This is justly considered as one of the most delightful of Shakespeare's comedies. It is full of sweetness and pleasantry. It is perhaps too good-natured for comedy. It has little satire, and no spleen. It aims at the ludicrous rather than the ridiculous. It makes us laugh at the follies of mankind, not despise them, and still less bear any ill-will towards them. Shakespeare's comic genius resembles the bee rather in its power of extracting sweets from weeds or poisons, than in leaving a sting behind it. He gives die most amusing exaggeration of the prevailing foibles of his characters, but in a way that they themselves, instead of being offended at, would almost join in to humour; he rather contrives opportunities for them to show themselves off in the happiest lights, than renders them contemptible in the perverse construction of the wit or malice of others.—There is a certain stage of society in which people become conscious of their peculiarities and absurdities, affect to disguise what they are, and set up pretensions to what they are not. This gives rise to a corresponding style of comedy, the object of which is to detect the disguises of self-love, and to make reprisals on these preposterous assumptions of vanity, by marking the contrast between the real and the affected character as severely as possible, and denying to those who would impose on us for what they are not, even the merit which they have. This is the comedy of artificial life, of wit and satire, such as we see it in Congreve, Wycherley, Vanbrugh, &c. To this succeeds a state of society from which the same sort of affectation and pretence are banished by a greater knowledge of the world or by their successful exposure on the stage; and which by neutralizing the materials of comic character, both natural and artificial, leaves no comedy at all—but the sentimental. Such is our modern comedy. There is a period in the progress of manners anterior to both these, in which the foibles and follies of individuals are of nature's planting, not the growth of art or study; in which they are therefore unconscious of them themselves, or care not who knows them, if they can but have their whim out; and in which, as there is no attempt at imposition, the spectators rather receive pleasure from humouring the inclinations of the persons they laugh at, than wish to give them pain by exposing their absurdity. This may be called the comedy of nature, and it is the comedy which we generally find in Shakespeare.—Whether the analysis here given be just or not, the spirit of his comedies is evidently quite distinct from that of the authors above mentioned, as it is in its essence the same with that of Cervantes, and also very frequently of Moliere, though he was more systematic in his extravagance than Shakespeare. Shakespeare's comedy is of a pastoral and poetical cast. Folly is indigenous to the soil, and shoots out with native, happy, unchecked luxuriance. Absurdity has every encouragement afforded it; and nonsense has room to flourish in. Nothing is stunted by the churlish, icy hand of indifference or severity. The poet runs riot in a conceit, and idolizes a quibble. His whole object is to turn the meanest or rudest objects to a pleasurable account. The relish which he has of a pun, or of the quaint humour of a low character, does not interfere with the delight with which he describes a beautiful image, or the most refined love. The clown's forced jests do not spoil the sweetness of the character of Viola; the same house is big enough to hold Malvolio, the Countess, Maria, Sir Toby, and Sir Andrew Aguecheek. For instance, nothing can fall much lower than this last character in intellect or morals: yet how are his weaknesses nursed and dandled by Sir Toby into something 'high fantastical', when on Sir Andrew's commendation of himself for dancing and fencing, Sir Toby answers: 'Wherefore are these things hid? Wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? Are they like to take dust like Mistress Moll's picture? Why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig! I would not so much as make water but in a cinque-pace. What dost thou mean? Is this a world to hide virtues in? I did think by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was framed under the star of a galliard!'—How Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and the Clown afterwards chirp over their cups, how they 'rouse the night-owl in a catch, able to draw three souls out of one weaver'!—What can be better than Sir Toby's unanswerable answer to Malvolio, 'Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?' In a word, the best turn is given to everything, instead of the worst. There is a constant infusion of the romantic and enthusiastic, in proportion as the characters are natural and sincere: whereas, in the more artificial style of comedy, everything gives way to ridicule and indifference, there being nothing left but affectation on one side, and incredulity on the other.—Much as we like Shakespeare's comedies, we cannot agree with Dr. Johnson that they are better than his tragedies; nor do we like them half so well. If his inclination to comedy sometimes led him to trifle with the seriousness of tragedy, the poetical and impassioned passages are the best parts of his comedies. The great and secret charm of TWELFTH NIGHT is the character of Viola. Much as we like catches and cakes and ale, there is something that we like better. We have a friendship for Sir Toby; we patronize Sir Andrew; we have an understanding with the Clown, a sneaking kindness for Maria and her rogueries; we feel a regard for Malvolio, and sympathize with his gravity, his smiles, his cross-garters, his yellow stockings, and imprisonment in the stocks. But there is something that excites in us a stronger feeling than all this—it is Viola's confession of her love.
