DESDEMONA.

Conceiving the dishonor of his mother,Had straight declined, drooped, took it deeply,Fastened and fixed the shame on't in himself,Threw off his spirit, appetite, and sleep,And downright languished.

She swoons away with grief, and her supposed death concludes the third act. The last two acts are occupied with the adventures of her daughter Perdita; and with the restoration of Perdita to the arms of her mother, and the reconciliation of 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 weakness. To conceive a character in which there enters so much of the negative, required perhaps no rare and astonishing effort of genius, such as 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 action and dialogue, without the aid of description: to preserve its tranquil, mild, and serious beauty, its unimpassioned dignity, and at the same time keep the strongest hold upon our sympathy and our imagination;and out of this exterior calm, produce the most profound pathos, the most vivid impression of life and internal power:—it is this which renders the character of Hermione one of Shakspeare's masterpieces.

Hermione is a queen, a matron, and a mother: she is good and beautiful, and royally descended. A majestic sweetness, a grand and gracious simplicity, an easy, unforced, yet dignified self-possession, are in all her deportment, and in every word she utters. She is one of those characters, of whom it has been said proverbially, that "still waters run deep." Her passions are not vehement, but in her settled mind the sources of pain or pleasure, love or resentment, are like the springs that feed the mountain lakes, impenetrable, unfathomable, and inexhaustible.

Shakspeare has conveyed (as is his custom) a part of the character of Hermione in scattered touches and through the impressions which she produces on all around her. Her surpassing beauty is alluded to in few but strong terms:—

This jealousyIs for a precious creature; as she is rareMust it be great.Praise her but for this her out-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 goodTo make a perfect woman; she you killedWould be unparalleled.I might have looked upon my queen's full eyes,Have taken treasure from her lips——and left themMore rich for what they yielded.

This jealousyIs for a precious creature; as she is rareMust it be great.Praise her but for this her out-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 goodTo make a perfect woman; she you killedWould be unparalleled.

I might have looked upon my queen's full eyes,Have taken treasure from her lips——and left themMore rich for what they yielded.

The expressions "most sacred lady," "dread mistress," "sovereign," with which she is addressed or alluded to, the boundless devotion and respect of those around her, and their confidence in her goodness and innocence, are so many additional 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 spotlessI' the eyes of heaven, and to you.Every inch of woman in the world,Ay, every dram of woman's flesh is false,If she be so.I would not be a stander-by to hearMy sovereign mistress clouded so, withoutMy present vengeance taken!

For her, my lord,I dare my life lay down, and will do't, sir,Please you t' accept it, that the queen is spotlessI' the eyes of heaven, and to you.

Every inch of woman in the world,Ay, every dram of woman's flesh is false,If she be so.I would not be a stander-by to hearMy sovereign mistress clouded so, withoutMy present vengeance taken!

The mixture of playful courtesy, queenly dignity, and lady-like sweetness, with which she prevails on Polixenes to prolong his visit, is charming.

HERMIONE.You'll stay!POLIXENES.No, madam.HERMIONE.Nay, but you will.POLIXENES.I may not, verily.HERMIONE.Verily!You put me off with limber vows; but I,Tho' you would seek t' unsphere the stars with oathsShould still say, "Sir, no going!" Verily,You shallnotgo! A lady's verily isAs potent as a lord's. Will you go yet?Force me to keep you as a prisoner,Not like a guest?

HERMIONE.

You'll stay!

POLIXENES.

No, madam.

HERMIONE.

Nay, but you will.

POLIXENES.

I may not, verily.

HERMIONE.

Verily!You put me off with limber vows; but I,Tho' you would seek t' unsphere the stars with oathsShould still say, "Sir, no going!" Verily,You shallnotgo! A lady's verily isAs 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 become 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 usWith one soft kiss a thousand furlongs, ereWith spur we heat an acre.

