OCTAVIA.

CLEOPATRA.O my lord, my lord,Forgive my fearful sails! I little thoughtYou would have follow'd.ANTONY.Egypt, thou know'st too wellMy heart was to the rudder tied by the strings,And thou should'st tow me after. O'er my spiritThy full supremacy thou know'st; and thatThy beck might from the bidding of the godsCommand me.CLEOPATRA.O, my pardon?ANTONY.Now I mustTo the young man send humble treaties, dodgeAnd palter in the shifts of lowness; whoWith half the bulk o' the world play'd as I pleas'd,Making and marring fortunes. You did knowHow much you were my conqueror; and thatMy sword, made weak by my affection, wouldObey it on all cause.CLEOPATRA.O pardon, pardon!ANTONY.Fall not a tear, I say; one of them ratesAll that is won and lost. Give me a kiss;Even this repays me.

CLEOPATRA.

O my lord, my lord,Forgive my fearful sails! I little thoughtYou would have follow'd.

ANTONY.

Egypt, thou know'st too wellMy heart was to the rudder tied by the strings,And thou should'st tow me after. O'er my spiritThy full supremacy thou know'st; and thatThy beck might from the bidding of the godsCommand me.

CLEOPATRA.

O, my pardon?

ANTONY.

Now I mustTo the young man send humble treaties, dodgeAnd palter in the shifts of lowness; whoWith half the bulk o' the world play'd as I pleas'd,Making and marring fortunes. You did knowHow much you were my conqueror; and thatMy sword, made weak by my affection, wouldObey it on all cause.

CLEOPATRA.

O pardon, pardon!

ANTONY.

Fall not a tear, I say; one of them ratesAll that is won and lost. Give me a kiss;Even this repays me.

It is perfectly in keeping with the individual character, that Cleopatra, alike destitute of moral strength and physical courage, should cower terrified and subdued before the masculine spirit of her lover, when once she has fairly roused it. Thus Tasso's Armida, half siren, half sorceress, in the moment of strong feeling, forgets her incantations, and has recourse to persuasion, to prayers, and to tears.

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

Though the poet afterwards gives us to understand that even in this relinquishment of art there was a more refined artifice.

Nella doglia amaraGià tutte non oblia l' arti e le frodi.

And something like this inspires the conduct of Cleopatra towards Antony in his fallen fortunes. The reader should refer to that fine scene, where Antony surprises Thyreus kissing her hand, "that kingly seal and plighter of high hearts," and rages like a thousand hurricanes.

The character of Mark Antony, as delineated by Shakspeare, reminds me of the Farnese Hercules. There is an ostentatious display of power, an exaggerated grandeur, a colossal effect in the whole conception, sustained throughout in the pomp of the language, which seems, as it flows along, to resound with the clang of arms and the music of the revel. The coarseness and violence of the historic portrait are a little kept down; but every wordwhich Antony utters is characteristic of the arrogant but magnanimous Roman, who "with half the bulk o' the world played as he pleased," and was himself the sport of a host of mad (and bad) passions, and the slave of a woman.

History is followed closely in all the details of the catastrophe, and there is something wonderfully grand in the hurried march of events towards the conclusion. As disasters hem her round, Cleopatra gathers up her faculties to meet them, not with the calm fortitude of a great soul, but the haughty, tameless spirit of a wilful woman, unused to reverse or contradiction.

Her speech, after Antony has expired in her arms, I have always regarded as one of the most wonderful in Shakspeare. 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 impatience and pathos in her agony, are really magnificent. She faints on the body of Antony, and is recalled to life by the cries of her women:—

IRAS.Royal Egypt—empress!CLEOPATRA.No more, but e'en a woman![74]and commandedBy such poor passion as the maid that milks,And does the meanest chares.—It were for meTo throw my sceptre at the injurious gods:To tell them that our world did equal theirsTill they had stolen our jewel. All's but naught,Patience is sottish, and impatience doesBecome a dog that's mad. Then is it sinTo rush into the secret house of deathEre death dare come to us? How do you, women?What, what? good cheer! why how now, Charmian?My noble girls!—ah, women, women! lookOur lamp is spent, is out.We'll bury him, and then what's brave, what's noble,Let's do it after the high Roman fashion,And make death proud to take us.