Duke. What's her history?
Viola. A blank, my lord, she never told her love:She let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud,Feed on her damask cheek, she pin'd in thought,And with a green and yellow melancholy,She sat like Patience on a monument,Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?We men may say more, swear more, but indeed,Our shows are more than will; for still we proveMuch in our vows, but little in our love.
Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
Viola. I am all the daughters of my father's house,And all the brothers too; and yet I know not.
Shakespeare alone could describe the effect of his own poetry.
Oh, it came o'er the ear like the sweet southThat breathes upon a bank of violets,Stealing and giving odour.
What we so much admire here is not the image of Patience on a monument, which has been generally quoted, but the lines before and after it. 'They give a very echo to the seat where love is throned.' How long ago it is since we first learnt to repeat them; and still, still they vibrate on the heart, like the sounds which the passing wind draws from the trembling strings of a harp left on some desert shore! There are other passages of not less impassioned sweetness. Such is Olivia's address to Sebastian whom she supposes to have already deceived her in a promise of marriage.
Blame not this haste of mine: if you mean well,Now go with me and with this holy manInto the chantry by: there before him,And underneath that consecrated roof,Plight me the full assurance of your faith,THAT MY MOST JEALOUS AND TOO DOUBTFUL SOULMAY LIVE AT PEACE.
We have already said something of Shakespeare's songs. One of the most beautiful of them occurs in this play, with a preface of his own to it.
Duke. O fellow, come, the song we had last night.Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,Do use to chaunt it; it is silly sooth,And dallies with the innocence of love,Like the old age.
Song
Come away, come away, death,And in sad cypress let me be laid;Fly away, fly away, breath;I am slain by a fair cruel maid.My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,O prepare it;My part of death no one so trueDid share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,On my black coffin let there be strown;Not a friend, not a friend greetMy poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown;A thousand thousand sighs to save,Lay me, O! whereSad true-love never find my grave,To weep there.
Who after this will say that Shakespeare's genius was only fitted for comedy? Yet after reading other parts of this play, and particularly the garden-scene where Malvolio picks up the letter, if we were to say that his genius for comedy was less than his genius for tragedy, it would perhaps only prove that our own taste in such matters is more saturnine than mercurial.
Enter Maria
Sir Toby. Here comes the little villain:—How now, myNettle of India?
Maria. Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's coming down this walk: he has been yonder i' the sun, practising behaviour to his own shadow this half hour; observe him, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! Lie thou there; for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.
[They hide themselves. Maria throws down a letter, and exit.]
Enter Malvolio
Malvolio. 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me, she did affect me; and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect than any one else that follows her. What should I think on't?
Sir Toby. Here's an over-weening rogue!
Fabian. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes!
Sir Andrew. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:—
Sir Toby. Peace, I say.
Malvolio. To be Count Malvolio;—
Sir Toby. Ah, rogue!
Sir Andrew. Pistol him, pistol him.
Sir Toby. Peace, peace!
Malvolio. There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.
Sir Andrew. Fire on him, Jezebel!
Fabian. O, peace! now he's deeply in; look, howimagination blows him.
Malvolio. Having been three months married to her,sitting in my chair of state,—
Sir Toby. O for a stone bow, to hit him in the eye!
Malvolio. Calling my officers about me, in my branch'd velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping.
Sir Toby. Fire and brimstone!
Fabian. O peace, peace!
Malvolio. And then to have the humour of state: and after a demure travel of regard,—telling them, I know my place, as I would they should do theirs,—to ask for my kinsman Toby.—
Sir Toby. Bolts and shackles!
Fabian. O, peace, peace, peace! now, now.
Malvolio. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him; I frown the while; and, perchance, wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me.
Sir Toby. Shall this fellow live?
Fabian. Though our silence be drawn from us withcares, yet peace.
Malvolio. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching myfamiliar smile with an austere regard to control.
Sir Toby. And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lipsthen?
Malvolio. Saying—Cousin Toby, my fortunes havingcast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech;—
Sir Toby. What, what?
Malvolio. You must amend your drunkenness.
Fabian. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of ourplot.
Malvolio. Besides, you waste the treasure of your timewith a foolish knight—
Sir Andrew. That's me, I warrant you.
Malvolio. One Sir Andrew—
Sir Andrew. I knew, 'twas I; for many do call me fool.
Malvolio. What employment have we here? [Taking up the letter.]
