of the
Trial scene is given nearly verbatim from the old
chronicles and records; but the dryness and
harshness of the law proceedings is tempered at
once and elevated by the genius and the wisdom
of the poet. It appears, on referring to the his-
torical authorities, that, when the affair was first

(Hueen "ftatbcrtne of awaflon. 369

agitated in council, Katharine replied to the long
expositions and theological sophistries of her op-
ponents with resolute simplicity a;nd composure:
"I am a woman, and lack wit and learning to
answer these opinions ; but I am sure that neither
the king's father nor my father would have con-
descended to our marriage, if it had been judged
unlawful. As to your saying that I should put
the cause to eight persons of this realm, for quiet-
ness of the king's conscience, I pray Heaven to
send his Grace a quiet conscience : and this shall
be your answer, that I say I am his lawful wife,
and to him lawfully married, though not worthy
of it ; and in this point I will abide, till the court
of Rome, which was privy to the beginning, have
made a final ending of it."'*

Katherine's appearance in the court at Black-
friars, attended by a noble troop of ladies and
prelates of her council, and her refusal to an-
swer the citation, are historical.^* Her speech
to the king —

Sir, I desire you, do me right and justice;
And to bestow your pity on me : &c., &c.

" Hall's "Chronicle," p. 781. '

"The court at Blackfriars sat on the 28th of May,
1529. "The queen being called, accompanied by the four
bishops and others of her council, and a great company
of ladies and gentlewomen following her; and after
her obeisance, sadly and with great gravity, she ap-
pealed from them to the court of Rpme." — ^ee Hall and
Cavendish's "Life of Wolsey."

The account which Hume gives of this scene is very
elegant; but after the affecting naweti of the old
chroniclers, it is very cold and unsatisfactory.

370 Sbaheapeare's Iberofnes.

is taken word for word (as nearly as the change
from prose to blank verse would allow) from the
old record in Hall. It would have been easy for
Shakespeare to have exalted his own skill, by
throwing a coloring of poetry and eloquence into "
this speech, without altering the sense or senti-
ment ; but by adhering to the calm, argumentative '
simplicity of manner and diction natural to the
woman, he has preserved the truth of character
without lessening the pathos of the situation. Her
challenging Wolsey as a "foe to truth," and her
very expressions, "I utterly refuse — yea, from
my soul abhor you for my judge," are taken from
fact. The sudden burst of indignant passion to- '
wards the close of this scene —

In one who ever yet
Had stood to charity, and display'd the effects
Of disposition gentle, and of wisdom
O'ertopping woman's power —

IS taken from nature, though it occurred on a dif-
ferent occasion.'^

Lastly, the circumstance of her being called
back after she had appealed from the court, and
angrily refusing to return, is from life. Master -
Griffith, on whose arm she leaned, observed that-
she was called : "On, on," quoth she ; "it maketh .
no matter, for it is no indifferent court for me,,
therefore I will not tarry. Go on your ways."'°

"The Queen answered the Duke of Suilolk very
highly and obstinately, with many high words; and
suddenly, in a fury, she departed from him into her
privy chamber." — Hall's "Chronicle."

"Cavendish's "Life of Wolsey."

(Slueen "ftatbctlne ot atragon. 371

King Henry's own assertion, "I dare to say,
my lords, that for her womanhood, wisdom, no-
bility, and gentleness, never prince had such an-
other wife, and therefore if I would willingly
change her I were not wise," is thus beautifully
paraphrased by Shakespeare :

That man i' the world who shall report he has
A better wife, let him in nought be trusted.
For speaking false in that? Thou art, alone,
(If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness.
Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government.
Obeying in commanding, and thy parts.
Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out),
The queen of earthly queens. She's nobly born ;
And, like her true nobility, she has
Carried herself towards me.

The annotators on Shakespeare have all ob-
served the close resemblance between this fine
passage —

Sir,
I am about to weep ; but. thinking that
We are a queen, (or long have dreamed so), certain.
The daughter of a king — my drops of tears
I'll turn to sparks of fire —

and the speech of Hermione —

I am not prone to weeping as our sex
Commonly are, the want of which vain dew
Perchance shall dry your pities; but I have
That honourable grief lodged here, which burns
Worse than tears drown.

But these verbal gentlemen do not seem to have
felt that the resemblance is merely on the service,
and that the two passages could not possibly

372 SbaRespeare's f)etofne6.

change places without a manifest violation of the
truth of character. In Hermione it is pride of
sex merely: in Katherine it is pride of place and'
pride of birth. Hermione, though so superbly
majestic, is perfectly independent of her regal
state: Katherine, though so meekly pious, will
neither forget hers nor allow it to be forgotten
by dtrhers' fbr a moment. Hermione, when de-
prived of that "crown arid comfort of her life,"
her husband's love, regards all things else with de-
spair and indifference except the feminine honor :
Katherine, divorced and abandoned, still with
true Spanish pride stands upon respect, and will
not bate one atom of her accustomed state.

Though unqueen'd, yet like

A Queen, and daughter to a king, inter me!

The passage —

A fellow of the royal bed, which owe

A moiety of the throne — a great king's daughter,

here standing

To prate and talk for life, and honour, 'fore
Who please to come to hear — '"

would apply nearly to both queens, yet a single
sentiment — ^nay, a single sentence-— could not pos-
sibly be transferred from one character to the
other. The magnanimity, the noble simplicity,
the purity of heart, the resignation in each — how

""Winter's Tale,'' act iii. scene 2.

Queen •Ratfjerlne of arragon. 373

perfectly equal in degree ! how diametrically op-
posite in kind !'*

Once more to return to Katherine.

We are told by Cavendish, that when Wolsey
and Campeggib visited the queen by the king's
order, she was found at work among her women,
and came forth to meet the cardinals with a skein
of white thread hanging about her neck; that
when Wolsey addressed her in Latin, she inter-
rupted him, saying, "Nay, good my lord, speak
to me in English, I beseech you ; although I un-
derstand Latin." "Forsooth then," quoth my
lord, "madam, if it please your Grace, we come
both to know your mind, how ye be disposed to
do in this matter between the king and you, and
also to declare secretly our opinions and our coun-
sel unto you, which we have intended of very
zeal and obedience that we bear to your Grace."
"My lords, I thank you then," quoth she, "of
your good wills ; but to make answer to your re-
quest I cannot so suddenly, for I was set among

" I have constantly abstained from considering any
of these characters with a reference to the theatre; yet
I cannot help remarking, that if Mrs. Siddons, who
excelled equally in Hermione and Katherine, and threw
such majesty of demeanour, such power, such pictur-
esque effect, into both, could likewise feel arid convey
the infinite contrast between the ideal grace, the classi-
cal repose and imaginative charm, thrown round Her-
mione, and the matter-of-fact, artless, prosaic nature of
Katherine ; between the poetical grandeur of the former,
and the moral dignity of the latter, — then she certainly
exceeded all that I could have imagined possible, even
tp her >YOoderful powerg.

