NORTH.

"O curse of marriage!That we can call those delicate creatures ours—And not their appetites."

This is the language of a some time married man—not of a man the morning after his nuptials.

The Handkerchief.

Ay—Emilia's words.

"I am glad I have found this napkin;This was her first remembrance from the Moor—My wayward husband hath a hundred timesWoo'd me to steal it; but she so loves the token,(For he conjur'd her, she would ever keep it,)That she reserves it evermore about her,To kiss, and talk to."

Here we have long time, and no mistake. Iago has wooed her to steal it a hundred times! When and where? Since their arrival at Cyprus.

I don't know that.

Nor do I. But I say the words naturally give us the impression of long time. In none of his soliloquies at Venice, or at Cyprus on their first arrival, has Iago once mentioned that Handkerchief as the chief instrument of his wicked design—and therefore Emilia's words imply weeks at Cyprus,—

"What will you give me nowFor that same handkerchief?Iago.What handkerchief?Emilia.Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona;That which so often you did bid me steal."

Go on.

"What sense had I of her stolen hours of lust?I saw it not—thought it not—it harm'd not me—I slept the next night well—was free and merry;I found not Cassio's kisses on her lips."

Next night—night after night—many nights—manyweddednights—long time at Cyprus.

And then Cassio's dream.

"I lay with Cassio—lately." Where, but at Cyprus? "Cursed fate! thatgave thee to the Moor."

Of that by-and-by.

Of that now. What?

By-and-by.

Better be a dumb dog, Seward, than snarl so.

And on Othello going off in a rage about the handkerchief—what saith Desdemona?—

"I ne'er saw this before."

These few words are full charged with long time.

They are. And Emilia's—"'Tis not a year or two shows us a man." True, that is a kind of general reflection—but a most foolish general reflection indeed, if made to a Wife weeping at her husband's harshness the day after marriage.

Emilia's "year or two" cannot mean one day—it implies weeks—or months. Desdemona then says,—

"Something, sure, of state,Either from Venice, or some unhatch'd practice," &c.

Does notthatlook like long time at Cyprus? Unlike the language of one who had herself arrived at Cyprus from Venice but the day before. And in continuation, Desdemona's

"Nay, we must think, men are not gods;Nor of them look for such observancesAs fit the bridal."

And that thought brings sudden comfort to poor Desdemona, who says sweetly—

"Beshrew me much, Emilia,I was (unhandsome warrior as I am,)Arraigning his unkindness with my soul;But now, I find, I had suborn'd the witness,And he's indited falsely."

That is—why did I, a married woman some months old, forget that the honey-moon is gone, and that my Othello, hero as he is, is now—not a Bridegroom—but a husband? "Men are not gods."

And Bianca? She's a puzzler.

A puzzler, and something more.

"Bianca.Save you, friend Cassio!Cassio.What make you from home?How is it with you, my most fair Bianca?I'faith, sweet love, I was comingto your house.Bianca.And I was going to your lodging, Cassio.What! keep a week away? seven days and nights?Eight score eight hours? And lovers' absent hours,More tedious than the dial eight score times?O weary reckoning!Cassio.Pardon me, Bianca;I have this while with leaden thoughts been press'd;But I shall, in a more continuate time,Strike off the score of absence."

Here the reproaches of Bianca to Cassio develop long time. For, besides his week's absence from her house, there is implied the preceding time necessary for contracting and habitually carrying on the illicit attachment. Bianca is a Cyprus householder; Cassio sups at her house; his intimacy, which has various expressions of continuance, has been formed with her there; he has found her, and grown acquainted with her there, not at Venice. I know it has been suggested that she was his mistress at Venice—that she came with the squadron from Venice; and that her last cohabitation with Cassio had taken place in Venice about a week ago—but for believing this there is here not the slightest ground. "What! keep a week away?" would be a strange exclamation, indeed, from one who knew that he had been but a day on shore—had landed along with herself yesterday from the same ship—and had been a week cooped up from her in a separate berth. And Bianca, seeing the handkerchief, and being told to "take me this work out," cries—

"O Cassio! whence came this?This is some token from a newer friend.To the felt absence now I feel a cause."

"To the felt absence," Eight score eight hours! the cause? Some new mistress at Cyprus—not forced separation at sea.