The letter and his comments on it are equally good. If poor Malvolio's treatment afterwards is a little hard, poetical justice is done in the uneasiness which Olivia suffers on account of her mistaken attachment to Cesario, as her insensibility to the violence of the Duke's passion is atoned for by the discovery of Viola's concealed love of him.
This is little more than the first outlines of a comedy loosely sketched in. It is the story of a novel dramatized with very little labour or pretension; yet there are passages of high poetical spirit, and of inimitable quaintness of humour, which are undoubtedly Shakespeare's, and there is throughout the conduct of the fable a careless grace and felicity which marks it for his. One of the editors (we believe, Mr. Pope) remarks in a marginal note to the TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA: 'It is observable (I know not for what cause) that the style of this comedy is less figurative, and more natural and unaffected than the greater part of this author's, though supposed to be one of the first he wrote.' Yet so little does the editor appear to have made up his mind upon this subject, that we find the following note to the very next (the second) scene. 'This whole scene, like many others in these plays (some of which I believe were written by Shakespeare, and others interpolated by the players) is composed of the lowest and most trifling conceits, to be accounted for only by the gross taste of the age he lived in: Populo ut placerent. I wish I had authority to leave them out, but I have done all I could, set a mark of reprobation upon them, throughout this edition.' It is strange that our fastidious critic should fall so soon from praising to reprobating. The style of the familiar parts of this comedy is indeed made up of conceits—low they may be for what we know, but then they are not poor, but rich ones. The scene of Launce with his dog (not that in the second, but that in the fourth act) is a perfect treat in the way of farcical drollery and invention; nor do we think Speed's manner of proving his master to be in love deficient in wit or sense, though the style may be criticized as not simple enough for the modern taste.
Valentine. Why, how know you that I am in love?
Speed. Marry, by these special marks; first, you have learned, like Sir Protheus, to wreathe your arms like a malcontent, to relish a love-song like a robin-red-breast, to walk alone like one that had the pestilence, to sigh like a schoolboy that had lost his A B C, to weep like a young wench that had buried her grandam, to fast like one that takes diet, to watch like one that fears robbing, to speak puling like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you walked, to walk; like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you looked sadly, it was for want of money; and now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, that when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master.
The tender scenes in this play, though not so highly wrought as in some others, have often much sweetness of sentiment and expression. There is something pretty and playful in the conversation of Julia with her maid, when she shows such a disposition to coquetry about receiving the letter from Proteus; and her behaviour afterwards and her disappointment, when she finds him faithless to his vows, remind us at a distance of Imogen's tender constancy. Her answer to Lucetta, who advises her against following her lover in disguise, is a beautiful piece of poetry.
Lucetta. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire,But qualify the fire's extremes! rage,Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.
Julia. The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns;The current that with gentle murmur glides,Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage;But when his fair course is not hindered,He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones,Giving a gentle kiss to every sedgeHe overtaketh in his pilgrimage:And so by many winding nooks he strays,With willing sport, to the wild ocean.
[Footnote: 'The river wanders at its own sweet will.' Wordsworth.]
Then let me go, and hinder not my course;I'll be as patient as a gentle stream,And make a pastime of each weary step,Till the last step have brought me to my love;And there I'll rest, as after much turmoil,A blessed soul doth in Elysium.
If Shakespeare indeed had written only this and other passages in the TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, he would ALMOST have deserved Milton's praise of him—
And sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,Warbles his native wood-notes wild.
But as it is, he deserves rather more praise than this.