374 Sbaftespeare's Iberoines.

my maidens at work, thinking full little of any
such matter; wherein there needeth a longer de-
liberation, and a better head than mine to make
answer to so noble wise men as ye be. I had
need of good counsel in this case, which toucheth
me so near ; and for any counsel or friendship that
I can find in England, they are nothing to my
purpose or profit. Think you, I pray you, my
lords, will any Englishman counsel, or be friendly
unto me, against the king's pleasure, they being
his subjects? Nay, forsooth, my lords! and for
my counsel, in whom I do intend to put my trust,
they be not here ; they be in Spain, in my native
country."' Alas! my lords, I am a poor woman
lacking both wit and understanding sufficiently
to answer such approved wise men as ye be both,
in so weighty a matter. I pray you to extend
your good and indifferent minds in your author-
ity unto me, for I am a simple woman, destitute
and barren of friendship and counsel, here in a
foreign region; and as for your counsel, I will
not refuse, but be glad to hear."

It appears also, that when the Archbishop of
York and Bishop Tunstall waited on her at her
house near Huntingdon, with the sentence of the

" This affecting passage is thus rendered by Shake-
speare :

Nay, forsooth, my friends.
They that must weigh out my afflictions;
They that my trust must grow to, live not here;
They are, as all my other comforts, far hence.
In mine own country, lords.

Henry VIII. Act iii. Scene i.

Queen "Ratbertne of arragon. 375

divorce, signed by Henry and confirmed by act
of parliament, she refused to admit its validity,
she being Henry's wife, and not his subject. The
bishop describes her conduct in his letter : "She
being therewith in great choler and agony, and
always interrupting our words, declared that she
would never leave the name of queen, but would
persist in accounting herself the king's wife till
death." When the official letter containing min-
utes of their conference was shown to her, she
seized a pen and dashed it angrily across every
sentence in which she was styled Princess-Dow-
ager.

If now we turn to that inimitable scene between
Katherine and the two cardinals (act iii. scene i),
we shall observe how finely Shakespeare has con-
densed these incidents, and unfolded to us all
the workings of Katherine's proud yet feminine
nature. She is discovered at work with some of
her women — she calls for music "to soothe her
soul, grown sad with troubles ;" then follows the
little song, of which the sentiment is so well
adapted to the occasion, while its quaint yet
classic elegance breathes the very spirit of those
times when Surrey loved and sung.

SONG.

Orpheus with his lute made trees.
And the mountain-tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing;
To his music, plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.

376 Sbakesveate's Iberoines.

Everything that heard him play.
Even the billows of the sea,

Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing care, and grief of heart;
, Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.

They are interrupted by the arrival of the two car-
dinals. Katherine's perception of their subtlety,
her suspicion of their purpose, her sense of her
own weakness and inabiUty to contend with them,
and her mild, subdued dignity, are beautifully
represented; as also the guarded self-command
with which she eludes giving a definite answer;
but when they counsel her to that which she, who
knows Henry, feels must end in her ruin, then
the native temper is roused at once, or, to use
Tunstall's expression, "the choler and the agony"
burst forth in words :

Is this your Christian counsel? Out upon ye!
Heaven is above all yet; there sits a Judge.
That no king can corrupt.

WOLSEY.

Your rage mistakes us.

QUEEN CATHERINE.

The more shame for ye ! Holy men I thought ye.
Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues;
But cardinal sins, and hollow hearts, I fear ye!
Mend them, for shame, my lords : is this your com-
fort?
The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady?

With the same force of language, and impet-
uous yet dignified feeling, she asserts her own
conjugal truth and merit, and insists ugon her
rights.

<auecn Ijatberfne of artagon. 377

Have I liv'd thus long (let me speak myself,
Since virtue finds no friends) ? a wife, a true one,
A woman (I dare say, without vain glory),

■ Never yet branded with suspicion?
Have I with all my full affections

Still met the king? — ^lov'd him next heaven? obey'd him?

■ Been out of fondness, superstitious to him?
Almost forgot my prayers to content him?

' And am I thus rewarded ? 'tis not well, lords, &c.

• My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty.
To give up willingly that noble title
Your master wed me to : nothing but death
Shall e'er divorce my dignities.

And this burst of unwonted passion is imme-
diately followed by the natural reaction: it sub-
sides into tears, dejection, and a mournful self-
compassion :

'Would I had never trod this English earth.
Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it !
I What will become of me now, wretched lady?
I am the most unhappy woman living.
Alas! poo"f'^> wenches! where are now your fortunes?

[To her women.
Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity.
No friends, no hope ; no kindred weep for me.
Almost, no grave allow'd me ! Like the lily.
That once was mistress of the field, and flourish'd,
I'll hang my head, and perish.

Dr. Johnson observes on this scene, that all Kath-
arine's distresses could not save her from a quib-
ble on the word cardinal:

Holy men I thought ye.

Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues;

But cardinal sins, and hollow hearts, I fear ye !

378 SbaRcspcarc's Ibctofnes.

When we read this passage in connection with
the situation and sentiment, the scornful play
upon the word is not only appropriate and nat-
ural, it seems inevitable. Katherine, assuredly,
is neither an imaginative nor a witty personage;
but we all acknowledge the truism, that anger
inspires wit, and whenever there is passion there
is poetry. In the instance just alluded to, the
sarcasm springs naturally out from the bitter in-
dignation of the moment. In her grand rebuke
of Wolsey in the Trial scene, how just and beau-
tiful is the gradual elevation of her language, till
At rises into that magnificent image —

You have, by fortune, and his highness' favours,
Gone slightly o'er low steps, and now are mounted,
Where powers are your retainers, &c.

In the depth of her affliction, the pathos as nat-
urally clothes itself in poetry :

Like the lily,
That once was mistress of the field, and flourish'd,
I'll hang my head and perish.

But these, I believe, are the only instances of
imagery throughout; for, in general, her lan-
guage is plain and energetic. It has the strength
and simplicity of her character, with very little
metaphor, and less wit.

In approaching the last scene of Katherine's
life I feel as if about to tread within a sanctuary,
where nothing befits us but silence and tears;
veneration so strives with compassion, tenderness
with awe.*"

"Dr. Johnson is of opinion, that this scene "is above
any other part of Shakespeare's tragedies, and perhaps

Olueen ItatBerfne or attagon. 379

We must suppose a long interval to have
elapsed since Katherine's interview with the twO
cardinals. Wolsey was disgraced, and poor Anna
BuUen at the height of her short-lived pros-
perity. It was Wolsey's fate to be detested by
both queens. In the pursuance of his own selfishi
and ambitious designs he had treated both with
perfidy; and one was the remote, the other the
immediate cause of his ruin.**

The ruffian king, of whom one hates to think,
was bent on forcing Katherine to concede her

'above any scene of any other poet, tender and pathetic;
without gods, or furies, or poisons, or precipices ; with-

- out the help of rgmantic circumstances ; without improb-
able sallies of poetical lamentation, and without any
throes of tumultuous misery."

I have already observed, that in judging of Shake-
speare's characters as of persons we meet in real life,
we are swayed unconsciously by our own habits and
feelings, and our preference governed more or less, by
our individual prejudices or sympathies. Thus, Dr.
Johnson, who has not a word to bestow on Imogen, and
who has treated poor Juliet as if he had been in truth
"the very beadle to an amorous sigh," does full justice
to the character of Katherine, because the logical turn
of his mind, his vigorous intellect, and his austere in-
tegrity, enabled him to appreciate its peculiar beauties;
and accordingly, we find that he gives it, not only un-
qualified, but almost exclusive admiration: he goes so
far as to assert, that in this play the genius of Shake-
speare comes in and goes out with Katherine.