IRAS.

Royal Egypt—empress!

CLEOPATRA.

No more, but e'en a woman![74]and commandedBy such poor passion as the maid that milks,And does the meanest chares.—It were for meTo throw my sceptre at the injurious gods:To tell them that our world did equal theirsTill they had stolen our jewel. All's but naught,Patience is sottish, and impatience doesBecome a dog that's mad. Then is it sinTo rush into the secret house of deathEre death dare come to us? How do you, women?What, what? good cheer! why how now, Charmian?My noble girls!—ah, women, women! lookOur lamp is spent, is out.We'll bury him, and then what's brave, what's noble,Let's do it after the high Roman fashion,And make death proud to take us.

But although Cleopatra talks of dying "after the high Roman fashion" she fears what she most desires, and cannot perform with simplicity what costs her such an effort. That extreme physical cowardice, which was so strong a trait in her historical character, which led to the defeat of Actium, which made her delay the execution of a fatal resolve, till she had "tried conclusions infinite ofeasyways to die," Shakspeare has rendered with the finest possible effect, and in a manner which heightens instead of diminishing our respect and interest. Timid by nature, she is courageous by the mere force of will, and she lashes herself up with high-sounding words into a kind of false 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 mustattend her captivity, and let it be observed, that those which she anticipates are precisely such as a vain, luxurious, and haughty woman would especially 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 Cæsar with dissembling courtesy, and meet duplicity with superior art; but "to be chastised" by the scornful or upbraiding glance of the injured Octavia—"rather a ditch in Egypt!"

If knife, drugs, serpents, haveEdge, sting, or operation, I am safe.Your wife, Octavia, with her modest eyes,And still conclusion,[75]shall acquire no honorDemurring upon me.Now Iras, what think'st thou?Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shall be shownIn Rome as well as I. Mechanic slaves,With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shallUplift us to the view. In their thick breaths,Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded,And forc'd to drink their vapor.IRAS.The gods forbid!CLEOPATRA.Nay, 'tis most certain, Iras. Saucy lictorsWill catch at us like strumpets; and scald rhymersBallad us out o' tune. The quick comediansExtemporally will stage us, and presentOur Alexandrian revels. AntonyShall be brought drunken forth; and I shall seeSome squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness.

If knife, drugs, serpents, haveEdge, sting, or operation, I am safe.Your wife, Octavia, with her modest eyes,And still conclusion,[75]shall acquire no honorDemurring upon me.

Now Iras, what think'st thou?Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shall be shownIn Rome as well as I. Mechanic slaves,With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shallUplift us to the view. In their thick breaths,Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded,And forc'd to drink their vapor.

IRAS.

The gods forbid!

CLEOPATRA.

Nay, 'tis most certain, Iras. Saucy lictorsWill catch at us like strumpets; and scald rhymersBallad us out o' tune. The quick comediansExtemporally will stage us, and presentOur Alexandrian revels. AntonyShall be brought drunken forth; and I shall seeSome squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness.

She then calls for her diadem, her robes of state, and attires herself as if "again for Cydnus, to meet Mark Antony." Coquette to the last, she must make Death proud to take her, and die, "phœnix like," as she had lived, with all the pomp of preparation—luxurious in her despair.

The death of Lucretia, of Portia, of Arria, and others who died "after the high Roman fashion," is sublime according to the Pagan ideas of virtue, and yet none of them so powerfully affect the imagination as the catastrophe of Cleopatra. The idea of this frail, timid, wayward woman, dying with heroism from the mere force of passion and will, takes us by surprise. The Attic elegance of her mind, her poetical imagination, the pride of beauty and royalty predominating to the last, and the sumptuous and picturesque 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 closing scene. Shakspeare has shown profound judgment and feeling in adhering closely to the 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 fascination of the character are kept upto the last, and when Cleopatra, on applying the asp, silences the lamentations of her women:—

Peace! peace!Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,That sucks the nurse to sleep?—

These few words—the contrast between the tender beauty of the image and the horror of the 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 Octavius hurries in too late to save his victim, and exclaims, when gazing on her—

She looks like sleep—As she would catch another AntonyIn her strong toil of grace,

the image of her beauty and her irresistible arts, triumphant even in death, is at once brought before us, and one masterly and comprehensive stroke consummates this most wonderful, most dazzling delineation.

