‘Gloucester.They do me wrong, and I will not endure it.Who are they that complain unto the king,That I forsooth am stern, and love them not?By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly,That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours:Because I cannot flatter and look fair,Smile in men’s faces, smooth, deceive, and cog,Duck with French nods, and apish courtesy,I must be held a rancorous enemy.Cannot a plain man live, and think no harm,But thus his simple truth must be abus’dWith silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?Gray.To whom in all this presence speaks your grace?Gloucester.To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace;When have I injur’d thee, when done thee wrong?Or thee? or thee? or any of your faction?A plague upon you all!’
‘Gloucester.They do me wrong, and I will not endure it.Who are they that complain unto the king,That I forsooth am stern, and love them not?By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly,That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours:Because I cannot flatter and look fair,Smile in men’s faces, smooth, deceive, and cog,Duck with French nods, and apish courtesy,I must be held a rancorous enemy.Cannot a plain man live, and think no harm,But thus his simple truth must be abus’dWith silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?Gray.To whom in all this presence speaks your grace?Gloucester.To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace;When have I injur’d thee, when done thee wrong?Or thee? or thee? or any of your faction?A plague upon you all!’
‘Gloucester.They do me wrong, and I will not endure it.Who are they that complain unto the king,That I forsooth am stern, and love them not?By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly,That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours:Because I cannot flatter and look fair,Smile in men’s faces, smooth, deceive, and cog,Duck with French nods, and apish courtesy,I must be held a rancorous enemy.Cannot a plain man live, and think no harm,But thus his simple truth must be abus’dWith silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?
‘Gloucester.They do me wrong, and I will not endure it.
Who are they that complain unto the king,
That I forsooth am stern, and love them not?
By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly,
That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours:
Because I cannot flatter and look fair,
Smile in men’s faces, smooth, deceive, and cog,
Duck with French nods, and apish courtesy,
I must be held a rancorous enemy.
Cannot a plain man live, and think no harm,
But thus his simple truth must be abus’d
With silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?
Gray.To whom in all this presence speaks your grace?
Gray.To whom in all this presence speaks your grace?
Gloucester.To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace;When have I injur’d thee, when done thee wrong?Or thee? or thee? or any of your faction?A plague upon you all!’
Gloucester.To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace;
When have I injur’d thee, when done thee wrong?
Or thee? or thee? or any of your faction?
A plague upon you all!’
Nothing can be more characteristic than the turbulent pretensions to meekness and simplicity in this address. Again, the versatility and adroitness of Richard is admirably described in the following ironical conversation with Brakenbury:—
‘Brakenbury.I beseech your graces both to pardon me.His majesty hath straitly given in charge,That no man shall have private conference,Of what degree soever, with your brother.Gloucester.E’en so, and please your worship, Brakenbury.You may partake of any thing we say:We speak no treason, man—we say the kingIs wise and virtuous, and his noble queenWell strook in years, fair, and not jealous.We say that Shore’s wife hath a pretty foot,A cherry lip,A bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;That the queen’s kindred are made gentlefolks.How say you, sir? Can you deny all this?Brakenbury.With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.Gloucester.What, fellow, naught to do with mistress Shore?I tell you, sir, he that doth naught with her,Excepting one, were best to do it secretly alone.Brakenbury.What one, my lord?Gloucester.Her husband, knave—would’st thou betray me?’
‘Brakenbury.I beseech your graces both to pardon me.His majesty hath straitly given in charge,That no man shall have private conference,Of what degree soever, with your brother.Gloucester.E’en so, and please your worship, Brakenbury.You may partake of any thing we say:We speak no treason, man—we say the kingIs wise and virtuous, and his noble queenWell strook in years, fair, and not jealous.We say that Shore’s wife hath a pretty foot,A cherry lip,A bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;That the queen’s kindred are made gentlefolks.How say you, sir? Can you deny all this?Brakenbury.With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.Gloucester.What, fellow, naught to do with mistress Shore?I tell you, sir, he that doth naught with her,Excepting one, were best to do it secretly alone.Brakenbury.What one, my lord?Gloucester.Her husband, knave—would’st thou betray me?’
‘Brakenbury.I beseech your graces both to pardon me.His majesty hath straitly given in charge,That no man shall have private conference,Of what degree soever, with your brother.
‘Brakenbury.I beseech your graces both to pardon me.
His majesty hath straitly given in charge,
That no man shall have private conference,
Of what degree soever, with your brother.
Gloucester.E’en so, and please your worship, Brakenbury.You may partake of any thing we say:We speak no treason, man—we say the kingIs wise and virtuous, and his noble queenWell strook in years, fair, and not jealous.We say that Shore’s wife hath a pretty foot,A cherry lip,A bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;That the queen’s kindred are made gentlefolks.How say you, sir? Can you deny all this?