Then, Talboys, in Act IV., Scene I., Othello is listening to the conversation of Iago and Cassio, which he believes relates to his wife. Iago says—

"She gives it out that you shall marry her;Do you intend it?Cassio.Ha! ha! ha!Othello.Do you triumph, Roman? Do you triumph?Iago.Faith! the cry goes,that you shall marry her.Cassio.Pr'ythee, say true.Iago.I am a very villain else.Othello.Have youscored me? Well."

That is, have you marked me for destruction, in order that you may marry my wife? Othello believes that Cassio is said to entertain an intention of marrying Desdemona, and infers that, as a preliminary, he must be put out of the way. This on the first day after marriage? No, surely—long time at Cyprus.

Iago says to Cassio,

"My Lord is fallen into an epilepsy:This is his second fit:he had one yesterday.Cassio.Rub him about the temples.Iago.No, forbear;The lethargy must have his quiet course:If not, he foams at mouth; and, by-and-by,Breaks out to savage madness."

This is a lie—but Cassio believes it. Cassio could not have believed it, and therefore Iago would not have told it, had "yesterday" been the day of the triumphant, joyful, and happy arrival at Cyprus. Assuredly, Cassio knew that Othello had had no fitthatday; that day he was Othello's lieutenant—Iago but his Ancient—and Iago could know nothing of any fits that Cassio knew not of—therefore—Long Time.

"For I will make him tell the tale anew,Where, how, how oft, how long ago, and when,He hath—and is again to—"

He does so—and Othello believes what he hears Cassio tell of Bianca to be of Desdemona. Madness any way we take it—but madness possible only—on long time at Cyprus.

Then, sir, the trumpet announcing the arrival of Lodovico from Venice, at the close of Iago's and Othello's murderous colloquy, and Lodovico giving Othello a packet containing—his recall!

"They do command him home,Deputing Cassio in his government."

What are we to make of that?

The Recall, except after considerable time, would make the policy of the Senate frivolous—a thing Shakspeare never does, for the greatness of political movements lies everywhere for a support to the strength and power of his tragical fable. Half that we know of Othello out of the Scenes is, that he is the trusted General of the Senate. What gravity his esteem with you derives hence, and can we bear to think of him superseded without cause? Had Lodovico, who brings the new commission, set off the day after Othello from Venice? No. You imagine an intercourse, which has required time, between Othello, since his appointment, and the Senate. Why, in all the world, do they thus suddenly depose him, and put Cassio in his place? You cannot well think that the very next measure of the Senate, after entrusting the command of Cyprus, their principal Island, to their most tried General, in most perilous and critical times, was to displace him ere they hear a word from him. They have not had time to know that the Turkish Fleet is wrecked and scattered, unless they sit behind Scenes in the Green-room.

We must conclude that the Senate must give weeks or months to this New Governor ere interfering with him.—To recall him before they know he has reached Cyprus—nay, to send a ship after him next day—or a day or two following his departure—would make these "most potent, grave, and reverend Signors," enigmas, and the Doge an Idiot. What though a steamer had brought tidings back to Venice that the Turks had been "banged" and "drowned?" That was not a sufficient reason to order Othello back before he could have well set his foot on shore, or taken more than a look at the state of the fortifications, in case the Ottoman should fit out another fleet.

Then mark Lodovico's language. He asks, seeing Othello strike his wife—as well he may—"Is it his use?" Or did the letters "work upon his blood, and new-create this fault?" And Iago answers, "It is not honesty in me to speakwhat I have seen and known." Lodovico says, "The noble Moor, whom our Senate call all in all sufficient." Then they have not quarrelled with him, at least—nor lost their good opinion of him! Iago answers, "He is much changed?" What, in a day? And again—"It is not honesty in me to speak what I have seen and known." What, in a day? Lodovico comes evidently to Othello after a long separation—such as affords room for a moral transformation; and Iago's words——lies as they are—and seen to be lies by the most unthinking person—yet refer to much that has passed in an ample time—to a continued course of procedure.

But in all the Play, nothing is so conclusive of long time as the Second Scene of the Third Act.

"Othello.You have seen nothing, then?Emilia.Nor ever heard; nor ever did suspect.Othello.Yes, you have seen Cassio and she together.Emilia.But then I saw no harm; and then I heardEach syllable, that breath made up between them.Othello.What, did they never whisper?Emilia.Never, my Lord.Othello.Nor send you out o' the way?Emilia.Never.Othello.To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, nor nothing?Emilia.Never, my Lord.Othello.That's strange."