She receives the first intimation of her husband's jealous suspicions with incredulous astonishment. It is not that, like Desdemona, she does not or cannot understand; but shewillnot. When he accuses her more plainly, she replies with a calm dignity:—

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

This characteristic composure of temper never forsakes her; and yet it is so delineated that the impression is that of grandeur, and never borders 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 jealous 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, thatYou have thus published me! Gentle my lord,You scarce can right me thoroughly then, to sayYoudidmistake.

Her mild dignity and saint-like patience, combined as they are with the strongest sense of the cruel injustice of her husband, thrill us with admiration 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 lookWith an aspect more favorable. Good my lords,I am not prone to weeping, as our sexCommonly are; the want of which vain dewPerchance shall dry your pities; but I haveThat honorable grief lodged here, that burnsWorse than tears drown. Beseech you all, my lordsWith thought so qualified as your charitiesShall best instruct you, measure me; and soThe king's will be performed.

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 ignominious situation—all its shame and all its horror press upon her, and would apparently crush evenhermagnanimous spirit, but for the consciousness of her own worth and innocence, and the necessity that exists for asserting and defending both.

If powers divineBehold our human actions, (as they do),I doubt not, then, but innocence shall makeFalse accusation blush, and tyrannyTremble at patience.* * * *For life, I prize itAs I weigh grief, which I would spare. For honor—'Tis a derivative from me to mine,And only that I stand for.

If powers divineBehold our human actions, (as they do),I doubt not, then, but innocence shall makeFalse accusation blush, and tyrannyTremble at patience.

* * * *

For life, I prize itAs I weigh grief, which I would spare. For honor—'Tis a derivative from me to mine,And only that I stand for.

Her earnest, eloquent justification of herself, and her lofty sense of female honor, are rendered more affecting and impressive by that chilling despair that contempt for a life which has been made bitter to her through unkindness, which is betrayed in every word of her speech, though so calmly characteristic. When she enumerates the unmerited insults which have been heaped upon her, it is withoutasperity or reproach, yet in a tone which shows how completely the iron has entered her soul. Thus, when Leontes threatens her with death:—

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 favor,I do give lost; for I do feel it gone,But know not how it went. My second joy,The first-fruits of my body, from his presenceI 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 postProclaimed a strumpet; with immodest hatred,The childbed privilege denied, which 'longsTo women of all fashion. Lastly, hurriedHere to this place, i' the open air, beforeI have got strength of limit. Now, my liege,Tell me what blessings I have here alive,That I should fear to die. Therefore, proceed,But yet hear this; mistake me not. No! life,I prize it not a straw:—but for mine honor.(Which I would free,) if I shall be condemnedUpon surmises; all proof sleeping else,But what your jealousies awake; I tell you,'Tis rigor and not law.