This is a play that in spite of the change of manners and of prejudices still holds undisputed possession of the stage. Shakespeare's malignant has outlived Mr. Cumberland's benevolent Jew. In proportion as Shylock has ceased to be a popular bugbear, 'baited with the rabble's curse', he becomes a half favourite with the philosophical part of the audience, who are disposed to think that Jewish revenge is at least as good as Christian injuries. Shylock is A GOOD HATER; 'a man no less sinned against than sinning'. If he carries his revenge too far, yet he has strong grounds for 'the lodged hate he bears Anthonio', which he explains with equal force of eloquence and reason. He seems the depositary of the vengeance of his race; and though the long habit of brooding over daily insults and injuries has crusted over his temper with inveterate misanthropy, and hardened him against the contempt of mankind, this adds but little to the triumphant pretensions of his enemies. There is a strong, quick, and deep sense of justice mixed up with the gall and bitterness of his resentment. The constant apprehension of being burnt alive, plundered, banished, reviled, and trampled on, might be supposed to sour the most forbearing nature, and to take something from that 'milk of human kindness', with which his persecutors contemplated his indignities. The desire of revenge is almost inseparable from the sense of wrong; and we can hardly help sympathizing with the proud spirit, hid beneath his 'Jewish gaberdine', stung to madness by repeated undeserved provocations, and labouring to throw off the load of obloquy and oppression heaped upon him and all his tribe by one desperate act of 'lawful' revenge, till the ferociousness of the means by which he is to execute his purpose, and the pertinacity with which he adheres to it, turn us against him; but even at last, when disappointed of the sanguinary revenge with which he had glutted his hopes, and exposed to beggary and contempt by the letter of the law on which he had insisted with so little remorse, we pity him, and think him hardly dealt with by his judges. In all his answers and retorts upon his adversaries, he has the best not only of the argument but of the question, reasoning on their own principles and practice. They are so far from allowing of any measure of equal dealing, of common justice or humanity between themselves and the Jew, that even when they come to ask a favour of him, and Shylock reminds them that 'on such a day they spit upon him, another spurned him, another called him dog, and for these courtesies request hell lend them so much monies'—Anthonio, his old enemy, instead of any acknowledgement of the shrewdness and justice of his remonstrance, which would have been preposterous in a respectable Catholic merchant in those times, threatens him with a repetition of the same treatment—
I am as like to call thee so again,To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too.
After this, the appeal to the Jew's mercy, as if there were any common principle of right and wrong between them, is the rankest hypocrisy, or the blindest prejudice; and the Jew's answer to one of Anthonio's friends, who asks him what his pound of forfeit flesh is good for, is irresistible:
To bait fish withal; if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgrac'd me, and hinder'd me of half a million, laughed at my losses, mock'd at my gains, scorn'd my nation, thwarted my bargains, cool'd my friends, heated mine enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes; hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer that a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? why revenge. The villany you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.
The whole of the trial scene, both before and after the entrance of Portia, is a masterpiece of dramatic skill. The legal acuteness, the passionate declamations, the sound maxims of jurisprudence, the wit and irony interspersed in it, the fluctuations of hope and fear in the different persons, and the completeness and suddenness of the catastrophe, cannot be surpassed. Shylock, who is his own counsel, defends himself well, and is triumphant on all the general topics that are urged against him, and only Tails through a legal flaw. Take the following as an instance:
Shylock. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?You have among you many a purchas'd slave,Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules,You use in abject and in slavish part,Because you bought them:—shall I say to you,Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?Why sweat they under burdens? let their bedsBe made as soft as yours, and let their palatesBe season'd with such viands? you will answer,The slaves are ours:—so do I answer you:The pound of flesh, which I demand of him,Is dearly bought, is mine, and I will have it;If you deny me, fie upon your law!There is no force in the decrees of Venice:I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it?
The keenness of his revenge awakes all his faculties; and he beats back all opposition to his purpose, whether grave or gay, whether of wit or argument, with an equal degree of eamestness and self-possession. His character is displayed as distinctly in other less prominent parts of the play, and we may collect from a few sentences the history of his life—his descent and origin, his thrift and domestic economy, his affection for his daughter, whom he loves next to his wealth, his courtship and his first present to Leah, his wife! 'I would not have parted with it' (the ring which he first gave her) 'for a wilderness of monkeys!' What a fine Hebraism is implied in this expression!
Portia is not a very great favourite with us, neither are we in love with her maid, Nerissa. Portia has a certain degree of affectation and pedantry about her, which is very unusual in Shakespeare's women, but which perhaps was a proper qualification for the office of a 'civil doctor', which she undertakes and executes so successfully. The speech about mercy is very well; but there are a thousand finer ones in Shakespeare. We do not admire the scene of the caskets; and object entirely to the Black Prince, Morocchius. We should like Jessica better if she had not deceived and robbed her father, and Lorenzo, if he had not married a Jewess, though he thinks he has a right to wrong a Jew. The dialogue between this newly married couple by moonlight, beginning 'On such a night', &c., is a collection of classical elegancies. Launcelot, the Jew's man, is an honest fellow. The dilemma in which he describes himself placed between his 'conscience and the fiend', the one of which advises him to run away from his master's service and the other to stay in it, is exquisitely humorous.
Gratiano is a very admirable subordinate character. He is the jester of the piece: yet one speech of his, in his own defence, contains a whole volume of wisdom.
Anthonio. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano,A stage, where every one must play his part;And mine a sad one.