If all this relates to their residence at Cyprus, it indicates many weeks.

Ay—If.

What wicked whisper was that? Did you whisper, Buller?

No. I have not once whispered for a quarter of a century—My whispering days have long been over.

Then a word about Emilia. "I prythee, let thy wife attend on her," says Othello, going on board at Venice, to Iago. In the slight way in which such arrangements can be touched, this request is conclusive evidence to Emilia's being thenfirstplaced about Desdemona's person. It has no sense else; nor is there the slightest ground for supposing a prior acquaintance, at least intimacy. What had an Ensign's wife to do with a Nobleman's daughter? and now she is attached as an Attendant. Now, consider, first, Emilia's character. She seems not very principled, not very chaste. She gives you the notion of a tolerably well-practised Venetian Wife. Hear Iago's opinion, who suspects her with two persons, and one on general rumour. Yet how strong her affection for Desdemona, and her faith in her purity! She witnesses for her, and she dies for her! I ask, how long did that affection and that opinion take to grow? a few days at Venice, and a week while they were sea-sick aboard ship? No. Weeks—months. A gentle lady once made to me that fine remark,—"Emilia has not much worth in herself, but is raised into worth by her contact with Desdemona—into heroic worth!" "I care not for thy sword—I'll make thee known, though I lost twenty lives." And that bodeful "Perchance, Iago, I will ne'er go home"! what does it mean? but a dim surmise, or a clear, that what she will disclose will bring the death upon her from his dagger, which it brings. The impure dying a voluntary martyr for the pure is to the highest degree affecting—is the very manner of Shakspeare, to express a principal character by its influence on subordinate ones—has its own moral sublimity; but more than all, for our purpose, it witnesses time. Love, and Faith, and Fidelity, won from her in whom these virtues are to be first created!

Very fine. My dear sir, you are not angry with me?

Angry? Not he. Look on his face—how mild!

Othello, in his wrath, calls Emilia "a closet-lock-and-key of villanous secrets: and yet she'll kneel and pray; I have seen her do't." Where and when? It could only have been at Cyprus; and such language denotes a somewhat long attendance there on Desdemona.

Ingenious—and better than so.

"Some of your function, mistress," renewed to Emilia—when, after conversing with Desdemona, Othello is going out—is his treatment of one whom he supposes to have been serviceable to his wife's and Cassio's amour. Where? There, only there, in Cyprus, by all witnessing, palpably.Shecould not before. He speaks to her asprofessionalin such services, therefore long dealing in them; but this all respects this one intrigue, not her previous life. Thewicked energy of the forced attribution vanishes, if this respects anything but her helpfulness to his wife and her paramour, and at Cyprus—there—only there. Nothing points to a farther back looking suspicion. Iago's "thousand times committed" can only lengthen out the stay at Cyprus. Othello still believes that she once loved him—that she has fallen to corruption.

Antenuptial?

Faugh! Could he have the most horrible, revolting, and loathsome of all thoughts, that he wedded her impure? and not a hint given of that most atrocious pang? Incredible—impossible! I can never believe, if Shakspeare intended an infidelity taking precedency of the marriage, that he would not by word or by hint have said so. Think how momentous to our intelligence of the jealousy thedateis; not as to Tuesday or Wednesday, but as to before or after the nuptial knot—before or after the first religious loosing of the virgin zone. That a man's wife has turned into a wanton—hell and horror! But that he wedded one—Pah! Faugh! Could Iago, could Othello, could Shakspeare have leftthispoint in the chronology of guilt to be argued out doubtfully? No. The greatest of Poets for pit, boxes, and gallery, must have written intelligibly to pit, boxes, and gallery; and extrication, unveiled, after two hundred and fifty years, by studious men, in a fit of perplexity, cannot be the thunderbolt which Shakspeare flung to his audience at the Globe Theatre.

You remember poor, dear, Sweet Mrs Henry Siddons—theDesdemona—how she gave utterance to those words

"It was his bidding—therefore, good Emilia,Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu;We must not now displease him.Emilia.—I would you had never seen him!Desdemona.—So would not I; my love doth so approve him,That even his stubbornness, his checks, and frowns,—Pr'ythee, unpin me,—have grace and favour in them.Emilia.—I have laid those sheets you bade me on the bed.Desdemona.—All's one: Good father! how foolish are our minds!If I do die before thee—pr'ythee shroud meIn one of those same sheets."

