Chapter 9

"The King he takes the babeTo his protection; calls him Posthumus Leonatus;Breeds him, and makes him of his bed-chamber;Puts to him all the learnings that his timeCould make him the receiver of; which he took,As we do air, fast as 't was minister'd,And in his spring became a harvest; liv'd in Court—Which rare it is to do—most prais'd, most lov'd;A sample to the youngest; to the more matureA glass that feated them; and to the graverA child that guided dotards: to his mistress,For whom he now is banish'd,—her own priceProclaims how she esteem'd him and his virtue;By her election may be truly readWhat kind of man he is."

In all these three passages, the structure shapes itself from step to step as it goes on, one idea starting another, and each clause being born of the momentary impulse of the under-working vital current; which is indeed the natural way of unpremeditated, self-forgetting discourse. There is no care about verbal felicities; none for rounded adjustment of parts, or nice balancing of members, or for exactness of pauses and cadences, so as to make the language run smooth on the ear; or, if there be any care about these things, it is rather a care to avoid them. This it is that gives to Shakespeare's style such a truly organic character, in contradistinction to mere pieces of nicely-adjusted verbal joinery or cabinet-work; so that, as we proceed, the lingual form seems budding and sprouting at the moving of the inner mental life; the thought unfoldingand branching as the expression grows, and the expression growing with the growth of the thought. In short, language with him is not the dress, but the incarnation of ideas: he does not robe his thoughts with garments externally cut and fitted to them, but his thoughts robe themselves in a living texture of flesh and blood.

Hence the wonderful correspondence, so often remarked, between the Poet's style and the peculiar moods, tempers, motives, and habits of his characters, as if the language had caught the very grain and tincture of their minds. So, for instance, we find him rightly making the most glib-tongued rhetoric proceed from utter falseness of heart; for men never speak so well, in the elocutionary sense, as when they are lying; while, on the other hand, "there are no tricks in plain and simple faith." Thus, inMacbeth, when the murder of Duncan is first announced, we have the hero speaking of it to the Princes, when one of them asks, "What is amiss?"

"You are, and do not know't:The spring, the head, the fountain of your bloodIs stopp'd; the very source of it is stopp'd."

Of course he words the matter so finely all because he is playing the hypocrite. Compare with this the quick honest way in which Macduff dashes out the truth: "Your royal father's murder'd." We have a still more emphatic instance of the same kind in Goneril and Regan's hollow-hearted, and therefore highly rhetorical professions of love, when the doting old King invites his three daughters to an auction of falsehood, by proposing,

"That we our largest bounty may extendWhere nature doth with merit challenge."

So, again inHamlet, i. 2, the King opens with an elaborate strain of phrase-making, full of studied and ingenious antitheses; and he keeps up that style so long as he is using language to conceal his thoughts; but afterwards, in thesame speech, on coming to matters of business, he falls at once into the direct, simple style of plain truth and intellectual manhood.

But we have a more curious illustration, though in quite another kind, inMacbeth, iv. 3, where Ross, fresh from Scotland, comes to Macduff in England:

"Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?Ross. Alas, poor country,Almost afraid to know itself! it cannotBe call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing,But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rend the air,Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seemsA modern ecstasy: the dead man's knellIs there scarce ask'd for whom; and good men's livesExpire before the flowers in their caps,Dying or e'er they sicken.Macd. O, relationToo nice, and yet too true!"

"Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?

Ross. Alas, poor country,Almost afraid to know itself! it cannotBe call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing,But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rend the air,Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seemsA modern ecstasy: the dead man's knellIs there scarce ask'd for whom; and good men's livesExpire before the flowers in their caps,Dying or e'er they sicken.

Macd. O, relationToo nice, and yet too true!"

Here Ross's picked and precise wording of the matter shows his speech to be the result of meditated preparation; for he has come with his mind so full of what he was to say, that he could think of nothing else; and Macduff, with characteristic plainness of ear and tongue, finds it "too nice." His comment, at once so spontaneous and so apt, is a delightful touch of the Poet's art; and tells us that Shakespeare's judgment as well as his genius was at home in the secret of a perfect style; and that he understood, no man better, the essential poverty of "fine writing."

Equally apt and characteristic is another speech of Macduff's later in the same scene, after learning how "all his pretty chickens and their dam" have been put to death by the tyrant:

"Gentle Heaven,Cut short all intermission; front to frontBring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself;Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape,Heaven forgive him too."