Gratiano. Let me play the fool:With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come;And let my liver rather heat with wine,Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundiceBy being peevish? I tell thee what, Anthonio—I love thee, and it is my love that speaks;—There are a sort of men, whose visagesDo cream and mantle like a standing pond:And do a wilful stillness entertain,With purpose to be drest in an opinionOf wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;As who should say, 'I am Sir Oracle,And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark'!O, my Anthonio, I do know of these,That therefore only are reputed wise,For saying nothing; who, I am very sure,If they should speak, would almost damn those ears,Which hearing them, would call their brothers fools.I'll tell thee more of this another time;But fish not, with this melancholy bait,For this fool's gudgeon, this opinion.
Gratiano's speech on the philosophy of love, and the effect of habit in taking off the force of passion, is as full of spirit and good sense. The graceful winding up of this play in the fifth act, after the tragic business is dispatched, is one of the happiest instances of Shakespeare's knowledge of the principles of the drama. We do not mean the pretended quarrel between Portia and Nerissa and their husbands about the rings, which is amusing enough, but the conversation just before and after the return of Portia to her own house, begining 'How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank', and ending 'Peace! how the moon sleeps with Endymion, and would not be awaked'. There is a number of beautiful thoughts crowded into that short space, and linked together by the most natural transitions.
When we first went to see Mr. Kean in Shylock we expected to see, what we had been used to see, a decrepid old man, bent with age and ugly with mental deformity, grinning with deadly malice, with the venom of his heart congealed in the expression of his countenance, sullen, morose, gloomy, inflexible, brooding over one idea, that of his hatred, and fixed on one unalterable purpose, that of his revenge. We were disappointed, because we had taken our idea from other actors, not from the play. There is no proof there that Shylock is old, but a single line, 'Bassanic and old Shylock, both stand forth,'—which does not imply that he is infirm with age—and the circumstance that he has a daughter marriageable, which does not imply that he is old at all. It would be too much to say that his body should be made crooked and deformed to answer to his mind, which is bowed down and warped with prejudices and passion. That he has but one idea, is not true; he has more ideas than any other person in the piece: and if he is intense and inveterate in the pursuit of his purpose, he shows the utmost elasticity, vigour, and presence of mind, in the means of attaining it. But so rooted was our habitual impression of the part from seeing it caricatured in the representation, that it was only from a careful perusal of the play itself that we saw our error. The stage is not in general the best place to study our author's characters in. It is too often filled with traditional common-place conceptions of the part, handed down from sire to son, and suited to the taste of THE GREAT VULGAR AND THE SMALL.—''Tis an unweeded garden: things rank and gross do merely gender in it!' If a man of genius comes once in an age to clear away the rubbish, to make it fruitful and wholesome, they cry, "Tis a bad school: it may be like nature, it may be like Shakespeare, but it is not like us." Admirable critics!
We wonder that Mr. Pope should have entertained doubts of the genuineness of this play. He was, we suppose, shocked (as a certain critic suggests) at the Chorus, Time, leaping over sixteen years with his crutch between the third and fourth act, and at Antigonus's landing with the infant Perdita on the seacoast of Bohemia. These slips or blemishes, however, do not prove it not to be Shakespeare's; for he was as likely to fall into them as anybody; but we do not know anybody but himself who could produce the beauties. The STUFF of which the tragic passion is composed, the romantic sweetness, the comic humour, are evidently his. Even the crabbed and tortuous style of the speeches of Leontes, reasoning on his own jealousy, beset with doubts and fears, and entangled more and more in the thorny labyrinth, bears every mark of Shakespeare's peculiar manner of conveying the painful struggle of different thoughts and feelings, labouring for utterance, and almost strangled in me birth. For instance:
Ha' not you seen, Camillo?(But that's past doubt; you have, or your eye-glassIs thicker than a cuckold's horn) or heard,(For to a vision so apparent, rumourCannot be mute) or thought (for cogitationResides not within man that does not think)My wife is slippery? If thou wilt, confess,Or else be impudently negative,To have nor eyes, nor ears, nor thought.—
Here Leontes is confounded with his passion, and does not know which way to turn himself, to give words to the anguish, rage, and apprehension which tug at his breast. It is only as he is worked up into a clearer conviction of his wrongs by insisting on the grounds of his unjust suspicions to Camillo, who irritates him by his opposition, that he bursts out into the following vehement strain of bitter indignation: yet even here his passion staggers, and is as it were oppressed with its own intensity.