The wedding sheets werereserved. They had been laid by for weeks—months—time long enough to give a saddest character to the bringing them out again—a serious, ominous meaning—disturbed from the quietude, the sanctity of their sleep by a wife's mortal presentiment that they may be her shroud.

Long time established at Cyprus.Verdict—Desdemona murdered by Othello heaven knows when.

Long time established at Cyprus.

Verdict—Desdemona murdered by Othello heaven knows when.

On rising, sir, to——

Sit down—no gentleman speaks on his legs before, at, or after meals in a private Party.

Except in Scotland. On sitting down, sir, to statemy Theory, I trust that I shall not lay myself open to the im——

Speak with your natural tone as if you were sitting, Seward, and not with that Parliamentary sing-song in which Statesmen, with their coat-tails perked up behind, declaim on the State of Europe—

I imagine, sir, that Shakspeare assumed the marriage to have taken place some time before the commencement of the Play—sufficiently long to admit the possibility of a course of guilt before the Play opens.I imagine that, with this general idea in his mind, he gave his full and unfettered attention to the working out ofthe Plot, which has no reference to the time, circumstances, or history of the Marriage, but relates exclusively to the Moor's Jealousy. Therefore the indications of past time at Venice are vague, and rarely scattered through the Dialogue.

A more astounding discovery indeed, Seward, than any yet announced by that Stunner, Christopher North. Pardon me, sir.

We have said our say, Shirra; let the Lord-Lieutenant of his County say his—

And the Chairman of the Quarter-Sessions, and President of the Agricultural Society of the Land's End say his.

I can beat you at Chess.

You!!!

Gentlemen, let there be no bad blood.

Supposing that this was Shakspeare's general idea of the Plot, I would first beg your attention to the fact that the marriage has taken place—none of us know how long—before the beginning of the Play.

The same night—the same night.

I said—none of us know how long; and as you are a Lawyer, Mr Talboys—

For goodness' sake, my dear Seward, don't mister me—

The only evidence, my dear Talboys, as to the history of the marriage is that given by Roderigo in the First Scene. He, with the most manifest anxiety to prove himself an honest witness, declares that now, at midnight, Desdemona had eloped—not withthe Moor, but with no "worse nor better guard, but with a knave of common hire, a gondolier,to," &c., &c. She has fledalonefrom her father's house; and Roderigo, being interrogated, "Are they married, think ye?" answers, "Truly I think they are."

What do you say to Iago's saying to Cassio—

"Faith heto-nighthas boarded a land Carrack:If it prove lawful prize, he's made for ever.Cassio.I do not understand.Iago.He's married."

It cannot be inferred, from these words, that this was the first occasion on which Desdemona and Othello had come together as man and wife. The words are quite consistent with the supposition that their marriage had taken place some time before; also quite consistent with Iago's knowledge of that event. It was not his cue or his humour to say more than he did. Why should he?

It cannot be inferred! It can—I infer it. And pray, how do you account for Othello saying to Desdemona, on the day of their arrival at Cyprus,

"The purchase made—the fruits are to ensue;That profit's yet to come 'twixt me and you."

"The purchase made"—refers to the price which Othello had paid for connubial delight with Desdemona awaiting him at Cyprus. That price was the peril which he had undergone during his stormy voyage. In his exuberant satisfaction, simply expressing a self-evident truth, that his happiness wasyetbefore him. Had Desdemona been then a virgin bride, Othello would hardly have used such language. Iago speaks in his usual characteristic coarse way—so no need to say a word more on the subject.

Very well. Be it so. But why should such a private marriage have been resorted to; and if privacy was desirable at first, what change had occurred to cause the public declaration of it?

Othello had been nine months unemployed in war—the Venetian State was at peace—and he had been in constant intercourse with the Brabantios.

"Her father lov'd me—oft invited me;"

and he "tookoncea pliant hour" to ask Desdemona to be his wife. That "once" cannot refer to the day on which the Play commences; and that their marriage took place some time before, is alike reconcileable with the character of the "gentle Lady," and with that of the impetuous Hero.

Truly!

Still, a private marriage is, under any circumstances, a questionable proceeding; and our great Dramatist was desirous that as little of the questionable as possible should either be or appear in the conduct of the "Divine Desdemona;" and therefore he has left the private marriage very much in the shade.

Very much in the shade indeed.