"It will be remembered, that in early youth Anna
Bullen was betrothed to Lord Henry Percy, who was
passionately in love with her. Wolsey, to serve the
king's purposes, broke oflf this match, and forced Percy
into an unwilling marriage with Lady Mary Talbot.
"The stout Earl of Northumberland," who arrested Wol-

380 SbaRespeare'0 fbetoines.

rights, and illegitimize her daughter in favor of
the offspring of Anna BuUen: she steadily re-
fused, was declared contumacious, and the sen-
tence of divorce pronounced in 1533. Such of
her attendants as persisted in paying her the hon-
ors due to a queen were driven from her house-
hold; those who consented to serve her as prin-
cess-dowager she refused to admit into her pres-
ence ; so that she remained unattended, except by
a few women, and her gentleman-usher, Griffith.
During the last eighteen months of her life she
resided at Kimbolton. Her nephew, Charles V.,
had offered her an asylum and princely treat-
ment; but Katherine, broken in heart and de-
clining in health, was unwilling to drag the
spectacle of her misery and degradation into a
strange country: she pined in her loneliness, de-
prived of her daughter, receiving no consolation
from the pope, and no redress from the emperor.
Wounded pride, wronged affection, and a canker- .
ing jealousy of the woman preferred to her
(which, though it never broke out into unseemly
words, is enumerated as one of the causes of her
death), at length wore out a feeble frame.
"Thus," says the chronicle, "Queen Katherine
fell into her last sickness ; and though the king
sent to comfort her through Chapuys, the em-
peror's ambassador, she grew worse and worse;

sey at York, was this very Percy: he was chosen for
this mission by the interference of Anna Bullen: — a
piece of vengeance truly feminine in its mixture of sen-
timent and spitefulness, and every way characteristic of
the individual woman.

ducen ItatberiHe of Srcagon. 381

and finding death now coming, she caused a maid
attending on her to write to the king to this ef-
fect:

"My most dear Lord, King, and Husband:

"The hour of my death now approaching, I
cannot choose, but, out of the love I bear you,
advise you of your soul's health, which you
ought to prefer before all considerations of the
world or flesh whatsoever; for which yet you
have cast me into many calamities, and yourself
into many troubles; but I forgive you all, and
pray God to do so likewise: for the rest, I com-
mend unto you Mary, our daughter, beseeching
you to be a good father to her, as I have here-
tofore desired. I must intreat you silso to re-
spect my maids, and give them in marriage, which
is not much, they being but three, and all my
other servants a year's pay besides their due, lest
otherwise they be unprovided for ; lastly, I make
this vow, that mine eyes desire you above all
things.— Farewell !""

She also wrote another letter to the ambas-
sador, desiring that he would remind the king '
of her dying request and urge him to do her this
last right.

What the historian relates, Shakespeare real-
izes. On the wonderful beauty of Katherine's.

" The king is said to have wept on reading this let-
ter, and her body being interred at Peterboro', in the
monastery, for honour of her memory it was preserved ■
at the Dissolution, and erected into a bishop's see.—
Herbert's "Life of Henry VIII."

382 SbaRcspcare's 1Bcro(nc0,

closing scene we need not dwell ; for that requires
no illustration. In transferring the sentiments
of her letter to her lips, Shakespeare has given
them added grace, and pathos, and tenderness,
without injuring their truth and simplicity: the
feelings, and almost the manner of expression,
are Katherine's own. The severe justice with
which she draws the character of Wolsey is ex-
tremely characteristic! the benign candor with
which she listens to the praise of him "whom liv-
ing she most hated" is not less so. How beau-
tiful her religious enthusiasm! — ^the slumber
which visits her pillow, as she listens to that sad
music she called her knell; her awakening from
the vision of celestial joy to find herself still on
earth —

Spirits of peace ! where are ye ? are ye all gone,
And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?

how unspeakably beautiful ! And to consummate
all in one final touch of truth and nature, we see
that consciousness of tier own worth and integ-
rity which had sustained her through all her
trials of heart, and that pride of station for which
she had contended through long years, — which
had become dear by opposition, and by the per-
severance with which she had asserted it, — ^re-
maining the last strong feeling upon her mind,
to the very last hour of existence.

When I am dead, good wench.
Let me be us'd with honour : strew me over
With maiden-flowers, that all the world may know

Ctueen Katbecfne ot Zlrrason. 383

I was a chaste wife to my grave : embalm me,
Then lay me forth : although unqueen'd, yet like
A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me.
I can no more.

In the Epilogue to this play,*' it is recom-
mended —

To the merciful construction of good women,
For such a one we show'd them:

alluding to the character of Queen Katherine.
Shakespeare has, in fact, placed before us a
queen and a heroine, who in the first place, and
above all, is a good woman; and I repeat, that
in doing so, and in trusting for all his effect to
truth and virtue, he has given a sublime proof
of his genius and his wisdom; — for which,
among many other obligations, we women re-
main his debtors.

" Written (as the commentators suppose), not by
Shakespeare, but by Ben Jonson.

384 Sbaliespeate's f)eroines.

LADY MACBETH.

I DOUBT whether the epithet historical can
properly apply to the character of Lady Mac-
beth; for though the subject of the play be taken
from history, we never think of her with any ref-
erence to historical associations, as we do with
regard to Constance, Volumnia, Katherine of
Arragon, and others. I remember reading some
critique, in which Lady Macbeth was styled the
"Scottish Queen" ; and methought the title, as
applied to her, sounded like a vulgarism. It ap-
pears that the real wife of Macbeth, — she who
lives only in the obscure record of an obscure
age, — bore the very unmusical appellation of
Graoch, and was instigated to the murder of Dun-
can, not only by ambition, but by motives of ven-
geance. She was the granddaughter of Kenneth
the Fourth, killed in 1003, fighting against Mal-
colm the Second, the father of Duncan. Mac-
beth reigned over Scotland from the year 1039
to 1053 ; — but what is all this to the purpose? The
sternly magnificent creation of the poet stands
before us independent of all these aids of fancy;
she is Lady Macbeth ; as such she lives, she
reigns, and is immortal in the world of imagina-
tion. What earthly title could add to her gran-
deur? what human record or attestation
strengthen our impression of her reality?