Gloucester.E’en so, and please your worship, Brakenbury.
You may partake of any thing we say:
We speak no treason, man—we say the king
Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen
Well strook in years, fair, and not jealous.
We say that Shore’s wife hath a pretty foot,
A cherry lip,
A bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;
That the queen’s kindred are made gentlefolks.
How say you, sir? Can you deny all this?
Brakenbury.With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.
Brakenbury.With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.
Gloucester.What, fellow, naught to do with mistress Shore?I tell you, sir, he that doth naught with her,Excepting one, were best to do it secretly alone.
Gloucester.What, fellow, naught to do with mistress Shore?
I tell you, sir, he that doth naught with her,
Excepting one, were best to do it secretly alone.
Brakenbury.What one, my lord?
Brakenbury.What one, my lord?
Gloucester.Her husband, knave—would’st thou betray me?’
Gloucester.Her husband, knave—would’st thou betray me?’
The feigned reconciliation of Gloucester with the queen’s kinsmen is also a master-piece. One of the finest strokes in the play, and which serves to shew as much as any thing the deep, plausible manners of Richard, is the unsuspecting security of Hastings, at the very time when the former is plotting his death, and when that very appearance of cordiality and good-humour on which Hastings builds his confidence arises from Richard’s consciousness of having betrayed him to his ruin. This, with the whole character of Hastings, is omitted.
Perhaps the two most beautiful passages in the original play are the farewell apostrophe of the queen to the Tower, where the children are shut up from her, and Tyrrel’s description of their death. We will finish our quotations with them.
‘Queen.Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower;Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes,Whom envy hath immured within your walls;Rough cradle for such little pretty ones,Rude, rugged nurse, old sullen play-fellow,For tender princes!’
‘Queen.Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower;Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes,Whom envy hath immured within your walls;Rough cradle for such little pretty ones,Rude, rugged nurse, old sullen play-fellow,For tender princes!’
‘Queen.Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower;Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes,Whom envy hath immured within your walls;Rough cradle for such little pretty ones,Rude, rugged nurse, old sullen play-fellow,For tender princes!’
‘Queen.Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower;
Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes,
Whom envy hath immured within your walls;
Rough cradle for such little pretty ones,
Rude, rugged nurse, old sullen play-fellow,
For tender princes!’
The other passage is the account of their death by Tyrrel:—
‘Dighton and Forrest, whom I did subornTo do this piece of ruthless butchery,Albeit they were flesh’d villains, bloody dogs,—Melting with tenderness and mild compassion,Wept like to children in their death’s sad story:O thus! quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes;Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one anotherWithin their innocent alabaster arms;Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,And in that summer beauty kissed each other;A book of prayers on their pillow lay,Which once, quoth Forrest, almost changed my mind:But oh the devil!—there the villain stopped;When Dighton thus told on—we smotheredThe most replenished sweet work of nature,That from the prime creation ere she framed.’
‘Dighton and Forrest, whom I did subornTo do this piece of ruthless butchery,Albeit they were flesh’d villains, bloody dogs,—Melting with tenderness and mild compassion,Wept like to children in their death’s sad story:O thus! quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes;Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one anotherWithin their innocent alabaster arms;Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,And in that summer beauty kissed each other;A book of prayers on their pillow lay,Which once, quoth Forrest, almost changed my mind:But oh the devil!—there the villain stopped;When Dighton thus told on—we smotheredThe most replenished sweet work of nature,That from the prime creation ere she framed.’
‘Dighton and Forrest, whom I did subornTo do this piece of ruthless butchery,Albeit they were flesh’d villains, bloody dogs,—Melting with tenderness and mild compassion,Wept like to children in their death’s sad story:O thus! quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes;Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one anotherWithin their innocent alabaster arms;Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,And in that summer beauty kissed each other;A book of prayers on their pillow lay,Which once, quoth Forrest, almost changed my mind:But oh the devil!—there the villain stopped;When Dighton thus told on—we smotheredThe most replenished sweet work of nature,That from the prime creation ere she framed.’
‘Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn
To do this piece of ruthless butchery,
Albeit they were flesh’d villains, bloody dogs,—
Melting with tenderness and mild compassion,
Wept like to children in their death’s sad story:
O thus! quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes;
Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one another
Within their innocent alabaster arms;
Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,
And in that summer beauty kissed each other;
A book of prayers on their pillow lay,
Which once, quoth Forrest, almost changed my mind:
But oh the devil!—there the villain stopped;
When Dighton thus told on—we smothered
The most replenished sweet work of nature,
That from the prime creation ere she framed.’