Macduff is a man of great simplicity, energy, and determination of character; and here we have all these qualities boiled down to the highest intensity, as would naturally be the effect of such news on such a man. And observe how much is implied in that little wordtoo,—"Heaven forgive him too." As much as to say, "Let me once but have a chance at him, if I don't kill him, then I'm as great a sinner as he, and so God forgive us both!" I hardly know of another instance of so great a volume of meaning compressed into so few words. And how like it is to noble Macduff!

I could fill many pages with examples of this perfect suiting of the style to the mental states of the dramatic speakers, but must rest with citing a few more.

Hotspur is proverbially a man of impatient, irascible, headstrong temper. See now how all this is reflected in the very step of his language, when he has just been chafed into a rage by what the King has said to him about the Scottish prisoners:

"Why, look you, I am whipp'd and scourg'd with rods,Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hearOf this vile politician, Bolingbroke.In Richard's time,—what do you call the place?—A plague upon 't!—it is in Glostershire;—'Twas where the madcap duke his uncle kept,His uncle York;—where I first bow'd my kneeUnto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke;—When you and he came back from Ravenspurg.—Why, what a candy deal of courtesyThis fawning greyhound then did proffer me!Look,When his infant fortune came to age,And,Gentle Harry Percy, and,Kind cousin,—O, the Devil take such cozeners!"

Hotspur's spirit is so all-for-war, that he can think of nothing else; hence he naturally scorns poetry, though his soul is full of it. But poetry is so purely an impulse with him, that he is quite unconscious of it. With Glendower, on the contrary, poetry is a purpose, and he pursues it consciously. Note, then, in iii. 1, how this poetical mood shapesand tunes his style, when he interprets his daughter's Welsh to her English husband:

"She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down,And rest your gentle head upon her lap,And she will sing the song that pleaseth you,And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep,Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness;Making such difference betwixt wake and sleep,As is the difference betwixt day and night,The hour before the heavenly-harness'd teamBegins his golden progress in the East."

Here the whole expression seems born of melody, and the melody to pervade it as an essence. So, too, in the same scene, Mortimer being deep in the lyrical mood of honeymoon, see how that mood lives in the style of what he says about his wife's speaking of Welsh, which is all Greek to him; her tongue

"Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd,Sung by a fair queen in a Summer's bower,With ravishing division, to her lute."

For another instance, take a part of the exiled Duke's speech inAs You Like It, ii. 1:

"Sweet are the uses of adversity,Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;And this our life, exempt from public haunt,Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in every thing."

The Duke is a thoughtful, pensive, kind-hearted man, feeling keenly the wrong that has been done him, but not at all given to cherishing a resentful temper; and here, if I mistake not, his language relishes of the benevolent, meditative, and somewhat sentimental melancholy that marks his disposition.

Still more to the point, perhaps, is the passage inHamlet, iv. 5, where Ophelia so touchingly scatters out the secrets of her virgin heart: "They say the owl was a baker'sdaughter.—Lord, we know what we are, but we know not what we may be.—God be at your table!" And again: "I hope all will be well. We must be patient; but I cannot choose but weep, to think they should lay him i' the cold ground. My brother shall know of it; and so I thank you for your good counsel.—Come, my coach!—Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night." A poor, crazed, but still gentle, sweet-tempered, and delicate-souled girl, quite unconscious of her own distress, yet still having a dim remembrance of the great sorrows that have crazed her,—such is Ophelia here; and her very manner of speech takes the exact colour and tone of her mind.

Probably, however, the best example of all is one that I can but refer to, it being too long for quotation. It is in the second scene ofThe Tempest, where Prospero relates to his daughter the story of his past life, at the same time letting her into the fact and the reasons of what he has just been doing, and still has in hand to do. The dear wise old gentleman is here absent-minded, his thoughts being busy and very intent upon the tempest he has lately got up, and upon the incoming and forthcoming consequences of it; and he thinks Miranda is not attentive to what he is saying, because he is but half-attending to it himself. This subdued mental agitation, and wandering of his thoughts from the matter his tongue is handling, silently registers itself in a broken, disjointed, and somewhat rambling course of narrative; that is, his style runs so in sympathy with his state of mind as to be unconsciously physiognomic of it. Certainly it is among the Poet's finest instances of "suiting the word to the action"; while at the same time it perfectly remembers the "special observance" of "o'erstepping not the modesty of nature."