Xa&^ jfllbacbetb. 385

Characters in history move before us like a
procession of figures in basso relievo: we see one
side only, that which the artist chose to exhibit
to us; the rest is sunk in the block: the same
characters in Shakespeare are like the statues
cut out of the block, fashioned, finished, tangible
in every part : we may consider them under every
aspect, we may examine them on every side.
As the classical times, when the garb did not
make the man, were peculiarly favorable to
the development and delineation of the human
form, and have handed down to us the purest
models of strength and grace, so the times in
which Shakespeare lived were favorable to the
vigorous delineation of natural character. So-
ciety was not then one vast conventional masque-
rade of manners. In his revelations, the acci-
dental circumstances are to the individual char-
acter what the drapery of the antique statue is
to the statue itself; it is evident, that, though
adapted to each other, and studied relatively, they
were also studied separately. We trace through
the folds the fine and true proportions of the
figure beneath: they seem and are independent
of each other to the practised eye, though carved
together from the same enduring substance; at
once perfectly distinct and eternally inseparable.
In history we can but study character in relation
to events, to situation and circumstances, which
disguise and encumber it ; we are left to imagine,
to infer, what certain people must have been,
from the manner in which they have acted or
suffered. Shakespeare and nature bring us back

386 Sba]^e0peate'0 Iberofnes.

to the true order of things ; and showing us what
the human being is, enable us to judge of the pos-
sible as well as the positive result in acting and
suffering. Here, instead of judging the indi-
vidual by his actions, we are enabled to judge
of actions by a reference to the individual. When
we can carry this power into the experience of
real life, we shall perhaps be more just to one
another, and not consider ourselves aggrieved
because we cannot gather figs from thistles and
grapes from thorns.

In the play or poem of "Macbeth," the inter-
est of the story is so engrossing, the events so
rapid and so appalling, the accessories so sub-
limely conceived and so skilfully combined, that
it is difficult to detach Lady Macbeth from the
dramatic situations, or consider her apart from
the terrible associations of our first and earMest
impressions. As the vulgar idea of a Juliet — ^that
all-beautiful and heaven-gifted child of the south
— is merely a love-sick girl in white satin, so the
commonplace idea of Lady Macbeth,^_thQUglL.en-
dowed with the rarest "powers, the loftiest ener-
gies, and jthe profqundest affections^ ia_.liQtluiig
but a fierce, cruel woman, brandishing;_a_couple
of daggers, and inciting her husband to butcher
a poor old king. "

■ Even those who reflect more deeply are apt
to consider rather the mode in which a certain
character is manifested, than the combination of
abstract qualities making up that individual hu-
man being: so what should be last, is first; ef-
fects are mistaken for causes, qualities are con'

Xa&!S ^acbetb. 387

founded with their results, and the perversion
of what is essentially good with the operation of
positive evil. Hence it is, that those who can
feel and estimate the magnificent conception and
poetical development of the character, have over-
looked the grand moral lesson it conveys; they
forget that the crime of Lady Macbeth terrifies
us in proportion as we sympathize with her ; and
that this sympathy is in proportion to the degree
of pride, passion, and intellect we may ourselves
possess. It is good to behold and to tremble at
the possible result of the noblest faculties uncon-
trolled or perverted. True it is, that the ambi-
tious women of these civilized times do not mur-
der sleeping kings : but are there, therefore, no
Lady Macbeths in the world? no women who,
under the influence of a diseased or excited ap-
petite for power or distinction, would sacrifice
the happiness of a daughter, the fortunes of a
husband, the principles of a son, and peril their

own souls?

*****

The character of Macbeth is considered as one
of the most complex in the whole range of Shake-
speare's dramatic creations. He is represented
in the course of the action under such a variety
of aspects, the good and evil qualities of his
mind are so poised and blended, and instead of
being gradually and successively developed,
evolve themselves so like shifting lights and
shadows playing over the "unstable waters," that
his character has afforded a continual and inter-
esting subject of analysis and contemplation.

388 Sbal^espeare'0 fjcrofnes.

None of Shakespeare's personages have been
treated of more at large; none have been more
minutely criticized and profoundly examined. A
single feature in his character — the question, for
instance, as to whether his courage be personal
or constitutional) or excited by mere desperation
— ^has been canvassed, asserted, and refuted in
two masterly essays.

On the other hand, the character of Lady Mac-
beth resolves itself into few and simple elements.
The grand features of her character are so dis-
tinctly and prominently marked, that though ac-
knowledged to be one of the poet's most sublime
creations, she has been passed over with com-
paratively few words : generally speaking, the
commentators seem to have considered Lady
Macbeth rather with reference to her husband,
and as influencing the action of the drama, than
as an individual conception of amazing power,
poetry, and beauty: or if they do individualize
her, it is ever with those associations of scenic
representation which Mrs. Siddons has identified
with the character. Those who have been ac-
customed to see it arrayed in the form and linea-
ments of that magnificent woman, and developed
with her wonder-working powers, seem satisfied
to leave it there, as if nothing more could be said
or added.**

** Mrs. Siddons left among her papers an analysis of
the character of Lady Macbeth, which I have never
seen; but I have heard her say, that after playing the
part for thirty years, she never read it over without
discovering in it something new. She had an idea that

atat'B Slsncbetb. 389

. ^ But the generation which beheld Mrs. Siddons
in her glory is passing away, and we are again

, left to our own unassisted feelings, or to all the
satisfaction to be derived from the sagacity of
critics and the reflections of commentators. Let
us turn to them for a moment.

Dr. Johnson, who seems to have regarded her

' as nothing better than a kind of ogress, tells us
in so many words that "Lady Macbeth is merely

- detested." Schlegel dismisses her in haste, as

• a species of female Fury. In the two essays on
Macbeth already mentioned, she is passed over

■ with one or two slight allusions. The only jus-
tice that has yet been done to her is by Hazlitt,
in "The Characters of Shakespeare's Plays."
Nothing can be finer than his remarks as far as
they go, but his plan did not allow him sufificient
space to work out his own conception of the char-
acter with the minuteness it requires. All that
he says is just in sentiment, and most eloquent
in the expression ; but in leaving some of the
finest points altogether untouched, he has also
left us in doubt whether he even felt or per-
ceived them: and his masterly criticism stops
short of the whole truth — it is a little superficial,
and a little too harsh.*^

Lady Macbeth must, from her Celtic origin, have been
a small, fair, blue-eyed woman. Bonduca, Fredegonde,
Brunehault, and other Amazons of the gothic ages, were
of this complexion; yet I cannot help fancying Lady
Macbeth was dark, like Black Agnes of Douglas — a sort
of Lady Macbeth in her way.

"The German critic Tieck also leans to this harsher
opinion, judging rather from the manner in which the

390 SbaReepcate's f)ero{ne5.

In the mind of Lady Macbeth, ambition is rep -
resented as the ruling motive, an intense, over-
mastering passion, which is gratified at the ex-
pense of every just and generous principle, and
every feminine feeling . In the pursuit of her obr
ject, she is cruel, treacherous, and daring. She is|
doubly, trebly, dyed in guilt and blood; for the
murder she instigates is rendered more fright-.
ful by disloyalty and ingratitude, and by the vio-
lation of all the mdst sacred claims of kindred
and hospitality. When her husband's more kindly,
nature shrinks from the perpetration of the- deed
of horror, she, like an evil genius, whispers him
on to his damnation. The full measure of her
wickedness is never disguised, the magnitude and
atrocity of her crime is never extenuated, for-
gotten, or forgiven, in the whole course of the
play. Our judgment is nqt bewildered, nor our
moral feeling insulted, by the sentimental jum-
ble of great crimes and dazzling virtues, after
the fashion of the German school, and of some
admirable writers of our own time. Lady Mac-
beth's amazing power of intellect, her inexorable
determination of purpose, her superhuman
strength of nerve, render her as fearful in herself
as her deeds are hateful; yet she is not a mere,
monster of depravity, with whom we have nothing
in common, nor a meteor whose destroying path
we watch in ignorant affright and amaze. She is
a terrible impersonation of evil passions and

•
character is usually played in Germany than from its
intrinsic and poetical construction.