I am not here the apologist of Cleopatra's historical character, nor of such women as resemble her: I am considering her merely as a dramatic portrait of astonishing beauty, spirit, and originality. She has furnished the subject of two Latin, sixteen French, six English, and at least four Italian tragedies;[76]yet Shakspeare alone has availed himselfof 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, without 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 effect is almost ludicrous. In our own language, we have two very fine tragedies on the story of Cleopatra: in that of Dryden, which is in truth a noble poem, and which he himself considered his masterpiece, Cleopatra is a mere common-place "all-for-love" heroine, full of constancy and fine sentiments. For instance:—

My love's so true,That I can neither hide it where it is,Nor show it where it is not. Nature meant meA 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 wild world, unfurnishedOf falsehood to be happy.

Is this Antony's Cleopatra—the Circe of the Nile—the Venus of the Cydnus?Shenever uttered any thing half so mawkish in her life.

In Fletcher's "False One," Cleopatra is represented at an earlier period of her history: and to give an idea of the aspect under which the character is exhibited, (and it does not vary throughout the play,) I shall give one scene; if it be considered out of place, its extreme beauty will form its best apology.

Ptolemy and his council having exhibited to Cæsar all the royal treasures in Egypt, he is so astonished and dazzled at the view of the accumulated wealth, that he forgets the presence of Cleopatra, and treats her with negligence. The following scene between her and her sister Arsinoe occurs immediately afterwards.

ARSINOE.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 knowThe baseness of his usage?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 deliver'd up his power to wealth.The god of bed-rid men taught his eyes treason.Against the truth of love he has rais'd rebellionDefied his holy flames.EROS.He will fall back againAnd satisfy your grace.CLEOPATRA.Had I been old,Or blasted in my bud, he might have show'dSome shadow of dislike: but to preferThe lustre of a little trash, Arsinoe,And the poor glow-worm light of some faint jewelsBefore 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 captainsThat quarter with him, and are truly valiant.Have flung the name of "Happy Cæsar" 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—His promising tongue—ere I could catch his temper.I'd trash enough to have cloyed his eyes withal,(His covetous eyes,) such as I scorn to tread on,Richer than e'er he saw yet, and more tempting;Had I known he'd stoop'd at that, I'd saved mine honor—I had been happy still! But let him take it.And let him brag how poorly I'm rewarded;Let him go conquer still weak wretched ladies;Love has his angry quiver too, his deadly,And when he finds scorn, armed at the strongest—I am a fool to fret thus for a fool,—An old blind fool too! I lose my health; I will not,I will not cry; I will not honor himWith 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 prisonerTo 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 himEnterAPOLLODORUS.APOLLODORUS.Cæsar commends his service to your graceCLEOPATRA.His service? What's his service?EROS.Pray you be patientThe noble Cæsar loves still.CLEOPATRA.What's his will?APOLLODORUS.He craves access unto your highness.CLEOPATRANo;—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 bodyTo this unthankful Cæsar!APOLLODORUS.'Twas your will, madam.Nay more, your charge upon me, as I honor'd you.You know what danger I endur'd.CLEOPATRA.Take this, [giving a jewel,And carry it to that lordly Cæsar 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—EnterCÆSAR.APOLLODORUS.He enters.CLEOPATRA.How!CÆSAR.I do not use to wait, ladyWhere I am, all the doors are free and open.CLEOPATRA.I guess so by your rudeness.CÆSAR.You're not angry?Things of your tender mould should be most gentle.Why should you frown? Good gods, what a set angerHave you forc'd into your face! Come, I must temper 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!CÆSAR.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 Cæsar is,To show how poorly I respect his memoryI would not speak to you.CÆSAR.Pray you, undo this riddle,And tell me how I've vexed you.CLEOPATRA.Let me think first,Whether I may put on patienceThat will with honor suffer me. Know I hate you!Let that begin the story. Now I'll tell you.CÆSAR.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.You 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 me—When in the pride I appear'd of all my beauty—Appear'd your mistress; took unto your eyesThe 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 adorned with noble love, would kick at!Soldiers of royal mark scorn such base purchase;Beauty and honor are the marks they shoot at.I spake to you then, I courted you, and woo'd you,Called you dear Cæsar, hung about you tenderly,Was proud to appear your friend—CÆSAR.You have mistaken me.CLEOPATRA.But neither eye, nor favor, not a smileWas I blessed back withal, but shook off rudely,And as you had been sold to sordid infamy,You fell before the images of treasure,And in your soul you worship'd. I stood slighted;Forgotten, and contemned; my soft embraces,And those sweet kisses which you called ElysiumAs letters writ in sand, no more remember'd;The name and glory of your CleopatraLaugh'd at, and made a story to your captains!Shall I endure?CÆSAR.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!CÆSAR.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! Cæsar!Have I let slip a second vanityThat gives thee hope?CÆSAR.You shall be absolute,And reign alone as queen; you shall be any thing.CLEOPATRA.* * * *Farewell, unthankful!CÆSAR.Stay!CLEOPATRA.I will not.CÆSAR.I command.CLEOPATRA.Command, and go without, sir,I do commandtheebe my slave forever,And vex, while I laugh at thee!CÆSAR.Thus low, beauty—— [He kneelsCLEOPATRA.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.)