Her duplicity must be admitted, and allowance must be made for it. It was wrong, but not in the least unnatural, and perfectly excusable—

No.

And grievously expiated.

It was indeed. Poor dear Desdemona!

It is, you know, part of the proof of her capacity for guilt, that she so ingeniously deceived her father.

But why reveal it now?

Circumstances are changed. The Cyprus wars have broke out, and Othello is about to be commissioned to take the command of the Venetian force.

"I do know, the StateCannot with safety cast him, for he's embarkedWith such loud reason to the Cyprus wars,Which even now stand in act, that for their soulsAnother of his fathom have they notTo lead this business."

It was therefore necessary that the marriage should be declared, if Desdemonawas to accompany her husband to Cyprus. And the elopement from her fathertoher husband did take place just in time.

Is that what people call plausible?

All the difficulties of Time are thus removed in a moment. In a blaze of light we seeLong Time at Venice—Short Time at Cyprus.

Long Time at Venice—Short Time at Cyprus.That's the Ticket. You Scotsmen are not wholly without Insight; but for seeing into the heart of the bole—or of the stone—

Give me a Devonshire Cider-swiller or a Cornish Miner.

What! Can't we discuss a Great Question in the Drama without these unseemly personal and national broils. For shame, Talboys.

You Scotsmen indeed!

"Nay, but he prated,And spoke such scurvy and provoking termsAgainstyour Honour."

My dear Seward, let's hear how you support your Theory.

A great deal of weight, my dear Mr North, is to be attached to the calm tone—the husbandlike and matronlike demeanour of Othello and Desdemona when confronted with the Senate. That scene certainly impresses one with the conviction that they had been man and wife for a considerable period of time.

Very good, Seward—very good.

I do indeed think, sir, that the bride and bridegroom show much more composure throughout the whole of that Scene, than is very reconcileable with the idea that this was their nuptial night. Othello's "natural and prompt alacrity" in undertaking the wars was scarcely complimentary to his virgin Spouse upon this supposition; and Desdemona's cool distinguishings between the paternal and marital claims on her duty seem also somewhat too matronly for the occasion.

Very good—very good—my dear Seward, I like your observation much, that the demeanour of the married pair before the Senate has a stamp of composure. That is finely felt; but I venture to aver, my dear friend, that we must otherwise understand it. The dignity of their spirits it is that holds them both composed. Invincible self-collectedness is by more than one person in the Play held up for a characteristic quality of Othello. To a mind high and strong, which Desdemona's is, the exigency of a grand crisis, which overthrows weaker and lower minds, produces composure; from a sense of the necessity for self-possession; and involuntarily from the tension of the powers—their sole direction to the business that passes—which leaves no thought free to stray into disorder, and the inquietude of personal regards. Add, on the part of Othello, the gravity, and on that of Desdemona the awe of the Presence in which they stand, speak, and act; and you have ennobling and sufficing tragical, that is loftily and pathetically poetical, motives for that elate presence of mind which both show. Now all the greatness and grace vanish, if you suppose them calm simply because they have been married these two months. That is a reason fit for Thalia, not for Melpomene.

Let any one English among all the two of you answer that.

The Duke says—

"You must hence to-night.Desdemona.To-night, my Lord?Othello.With all my heart."

This faint expression of Desdemona's slight surprise and reluctance, and no more—is I allow—natural and delicate in her—whether wife, bride, or Maid—but Othello's "with all my heart" is—

Equally worthy of Othello. You know it is.

My dear Seward—do the Doge—Brabantio—the Senate understand and believe what Othello has been telling them—and that he has now disclosed to them the fact of a private marriage with Desdemona, of some weeks' or months' standing? Is that their impression?

I cannot say.

I can. Or has Othello been reserved—cautious—crafty in all his apparent candour—and Desdemona equally so? Are they indeed oldish-married folk?

Shocking—shocking. That Scene in the Council Chamber of itself deals your "Theory!" its death-blow.

I look on it in quite another light. I shall be glad to know what you think is meant by Desdemona's to the Duke

"If I be left behind,The rites for which I love him are denied me."

What are theriteswhich are thus all comprehensive of Desdemona's love for Othello? The phrase is, to the habit of our ears, perhaps somewhat startling; yet five lines before she said truly "I saw Othello's visage in his mind"—a love of spirit for spirit. And again—

"To his honour and his valiant partsDid I my soul and fortunes consecrate."