Xa&B ilBacBetb. 391

mighty powers, never so far removed from pur
own nature as to be cast beyond the pale of our
sympathies; for the woman herself remains a
woman to the last, — still linked with her sex and
with humanity.

This impre^on is produced partly by the es-
sential truth in the conception of the character,
and partly by the manner in which it is evolved ;
by a combination of minute and delicate touches,
in some instances by speech, in others by silence :
at one time by what is revealed, at another by what
we are left to infer. As in real life, we perceive
distinctions in character we cannot always ex-
plain, and receive impressions for which we can-
not always account, without going back to the be-
l^inning of an acquaintance and recalling many
and trifling circumstances — looks, and tones, and
words : thus, to explain that hold which Lady
Macbeth, in the midst of all her atrocities, still
keeps upon our feelings, it is necessary to trace
minutely the action of the play, as far as she is
concerned in it, from its very commencement to
its close.

We must then bear in mind, that the first idea
of murdering Duncan is not suggested by Lady
Macbeth to her husband: it springs within his
mind, and is revealed to us before his first in-
terview with his wife, — ^before she is introduced,
or even alluded to.

MACBETH.

This supernatural soliciting
Cannot be ill; cannot be good. If ill,

392 Sbal:e6peare'0 "Betoines.

Why hath it given me earnest of success,
Commencing in a truth ? I am thane of Cawdor—
If good, why do I yield to that suggestion
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair.
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,
Against the use of nature?

It will be said, that the same "horrid sugges-
tipn" presents itself spontaneously to her on the
reception of his letter; or rather, that the letter
itself acts upon her mind as the prophecy of the
Weird Sisters on the mind of her husband, kin-
dling the latent passion for empire into a quench-
less flame. We are prepared to see the train of
evil, first lighted by hellish agency, extend it-
self to her through the medium of her husband ;
but we are spared the more revolting idea that
it originated with her. The guilt is thus more
equally divided than we should suppose when we
hear people pitying "the noble nature of Mac-
beth," bewildered and goaded on to crime, solely
or chiefly by the instigation of his wife.

It is true that she afterwards appears the more
active agent of the two;\but it is less through
her pre-eminence in wickedness than through her
superiority of intellect. The eloquence — the
fierce, fervid eloquence, with which she bears
down the relenting and reluctant spirit of her hus-
band, the dexterous sophistry with which she
wards off his objections, her artful and affected
doubts of his courage, the sarcastic manner in
which she lets fall the word coward — a word
which no man can endure from another, still less
from a woman, and least of all from the woman

Xa^s ifS^acbetb. 393

he loves — ^and the bold address with which she
removes all obstacles, silences all arguments,
overpowers all scruples and marshals the way be-
fore him, absolutely make us shrink before the
commanding intellect of the woman with a ter-
ror in which interest and admiration are strangely
imingled.

LADY MACBETH.

He has almost supp'd: why have you left the chamber?

MACBETH.

Hath he asked for me?

LADY MACBETH.

Know ye not he has?

MACBETH.

We will proceed no further in this business:
He hath honour'd me of late ; and I have bought
Golden opinions from all sorts of people,
Which would be worn now in their newest gloss.
Not cast aside so soon.

LADY MACBETH.

Was the hope drunk,
Wherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since?
And wakes it now, to look so green and pale
At what it did so freely? From this time,
Such I account thy love. Art thou afear'd
To be the same in thine own act and valour. i

As thou art in desire? Would'st thou have that
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life.
And live a coward in thine own esteem ;
Letting I dare not wait upon I would.
Like the poor cat i' the adage? ;

MACBETH.

Pr'ythee, peace :
I dare do all that may become a man;
Who dares do more, is none.

394 Sbalftespeare'e Ibetoines.

LADY MACBETH.

What beast was 't then.
That made you break this enterprize to me ?
When you durst do it, then you were a man;
And, to be more than what you were, you would
Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place,
Did then adhere, and yet you would make both;
They have made themselves, and that their fitness

now
Does unmake you. I have given suck ; and know
How tender 'tis to love the 'babe that milks me :
I would, while it was smiling in my face.
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums.
And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn, as you
Have done to this.

MACBETH.

If we should fail,—

LADY MACBETH.

We fail.*
But screw your courage to the sticking-place,
And we'll not fail.

" In her impersonation of the part of Lady Mac-
beth, Mrs. Siddons adopted successively three different
intonations in giving the words we fail. At first, as a
quick, contemptuous interrogation — "wc fail?" After-
wards, with the note of admiration — we fail! and an ac-
cent of indignant astonishment, laying the principal em-
phasis on the word we — we fail ! Lastly, she fixes on
what I am convinced is the true reading — we fail. — with
the simple period, modulating her voice to a deep, low,
resolute tone, which settled the issue at once — as though
she had said, "If we fail, why then we fail, and all is
over." This is consistent with the dark fatalism of the
character and the sense of the line following, and the
effect was sublime — almost awful.

laDis fliiacbetb. 395

Again, in the murdering scene, the obdurate in-
flexibility of purpose with which she drives on
Macbeth to the execution of their project, and.
her masculine indifference to blood and death, ■
would inspire unmitigated disgust and horror,
but for the involuntary consciousness that it is,
iproduced rather by the exertion of a strong
power over herself than by absolute depravity of
disposition and ferocity of temper. This impres-
sion of her character is brought home at once to
our very hearts with the most profound knowl-
edge of the springs of nature within us, the most'
subtle mastery over their various operations, and
a feeling of dramatic effect not less wonderful.
The very passages in which Lady Macbeth dis-
plays the most savage and relentless determina-
tion are so worded as to fill the mind with the
idea of sex, and place the woman before us in all :
her dearest attributes, at once softening and refin-
ing the horror, and rendering it more intense.
Thus, when she reproaches her husband for his

weakness —

From this time, f

Such I account thy love !

Again,

Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, ye murd'ring ministers,

*********

That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, &c.

I have given suck, and know

How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me, &c.

396 Sbafteapcatc's Ibetolnes.

And lastly, in the moment of extremest horror
comes that unexpected touch of feeling, so start-
ling, yet so wonderfully true to nature —

Had he not resembled

My father as he slept, I had done it!

Thus in one of Weber's or Beethoven's grand
symphonies, some unexpected soft minor chord
or passage will steal on the ear, heard amid the
magnificent crash of harmony, making the blood
pause, and filling the eye with unbidden tears.