ARSINOE.

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 knowThe baseness of his usage?

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 deliver'd up his power to wealth.The god of bed-rid men taught his eyes treason.Against the truth of love he has rais'd rebellionDefied his holy flames.

EROS.

He will fall back againAnd satisfy your grace.

CLEOPATRA.

Had I been old,Or blasted in my bud, he might have show'dSome shadow of dislike: but to preferThe lustre of a little trash, Arsinoe,And the poor glow-worm light of some faint jewelsBefore 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 captainsThat quarter with him, and are truly valiant.Have flung the name of "Happy Cæsar" 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—His promising tongue—ere I could catch his temper.I'd trash enough to have cloyed his eyes withal,(His covetous eyes,) such as I scorn to tread on,Richer than e'er he saw yet, and more tempting;Had I known he'd stoop'd at that, I'd saved mine honor—I had been happy still! But let him take it.And let him brag how poorly I'm rewarded;Let him go conquer still weak wretched ladies;Love has his angry quiver too, his deadly,And when he finds scorn, armed at the strongest—I am a fool to fret thus for a fool,—An old blind fool too! I lose my health; I will not,I will not cry; I will not honor himWith 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 prisonerTo 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

EnterAPOLLODORUS.

APOLLODORUS.

Cæsar commends his service to your grace

CLEOPATRA.

His service? What's his service?

EROS.

Pray you be patientThe noble Cæsar 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 bodyTo this unthankful Cæsar!

APOLLODORUS.'Twas your will, madam.Nay more, your charge upon me, as I honor'd you.You know what danger I endur'd.

CLEOPATRA.

Take this, [giving a jewel,And carry it to that lordly Cæsar 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—

EnterCÆSAR.

APOLLODORUS.

He enters.

CLEOPATRA.

How!

CÆSAR.

I do not use to wait, ladyWhere I am, all the doors are free and open.

CLEOPATRA.

I guess so by your rudeness.

CÆSAR.

You're not angry?Things of your tender mould should be most gentle.Why should you frown? Good gods, what a set angerHave you forc'd into your face! Come, I must temper 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!

CÆSAR.

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 Cæsar is,To show how poorly I respect his memoryI would not speak to you.

CÆSAR.

Pray you, undo this riddle,And tell me how I've vexed you.

CLEOPATRA.

Let me think first,Whether I may put on patienceThat will with honor suffer me. Know I hate you!Let that begin the story. Now I'll tell you.

CÆSAR.

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.You 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 me—When in the pride I appear'd of all my beauty—Appear'd your mistress; took unto your eyesThe 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 adorned with noble love, would kick at!Soldiers of royal mark scorn such base purchase;Beauty and honor are the marks they shoot at.I spake to you then, I courted you, and woo'd you,Called you dear Cæsar, hung about you tenderly,Was proud to appear your friend—

CÆSAR.

You have mistaken me.

CLEOPATRA.

But neither eye, nor favor, not a smileWas I blessed back withal, but shook off rudely,And as you had been sold to sordid infamy,You fell before the images of treasure,And in your soul you worship'd. I stood slighted;Forgotten, and contemned; my soft embraces,And those sweet kisses which you called ElysiumAs letters writ in sand, no more remember'd;The name and glory of your CleopatraLaugh'd at, and made a story to your captains!Shall I endure?