The character of Hermione is considered open to criticism on one point. I have heard it remarked 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 memory; 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 because she cannot even resent? No, assuredly; but this is only another proof of the wonderful delicacy and consistency with which Shakspeare has discriminated the characters of all three. The incident of Hermione's supposed death and concealment for sixteen years, is not indeed very probable in itself, nor very likely to occur in every-day life. But besides all the probability necessary for the purposes of poetry, it has all the likelihood it can derive from the peculiar character of Hermione, who is precisely the woman who could and would have acted in this manner. In such a mind as hers, the sense of a cruel injury, inflicted by one she had loved and trusted, without awakening any violent anger or any desire of vengeance, would sink deep—almost incurably and lastingly deep. So far she is most unlike either Imogen or Desdemona, who are portrayed as much more flexible in temper; but then the circumstances under which she is wronged are very different, and far more unpardonable. The self-created, frantic jealousy of Leontes is very distinct from that of Othello, writhing under the arts of Iago: 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 Posthumusis an error of judgment, in Leontes is a vice of the blood; he suspects without cause, condemns without proof; he is without excuse—unless the mixture of pride, passion, and imagination, and the predisposition to jealousy with which Shakspeare has portrayed him, be considered as an excuse. Hermione has been openly insulted: he to whom she gave herself, her heart, her soul, has stooped to the weakness and baseness of suspicion; has doubted her truth, has wronged her love, has sunk in her esteem, and forfeited her confidence. She has been branded with vile names; her son, her eldest hope, is dead—dead through the false accusation which has stuck infamy on his mother's name; and her innocent babe, stained with illegitimacy, disowned and rejected, has been exposed to a cruel death. Can we believe that the mere tardy acknowledgment of her innocence could make amends for wrongs and agonies such as these? or heal a heart which must have bled inwardly, consumed by that untold grief, "which burns worse than tears drown?" Keeping in view the peculiar character of Hermione, such as she is delineated, is she one either to forgive hastily or forget quickly? and though she might, in her solitude, mourn over her repentant 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 heart by the unworthnessof him she loved, a spectacle of grief to all—to her husband a continual reproach and humiliation—walking through the parade of royalty in the court which had witnessed her anguish, her shame, her degradation, and her despair? Methinks that the want of feeling, nature, delicacy, and consistency, 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 imagination,—"the depth, but not the tumult of the soul,"[48]—there are but two influences which predominate over the will,—time and religion. And what then remained, but that, wounded in heart and spirit, she should retire from the world?—not to brood over her wrongs, but to study forgiveness, and wait the fulfilment of the oracle which had promised the termination of her sorrows. 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 thedramatic 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 effect to be found in the ancient or modern drama, but by the skilful manner in which it is prepared, it has, wonderful as it appears, all the merit of consistency and truth. The grief, the love, the remorse and impatience of Leontes, are finely contrasted with the astonishment and admiration of Perdita, who, gazing on the figure of her mother like one entranced, looks as if she were also turned to marble. There is here one little instance of tender remembrance in Leontes, which adds to the charming impression of Hermione's character.

Chide me, dear stone! that I may say indeedThou art Hermione; or rather thou art sheIn thy not chiding, for she was as tenderAs 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!

Chide me, dear stone! that I may say indeedThou art Hermione; or rather thou art sheIn thy not chiding, for she was as tenderAs 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 thesame moment is, and isnotillusion—the manner in which the feelings of the spectators become entangled between the conviction of death and the impression of life, the idea of a deception and the feeling of a reality; and the exquisite coloring of poetry and touches of natural feeling with which the whole is wrought up, till wonder, expectation, and intense pleasure, hold our pulse and breath suspended on the event,—are quite inimitable.

The expressions used here by Leontes,—

Thus she stood,Even with such life of majesty—warm life.The fixture of her eye has motion in't.And we are mock'd by art!

And by Polixines,—

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 personates 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 effigies, either at Basle or at Fribourg, which made me start: the figure was large as life; the drapery of crimson, powdered with stars of gold; the face and eyes, and hair, tinted after nature, though faded by time: it stood in a gothic niche, over a tomb, as I think, and in a kind of dim uncertain light. It would have been very easy for a livingperson to represent such an effigy, particularly if it had been painted by that "rare Italian master, Julio Romano,"[49]who, as we are informed, was the reputed author of this wonderful statue.

The moment when Hermione descends from her pedestal, to the sound of soft music, and throws herself without speaking into her husband's arms, is one of inexpressible interest. It appears to me that her silence during the whole of this scene (except where she invokes a blessing on her daughter's head) is in the finest taste as a poetical beauty, besides being an admirable trait of 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 Shakspeare's characters which exercise a far stronger power over our feelings, our fancy, our understanding, than that of Hermione; but not one,—unless perhaps Cordelia,—constructed upon so high and pure a principle. It is the union of gentleness with power which constitutes the perfection of mental grace. Thus among the ancients, with whom thegraceswere also thecharities, (to show, perhaps, that while form alone may constitute beauty, sentiment is necessary to grace,) one and the sameword signified equallystrengthandvirtue. 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 immutable truth and beauty, which revealed this sublime principle of art to the ancient Greeks, revealed it to the genius of Shakspeare; and the character of Hermione, in which we have the same largeness of conception and delicacy of execution,—the same effect of suffering without passion, and grandeur without effort, is an instance, I think, that he felt within himself, and by intuition, what we study all our lives in the remains of ancient art. The calm, regular, classical beauty of Hermione's character is the more impressive from the wild and gothic accompaniments of her story, and the beautiful relief afforded by the pastoral and romantic grace which is thrown around her daughter Perdita.