These are some of those wonderful bursts of feeling, done to the life, to the very height of fancy and nature, which our Shakespear alone could give. We do not insist on the repetition of these last passages as proper for the stage: we should indeed be loth to trust them in the mouth of almost any actor: but we should wish them to be retained in preference at least to the fantoccini exhibition of the young princes, Edward and York, bandying childish wit with their uncle.
This play contains little action or violence of passion, yet it has considerable interest of a more mild and thoughtful cast, and some of the most striking passages in the author’s works. The character of Queen Katherine is the most perfect delineation of matronly dignity, sweetness, and resignation, that can be conceived. Her appeals to the protection of the king, her remonstrances to the cardinals, her conversations with her women, shew a noble and generous spirit accompanied with the utmost gentleness of nature. What can be more affecting than her answer to Campeius and Wolsey, who come to visit her as pretended friends.
——‘Nay, forsooth, my friends,They that must weigh out my afflictions,They that my trust must grow to, live not here;They are, as all my comforts are, far hence,In mine own country, lords.’
——‘Nay, forsooth, my friends,They that must weigh out my afflictions,They that my trust must grow to, live not here;They are, as all my comforts are, far hence,In mine own country, lords.’
——‘Nay, forsooth, my friends,They that must weigh out my afflictions,They that my trust must grow to, live not here;They are, as all my comforts are, far hence,In mine own country, lords.’
——‘Nay, forsooth, my friends,
They that must weigh out my afflictions,
They that my trust must grow to, live not here;
They are, as all my comforts are, far hence,
In mine own country, lords.’
Dr. Johnson observes of this play, that ‘the meek sorrows and virtuous distress of Katherine have furnished some scenes, which may be justly numbered among the greatest efforts of tragedy. But the genius of Shakespear comes in and goes out with Katherine. Every other part may be easily conceived and easily written.’ This is easily said; but with all due deference to so great a reputed authority as that of Johnson, it is not true. For instance, the scene of Buckingham led to execution is one of the most affecting and naturalin Shakespear, and one to which there is hardly an approach in any other author. Again, the character of Wolsey, the description of his pride and of his fall, are inimitable, and have, besides their gorgeousness of effect, a pathos, which only the genius of Shakespear could lend to the distresses of a proud, bad man, like Wolsey. There is a sort of child-like simplicity in the very helplessness of his situation, arising from the recollection of his past overbearing ambition. After the cutting sarcasms of his enemies on his disgrace, against which he bears up with a spirit conscious of his own superiority, he breaks out into that fine apostrophe—
‘Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!This is the state of man; to-day he puts forthThe tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;And—when he thinks, good easy man, full surelyHis greatness is a ripening—nips his root,And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur’d,Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,These many summers in a sea of glory;But far beyond my depth: my high-blown prideAt length broke under me; and now has left me,Weary and old with service, to the mercyOf a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye!I feel my heart new open’d: O how wretchedIs that poor man, that hangs on princes’ favours!There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,That sweet aspect of princes, and our ruin,More pangs and fears than war and women have;And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,Never to hope again!’—
‘Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!This is the state of man; to-day he puts forthThe tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;And—when he thinks, good easy man, full surelyHis greatness is a ripening—nips his root,And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur’d,Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,These many summers in a sea of glory;But far beyond my depth: my high-blown prideAt length broke under me; and now has left me,Weary and old with service, to the mercyOf a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye!I feel my heart new open’d: O how wretchedIs that poor man, that hangs on princes’ favours!There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,That sweet aspect of princes, and our ruin,More pangs and fears than war and women have;And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,Never to hope again!’—
‘Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!This is the state of man; to-day he puts forthThe tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;And—when he thinks, good easy man, full surelyHis greatness is a ripening—nips his root,And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur’d,Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,These many summers in a sea of glory;But far beyond my depth: my high-blown prideAt length broke under me; and now has left me,Weary and old with service, to the mercyOf a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye!I feel my heart new open’d: O how wretchedIs that poor man, that hangs on princes’ favours!There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,That sweet aspect of princes, and our ruin,More pangs and fears than war and women have;And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,Never to hope again!’—
‘Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening—nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur’d,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new open’d: O how wretched
Is that poor man, that hangs on princes’ favours!
There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and our ruin,
More pangs and fears than war and women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again!’—
There is in this passage, as well as in the well-known dialogue with Cromwell which follows, something which stretches beyond commonplace; nor is the account which Griffiths gives of Wolsey’s death less Shakespearian; and the candour with which Queen Katherine listens to the praise of ‘him whom of all men while living she hated most’ adds the last graceful finishing to her character.