Since Homer, no poet has come near Shakespeare in originality, freshness, opulence, and boldness of imagery. It is this that forms, in a large part, the surpassing beautyof his poetry; it is in this that much of his finest idealizing centres. And he abounds in all the figures of speech known in formal rhetoric, except the Allegory and the Apologue. The Allegory, I take it, is hardly admissible in dramatic writing; nor is the Apologue very well suited to the place: the former, I believe, Shakespeare never uses; and his most conspicuous instance of the latter, in fact the only one that occurs to me, is that of the Belly and the Members, so quaintly delivered to the insurgent people by the juicy old Menenius in the first scene ofCoriolanus. But, though Shakespeare largely uses all the other figures of speech, I shall draw most of what I have to say of his style in this respect, under the two heads of Simile and Metaphor, since all that can properly be called imagery is resolvable into these. Shakespeare uses both a great deal, but the Simile in a way somewhat peculiar: in fact, as it is commonly used by other poets, he does not seem to have been very fond of it; and when he admits it, he generally uses it in the most informal way possible. But, first, at the risk of seeming pedantic, I will try to make some analysis of the two figures in question.

Every student knows that the Simile may be regarded as an expanded Metaphor, or the Metaphor as a condensed Simile. Which implies that the Metaphor admits of greater brevity. What, then, is the difference?

Now a simile, as the name imports, is a comparison of two or more things, more or less unlike in themselves, for the purpose of illustration. The thing illustrated and the thing that illustrates are, so to speak, laid alongside each other, that the less known may be made more intelligible by the light of that which is known better. Here the two parts are kept quite distinct, and a sort of parallel run between them. And the actions or the qualities of the two things stand apart, each on their own side of the parallel, those of neither being ascribed to the other. In a metaphor, on the other hand, the two parts, instead of lying side by side, are drawn together and incorporated into one.The idea and the image, the thought and the illustration, are not kept distinct, but the idea is incarnated in the image, so that the image bears the same relation to the idea as the body does to the soul. In other words, the two parts are completely identified, their qualities interfused and interpenetrating, so that they become one. Thus a metaphor proceeds by ascribing to a given object certain actions or qualities which are not literally true of that object, and which have in reference to it only the truth of analogy.

To illustrate this. When, in his sonnet composed on Westminster Bridge, Wordsworth says, "This City now doth, like a garment, wear the beauty of the morning," the language is a simile in form. If he had said, This City hath now robed herself in the beauty of the morning, it would have been in form a metaphor. On the other hand, when in the same sonnet he says, "The river glideth at his own sweet will," the language is a metaphor. If in this case he had said, The river floweth smoothly along, like a man led on by the free promptings of his own will, it would have been a simile. And so, when Romeo says of Juliet,—

"O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night,Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear";

here we have two metaphors, and also one simile. Juliet cannot be said literally to teach the torches any thing; but her brightness may be said to make them, or rather the owner of them ashamed of their dimness; or she may be said to be so radiant, that the torches, or the owner of them may learn from her how torches ought to shine. Neither can it be said literally that her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night, for the night has no cheek; but it may be said to bear the same relation to the night as a diamond pendant does to the dark cheek that sets it off. Then the last metaphor is made one of the parts in a simile; what is therein expressed being likened to a rich jewel hanging inan Ethiop's ear. So, too, when Wordsworth apostrophizes Milton,—

"Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea";—

here we have two similes. But when he says,—

"Unruffled doth the blue lake lie,The mountains looking on";

and when he says of the birds singing,—

"Clear, loud, and lively is the din,From social warblers gathering inTheir harvest of sweet lays";

and when he says of his Lucy,—

"The stars of midnight shall be dearTo her; and she shall lean her earIn many a secret placeWhere rivulets dance their wayward round,And beauty born of murmuring soundShall pass into her face";—

in these lines we have four pure and perfect metaphors.

Again: InCymbeline, old Belarius says of the "two princely boys" that are with him,—

"They are as gentleAs zephyrs, blowing below the violet,Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough,Their royal blood enchaf'd, as the rud'st wind,That by the top doth take the mountain pine,And make him stoop to th' vale."

Here are two similes, of the right Shakespeare mintage. As metaphors from the same hand, take this from Iachimo's temptation of Imogen, "This object, which takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye"; and this from Viola, urging Orsino's suit to the Countess,—

"Holla your name to the reverberate hills,And make the babbling gossip of the airCry out,Olivia!"

and this of Cleopatra's with the asp at her bosom,—

"Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,That sucks the nurse asleep?"

Or, as an instance of both figures together, take the following fromKing Lear, iv. 3, where the Gentleman describes to Kent the behaviour of Cordelia on hearing of her father's condition:

"You have seenSunshine and rain at once; her smiles and tearsWere like: a better way,—those happy smiletsThat play'd on her ripe lip seem'd not to knowWhat guests were in her eyes; which parted thenceAs pearls from diamonds dropp'd."