The character of Paulina, in the Winter's Tale, though it has obtained but little notice, and no critical remark, (that I have seen,) is yet one of the striking beauties of the play: and it has its moral too. As we see running through the whole universe that principle of contrast which may be called the life of nature, so we behold it every where illustrated in Shakspeare: upon this principle he has placed Emilia beside Desdemona, the nurse beside Juliet; the clowns and dairy-maids, and the merry peddler thief Autolycus 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 Antigones. She is a character strongly drawn from real and common life—a clever, generous, strong-minded, warmhearted woman, fearless in asserting the truth, firm in her sense of right, enthusiastic in all her affections: quick in thought, resolute in word, and energetic in action; but heedless, hot-tempered, impatient, loud, bold, voluble, and turbulent of tongue; regardless of the feelings of those for whom she would sacrifice her life, and injuring from excess of zeal those whom she most wishes to serve. How many such are there in the world! But Paulina, though a very termagant, is yet a poetical termagant in her way; and the manner in which all the evil and dangerous tendencies of such a temper are placed before us, even while the individual 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 softening him to a sense of his injustice—"an office which," as she observes, "becomes a woman best"—her want of self-government, her bitter, inconsiderate reproaches, only add, as we might easily suppose, to his fury.

PAULINA.I say I comeFrom 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 IA man, the worst about you.LEONTES.Force her hence.PAULINA.Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes,First hand me: on mine own accord I'll off;But first I'll do mine errand. The good queen(For she is good) hath brought you forth a daughter—Here 'tis; commends it to your blessing.LEONTES.Traitors!Will you not push her out! Give her the bastard.PAULINA.ForeverUnvenerable be thy hands, if thouTak'st up the princess by that forced basenessWhich he has put upon't!LEONTES.He dreads his wife.PAULINA.So, I wouldyoudid; then 'twere past all doubtYou'd call your children your's.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 husbandsThat cannot do that feat, you'll leave yourselfHardly one subject.LEONTES.Once more, take her hence.PAULINA.A most unworthy and unnatural lordCan do no more.LEONTES.I'll have thee burn'd.PAULINA.I care not:It is an heretic that makes the fire,Not she which burns in't.

PAULINA.

I say I comeFrom 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 IA man, the worst about you.

LEONTES.

Force her hence.

PAULINA.

Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes,First hand me: on mine own accord I'll off;But first I'll do mine errand. The good queen(For she is good) hath brought you forth a daughter—Here 'tis; commends it to your blessing.

LEONTES.

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

PAULINA.

ForeverUnvenerable be thy hands, if thouTak'st up the princess by that forced basenessWhich he has put upon't!

LEONTES.

He dreads his wife.

PAULINA.

So, I wouldyoudid; then 'twere past all doubtYou'd call your children your's.

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 husbandsThat cannot do that feat, you'll leave yourselfHardly one subject.

LEONTES.

Once more, take her hence.

PAULINA.

A most unworthy and unnatural lordCan do no more.

LEONTES.

I'll have thee burn'd.

PAULINA.

I care not:It is an heretic that makes the fire,Not she which burns in't.

Here, while we honor her courage and 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 susceptible in their own temper and feelings, who are most delicate and forbearing towards the feelings of others. She does not comprehend, or will not allow for the sensitive weakness of a mind lessfirmly 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 goodTo make a perfect woman, she you kill'dWould be unparallel'd.LEONTES.I think so. Kill'd!She I kill'd? I did so: but thou strik'st meSorely, to say I did; it is as bitterUpon thy tongue, as in my thought. Now, good now,Say so but seldom.CLEOMENES.Not at all, good lady:You might have spoken a thousand things that wouldHave done the time more benefit, and grac'dYour kindness better.

PAULINA.

If, one by one, you wedded all the world,Or, from the all that are, took something goodTo make a perfect woman, she you kill'dWould be unparallel'd.

LEONTES.