Among other images of great individual beauty might be mentioned the description of the effect of Ann Boleyn’s presenting herself to the crowd at her coronation.
——‘While her grace sat downTo rest awhile, some half an hour or so,In a rich chair of state, opposing freelyThe beauty of her person to the people.Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest womanThat ever lay by man. Which when the peopleHad the full view of,such a noise aroseAs the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest,As loud and to as many tunes.’
——‘While her grace sat downTo rest awhile, some half an hour or so,In a rich chair of state, opposing freelyThe beauty of her person to the people.Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest womanThat ever lay by man. Which when the peopleHad the full view of,such a noise aroseAs the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest,As loud and to as many tunes.’
——‘While her grace sat downTo rest awhile, some half an hour or so,In a rich chair of state, opposing freelyThe beauty of her person to the people.Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest womanThat ever lay by man. Which when the peopleHad the full view of,such a noise aroseAs the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest,As loud and to as many tunes.’
——‘While her grace sat down
To rest awhile, some half an hour or so,
In a rich chair of state, opposing freely
The beauty of her person to the people.
Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman
That ever lay by man. Which when the people
Had the full view of,such a noise arose
As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest,
As loud and to as many tunes.’
The character of HenryVIII.is drawn with great truth and spirit. It is like a very disagreeable portrait, sketched by the hand of a master. His gross appearance, his blustering demeanour, his vulgarity, his arrogance, his sensuality, his cruelty, his hypocrisy, his want of common decency and common humanity, are marked in strong lines. His traditional peculiarities of expression complete the reality of the picture. The authoritative expletive, ‘Ha!’ with which he intimates his indignation or surprise, has an effect like the first startling sound that breaks from a thunder-cloud. He is of all the monarchs in our history the most disgusting: for he unites in himself all the vices of barbarism and refinement, without their virtues. Other kings before him (such as RichardIII.) were tyrants and murderers out of ambition or necessity: they gained or established unjust power by violent means: they destroyed their enemies, or those who barred their access to the throne or made its tenure insecure. But HenryVIII.‘s power is most fatal to those whom he loves: he is cruel and remorseless to pamper his luxurious appetites: bloody and voluptuous; an amorous murderer; an uxorious debauchee. His hardened insensibility to the feelings of others is strengthened by the most profligate self-indulgence. The religious hypocrisy, under which he masks his cruelty and his lust, is admirably displayed in the speech in which he describes the first misgivings of his conscience and its increasing throes and terrors, which have induced him to divorce his queen. The only thing in his favour in this play is his treatment of Cranmer: there is also another circumstance in his favour, which is his patronage of Hans Holbein.—It has been said of Shakespear—‘No maid could live near such a man.’ It might with as good reason be said—‘No king could live near such a man.’ His eye would have penetrated through the pomp of circumstance and the veil of opinion. As it is, he has represented such persons to the life—his plays are in this respect the glass of history—he has done them the same justice as if he had been a privy counsellor all his life, and in each successive reign. Kings ought never to be seen upon the stage. In the abstract, they are very disagreeable characters: it is only while living that they are ‘the best of kings.’ It is their power, their splendour, it is the apprehension of the personal consequences of their favour or their hatred that dazzles the imagination and suspends the judgment of theirfavourites or their vassals; but death cancels the bond of allegiance and of interest; and seenas they were, their power and their pretensions look monstrous and ridiculous. The charge brought against modern philosophy as inimical to loyalty is unjust, because it might as well be brought against other things. No reader of history can be a lover of kings. We have often wondered that HenryVIII.as he is drawn by Shakespear, and as we have seen him represented in all the bloated deformity of mind and person, is not hooted from the English stage.
King Johnis the last of the historical plays we shall have to speak of; and we are not sorry that it is. If we are to indulge our imaginations, we had rather do it upon an imaginary theme; if we are to find subjects for the exercise of our pity and terror, we prefer seeking them in fictitious danger and fictitious distress. It gives asorenessto our feelings of indignation or sympathy, when we know that in tracing the progress of sufferings and crimes, we are treading upon real ground, and recollect that the poet’s dream ‘denoted a foregone conclusion‘—irrevocable ills, not conjured up by fancy, but placed beyond the reach of poetical justice. That the treachery of King John, the death of Arthur, the grief of Constance, had a real truth in history, sharpens the sense of pain, while it hangs a leaden weight on the heart and the imagination. Something whispers us that we have no right to make a mock of calamities like these, or to turn the truth of things into the puppet and plaything of our fancies. ‘To consider thus’ may be ‘to consider too curiously’; but still we think that the actual truth of the particular events, in proportion as we are conscious of it, is a drawback on the pleasure as well as the dignity of tragedy.