I think they had been married some time.

The wordritesis the very word most fitting the Lady's lips—used in a generous, free, capacious sense—as of the solace entire which the wife of a soldier has, following him; as to dress his wounds, wind his laurel, hear his counsels, cheer his darker mood, smile away the lowering of the Elements—

You won't understand me.

No—no—no. It won't go down. I have opened my mouth far and wide, and, it won't go down. Our friend Isaac Widethroat himself could not bolt it. The moral impossibility would choke him—that Othello would marry Desdemona to leave her at her Father's House, for which most perilous and entangling proceeding, quite out of his character, no motive is offered, or imaginable. The love-making might go on long—and I accept a good interval since he drew from her the prayer for his history. The pressure of the war might give a decisive moment for the final step, which must have been in agitation for some time—on Desdemona's behalf and part, who would require some persuasion for a step so desperate, and would not at once give up all hope of her, father's consent, who "loved" Othello.

If they were married, how base and unmanlyto steal one's wedded Wife out of one's Father-in-law's house! The only course was to have gone in the middle of the day to Brabantio and say, "this we have done"—or "this I have done. Forgive us, if you can—we are Man and Wife." Men less kingly than Othello have often done it. To steal in order to marry was atemptation with a circumstantial necessity—a gallant adventure in usual estimation.

The thing most preposterous to me in a long marriage at Venice, is the continued lying position in which it places Othello and Desdemona towards her father. Two months—say—or three or four—of difficult deception! when the uppermost characteristic of both is clear-souledness—the most magnanimous sincerity. By that, before anything else, are they kindred and fit for one another. On that, before anything else, is the Tragedy grounded—on his unsuspicious openness which is drawn, against its own nature, to suspect her purity that lies open as earth's bosom to the sun. And she is to be killed for a dissembler! In either, immense contrast between the person and fate. That These Two should truckle to a domestic lie!

No. The Abduction and Marriage were of one stroke—one effort—one plot. When Othello says, "That I have ta'en away—that I have married her"—he tells literally and simply that which has happened as it happened, in the order of events.

Why should not Othello marry Desdemona, and keep her at her father's, as theorised?

It is out of his character. He has the spirit of command, of lordship, of dominion—ananimus imperiosus. This element must be granted to fit him for his place; and it is intimated, and is consistent with and essential to his whole fabric of mind. Then, he would not put that which belonged to him out of his power, in hostile keeping—his wife and not his wife. It is contrary to his great love, which desires and would feed upon her continual presence. And against his discretion, prudence, or common sense, to risk that Brabantio, discovering, might in fury take sudden violent measures—shut her up in a convent, or turn her into the streets, or who knows what—kill her.

Then the insupportable consideration and question, how do they come together as man and wife? Does she come to his bedroom at his private Lodgings, or his quarters at the Sagittary? Or does he go to hers at her father's, climbing a garden wall every night like Romeo, bribing the porter, or trusting Ancilla? You cannot figure it out any way withoutdegradation, and something ludicrous; and a sense of being entangled in the impracticable.

The least that can be said is, that it invests the sanctimony of marriage with the air of an illicit amour.

Then the high-minded Othello running the perpetual and imminent risk of being caught thieving—slipping through loop-holes—mouse-holes—key-holes. What in Romeo and Juliet is romance, between Othello and Desdemona is almost pollution.

What a desolating of theMannersof the Play! Will you then, in order to evade a difficulty of the mechanical construction, clog and whelm the poetry, and moral greatness of the Play, with a preliminary debasement? Introduce your Hero and Heroine under a cloud?

And how can you show that Othello could not at any moment have taken her away, as at last you suppose him to do, having a motive? Mind—he knows that the wars are on—he does not know he shall be sent for that night. He does not know that he may not have to keep her a week at his quarters.

My dear Seward—pray, meditate but for a moment on these words of Desdemona in the Council Chamber—

"My noble Father,I do perceive herea divided duty:My life and education both do learn meHow to respect you; you are theLord of Duty,I am hitherto your Daughter:But here's my Husband;And somuch duty as my mother showedTo you, preferring you before her Father,So much I challenge that I may professDue to the Moor, my Lord."