Here we have two similes, in the first two and last clauses; and also two metaphors, severally conveyed in,—"That play'd on her ripe lip," and, "What guests were in her eyes." Perhaps I ought to add that a simile is sometimes merely suggested or implied; as in these lines from Wordsworth:

"What is glory?—in the socketSee how dying tapers fare!What is pride?—a whizzing rocketThat would emulate a star.What is friendship?—do not trust her,Nor the vows which she has made;Diamonds dart their brightest lustreFrom a palsy-shaken head."

"What is glory?—in the socketSee how dying tapers fare!What is pride?—a whizzing rocketThat would emulate a star.

What is friendship?—do not trust her,Nor the vows which she has made;Diamonds dart their brightest lustreFrom a palsy-shaken head."

Thus much by way of analyzing the two figures, and illustrating the difference between them. In all these instances may be seen, I think, how in a metaphor the intensity and fire of imagination, instead of placing the two parts side by side, melts them down into one homogeneous mass; which mass is both of them and neither of them at the same time; their respective properties being so interwoven and fused together, that those of each may be affirmed of the other.

I have said that Shakespeare uses the Simile in a waysomewhat peculiar. This may require some explication.—Homer, Virgil, Dante, Spenser, Milton, and the great Italian poets of the sixteenth century, all deal largely in what may be styled full-drawn similes; that is, similes carefully elaborated through all their parts, these being knit together in a balanced and rounded whole. Here is an instance of what I mean, fromParadise Lost, i.:

"As when the potent rodOf Amram's son, in Egypt's evil day,Wav'd round the coast, up call'd a pitchy cloudOf locusts, warping on the eastern wind,That o'er the realm of impious Pharaoh hungLike night, and darken'd all the land of Nile;So numberless where those bad angels seenHovering on wing under the cope of Hell,'Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires."

This may be fitly taken as a model specimen of the thing; it is severely classical in style, and is well worthy of the great hand that made it. Here is another, somewhat different in structure, and not easy to beat, from Wordsworth'sMiscellaneous Sonnets, Part ii.:

"Desponding Father! mark this alter'd bough,So beautiful of late, with sunshine warm'd,Or moist with dews; what more unsightly now,Its blossoms shrivell'd, and its fruit, if form'd,Invisible? yet Spring her genial browKnits not o'er that discolouring and decayAs false to expectation. Nor fret thouAt like unlovely process in the MayOf human life: a Stripling's graces blow,Fade, and are shed, that from their timely fall(Misdeem it not a cankerous change) may growRich mellow bearings, that for thanks shall call."

It may be worth noting, that the first member of this no less beautiful than instructive passage contains one metaphor,—"Spring her genial brow knits not"; and the second two,—"in the May of human life," and, "a Stripling's graces blow, fade, and are shed." Herein it differsfrom the preceding instance; but I take it to be none the worse for that.

Shakespeare occasionally builds a simile on the same plan; as in the following fromMeasure for Measure, i. 3:

"Now, as fond fathers,Having bound up the threatening twigs of birch,Only to stick it in their children's sightFor terror, not to use, in time the rodBecomes more mock'd than fear'd; so our decrees,Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead;And liberty plucks justice by the nose;The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwartGoes all decorum."

But the Poet does not much affect this formal mode of the thing: he has comparatively few instances of it; while his pages abound in similes of the informal mode, like those quoted before. And his peculiarity in the use of the figure consists partly in what seems not a little curious, namely, that he sometimes begins with building a simile, and then runs it into a metaphor before he gets through; so that we have what may be termed a mixture of the two; that is, he sets out as if to form the two parts distinct, and ends by identifying them. Here is an instance from the Second Part ofKing Henry the Fourth, iv. 1:

"His foes are so enrooted with his friends,That, plucking to unfix an enemy,He doth unfasten so and shake a friend.So that this land, like an offensive wifeThat hath enrag'd him on to offer strokes,As he is striking, holds his infant up,And hangs resolv'd correction in the armThat was uprear'd to execution."

And so inKing Henry the Fifth, ii. 4:

"In cases of defence 'tis best to weighThe enemy more mighty than he seems:So the proportions of defence are fill'd;Which of a weak and niggardly projection,Doth, like a miser, spoil his coat with scantingA little cloth."

Also inHamlet, iv. 1:

"So much was our love,We would not understand what was most fit;But, like the owner of a foul disease,To keep it from divulging, let it feedEven on the pith of life."