King Johnhas all the beauties of language and all the richness of the imagination to relieve the painfulness of the subject. The character of King John himself is kept pretty much in the background; it is only marked in by comparatively slight indications. The crimes he is tempted to commit are such as are thrust upon him rather by circumstances and opportunity than of his own seeking: he is here represented as more cowardly than cruel, and as more contemptible than odious. The play embraces only a part of his history. There are however few characters on the stage that excite more disgust and loathing. He has no intellectual grandeur or strength of character to shield him from the indignation which his immediate conductprovokes: he stands naked and defenceless, in that respect, to the worst we can think of him: and besides, we are impelled to put the very worst construction on his meanness and cruelty by the tender picture of the beauty and helplessness of the object of it, as well as by the frantic and heart-rending pleadings of maternal despair. We do not forgive him the death of Arthur, because he had too late revoked his doom and tried to prevent it; and perhaps because he has himself repented of his black design, ourmoral sensegains courage to hate him the more for it. We take him at his word, and think his purposes must be odious indeed, when he himself shrinks back from them. The scene in which King John suggests to Hubert the design of murdering his nephew is a master-piece of dramatic skill, but it is still inferior, very inferior to the scene between Hubert and Arthur, when the latter learns the orders to put out his eyes. If any thing ever was penned, heart-piercing, mixing the extremes of terror and pity, of that which shocks and that which soothes the mind, it is this scene. We will give it entire, though perhaps it is tasking the reader’s sympathy too much.
‘EnterHubertand Executioner.
‘EnterHubertand Executioner.
‘EnterHubertand Executioner.
Hubert.Heat me these irons hot, and look you standWithin the arras; when I strike my footUpon the bosom of the ground, rush forthAnd bind the boy, which you shall find with me,Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.Executioner.I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.Hubert.Uncleanly scruples! fear not you; look to’t.—Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.EnterArthur.Arthur.Good morrow, Hubert.Hubert.Morrow, little Prince.Arthur.As little prince (having so great a titleTo be more prince) as may be. You are sad.Hubert.Indeed I have been merrier.Arthur.Mercy on me!Methinks no body should be sad but I;Yet I remember when I was in France,Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,Only for wantonness. By my Christendom,So were I out of prison, and kept sheep,I should be merry as the day is long.And so I would be here, but that I doubtMy uncle practises more harm to me.He is afraid of me, and I of him.Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey’s son?Indeed it is not, and I would to heav’nI were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.Hubert.If I talk to him, with his innocent prateHe will awake my mercy, which lies dead;Therefore I will be sudden, and dispatch.|[Aside.|Arthur.Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day?In sooth, I would you were a little sick,That I might sit all night and watch with you.Alas, I love you more than you do me.Hubert.His words do take possession of my bosom.Read here, young Arthur—|[Shewing a paper.|How now, foolish rheum,|[Aside.|Turning dis-piteous torture out of door!I must be brief, lest resolution dropOut at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.—Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?Arthur.Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.Must you with irons burn out both mine eyes?Hubert.Young boy, I must.Arthur.And will you?Hubert.And I will.Arthur.Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,I knit my handkerchief about your brows,(The best I had, a princess wrought it me)And I did never ask it you again;And with my hand at midnight held your head;And like the watchful minutes to the hour,Still and anon chear’d up the heavy time,Saying, what lack you? and where lies your grief?Or, what good love may I perform for you?Many a poor man’s son would have lain still,And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you;But you at your sick service had a prince.Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,And call it cunning. Do, and if you will:If heav’n be pleas’d that you must use me ill,Why then you must——Will you put out mine eyes?These eyes, that never did, and never shall,So much as frown on you?Hubert.I’ve sworn to do it;And with hot irons must I burn them out.Arthur.Oh if an angel should have come to me,And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,I would not have believ’d a tongue but Hubert’s.Hubert.Come forth; do as I bid you.|[Stamps, and the men enter.|Arthur.O save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are outEv’n with the fierce looks of these bloody men.Hubert.Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.Arthur.Alas, what need you be so boist’rous rough?I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.For heav’n’s sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,And I will sit as quiet as a lamb:I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,Nor look upon the iron angrily:Thrust but these men away, and I’ll forgive you,Whatever torment you do put me to.Hubert.Go, stand within; let me alone with him.Executioner.I am best pleas’d to be from such a deed.|[Exit.|Arthur.Alas, I then have chid away my friend.He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart;Let him come back, that his compassion mayGive life to yours.Hubert.Come, boy, prepare yourself.Arthur.Is there no remedy?Hubert.None, but to lose your eyes.Arthur.O heav’n! that there were but a mote in yours,A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand’ring hair,Any annoyance in that precious sense!Then, feeling what small things are boist’rous there,Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.Hubert.Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.Arthur.Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert;Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,So I may keep mine eyes. O spare mine eyes!Though to no use, but still to look on you.Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,And would not harm me.Hubert.I can heat it, boy.Arthur.No, in good sooth, the fire is dead with grief,Being create for comfort, to be us’dIn undeserv’d extremes; see else yourself,There is no malice in this burning coal;The breath of heav’n hath blown its spirit out,And strew’d repentant ashes on its head.Hubert.But with my breath I can revive it, boy.Arthur.All things that you shall use to do me wrong,Deny their office; only you do lackThat mercy which fierce fire and iron extend,Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.Hubert.Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyesFor all the treasure that thine uncle owns:Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,With this same very iron to burn them out.Arthur.O, now you look like Hubert. All this whileYou were disguised.Hubert.Peace; no more. Adieu,Your uncle must not know but you are dead.I’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports:And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure,That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,Will not offend thee.Arthur.O heav’n! I thank you, Hubert.Hubert.Silence, no more; go closely in with me;Much danger do I undergo for thee.|[Exeunt.’|