It is particularly observable that in Lady Mac-
beth's concentrated, strong-nerved ambition, the
ruling passion of her mind, there is yet a touch
of womanhood; she is ambitious less for herself
than for her husband. It is fair to think this, be-
cause we have no reason to draw any other infer-
ence either from her words or actions. In her
famous soliloquy, after reading her husband's let-
ter, she does not once refer to herself. It is of
him she thinks : she wishes to see her husband on
the throne, and to place the sceptre within his
grasp. The strength of her affections adds
strength to her ambition. Although in the old
story of Boethius we are told that the wife of
Macbeth "burned with unquenchable desire to
bear the name of queen," yet, in the aspect under
which Shakespeare has represented the character
to us, the ^selfish part of this ambition is kept out
of sight. We must remark also, that in Lady
Macbeth's reflections on her husband's character,
and on that milkiness of nature which she fears
"may impede him from the golden round," there

Xa^B ^acbctb. 397

is no indication of female scorn : there is exceed-
' ing pride, but no egotism in the sentiment or the
expression ; no want of wifely and womanly re-
spect and love for him, but on the contrary, a
sort of unconsciousness of her own mental su-
periority, ^hich she betrays rather than asserts,
■ as interesting in itself as it is most admirably
, conceived and delineated.

Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be

What thou art promis'd: — Yet do I fear thy nature;

It is too full o' the milk of human kindness

To catch the nearest way : Thou would'st be great ;

Art not without ambition; but without

The illness should attend it. What thou would'st

highly,
That would'st thou holily : would'st not play false,
And yet would'st wrongly win : thou'dst have, great

Glamis,
That which cries. Thus thou must do, if thou have it;
And that which rather thou dost fear to do.
Than wishest should be done. Hie thee hither,
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear;
And chastise with the valour of my tongue
All that impedes thee from the golden round.
Which fate and metaphysical" aid doth seem
To have thee crown'd withal.

Nor is there anything vulgar in her ambition:
as the strength of her affections lend to it some-
thing profound and concentrated, so her splendid
imagination invests the object of her desire with
its own radiance." We cannot trace in her grand
and capacious mind that it is the mere baubles
and trappings of royalty which dazzle and allure

" Metaphysical is here used in the sense of spiritual or
preternatural.

398 Sbaftespcatc's Iberofncs.

her : hers is the sin of the "star-bright apostate,"
and she plunges with her husband into the abyss
of guilt, to procure for "all their days and nights
sole sovereign sway and masterdom." She revels,
she luxuriates in her dream of power. She
reaches at the golden diadem which is to sear
her brain; she perils life and soul for its attain-
ment, with an enthusiasm as perfect, a faith as
settled, as that of the martyr, who sees at the
stake heaven and its crowns of glory opening
, upon him.

Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor!
Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter!
Thy letters have transported me beyond
This ignorant present, and I feel now
The future in the instant !

This is surely the very rapture of ambition!
and those who have heard Mrs. Siddons pro-
nounce the word hereafter, cannot forget the look,
the tone, which seemed to give her auditors a
glimpse of that awful future, which she, in her
prophetic fury, beholds upon the instant.

But to return to the text before us : Lady Mac-
beth having proposed the object to herself, and
arrayed it with an ideal glory, fixes her eye
steadily upon it, soars far above all womanish
feelings and scruples to attain it, and swoops upon
her victim with the ^rength and velocity of a
vulture; but having committed unflinchingly the
crime necessary for the attainment of her pur-
pose, she stops there. After the murder of Dun-
can, we see Lady Macbeth, during the rest of the

Xa&s Abacbetb. 399

play, occupied in supporting the nervous weak-
ness and sustaining the fortitude of her husband ;
for instance, Macbeth is at one time on the verge
of frenzy, between fear and horror, and it is
clear that if she loses her self-command, both
must perish.

MACBETH.

One cried, God bless us ! and Amen ! the other ;
As they had seen me, with these hangman's hands.
Listening their fear; I could not say Amen!
When they' did cry God bless us!

LADY MACBETH.

Consider it not so deeply!

MACBETH.

But wherefrora could not pronounce Amen?
I had most need of blessing, and Amen
Stuck in my throat.

LADY MACBETH.

These deeds must not be thought
After these ways: so, it will make us mad.

MACBETH.

Methought I heard a voice cry "Sleep no more !" &c.

LADY MACBETH.

What do you mean?
Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy Thane,
You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brainsickly of things:— Go, get some water, &c.

Afterwards (in act iii.) she is represented as
muttering to herself :

Nought's had, all's spent.
When our desire is got without content :

400 Sbaltespeate'0 Iberotnea.

yet immediately addresses her moody and con-
science-stricken husband :

How now, my lord? why do you keep alone,
Of sorriest fancies your companions making?
Using those thoughts, which should indeed have died
With them they think on ? Things without all remedy
Should be without regard ; what's done, is done.

But she is nowhere represented as urging him on
to new crimes ; so far from it, that when Macbeth
darkly hints his purposed assassination of Ban-
quo, and she inquires his meaning, he replies :

Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck.
Till thou applaud the deed.

The same may be said of the destruction of
Macduff's family. Every one must perceive how
our detestation of the woman had been increased,
if she had been placed before us as suggesting
and abetting those additional cruelties into which
Macbeth is hurried by his mental cowardice.
y^ If my feeling of Lady Macbeth's character be
just to the conception of the poet, then she is one
who could steel herself to the commission of a
crime from necessity and expediency, and be
daringly wicked for a great end, but not likely
to perpetuate gratuitous murders from any vague
or selfish fears. I do not mean to say that the
perfect confidence existing between herself and
Macbeth could possibly leave her in ignorance
of his actions or designs: that heart-broken and
shuddering allusion to the murder of Lady Mac-
duff (in the sleping scene) proves the contrary :

lads Aacbetb. 401

The thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now?

But she is nowhere brought before us in immedi-
ate connection with these horrors, and we are
spared any flagrant proof of her participation in
them. This may not strike us at first, but most
undoubtedly has an eflfect on the general bearing
of the character, considered as a whole.

Another more obvious and pervading source of
interest arises from that bond of entire affection
and confidence which, through the whole of this
dreadful tissue of crime and its consequences,
unites Macbeth and his wife ; claiming from us an
involuntary respect and sympathy, and shedding
a softening influence over the whole tragedy.
Macbeth leans upon her strength, trusts in her
fidelity, and throws himself on her tenderness.

O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!
She sustains him, calms him, soothes him —

Come on; gentle my lord.

Sleek o'er your rugged looks ; be bright and Jovial
Among your guests to-night

The endearing epithets, the terms of fondness
in. which he addresses her, and the tone of re-
spect she invariably maintains towards him, even
when most exasperated by his vacillation of mind
and his brain-sick terrors, have by the very force
of contrast a powerful effect on the fancy.

By these tender redeeming touches we are im-
pressed with a feeling that Lady Macbeth's in-

402 Sbaftespearc's Iberoincs.

fluence over the affections of her husband, as a
wife and a woman, is at least equal to her power
over him as a superior mind. Another thing has
always struck me. During the supper scene, in
which Macbeth is haunted by the spectre of the '
murdered Banquo, and his reason appears un-
settled by the extremity of his horror and dismay, '
her indignant rebuke, her low whispered remon-
strance, the sarcastic emphasis with which she
combats his sick fancies and endeavors to recall,
him to himself, have an intenseness, a severity, a
bitterness, which makes the blood creep.

LADY MACBETH.

Are you a man ?

MACBETH.

Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that
Which might appal the devil.

LADY MACBETH.

O proper stuff!
This is the very painting of your fear:
This is the air-drawn dagger, which, you said
Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws, and starts,
(Impostors to true fear), would well become
A woman's story at a winter's fire,
Authoriz'd by her grandam! Shame itself!
Why do you make such faces ? When all's done.
You look but on a stool.
What! quite unmann'd in folly?.