And somewhat the same again in iii. 4:

"No, in despite of sense and secrecy,Unpeg the basket on the house's top,Let the birds fly, and, like the famous ape,To try conclusions, in the basket creep,And break your own neck down."

Something very like this mixing of figures occurs, also, inTimon of Athens, iv. 3:

"But myself,Who had the world as my confectionary;The mouths, the tongues, the eyes, and hearts of menAt duty, more than I could frame employment;That numberless upon me stuck, as leavesDo on an oak, have with one Winter's brushFell from their boughs, and left me open, bareFor every storm that blows."

And I suspect that certain passages, often faulted for confusion of metaphors, are but instances of the same thing, as this:

"Blest are thoseWhose blood and judgment are so well commingled,That they are not a pipe for Fortune's fingerTo sound what stop she please."

This feature mainly results, no doubt, from the Poet's aptness or endeavour to make his style of as highly symbolical a character as possible without smothering the sense. And bysymbolicalI here mean the taking a representative part of a thing, and using it in such a way as to convey the sense and virtue of the whole. Metaphors are the strongest and surest mode of doing this; and so keenwas the Poet's quest of this, that his similes, in the very act of forming, often become half-metaphors, as from a sort of instinct. Thus, instead of fully forming a simile, he merelysuggestsit; throwing in just enough of it to start the thoughts on that track, and then condensing the whole into a semi-metaphorical shape. Which seems to explain why it is that these suggestions of similes, notwithstanding the stereotyped censures of a too formal criticism, seldom trouble any reader who is so unsophisticated as to care little for the form, so he be sure of the substance.

The thoughtful student can hardly choose but feel that there is something peculiar in Shakespeare's metaphors. And so indeed there is. But the peculiarity is rather in degree than kind. Now the Metaphor, as before remarked, proceeds upon a likeness in the relations of things; whereas the Simile proceeds upon a likeness in the things themselves, which is a very different matter. And so surpassing was Shakespeare's quickness and acuteness of eye to discern the most hidden resemblances in the former kind, that he outdoes all other writers in the exceeding fineness of the threads upon which his metaphors are often built. In other words, he beats all other poets, ancient and modern, in constructing metaphors upon the most subtile, delicate, and unobvious analogies.

Among the English poets, Wordsworth probably stands next to Shakespeare in the frequency, felicity, originality, and strength of his metaphorical language. I will therefore quote a few of his most characteristic specimens, as this seems the fairest way for bringing out the unequalled virtue of Shakespeare's poetry in this kind.

"With heart as calm as lakes that sleep,In frosty moonlight glistening;Or mountain rivers, where they creepAlong a channel smooth and deep,To their own far-off murmurs listening."Memory."Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;A privacy of glorious light is thine;Whence thou dost pour upon the world a floodOf harmony, with instinct more divine."To a Skylark."And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,I love to see the look with which it braves—Cas'd in th' unfeeling armour of old time—The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves."Peele Castle."Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark;The happiest bird that sprang out of the Ark!"A Morning Exercise."One who was suffering tumult in his soul,Yet fail'd to seek the sure relief of prayer,Went forth,—his course surrendering to the careOf the fierce wind, while midday lightnings prowlInsidiously, untimely thunders growl;While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers tearThe lingering remnants of their yellow hair."Mis. Son., Pt. ii. 15."So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the senseThese lofty pillars, spread that branching roofSelf-pois'd, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells,Where light and shade repose, where music dwellsLingering,—and wandering on as loth to die.""But, from the arms of silence,—list, O list!—The music bursteth into second life;The notes luxuriate, every stone is kiss'dBy sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife."Eccle. Son., Pt. iii. 43, 44."The towering headlands, crown'd with mist,Their feet among the billows, knowThat Ocean is a mighty harmonist."Power of Sound."Whate'erI saw, or heard, or felt, was but a streamThat flow'd into a kindred stream; a galeConfederate with the current of the soul,To speed my voyage.""Past and Future are the wingsOn whose support harmoniously conjoin'dMoves the great spirit of human knowledge."Prelude, Book vi."Child of loud-throated War! the mountain StreamRoars in thy hearing; but thy hour of restIs come, and thou art silent in thy age.""What art thou, from careCast off,—abandon'd by thy rugged Sire,Nor by soft Peace adopted?""Shade of departed Power,Skeleton of unflesh'd humanity,The chronicle were welcome that should callInto the compass of distinct regardThe toils and struggles of thy infant years!"Kilchurn Castle."Advance,—come forth from thy Tyrolean ground,Dear Liberty! stern Nymph of soul untam'd;Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains nam'd!Through the long chain of Alps from mound to mound,And o'er th' eternal snows, like Echo, bound;Like Echo, when the hunter-train at dawnHave rous'd her from her sleep; and forest-lawn,Cliffs, woods, and caves her viewless steps resound,And babble of her pastime!""Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King!And ye mild Seasons—in a sunny clime,Midway on some high hill, while father TimeLooks on delighted—meet in festal ring,And long and loud of Winter's triumph sing!Sing ye, with blossoms crown'd, and fruits, and flowers,Of Winter's breath surcharg'd with sleety showers,And the dire flapping of his hoary wing!Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass;With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report your gain;Whisper it to the billows of the main,And to th' aerial Zephyrs as they pass,That old decrepit Winter—Hehath slainThat Host which render'd all your bounties vain.Son. to Lib., Pt. ii. 10, 35.