Hubert.Heat me these irons hot, and look you standWithin the arras; when I strike my footUpon the bosom of the ground, rush forthAnd bind the boy, which you shall find with me,Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.Executioner.I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.Hubert.Uncleanly scruples! fear not you; look to’t.—Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.EnterArthur.Arthur.Good morrow, Hubert.Hubert.Morrow, little Prince.Arthur.As little prince (having so great a titleTo be more prince) as may be. You are sad.Hubert.Indeed I have been merrier.Arthur.Mercy on me!Methinks no body should be sad but I;Yet I remember when I was in France,Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,Only for wantonness. By my Christendom,So were I out of prison, and kept sheep,I should be merry as the day is long.And so I would be here, but that I doubtMy uncle practises more harm to me.He is afraid of me, and I of him.Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey’s son?Indeed it is not, and I would to heav’nI were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.Hubert.If I talk to him, with his innocent prateHe will awake my mercy, which lies dead;Therefore I will be sudden, and dispatch.|[Aside.|Arthur.Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day?In sooth, I would you were a little sick,That I might sit all night and watch with you.Alas, I love you more than you do me.Hubert.His words do take possession of my bosom.Read here, young Arthur—|[Shewing a paper.|How now, foolish rheum,|[Aside.|Turning dis-piteous torture out of door!I must be brief, lest resolution dropOut at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.—Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?Arthur.Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.Must you with irons burn out both mine eyes?Hubert.Young boy, I must.Arthur.And will you?Hubert.And I will.Arthur.Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,I knit my handkerchief about your brows,(The best I had, a princess wrought it me)And I did never ask it you again;And with my hand at midnight held your head;And like the watchful minutes to the hour,Still and anon chear’d up the heavy time,Saying, what lack you? and where lies your grief?Or, what good love may I perform for you?Many a poor man’s son would have lain still,And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you;But you at your sick service had a prince.Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,And call it cunning. Do, and if you will:If heav’n be pleas’d that you must use me ill,Why then you must——Will you put out mine eyes?These eyes, that never did, and never shall,So much as frown on you?Hubert.I’ve sworn to do it;And with hot irons must I burn them out.Arthur.Oh if an angel should have come to me,And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,I would not have believ’d a tongue but Hubert’s.Hubert.Come forth; do as I bid you.|[Stamps, and the men enter.|Arthur.O save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are outEv’n with the fierce looks of these bloody men.Hubert.Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.Arthur.Alas, what need you be so boist’rous rough?I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.For heav’n’s sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,And I will sit as quiet as a lamb:I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,Nor look upon the iron angrily:Thrust but these men away, and I’ll forgive you,Whatever torment you do put me to.Hubert.Go, stand within; let me alone with him.Executioner.I am best pleas’d to be from such a deed.|[Exit.|Arthur.Alas, I then have chid away my friend.He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart;Let him come back, that his compassion mayGive life to yours.Hubert.Come, boy, prepare yourself.Arthur.Is there no remedy?Hubert.None, but to lose your eyes.Arthur.O heav’n! that there were but a mote in yours,A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand’ring hair,Any annoyance in that precious sense!Then, feeling what small things are boist’rous there,Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.Hubert.Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.Arthur.Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert;Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,So I may keep mine eyes. O spare mine eyes!Though to no use, but still to look on you.Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,And would not harm me.Hubert.I can heat it, boy.Arthur.No, in good sooth, the fire is dead with grief,Being create for comfort, to be us’dIn undeserv’d extremes; see else yourself,There is no malice in this burning coal;The breath of heav’n hath blown its spirit out,And strew’d repentant ashes on its head.Hubert.But with my breath I can revive it, boy.Arthur.All things that you shall use to do me wrong,Deny their office; only you do lackThat mercy which fierce fire and iron extend,Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.Hubert.Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyesFor all the treasure that thine uncle owns:Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,With this same very iron to burn them out.Arthur.O, now you look like Hubert. All this whileYou were disguised.Hubert.Peace; no more. Adieu,Your uncle must not know but you are dead.I’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports:And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure,That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,Will not offend thee.Arthur.O heav’n! I thank you, Hubert.Hubert.Silence, no more; go closely in with me;Much danger do I undergo for thee.|[Exeunt.’|
Hubert.Heat me these irons hot, and look you standWithin the arras; when I strike my footUpon the bosom of the ground, rush forthAnd bind the boy, which you shall find with me,Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.