CÆSAR.

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!

CÆSAR.

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! Cæsar!Have I let slip a second vanityThat gives thee hope?

CÆSAR.

You shall be absolute,And reign alone as queen; you shall be any thing.

CLEOPATRA.

* * * *

Farewell, unthankful!

CÆSAR.

Stay!

CLEOPATRA.

I will not.

CÆSAR.I command.

CLEOPATRA.

Command, and go without, sir,I do commandtheebe my slave forever,And vex, while I laugh at thee!

CÆSAR.

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 gipsey 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 dignity upon so high a tone for ten minutes together. The Cleopatra of Fletcher reminds us of the antique colossal statue of her inthe Vatican, all grandeur and grace. Cleopatra in Dryden's tragedy is like Guido's dying Cleopatra in the Pitti Palace, tenderly beautiful. Shakspeare's Cleopatra is like one of those graceful and fantastic pieces of antique Arabesque, in which all anomalous shapes and impossible and wild combinations of form are woven together in regular confusion and most harmonious discord: and such, we have reason to believe, was the living woman herself, when she existed upon this earth.

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.[77]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 verybeau idealof a noble Roman lady:—

Admired Octavia, whose beauty claimsNo worse a husband than the best of men;Whose virtues and whose general graces speakThat which none else can utter.

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[78]might have been excusable, but to sacrifice the truth of nature and dramatic propriety, to produce a mere stage effect, was unpardonable. In order to preserve the unity of interest, he has falsified the character of Octavia as well as that of Cleopatra:[79]he has presented uswith a regular scolding-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. Shakspeare would no more have brought his captivating, brilliant, but meretricious Cleopatra into immediate comparison with the noble and chaste simplicity of Octavia, than a connoisseur in art would have placed Canova's Dansatrice, beautiful as it is, beside the Athenian Melpomene, or the Vestal of the Capitol.

The character of Octavia is merely indicated in a few touches, but every stroke tells. We see her with "downcast eyes sedate and sweet, and looks demure,"—with her modest tenderness and 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 featherThat stands upon the swell at flood of tide,And neither way inclines.

The fear which, seems to haunt the mind of Cleopatra, lest she should be "chastised by the sober eye" of Octavia, is exceedingly characteristic of the two women: it betrays the jealous pride of 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 virtue which could strike akind of envying and remorseful 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? Captives, and exposed to the rage of the Roman populace, they owed their existence to the generous, admirable Octavia, in whose mind there entered no particle of littleness. She received into her house the children of Antony and Cleopatra, educated them with her own, treated them with truly maternal tenderness, and married them nobly.

Lastly, to complete the contrast, the death of Octavia should be put in comparison with that of Cleopatra.

After spending several years in dignified retirement, respected as the sister of Augustus, but more for her own virtues, Octavia lost her eldest son Marcellus, who was expressively called the "Hope of Rome." Her fortitude gave way under this blow, and she fell into a deep melancholy, which gradually wasted her health. While she was thus declining into death, occurred that beautiful scene, which has never yet, I believe, been made the subject of a picture, but should certainly be added to my gallery, (if I had one,) and I would hang it opposite to the dying Cleopatra. Virgil was commanded by Augustus to read aloud to his sister that book of the Eneid 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 snatch'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 deferred till the concluding lines, Octavia, unable to control her agitation, fainted away. She afterwards, with a magnificent spirit, ordered the poet a gratuity of ten thousand sesterces for each line of the panegyric.[80]It is probable that the agitation 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.

Octavia, however, is only a beautiful sketch, while in Volumnia, Shakspeare has given us the portrait of a Roman matron, conceived in the true antique spirit, and finished in every part. Although Coriolanus is the hero of the play, yet much of the interest of the action and the final catastrophe turn upon the character of his mother, Volumnia, and the power she exercised over his mind, by which, according to the story, "she saved Romeand lost her son." Her lofty patriotism, 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 position and feelings of the mother and son; as these are of the greatest importance in the action of the drama, and consequently most prominent in the characters. Though Volumnia is a Roman matron, and though her country owes its salvation to her, it is clear that her maternal pride and affection are stronger even than her patriotism. Thus when her son is exiled, she burst into an imprecation against Rome and its citizens:—

Now the red pestilence strikes all trades in Rome,And occupations perish!