"With heart as calm as lakes that sleep,In frosty moonlight glistening;Or mountain rivers, where they creepAlong a channel smooth and deep,To their own far-off murmurs listening."Memory.

"Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;A privacy of glorious light is thine;Whence thou dost pour upon the world a floodOf harmony, with instinct more divine."To a Skylark.

"And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,I love to see the look with which it braves—Cas'd in th' unfeeling armour of old time—The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves."Peele Castle.

"Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark;The happiest bird that sprang out of the Ark!"A Morning Exercise.

"One who was suffering tumult in his soul,Yet fail'd to seek the sure relief of prayer,Went forth,—his course surrendering to the careOf the fierce wind, while midday lightnings prowlInsidiously, untimely thunders growl;While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers tearThe lingering remnants of their yellow hair."Mis. Son., Pt. ii. 15.

"So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the senseThese lofty pillars, spread that branching roofSelf-pois'd, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells,Where light and shade repose, where music dwellsLingering,—and wandering on as loth to die."

"But, from the arms of silence,—list, O list!—The music bursteth into second life;The notes luxuriate, every stone is kiss'dBy sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife."Eccle. Son., Pt. iii. 43, 44.

"The towering headlands, crown'd with mist,Their feet among the billows, knowThat Ocean is a mighty harmonist."Power of Sound.

"Whate'erI saw, or heard, or felt, was but a streamThat flow'd into a kindred stream; a galeConfederate with the current of the soul,To speed my voyage."

"Past and Future are the wingsOn whose support harmoniously conjoin'dMoves the great spirit of human knowledge."Prelude, Book vi.

"Child of loud-throated War! the mountain StreamRoars in thy hearing; but thy hour of restIs come, and thou art silent in thy age."

"What art thou, from careCast off,—abandon'd by thy rugged Sire,Nor by soft Peace adopted?"

"Shade of departed Power,Skeleton of unflesh'd humanity,The chronicle were welcome that should callInto the compass of distinct regardThe toils and struggles of thy infant years!"Kilchurn Castle.

"Advance,—come forth from thy Tyrolean ground,Dear Liberty! stern Nymph of soul untam'd;Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains nam'd!Through the long chain of Alps from mound to mound,And o'er th' eternal snows, like Echo, bound;Like Echo, when the hunter-train at dawnHave rous'd her from her sleep; and forest-lawn,Cliffs, woods, and caves her viewless steps resound,And babble of her pastime!"

"Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King!And ye mild Seasons—in a sunny clime,Midway on some high hill, while father TimeLooks on delighted—meet in festal ring,And long and loud of Winter's triumph sing!Sing ye, with blossoms crown'd, and fruits, and flowers,Of Winter's breath surcharg'd with sleety showers,And the dire flapping of his hoary wing!Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass;With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report your gain;Whisper it to the billows of the main,And to th' aerial Zephyrs as they pass,That old decrepit Winter—Hehath slainThat Host which render'd all your bounties vain.Son. to Lib., Pt. ii. 10, 35.

In the foregoing passages, the imagery of course loses more or less of its force and beauty from being cut out of its proper surroundings; for Wordsworth's poetry, too, is far from being mere gatherings of finely-carved chips: as a general thing, the several parts of a poem all rightly know each other as co-members of an organic whole. Far more must this needs be the case in the passages that follow, inasmuch as these are from the most dramatic of all writing; so that the virtue of the imagery is inextricably bound up with the characters and occasions of the speakers:

"Look, love, what envious streaksDo lace the severing clouds in yonder East:Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund dayStands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops."Rom. and Jul., iii. 5."Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath,Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yetIs crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,And death's pale flag is not advancèd there.""Why art thou yet so fair? shall I believeThat unsubstantial Death is amorous;And that the lean abhorrèd monster keepsThee here in dark to be his paramour?"Ibid., v. 3."My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou remember'stSince once I sat upon a promontory,And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back,Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,That the rude sea grew civil at her song;And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,To hear the sea-maid's music."Midsum. Night's D., ii. 1."Rush on his host, as doth the melted snowUpon the valleys, whose low vassal seatThe Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon."King Henry V., iii. 5.