I think so. Kill'd!She I kill'd? I did so: but thou strik'st meSorely, to say I did; it is as bitterUpon thy tongue, as in my thought. Now, good now,Say so but seldom.

CLEOMENES.

Not at all, good lady:You might have spoken a thousand things that wouldHave done the time more benefit, and grac'dYour 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 injustice. It is admirable, too, that Hermione and Paulina, while sufficiently approximated to afford all the pleasure of contrast, are never brought too nearly in contact on the scene or in the dialogue;[50]for this wouldhave been a fault in taste, and have necessarily weakened the effect of both characters:—either the serene grandeur of Hermione would have subdued and overawed the fiery spirit of Paulina, or the impetuous temper of the latter must have disturbed in some respect our impression of the calm, majestic, and somewhat melancholy beauty of Hermione.

The character of Hermione is addressed more to the imagination; that of Desdemona to the feelings. All that can render sorrow majestic is gathered round Hermione; all that can render misery heart-breaking is assembled round Desdemona. The wronged but self-sustained virtue of Hermione commands our veneration; the injured and defenceless innocence of Desdemona so wrings the soul, "that all for pity we could die."

Desdemona, as a character, comes nearest to Miranda, both in herself as a woman, and in the perfect simplicity and unity of the delineation; the figures are differently draped—the proportions are the same. There is the same modesty, tenderness, and grace; the same artless devotion in the affections, the same predisposition to wonder, to pity, to admire; the same almost ethereal refinement and delicacy; but all is pure poetic nature within Miranda and around her: Desdemona ismore associated with the palpable realities of every-day existence, and we see the forms and habits of society tinting her language and deportment; no two beings can be more alike in character—nor more distinct as individuals.

The love of Desdemona for Othello appears at first such a violation of all probabilities, that her father at once imputes it to magic, "to spells and mixtures powerful o'er the blood."

She, in spite of nature,Of years, of country, credit, every thing,To fall in love with what she feared to look on!

And the devilish malignity of Iago, whose coarse mind cannot conceive an affection founded purely in sentiment, derives from her love itself a strong argument against her.

Ay, there's the point, as to be bold with you,Not to affect any proposed matchesOf her own clime, complexion, and degree,Whereto, we see, in all things nature tends,[51]&c.

Notwithstanding this disparity of age, character, country, complexion, we, who are admitted into the secret, see her love rise naturally and necessarily out of the leading propensities of her nature.

At the period of the story a spirit of wild adventure had seized all Europe. The discovery of both Indies was yet recent; over the shores of the western hemisphere still fable and mystery hung,with all their dim enchantments, visionary terrors, and golden promises! perilous expeditions and distant voyages were every day undertaken from hope of plunder, or mere love of enterprise; and from these the adventurers returned with tales of "Antres vast and desarts wild—of cannibals that did each other eat—of Anthropophagi, and men whose heads did grow beneath their shoulders." With just such stories did Raleigh and Clifford, and their followers return from the New World: and thus by their splendid or fearful exaggerations, which the imperfect knowledge of those times could not refute, was the passion for the romantic and marvellous nourished at home, particularly among the women. A cavalier of those days had no nearer no surer way to his mistress's heart, than by entertaining her with these wondrous narratives. What was a general feature of his time, Shakspeare seized and adapted to his purpose with the most exquisite felicity of effect. Desdemona, leaving her 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 honors and his valiant partsDoes 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 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 energy, arising from the power of affection, but gentleness gives the prevailing tone to the character—gentleness in its excess—gentleness verging on passiveness—gentleness, which not only cannot resent,—but cannot resist.

OTHELLO.Then of so gentle a condition!IAGO.Ay! too gentle.OTHELLO.Nay, that's certain

OTHELLO.

Then of so gentle a condition!

IAGO.

Ay! too gentle.

OTHELLO.