Is whispering nothing?Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses?Kissing with inside lip? stopping the careerOf laughter with a sigh? (a note infallibleOf breaking honesty!) horsing foot on foot?Skulking in corners? wishing clocks more swift?Hours, minutes? the noon, midnight? and all eyesBlind with the pin and web, but theirs; theirs only,That would, unseen, be wicked? is this nothing?Why then the world, and all that's in't, is nothing,The covering sky is nothing, Bohemia's nothing,My wife is nothing!
The character of Hermione is as much distinguished by its saint-like resignation and patient forbearance, as that of Paulina is by her zealous and spirited remonstrances against the injustice done to the queen, and by her devoted attachment to her misfortunes. Hermione's restoration to her husband and her child, after her long separation from them, is as affecting in itself as it is striking in the representation. Camillo, and the old shepherd and his son, are subordinate but not uninteresting instruments in the development of the plot, and though last, not least, comes Autolycus, a very pleasant, thriving rogue; and (what is the best feather in the cap of all knavery) he escapes with impunity in the end.
THE WINTER'S TALE is one of the best-acting of our author's plays. We remember seeing it with great pleasure many years ago. It was on the night that King took leave of the stage, when he and Mrs. Jordan played together in the after-piece of The Wedding-day. Nothing could go off with more eclat, with more spirit, and grandeur of effect. Mrs. Siddons played Hermione, and in the last scene acted the painted statue to the life—with true monumental dignity and noble passion; Mr. Kemble, in Leontes, worked himself up into a very fine classical frenzy; and Bannister, as Autolycus, roared as loud for pity as a sturdy beggar could do who felt none of the pain he counterfeited, and was sound of wind and limb. We shall never see these parts so acted again; or if we did, it would be in vain. Actors grow old, or no longer surprise us by their novelty. But true poetry, like nature, is always young; and we still read the courtship of Florizel and Perdita, as we welcome the return of spring, with the' same feelings as ever.
Florizel. Thou dearest Perdita,With these forc'd thoughts, I prithee, darken notThe mirth o' the feast: or, I'll be thine, my fair,Or not my father's: for I cannot beMine own, nor anything to any, ifI be not thine. To this I am most constant,Tho' destiny say. No. Be merry, gentle;Strangle such thoughts as these, with anythingThat you behold the while. Your guests are coming:Lift up your countenance; as it were the dayOf celebration of that nuptial whichWe two have sworn shall come.
Perdita. O lady Fortune, Stand you auspicious!
Enter Shepherd, Clown, Mopsa, Dobcas, Servants;with Polixenes, and Camillo, disguised.
Florizel. See, your guests approach.Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,And let's be red with mirth.
Shepherd. Fie, daughter! when my old wife liv'd, uponThis day, she was both pantler, butler, cook;Both dame and servant: welcom'd all, serv'd all:Would sing her song, and dance her turn: now hereAt upper end o' the table, now i' the middle:On his shoulder, and his: her face o' fireWith labour; and the thing she took to quench itShe would to each one sip. You are retir d,As if you were a feasted one, and notThe hostess of the meeting. Pray you, bidThese unknown friends to us welcome; for it isA way to make us better friends, more known.Come, quench your blushes; and present yourselfThat which you are, mistress o' the feast. Come on,And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,As your good flock shall prosper.
Perdita. Sir, welcome! [To Polixenes and Camillo.]It is my father's will I should take on meThe hostess-ship o' the day: you're welcome, sir!Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.—Reverend sirs,For you there's rosemary and rue; these keepSeeming, and savour, all the winter long:Grace and remembrance be unto you bothAnd welcome to our shearing!
Polixenes. Shepherdess,(A fair one are you) well you fit our agesWith flowers of winter.
Perdita. Sir, the year growing ancient,Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birthOf trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' the seasonAre our carnations, and streak'd gilly-flowers,Which some call nature's bastards: of that kindOur rustic garden's barren; and I care notTo get slips of them.
Polixenes. Wherefore, gentle maiden,Do you neglect them?
Perdita. For I have heard it saidThere is an art which in their piedness sharesWith great creating nature.
Polixenes. Say, there be: Yet nature is made better by no mean,But nature makes that mean: so, o'er that artWhich, you say, adds to nature, is an artThat nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marryA gentler scion to the wildest stock;And make conceive a bark of baser kindBy bud of nobler race. This is an artWhich does mend nature, change it rather: butThe art itself is nature.
Perdita. So it is.[Footnote: The lady, we here see, gives up theargument, but keeps her mind.]