"Look, love, what envious streaksDo lace the severing clouds in yonder East:Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund dayStands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops."Rom. and Jul., iii. 5.

"Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath,Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yetIs crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,And death's pale flag is not advancèd there."

"Why art thou yet so fair? shall I believeThat unsubstantial Death is amorous;And that the lean abhorrèd monster keepsThee here in dark to be his paramour?"Ibid., v. 3.

"My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou remember'stSince once I sat upon a promontory,And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back,Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,That the rude sea grew civil at her song;And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,To hear the sea-maid's music."Midsum. Night's D., ii. 1.

"Rush on his host, as doth the melted snowUpon the valleys, whose low vassal seatThe Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon."King Henry V., iii. 5.

"His face is all bubukles, and whelks, and knobs, and flames of fire; and his lips plows at his nose, and it is like a coal of fire, sometimes plue, and sometimes red; but his nose is executed, and his fire is out."Ibid., iii. 6.

"O, then th' Earth shook to see the heavens on fire,And not in fear of your nativity.Diseasèd Nature oftentimes breaks forthIn strange eruptions; oft the teeming EarthIs with a kind of cholic pinch'd and vex'dBy the imprisoning of unruly windWithin her womb; which, for enlargement striving,Shakes the old beldame Earth, and topples downSteeples and moss-grown towers. At your birth,Our grandam Earth, having this distemperature,In passion shook."1King Henry IV., iii. 1."Let heaven kiss earth! now let not Nature's handKeep the wild flood-confin'd! let order die!And let this world no longer be a stageTo feed contention in a lingering act;But let one spirit of the first-born CainReign in all bosoms, that, each heart being setOn bloody courses, the rude scene may end,And darkness be the burier of the dead!"2King Henry IV., i. 1."An habitation giddy and unsureHath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.O thou fond many! with what loud applauseDidst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke,Before he was what thou would'st have him be!And being now trimm'd in thine own desires,Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him,That thou provok'st thyself to cast him up.So, so, thou common dog, did'st thou disgorgeThy glutton bosom of the royal Richard;And now thou would'st eat thy dead vomit up,And howl'st to find it."Ibid., i. 3."But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill."Hamlet, i. 1."So, haply slander—Whose whisper o'er the world's diameter,As level as the cannon to his blank,Transports his poison'd shot—may miss our name,And hit the woundless air."Ibid., iv. 1."Thou sure and firm-set earth,Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fearThe very stones prate of my whereabout,And take the present horror from the time,Which now suits with it."Macbeth, ii. 1."O thou day o' the world,Chain mine arm'd neck; leap thou, attire and all,Through proof of harness to my heart, and thereRide on the pants triúmphing!"Ant. and Cleo., iv. 8."For his bounty,There was no Winter in't; an Autumn 'twasThat grew the more by reaping: his delightsWere dolphin-like; they show'd his back aboveThe element they liv'd in: in his liveryWalk'd crowns and crownets."Ibid., v. 2."The ample proposition that hope makesIn all designs begun on earth belowFails in the promis'd largeness: checks and disastersGrow in the veins of actions highest rear'd.""Distinction, with a broad and powerful fan,Puffing at all, winnows the light away."Troil. and Cres., i. 3."Be as a planetary plague, when JoveWill o'er some high-vie'd city hang his poisonIn the sick air.""Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes;Whose proof, nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes,Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding,Shall pierce a jot.""Common mother, thou,Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast,Teems, and feeds all; whose self-same mettle,Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puff'd.Engenders the black toad and adder blue,The gilded newt and eyeless venom'd worm;Yield him, who all thy human sons doth hate,From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root!""What, think'stThat the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain,Will put thy shirt on warm? will these moss'd trees,That have outliv'd the eagle, page thy heels,And skip where thou point'st out? will the cold brook.Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste,To cure thy o'er-night's surfeit?""O thou sweet king-killer, and dear divorce'Twixt natural son and sire! thou bright defilerOf Hymen's purest bed! thou valiant Mars!Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer,Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snowThat lies on Dian's lap! thou visible god,That solder'st close impossibilities,And mak'st them kiss! that speak'st with every tongue,To every purpose! O thou touch of hearts!Think, thy slave man rebels; and by thy virtueSet them into confounding odds, that beastsMay have the world in empire!"Timon of Athens, iv. 3.