Here we have the impulses of individual and feminine nature, overpowering all national and habitual influences. Volumnia would never have exclaimed like the Spartan mother, of her dead son, "Sparta has many others as brave as he;" but in a far different spirit she says to the Romans,—

Ere you go, hear this:As far as doth the Capitol exceedThe meanest house in Rome, so far my son,Whom you have banished, does exceed you all.

In the very first scene, and before the introduction of the principal personages, one citizenobserves 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 needle-work, conversing on his absence and danger, and are visited by Valeria:—

The noble sisters of Publicola,The moon of Rome; chaste as the icicle,That's curded by the frost from purest snow,And hangs on Dian's temple!

Over this little scene Shakspeare, without any display of learning, has breathed the very spirit of classical antiquity. The haughty temper of Volumnia, her admiration of the valor and high bearing of her son, and her proud but unselfish love for him, are finely contrasted with the modest sweetness, he conjugal tenderness, and the fond solicitude of his wife Virgilia.

VOLUMNIA.When yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son of mywomb; when youth with comeliness pluck'd all gaze his way;when, for a day of king's entreaties, a mother should notsell him an hour from her beholding—considering how honorwould become such a person;that it was no better thanpicture-like to hang by the wall, if renown made it notstir,—was pleased to let him seek danger where he was liketo find fame. To a cruel war I sent him, from whence hereturned, his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter—Isprang 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 thereinwould have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely: had I adozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear thanthine and my good Marcius, I had rather eleven die nobly fortheir country, than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.Enter aGentlewoman.Madam, the lady Valeria is come to visit you.VIRGILIA.Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself.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 Volces 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 browWith his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes;Like to a harvest-man, that's task'd to mowOr all, or lose his hire.VIRGILIA.His bloody brow! O Jupiter, no blood!VOLUMNIA.Away, you fool! it more becomes a manThan gilt his trophy. The breast of Hecuba,When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelierThan Hector's forehead, when it spit forth bloodAt Grecian swords contending. Tell ValeriaWe are fit to bid her welcome. [Exit Gent.VIRGILIA.Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius!VOLUMNIA.He'll beat Aufidius's head below his knee.And tread upon his neck.

VOLUMNIA.

When yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son of mywomb; when youth with comeliness pluck'd all gaze his way;when, for a day of king's entreaties, a mother should notsell him an hour from her beholding—considering how honorwould become such a person;that it was no better thanpicture-like to hang by the wall, if renown made it notstir,—was pleased to let him seek danger where he was liketo find fame. To a cruel war I sent him, from whence hereturned, his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter—Isprang 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 thereinwould have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely: had I adozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear thanthine and my good Marcius, I had rather eleven die nobly fortheir country, than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.

Enter aGentlewoman.

Madam, the lady Valeria is come to visit you.

VIRGILIA.

Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself.

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 Volces 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 browWith his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes;Like to a harvest-man, that's task'd to mowOr all, or lose his hire.

VIRGILIA.

His bloody brow! O Jupiter, no blood!

VOLUMNIA.

Away, you fool! it more becomes a manThan gilt his trophy. The breast of Hecuba,When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelierThan Hector's forehead, when it spit forth bloodAt Grecian swords contending. Tell ValeriaWe are fit to bid her welcome. [Exit Gent.

VIRGILIA.

Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius!

VOLUMNIA.

He'll beat Aufidius's head below his knee.And tread upon his neck.

This distinction between the two females is as interesting and beautiful as it is well sustained. Thus when the victory of Coriolanus is proclaimed, Menenius asks, "Is he wounded?"

VIRGILIA.O no, no, no!VOLUMNIA.Yes, he is wounded—I thank the gods for it!

VIRGILIA.

O no, no, no!

VOLUMNIA.

Yes, he is wounded—I thank the gods for it!

And when he returns victorious from the wars, his high-spirited mother receives him with blessings and applause—his gentle wife with "gracious silence" and with tears.

The resemblance of temper in the mother and the son, modified as it is by the difference of sex, 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 andmatronly. 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 combats, are all displayed in the scene in which she prevails on him to soothe the incensed plebeians.

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