Hubert.Heat me these irons hot, and look you stand
Within the arras; when I strike my foot
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth
And bind the boy, which you shall find with me,
Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.
Executioner.I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.
Executioner.I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.
Hubert.Uncleanly scruples! fear not you; look to’t.—Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.
Hubert.Uncleanly scruples! fear not you; look to’t.—
Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.
EnterArthur.
EnterArthur.
Arthur.Good morrow, Hubert.
Arthur.Good morrow, Hubert.
Hubert.Morrow, little Prince.
Hubert.Morrow, little Prince.
Arthur.As little prince (having so great a titleTo be more prince) as may be. You are sad.
Arthur.As little prince (having so great a title
To be more prince) as may be. You are sad.
Hubert.Indeed I have been merrier.
Hubert.Indeed I have been merrier.
Arthur.Mercy on me!Methinks no body should be sad but I;Yet I remember when I was in France,Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,Only for wantonness. By my Christendom,So were I out of prison, and kept sheep,I should be merry as the day is long.And so I would be here, but that I doubtMy uncle practises more harm to me.He is afraid of me, and I of him.Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey’s son?Indeed it is not, and I would to heav’nI were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.
Arthur.Mercy on me!
Methinks no body should be sad but I;
Yet I remember when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my Christendom,
So were I out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be merry as the day is long.
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me.
He is afraid of me, and I of him.
Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey’s son?
Indeed it is not, and I would to heav’n
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.
Hubert.If I talk to him, with his innocent prateHe will awake my mercy, which lies dead;Therefore I will be sudden, and dispatch.|[Aside.|
Hubert.If I talk to him, with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead;
Therefore I will be sudden, and dispatch.|[Aside.|
Arthur.Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day?In sooth, I would you were a little sick,That I might sit all night and watch with you.Alas, I love you more than you do me.
Arthur.Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day?
In sooth, I would you were a little sick,
That I might sit all night and watch with you.
Alas, I love you more than you do me.
Hubert.His words do take possession of my bosom.Read here, young Arthur—|[Shewing a paper.|How now, foolish rheum,|[Aside.|Turning dis-piteous torture out of door!I must be brief, lest resolution dropOut at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.—Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?
Hubert.His words do take possession of my bosom.
Read here, young Arthur—|[Shewing a paper.|
How now, foolish rheum,|[Aside.|
Turning dis-piteous torture out of door!
I must be brief, lest resolution drop
Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.—
Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?
Arthur.Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.Must you with irons burn out both mine eyes?
Arthur.Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.
Must you with irons burn out both mine eyes?
Hubert.Young boy, I must.
Hubert.Young boy, I must.
Arthur.And will you?
Arthur.And will you?
Hubert.And I will.
Hubert.And I will.
Arthur.Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,I knit my handkerchief about your brows,(The best I had, a princess wrought it me)And I did never ask it you again;And with my hand at midnight held your head;And like the watchful minutes to the hour,Still and anon chear’d up the heavy time,Saying, what lack you? and where lies your grief?Or, what good love may I perform for you?Many a poor man’s son would have lain still,And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you;But you at your sick service had a prince.Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,And call it cunning. Do, and if you will:If heav’n be pleas’d that you must use me ill,Why then you must——Will you put out mine eyes?These eyes, that never did, and never shall,So much as frown on you?
Arthur.Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me)
And I did never ask it you again;
And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon chear’d up the heavy time,
Saying, what lack you? and where lies your grief?
Or, what good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man’s son would have lain still,
And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning. Do, and if you will:
If heav’n be pleas’d that you must use me ill,
Why then you must——Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes, that never did, and never shall,
So much as frown on you?
Hubert.I’ve sworn to do it;And with hot irons must I burn them out.
Hubert.I’ve sworn to do it;
And with hot irons must I burn them out.
Arthur.Oh if an angel should have come to me,And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,I would not have believ’d a tongue but Hubert’s.