"Let heaven kiss earth! now let not Nature's handKeep the wild flood-confin'd! let order die!And let this world no longer be a stageTo feed contention in a lingering act;But let one spirit of the first-born CainReign in all bosoms, that, each heart being setOn bloody courses, the rude scene may end,And darkness be the burier of the dead!"2King Henry IV., i. 1.

"An habitation giddy and unsureHath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.O thou fond many! with what loud applauseDidst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke,Before he was what thou would'st have him be!And being now trimm'd in thine own desires,Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him,That thou provok'st thyself to cast him up.So, so, thou common dog, did'st thou disgorgeThy glutton bosom of the royal Richard;And now thou would'st eat thy dead vomit up,And howl'st to find it."Ibid., i. 3.

"But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill."Hamlet, i. 1.

"So, haply slander—Whose whisper o'er the world's diameter,As level as the cannon to his blank,Transports his poison'd shot—may miss our name,And hit the woundless air."Ibid., iv. 1.

"Thou sure and firm-set earth,Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fearThe very stones prate of my whereabout,And take the present horror from the time,Which now suits with it."Macbeth, ii. 1.

"O thou day o' the world,Chain mine arm'd neck; leap thou, attire and all,Through proof of harness to my heart, and thereRide on the pants triúmphing!"Ant. and Cleo., iv. 8.

"For his bounty,There was no Winter in't; an Autumn 'twasThat grew the more by reaping: his delightsWere dolphin-like; they show'd his back aboveThe element they liv'd in: in his liveryWalk'd crowns and crownets."Ibid., v. 2.

"The ample proposition that hope makesIn all designs begun on earth belowFails in the promis'd largeness: checks and disastersGrow in the veins of actions highest rear'd."

"Distinction, with a broad and powerful fan,Puffing at all, winnows the light away."Troil. and Cres., i. 3.

"Be as a planetary plague, when JoveWill o'er some high-vie'd city hang his poisonIn the sick air."

"Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes;Whose proof, nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes,Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding,Shall pierce a jot."

"Common mother, thou,Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast,Teems, and feeds all; whose self-same mettle,Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puff'd.Engenders the black toad and adder blue,The gilded newt and eyeless venom'd worm;Yield him, who all thy human sons doth hate,From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root!"

"What, think'stThat the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain,Will put thy shirt on warm? will these moss'd trees,That have outliv'd the eagle, page thy heels,And skip where thou point'st out? will the cold brook.Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste,To cure thy o'er-night's surfeit?"

"O thou sweet king-killer, and dear divorce'Twixt natural son and sire! thou bright defilerOf Hymen's purest bed! thou valiant Mars!Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer,Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snowThat lies on Dian's lap! thou visible god,That solder'st close impossibilities,And mak'st them kiss! that speak'st with every tongue,To every purpose! O thou touch of hearts!Think, thy slave man rebels; and by thy virtueSet them into confounding odds, that beastsMay have the world in empire!"Timon of Athens, iv. 3.

Shakespeare's boldness in metaphors is pretty strongly exemplified in some of the forecited passages; but he has instances of still greater boldness. Among these may be named Lady Macbeth's—

"Come, thick night,And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of Hell,That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,To cryHold, hold!"

Here "blanket of the dark" runs to so high a pitch, that divers critics, Coleridge among them, have been staggered by it, and have been fain to set it down as a corruption of the text. In this they are no doubt mistaken: the metaphor is in the right style of Shakespeare, and, with all its daring, runs in too fair keeping to be ruled out of the family. Hardly less bold is this of Macbeth's—

"Heaven's cherubin, hors'dUpon the sightless couriers of the air,Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,That tears shall drown the wind."

With these I suspect may be fitly classed, notwithstanding its delicacy, the following from Iachimo's description of Imogen, when he comes out of the trunk in her chamber:

"The flame o' the taperBows toward her; and would under-peep her lids,To see th' enclosèd lights, now canopiedUnder these windows, white and azure, lac'dWith blue of heaven's own tinct."

Also this, from the soliloquy of Posthumus in repentance for the supposed death of Imogen by his order:

"My conscience, thou art fetter'dMore than my shanks and wrists: you good gods give meThe penitent instrument to pick that bolt,Then free for ever!"

I add still another example; from one of old Nestor's speeches on the selection of a champion to fight with the Trojan hero:

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