Yet when the guests are dismissed, and they are
left alone, she says no more, and not a syllable
of reproach or scorn escapes her: a few words
in submissive reply to his questions, and an en-
treaty to seek repose, are all she permits herself

la&B flbactctb. 403

to utter. There is a touch of pathos and of ten-
derness in this silence which has always affected
me beyond expression : it is one of the most mas-
terly and most beautiful traits of character in the
whole play.

Lastly, it is clear that in a mind constituted Hke
that of Lady Macbeth, and not utterly depraved
and hardened by the habit of crime, conscience
must wake some time or other, and bring with it
remorse closed by despair, and despair by death.
This great moral retribution was to be displayed
to us — but how ? Lady Macbeth is not a woman
to start at shadows ; she mocks at air-drawn dag-
gers: she sees no imagined spectres rise from
. the tomb to appal or accuse her.** The tower-
ing bravery of her mind disdains the visionary
terrors which haunt her weaker husband. We
know, or rather we feel, that she who could give
a voice to the most direful intent, and call on
the spirits that wait on mortal thoughts to "un-
sex her" and "stop up all access and passage of
"remorse" — to that remorse would have given nor
tongue nor sound; and that rather than have ut-
tered a complaint, she would have held her breath
and died. To have given her a confidant, though
in the partner of her guilt, would have been a de-
grading resource, and have disappointed and en-

** Mrs. Siddons, I believe,, had an idea that Lady Mac-
beth beheld the spectre of Banquo in the supper scene,
and that her self-control and presence of mind enabled
her to surmount her consciousness of the ghastly pres-
' ence. This would be superhuman, and I do not see that
either the character or the text bear out the supposition.

404 Sbafiespeate's f>eroines.

feebled all our previous impressions of her char-
acter ; yet justice is to be done, and we are to be
made acquainted with that which the woman her-
self would have suffered a thousand deaths of
torture rather than have betrayed. In the sleep-
ing scene we have a glimpse into the depths of
that inward hell: the seared brain and broken
heart are laid bare before us in the helplessness
of slumber. By a judgment the most sublime
ever imagined, yet the most unforced, natural,
and inevitable, the sleep of her who murdered
sleep is no longer repose, but a condensation of re-
sistless horrors which the prostrate intellect and
the powerless will can neither baffle nor repel. We
shudder and are satisfied; yet our human sym-
pathies are again touched: we rather sigh over
the ruin than exult in it ; and after watching her
through this wonderful scene with a sort of fas-
cination, dismiss the unconscious, helpless, de-
spair-stricken murderess, with a feeling which .
Lady Macbeth, in her waking strength, with all
her awe-commanding powers about her, could
never have excited.

It is here especially we perceive that sweetness
of nature which in Shakespeare went hand in
hand with his astonishing powers. He never con-
founds that line of demarcation which eternally
separates good from evil, yet he never places evil
before us without exciting in some way a con-
sciousness of the opposite good which shall bal-
ance and relieve it.

I do not deny that he has represented in Lady

la&s Aacbetb. 405

Macbeth a woman "naturally cruel,"^^ "invariably
savage,"^" or endued with "pure demoniac Urm-
ness."^^ If ever there could have existed a
woman to whom such phrases could apply — a.
woman without touch of modesty, pity, or fear,
— Shakespeare knew that a thing so monstrous
was unfit for all the purposes of poetry. If Lady
Macbeth had been naturally cruel, she needed not
so solemnly to have abjured all pity, and called
on the spirits that wait on mortal thoughts to
unsex her ; nor would she have been loved to ex-
cess by a man of Macbeth's character; for it is
the sense of intellectual energy and strength of
will overpowering her feminine nature which
draws from him that burst of intense admira-
tion —

Bring forth men-children only!

For thy undaunted metal should compose

Nothing but males.

If she had been invariably savage, her love would
not have comforted and sustained her husband in .
his despair, nor would her uplifted dagger have
been arrested by a dear and venerable image ris-
ing between her soul and its fell purpose. If en-
dued with pure demoniac Urmness, her woman's
nature would not, by the reaction, have been so
horribly venged, — she would not have died of re-
morse and despair.

*******

We cannot but observe, that through the whole
of the dialogue appropriated to Lady Macbeth,

" Cumberland. " Professor Richardson.

"Foster's "Essays."

406 Sbaftespearc's fjerotnes.

there is something very peculiar and characteristic
in the turn of expression : her compliments, when
she is playing the hostess or the queen, are elab-
orately elegant and verbose : but, when in earnest,
she speaks in short, energetic sentences — some-
times abrupt, but always full of meaning, her
thoughts are rapid and clear, her expressions
forcible, and the imagery like sudden flashes of
lightning: all the foregoing extracts exhibit this,
but I will venture one more, as an immediate il-
lustration.

MACBETH.

My dearest love,
Duncan comes here to-night.

LADY MACBETH.

And when goes hence?

MACBETH.

To-morrow, — as he purposes.

LADY MACBETH.

O never
Shall sun that morrow see!
Thy face, my Thane, is as a book, where men
May read strange matters : To beguile the time, —
Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,
Your hand, your tongue; look like the innocent flower.
But be the serpent under it.

What would not the firmness, the self-com-
mand, the enthusiasm, the intellect, the ardent
affections of this woman have performed, if prop-
erly directed? but the object being unwortky of,
the effort, the end is disappointment, despair,
and death.

XaOB /Kacbctb. 407

The power of religion could alone have con-
trolled such a mind; but it is the misery of a
very proud, strong, and gifted spirit, without
sense of religion, that instead of looking upward
to find a superior, it looks round and sees all
things as subject to itself. Lady Macbeth is
placed in a dark, ignorant, iron age ; her powerful
intellect is slightly tinged with its credulity and
superstitions, but she has no religious feeling to
restrain the force of will. She is a stern fatalist
in principal and action — "what is done, is done,"
and would be done over again under the same cir-
cumstances: her remorse is without repentance,
or any reference to an offended Deity; it arises
from the pang of a wounded conscience, the re-
coil of the violated feelings of nature: it is the
horror of the past, not the terror of the future;
the torture of self-condemnation, not the fear of
judgment: it is strong as her soul, deep as her
guilt, fatal as her resolve, and terrible as her
crime.

If it should be objected to this view of Lady
Macbeth's character that it engages our sym-
pathies in behalf of a perverted being — and that
to leave her so strong a power upon our feelings
in the midst of such supreme wickedness in-
volves a moral wrong, I can only reply, in the
words of Dr. Channing, that "in this and the like
cases our interest fastens on what is not evil in
the character — that there is something kindling
and ennobling in the consciousness, however
awakened, of the energy which resides in mind;
and many a virtuous man has borrowed new

408 Sbabespeate's feeroinea.

strength from the force, constancy, and daunt-
less courage of evil agents."^^

This is true ; and might he not have added that
many a powerful and gifted spirit has learnt hu-
miHty and self-government, from beholding how
far the energy which resides in mind may be de-
graded and perverted?