These are weighty words—of grave and solemn import—and the time has come when Desdemona the Daughter is to be Desdemona the Wife. She tells simply and sedately—affectionately and gratefully—the great primal Truth of this our human and social life. Hitherto her Father has been to her the Lord of Duty—the Lord of Duty henceforth is to be her Husband. Othello, up to that night, had been but her Lover; and up to that night—for the hidden wooing was nothing to be ashamed of or repented—there had been to her no "divided Duty"—to her Father's happiness had been devoted her whole filial heart. But had she been a married woman for weeks or months before, how insincere—how hypocritical had that appeal been felt by herself to be, as it issued from her lips! The Duty had, in that case, been "divided" before—and in a way not pleasant for us to think of—to her Father violated or extinct.

I engage, Seward, over and above what our Master has made manifest, to show that though this Theory of yours would remove some difficulties attending the time in Cyprus, it would leave others just where they are—and create many more.

Grant that Othello and Desdemona must be married for two months before he murders her—that our hearts and imaginations require it. The resemblance to the ordinary course of human affairs asks it. We cannot bear that he shall extinguish her and himself—both having sipped only, and not quaffed from the cup of hymeneal felicity. Your soul is outraged by so harsh and malignant a procedure of the Three Sisters. Besides, in proper poetical equilibration, he should have enjoyed to the full, with soul and with body, the happiness which his soul annihilates. And men do not kill their wives the first week. It would be too exceptional a case. Extended time is required for the probability—the steps of change in the heart of Othello require it—the construction and accumulation of proofs require it—the wheel of events usually rolls with something of leisure and measure. So is it in the real World—so must it seem to be on the Stage—else no verisimilitude—no "veluti in speculum." "Two mouths shall elapse between marriage and murder," says Shakspeare—going to write. They must pass at Venice, or they must pass at Cyprus. Place Shakspeare in this position, and which will he choose? If at Venice, a main requiring condition is not satisfied. For in the fits and snatches of the clandestine marriage, Othello has never possessed with full embrace, and heart overflowing, the happiness which he destroys. If an earthquake is to ruin a palace, it must be built up to the battlements and pinnacles; furnished, occupied, made the seat of Pleasure, Pomp, and Power; and then shaken into heaps—or you have but half a story. Only at Cyprus OthellopossessesDesdemona. There where he is Lord of his Office, Lord over the Allegiance of soldier and civilian—of a whole population—Lord of the Island, which, sea-surrounded, is as a world of itself—Lord of his will—Lord of his Wife.

I feel, sir, in this view much poetical demonstration—although mathematical none—and in such a case Poetry is your only Principia.

Your hand. But if, my dear Seward, Shakspeare elects time at Venice, he wilfully clouds his two excellent Persons with many shadows of indecorum, and clogs his Action with a procedure and a state of affairs, which your Imagination loses itself in attempting to define—with improbabilities—with impracticabilities—with impossibilities. If he was resolute to have a well-sustained logic of Time, I say it was better for him to have his Two Months distinct at Cyprus. I say that, with his creative powers, if he was determined to have Two Calendar Months, from the First of May to the First of July, and then in One Day distinctly the first suspicion sown and the murder done, nothing could have been easier to him than to have imagined, and indicated, and hurried over the required gap of time; and that he would have been bound to prefer this course to that inexplicable marriage and no marriage at Venice.

How he clears his way!

But Shakspeare, my dear Boys, had a better escape. Wittingly or unwittingly, he exempted himself from the obligation of walking by the Calendar. He knew—or he felt that the fair proportionate structure of the Action required liberal time at Cyprus. He took it; for there it is, recognised in the consciousness of every sitting or standing spectator. He knew, or he felt, that the passionate expectation to be sustained in the bosoms of his audience required a rapidity of movement in his Murder-Plot, and it moves on feet of fire.

Venice is beginning to fade from my ken.

The first of all necessities towards the Criticism of the Play, Seward, is to convince yourself that there was not—could not be a time of concealed marriage at Venice—that it is not hinted, and is not inferable.

Shall we give in, Seward?

Yes.

You must go to theTremendous Double Time at Cyprus, knowing that the solution is to be had there, or nowhere. If you cast back a longing lingering look towards Venice, you are lost. Put mountains and waves between you and the Queen of the Sea. Help yourself through at Cyprus, or perish in the adventure.

Through that Mystery, you alone, sir, are the Man to help us through—and you must.

Not now—to-morrow. Till then be revolving the subject occasionally in your minds.

Let's off to the Pike-ground at Kilchurn.

Printed by William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh.

Back to Index Next