Polixenes. Then make your garden rich in gilly-flowers,And do not call them bastards.
Perdita. I'll not putThe dibble in earth, to set one slip of them;[Footnote: The lady, we here see, gives up the argument, butkeeps her mind.]No more than, were I painted, I would wishThis youth should say, 'twere well; and only thereforeDesire to breed by me.—Here's flowers for you;Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram;The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun,And with him rises, weeping: these are flowersOf middle summer, and, I think, they are givenTo men of middle age. You are very welcome.
Camillo. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,And only live by gazing.
Perdita. Out, alas!You'd be so lean, that blasts of JanuaryWould blow you through and through. Now my fairest friends.I would I had some flowers o' the spring that mightBecome your time of day; and yours, and yours,That wear upon your virgin branches yetYour maidenheads growing: O Proserpina!For the flowers now that frighted thou let'st fallFrom Dis's waggon! daffodils,That come before the swallow dares and takeThe winds of March with beauty: violets dim,But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,That die unmarried, ere they can beholdBright Phoebus in his strength (a maladyMost incident to maids); bold oxlips, andThe crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,The fleur-de-lis being one! O, these I lackTo make you garlands of; and my sweet friendTo strow him o'er and o'er.
Florizel. What, like a corse?
Perdita. No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on;Not like a corse; or if—not to be buried,But quick, and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers;Methinks, I play as I have seen them doIn Whitsun pastorals: sure this robe of mineDoes change my disposition.
Florizel. What you do,Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,I'd have you do it ever: when you sing,I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms;Pray so; and for the ordering your affairs,To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish youA wave o' the sea, that you might ever doNothing but that; move still, still so,And own no other function. Each your doing,So singular in each particular,Crowns what you're doing in the present deeds,That all your acts are queens.
Perdita. O Doricles,Your praises are too large; but that your youthAnd the true blood, which peeps forth fairly through it,Do plainly give you out an unstained shepherd;With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,You woo'd me the false way.
Florizel. I think you haveAs little skill to fear, as I have purposeTo put you to't. But come, our dance, I pray.Your hand, my Perdita: so turtles pair,That never mean to part.
Perdita. I'll swear for 'em.
Polixenes. This is the prettiest low-bom lass that everRan on the green-sward; nothing she does, or seems,But smacks of something greater than herself,Too noble for this place.
Camillo. He tells her somethingThat makes her blood look out: good sooth she isThe queen of curds and cream.
This delicious scene is interrupted by the father of the prince discovering himself to Florizel, and haughtily breaking off the intended match between his son and Perdita. When Polixenes goes out, Perdita says,
Even here undone!I was not much afraid; for once or twiceI was about to speak; and tell him plainlyThe self-same sun that shines upon his court,Hides not his visage from our cottage, butLooks on't alike. Wilt please you, sir, be gone?[To Florizel.]I told you what would come of this. Beseech you,Of your own state take care; this dream of mine,Being now awake, I'll queen it no inch further,But milk my ewes and weep.
As Perdita, the supposed shepherdess, turns out to be the daughter of Hermione, and a princess in disguise, both feelings of the pride of birth and the claims of nature are satisfied by the fortunate event of the story, and the fine romance of poetry is reconciled to the strictest court-etiquette.
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL is one of the most pleasing of our author's comedies. The interest is, however, more of a serious than of a comic nature. The character of Helen is one of great sweetness and delicacy. She is placed in circumstances of the most critical kind, and has to court her husband both as a virgin and a wife: yet the most scrupulous nicety of female modesty is not once violated. There is not one thought or action that ought to bring a blush into her cheeks, or that for a moment lessens her in our esteem. Perhaps the romantic attachment of a beautiful and virtuous girl to one placed above her hopes by the circumstances of birth and fortune, was never so exquisitely expressed as in the reflections which she utters when young Roussillon leaves his mother's house, under whose protection she has been brought up with him, to repair to the French king's court.
Helena. Oh, were that all—I think not on my father,And these great tears grace his remembrance moreThan those I shed for him. What was he like?I have forgot him. My imaginationCarries no favour in it, but Bertram's.I am undone, there is no living, none,If Bertram be away. It were all oneThat I should love a bright particular star,And think to wed it; he is so above me:In his bright radiance and collateral lightMust I be comforted, not in his sphere.Th' ambition in my love thus plagues itself;The hind that would be mated by the lion,Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, tho' a plague,To see him every hour, to sit and drawHis arched brows, his hawking eye, his curlsIn our heart's table: heart too capableOf every line and trick of his sweet favour.But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancyMust sanctify his relics.