Nay, that's certain

Here the exceeding softness of Desdemona's temper is turned against her by Iago, 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 extreme gentleness of nature is yet delineated with such exceeding refinement, that the effect never approaches to feebleness. It is true thatonceher extreme timidity leads her in a moment of confusion and terror to prevaricate about the fatal handkerchief. This handkerchief, in the original story of Cinthio, is merely one of those embroidered handkerchiefs which were as fashionable in Shakspeare's time as in our own; but the minute description of it as "lavorato alla morisco sottilissimamente,"[52]suggested to the poetical fancy of Shakspeare one of the most exquisite and characteristic passages in the whole play. Othello makes poor Desdemona believe that the handkerchief was a talisman.

There's magic in the web of it.A sibyl, that had numbered in the worldThe sun to make two hundred compasses,In her prophetic fury sew'd the work:The worms were hallowed that did breed the silk,And it was dyed in mummy, which the skilfulConserv'd of maidens' hearts.DESDEMONA.Indeed! is't true?OTHELLO.Most veritable, therefore look to't well.DESDEMONA.Then would to heaven that I had never seen it!OTHELLO.Ha! wherefore!DESDEMONA.Why do you speak so startingly and rash?OTHELLO.Is't lost,—Is't gone? Speak, is it out of the way?DESDEMONA.Heavens 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 it, let me see it.DESDEMONA.Why so I can, sir, but I will not now, &c.

DESDEMONA.

Indeed! is't true?

OTHELLO.

Most veritable, therefore look to't well.

DESDEMONA.

Then would to heaven that I had never seen it!

OTHELLO.

Ha! wherefore!

DESDEMONA.

Why do you speak so startingly and rash?

OTHELLO.

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

DESDEMONA.

Heavens 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 it, let me see it.

DESDEMONA.

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

Desdemona, whose soft credulity, whose turn for the marvellous, whose susceptible imagination had first directed her thoughts and affections to Othello, is precisely the woman to be frightened out of her senses by such a tale as this, and betrayed by her fears into a momentary tergiversation. It is most natural in such a being, and showsus that even in the sweetest natures there can be no completeness and consistency without moral energy.[53]

With the most perfect artlessness, she has something of the instinctive, unconscious address of her sex; as when she appeals to her father—

So much duty as my mother show'dTo you, preferring you before her father,So much I challenge, that I may professDue to the Moor, my lord.

And when she is pleading for Cassio—

What! Michael Cassio!That came a wooing with you; and many a time.When I have spoken of you disparagingly,Hath ta'en your part?

In persons who unite great sensibility and lively fancy, I have often observed this particular species of address, which is always unconscious of itself, and consists in the power of placing ourselves inthe position of another, and imagining, rather than perceiving, what is in their hearts. We women have thisaddress(if so it can be called) naturally, but I have seldom met with it in men. It is not inconsistent with extreme simplicity of character, and quite distinct from that kind of art which is the result of natural acuteness and habits of observation—quick to perceive the foibles of others, and as quick to turn them to its own purposes; which is always conscious of itself, and, if united with strong intellect, seldom perceptible to others. In the mention of her mother, and the appeal to Othello's self-love, Desdemona has no design formed on conclusions previously drawn; but her intuitive quickness of feeling, added to her imagination, lead her more safely to the same results, and the distinction is as truly as it is delicately drawn.

When Othello first outrages her in a manner which appears inexplicable, she seeks and finds excuses for him. She is so innocent that not only she cannot believe herself suspected, but she cannot conceive the existence of guilt in others.

Something, sure, of state,Either from Venice, or some unhatch'd practiceMade demonstrable here in Cyprus to him,Hath puddled his clear spirit.'Tis even so—Nay, we must think, men are not gods,Nor of them look for such observancesAs fit the bridal.

And when the direct accusation of crime is flungon her in the vilest terms, it does not anger but stun her, as if it transfixed her whole being; she attempts no reply, no defence; and reproach or resistance never enters her thought.

Good friend, go to him—for by this light of heavenI 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 offTo beggarly divorcement, love him dearly,Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much,And his unkindness may defeat my life,But never taint my love.

And there is one stroke of consummate delicacy surprising, when we remember the latitude of expression prevailing in Shakspeare's time, and which he allowed to his other women generally: she says, on recovering from her stupefaction—

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