In general, when a woman is introduced into
a tragedy to be the presiding genius of evil in
herself, or the cause of evil to others, she is either
too feebly or too darkly portrayed; either rrime
is heaped on crime, and horror on horror, till our
sympathy is lost in incredulity, or the stimulus is
sought in unnatural or impossible situations, or
in situations that ought to be impossible (as in
the Myrrha or the Cenci), or the character is
enfeebled by a mixture of degrading propensities
and sexual weakness, as in Vittoria Corombona.
But Lady Macbeth, though so supremely wicked.,
and so consistently feminine, is still, kept aloof
from all base alloy. When Shakespeare created a
female character purely detestable, he made her
an accessory, never a principal. Thus Regan and
Goneril are two powerful sketches of selfishness,
cruelty, and ingratitude; we abhor them when-
ever we see or think of them, but we think very
little about them, except as necessary to the ac-
tion of the drama. They are to cause the mad-

" See Dr. Channing's remarks on Satan, in his essay,
"On the Character and Writings of Milton." — Works, p.
131.

Xa&B /iBacbetb. 409

ness of Lear, and call forth the filial devo-
tion of Cordelia, and their depravity is forgotten
in its effects. A comparison has been made be-
tween Lady Macbeth and the Greek Clytemnestra
in the "Agamemnon" of ^schylus. The Cly-
temnestra of Sophocles is something more in
Shakespeare's spirit, for she is something less im-
pudently atrocious: but, considered as a woman
and an individual, would any one compare this
shameless adulteress, cruel murderess, and unna-
tural mother, with Lady Macbeth? Lady Mac-
beth herself would certainly shrink from the ap-
proximation.^*

The Electra of Sophocles comes nearer to Lady
Macbeth as a poetical conception, with this strong
distinction, that she commands more respect and
esteem, and less sympathy. The murder in which
she participates is ordained by the oracle — is an
act of justice, and therefore less a murder than a

"The vision of Clytemnestra the night before she is
murdered, in which she dreams that she has given birth
to a dragon, and that in laying it to her bosom it draws
blood instead of milk, has been greatly admired, but I
suppose that those who most admire it would not place
it in comparison with Lady Macbeth's sleeping scene.
Lady Ashton, in "The Bride of Lammermoor," is a do-
mestic Lady Macbeth ; but the development being in the •
narrative, not the dramatic form, it follows hence that
■wi have a masterly portrait, not a corpplete individual :
and the relief of poetry and sympathy being wanting,
the detestation she inspires is so unmixed as to be al-
most intolerable : consequently the character, considered
in relation to the other personages of the story, is per-
fect; but abstractedly, it is imperfect; a basso relieve-
not a statue.

410 Sbaftespcatc's IDerotnca.

sacrifice. Electra is drawn with magnificent sim-
plicity, an intensity of feeling and purpose, but
there is a want of light and shade and relief.
Thus the scene in which Orestes stabs his mother
within her chamber, and she is heard pleading
for mercy, while Electra stands forward listen-
ing exultingly to her mother's cries, and urging
her brother to strike again, "another blow ! an-
other !" etc., is terribly fine, but the horror is too
shocking, too physical — if I may use such an ex-
pression; it will not surely bear a comparison
with the murdering scene in Macbeth, where the
exhibition of various passions — ^the irresolution
of Macbeth, the bold determination of his wife,
the deep suspense, the rage of the elements with-
out, the horrid stillness within, and the secret
feeling of that infernal agency which is ever pres-
ent to the fancy, even when not visible on the
scene — throw a rich coloring of poetry over the
whole, which does not take from "the present
horror of the time," and yet relieves it. Shake-
speare's blackest shadows are like those of Rem-
brandt ; so intense, that the gloom which brooded
over Egypt in her day of wrath was pale in com-
parison, — yet so transparent, that we seem to see
the light of heaven through their depth.

In the who&p compass of dramatic poetry, there
is but one fertitale character which can be placed
near that of Lady Macbeth ; — the "Medea." Not
the vulgar, voluble fury of the Latin tragedy,'**
nor the Medea in a hoop petticoat of Corneille,

"Attributed to Seneca,

la^E flSacbetb. 411

but the genuine Greek Medea-^the Medea of
Euripides.^^

There is something in the Medea which seizes
irresistibly on the imagination. Her passionate
devotion to Jason for whom she had left her par-
ents and country — to whom she had given all,
and

Would have drawn the spirit from her breast
Had he but asked it, sighing forth her soul
Into his bosom."

the wrongs and insults which drive her to des-
peration — the horrid refinement of cruelty with
which she weeps over her children, whom in the
her faithless husband — the gush of fondness with
which she weep over her children, whom in the
next moment she devotes to destruction in a par-
oxysm of insane fury, carry the terror and pathos
of tragic situation to their extreme height. But
if we may be allowed to judge through the medi-
um of a translation, there is a certain hardness
in the manner of treating the character, which
in some degree defeats the effect. Medea talks
too much: her human feelings and superhuman
power are not sufJficiently blended. Taking into
consideration the different impulses which actu-
ate Medea and Lady Macbeth, as love, jealousy.

•• The comparison has already been made in an article
in the "Reflector." It will be seen, on a reference to
that very masterly Essay, that I differ from the author
in his conception of Lady Macbeth's character.

"Apollonius Rhodius. — Vide Elton's "Specimens of
the Classic Poets."

412 SbaRespeare's tbetoinee.

and revenge, on the one side, and ambition on
the other, we expect to find more of female na-
ture in the first than in the last ; and yet the con-
trary is the fact: at least, my own impression,
as far as a woman may judge of a woman, is, that
although the passions of Medea are more femi-
nine, the character is less so ; we seem to require
more feeling in her fierceness, more passion in
her frenzy ; something less of poetical abstraction,
— less art, — fewer words ; her delirious vengeance
we might forgive, but her calmness and sub-
tlety are rather revolting.

These two admirable characters, placed in con-
trast to each other, afford a fine illustration of
Schlegel's distinction between the ancient or
Greek drama, which he compares to sculpture,
and the modern or romantic drama, which he
compares to painting. The gothic grandeur, the
rich chiaroscuro, and deep-toned colors of Lady
Macbeth, stand thus opposed to the classical ele-
gance and mythological splendor, the delicate
yet inflexible outline of the Medea. If I might
be permitted to carry this illustration still further,
I would add, that there exists the same distinc-
tion between the Lady Macbeth and the Medea,
as between the Medusa of Leonardo da Vinci and
the Medusa of the Greek gems and bas-reliefs.
In the painting, the horror of the subject is at
once exalted and softened by the most vivid col-
oring and the most magical contrast of light
and shade. We gaze, until from the murky
depths of the background the serpent hair seems
to stir and glitter as if instinct with life, and the

3La5ie yaacbetb. 413

head itself, in all its ghastliness and brightness,
appears to rise from the cailvas with the glare
of reality. In the Medusa of scultpure how dif-
ferent is the effect on the imagination ! We have
here the snakes convolving round the winged and
■graceful head: the brows contracted with horror
. and pain : but every feature is chiselled into the
most regular and faultless perfection; and amid
• the gorgon terrors there rests a marbly, fixed,
supernatural grace, which, without reminding us
for a moment of common life or nature, stands
before us a presence, a power, and an enchant-
ment!

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