The interest excited by this beautiful picture of a kind and innocent heart is kept up afterwards by her resolution to follow him to France, the success of her experiment in restoring the king's health, her demanding Bertram in marriage as a recompense, his leaving her in disdain, her interview with him afterwards disguised as Diana, a young lady whom he importunes with his secret addresses, and their final reconciliation when the consequences of her stratagem and the proofs of her love are fully made known. The persevering gratitude of the French king to his benefactress, who cures him of a languishing distemper by a prescription hereditary in her family, the indulgent kindness of the Countess, whose pride of birth yields, almost without struggle, to her affection for Helen, the honesty and uprightness of the good old lord Lafeu, make very interesting parts of the picture. The wilful stubbornness and youthful petulance of Bertram are also very admirably described. The comic part of the play turns on the folly, boasting, and cowardice of Parolles, a parasite and hanger-on of Bertram's, the detection of whose false pretensions to bravery and honour forms a very amusing episode. He is first found out by the old lord Lafeu, who says, 'The soul of this man is in his clothes'; and it is proved afterwards that his heart is in his tongue, and that both are false and hollow. The adventure of'the bringing off of his drum' has become proverbial as a satire on all ridiculous and blustering undertakings which the person never means to perform: nor can anything be more severe than what one of the bystanders remarks upon what Parolles says of himself, 'Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is?' Yet Parolles himself gives the best solution of the difficulty afterwards when he is thankful to escape with his life and the loss of character; for, so that he can live on, he is by no means squeamish about the loss of pretensions, to which he had sense enough to know he had no real claims, and which he had assumed only as a means to live.
Parolles. Yet I am thankful; if my heart were great,'Twould burst at this. Captain I'll be no more,But I will eat and drink, and sleep as softAs captain shall. Simply the thing I amShall make me live; who knows himself a braggart,Let him fear this; for it shall come to pass,That every braggart shall be found an ass.Rust sword, cool blushes, and Parolles liveSafest in shame; being fooi'd, by fool'ry thrive;There's place and means for every man alive.I'll after them.
The story of ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, and of several others of Shakespeare's plays, is taken from Boccaccio. The poet has dramatized the original novel with great skill and comic spirit, and has preserved all the beauty of character and sentiment without improving upon it, which was impossible. There is indeed in Boccaccio's serious pieces a truth, a pathos, and an exquisite refinement of sentiment, which is hardly to be met with in any other prose writer whatever. Justice has not been done him by the world. He has in general passed for a mere narrator of lascivious tales or idle jests. This character probably originated in his obnoxious attacks on the monks, and has been kept up by the grossness of mankind, who revenged their own want of refinement on Boccaccio, and only saw in his writings what suited the coarseness of their own tastes. But the truth is, that he has carried sentiment of every kind to its very highest purity and perfection. By sentiment we would here understand the habitual workings of some one powerful feeling, where the heart reposes almost entirely upon itself, without the violent excitement of opposing duties or, untoward circumstances. In this way, nothing ever came up to the story of Frederigo Alberigi and his Falcon. The perseverance in attachment, the spirit of gallantry and generosity displayed in it, has no parallel in the history of heroical sacrifices. The feeling is so unconscious too, and involuntary, is brought out in such small, unlooked-for, and unostentatious circumstances, as to show it to have been woven into the very nature and soul of the author. The story of Isabella is scarcely less fine and is more affecting in the circumstances and in the catastrophe. Dryden has done justice to the impassioned eloquence of the Tancred and Sigismunda; but has not given an adequate idea of the wild preternatural interest of the story of Honoria. Cimon and Iphigene is by no means one of the best, notwithstanding the popularity of the subject. The proof of unalterable affection given in the story of Jeronymo, and the simple touches of nature and picturesque beauty in the story of the two holiday lovers, who were poisoned by tasting of a leaf in the garden at Florence, are perfect masterpieces. The epithet of Divine was well bestowed on this great painter of the human heart. The invention implied in his different tales is immense: but we are not to infer that it is all his own. He probably availed himself of all the common traditions which were floating in his time, and which he was the first to appropriate. Homer appears the most original of all authors—probably for no other reason than that we can trace the plagiarism no further. Boccaccio has furnished subjects to numberless writers since his time, both dramatic and narrative. The story of Griselda is borrowed from his DECAMERON by Chaucer; as is the KNIGHT'S TALE (Palamon and Arcite) from his poem of the THESEID.