Arthur.Oh if an angel should have come to me,
And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,
I would not have believ’d a tongue but Hubert’s.
Hubert.Come forth; do as I bid you.|[Stamps, and the men enter.|
Hubert.Come forth; do as I bid you.|[Stamps, and the men enter.|
Arthur.O save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are outEv’n with the fierce looks of these bloody men.
Arthur.O save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out
Ev’n with the fierce looks of these bloody men.
Hubert.Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.
Hubert.Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.
Arthur.Alas, what need you be so boist’rous rough?I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.For heav’n’s sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,And I will sit as quiet as a lamb:I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,Nor look upon the iron angrily:Thrust but these men away, and I’ll forgive you,Whatever torment you do put me to.
Arthur.Alas, what need you be so boist’rous rough?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For heav’n’s sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb:
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angrily:
Thrust but these men away, and I’ll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.
Hubert.Go, stand within; let me alone with him.
Hubert.Go, stand within; let me alone with him.
Executioner.I am best pleas’d to be from such a deed.|[Exit.|
Executioner.I am best pleas’d to be from such a deed.|[Exit.|
Arthur.Alas, I then have chid away my friend.He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart;Let him come back, that his compassion mayGive life to yours.
Arthur.Alas, I then have chid away my friend.
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart;
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.
Hubert.Come, boy, prepare yourself.
Hubert.Come, boy, prepare yourself.
Arthur.Is there no remedy?
Arthur.Is there no remedy?
Hubert.None, but to lose your eyes.
Hubert.None, but to lose your eyes.
Arthur.O heav’n! that there were but a mote in yours,A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand’ring hair,Any annoyance in that precious sense!Then, feeling what small things are boist’rous there,Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.
Arthur.O heav’n! that there were but a mote in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand’ring hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense!
Then, feeling what small things are boist’rous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.
Hubert.Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.
Hubert.Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.
Arthur.Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert;Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,So I may keep mine eyes. O spare mine eyes!Though to no use, but still to look on you.Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,And would not harm me.
Arthur.Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert;
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes. O spare mine eyes!
Though to no use, but still to look on you.
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.
Hubert.I can heat it, boy.
Hubert.I can heat it, boy.
Arthur.No, in good sooth, the fire is dead with grief,Being create for comfort, to be us’dIn undeserv’d extremes; see else yourself,There is no malice in this burning coal;The breath of heav’n hath blown its spirit out,And strew’d repentant ashes on its head.
Arthur.No, in good sooth, the fire is dead with grief,
Being create for comfort, to be us’d
In undeserv’d extremes; see else yourself,
There is no malice in this burning coal;
The breath of heav’n hath blown its spirit out,
And strew’d repentant ashes on its head.
Hubert.But with my breath I can revive it, boy.
Hubert.But with my breath I can revive it, boy.
Arthur.All things that you shall use to do me wrong,Deny their office; only you do lackThat mercy which fierce fire and iron extend,Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.
Arthur.All things that you shall use to do me wrong,
Deny their office; only you do lack
That mercy which fierce fire and iron extend,
Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.
Hubert.Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyesFor all the treasure that thine uncle owns:Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,With this same very iron to burn them out.
Hubert.Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes
For all the treasure that thine uncle owns:
Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,
With this same very iron to burn them out.
Arthur.O, now you look like Hubert. All this whileYou were disguised.
Arthur.O, now you look like Hubert. All this while
You were disguised.
Hubert.Peace; no more. Adieu,Your uncle must not know but you are dead.I’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports:And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure,That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,Will not offend thee.
Hubert.Peace; no more. Adieu,
Your uncle must not know but you are dead.
I’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports:
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure,
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
Will not offend thee.
Arthur.O heav’n! I thank you, Hubert.
Arthur.O heav’n! I thank you, Hubert.
Hubert.Silence, no more; go closely in with me;Much danger do I undergo for thee.|[Exeunt.’|
Hubert.Silence, no more; go closely in with me;
Much danger do I undergo for thee.|[Exeunt.’|
His death afterwards, when he throws himself from his prison walls, excites the utmost pity for his innocence and friendless situation, and well justifies the exaggerated denunciations of Falconbridge to Hubert, whom he suspects wrongfully of the deed.
‘There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hellAs thou shalt be, if thou did’st kill this child.—If thou did’st but consentTo this most cruel act, do but despair:And if thou want’st a cord, the smallest threadThat ever spider twisted from her wombWill strangle thee; a rush will be a beamTo hang thee on: or would’st thou drown thyself,Put but a little water in a spoon,And it shall be as all the ocean,Enough to stifle such a villain up.’
‘There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hellAs thou shalt be, if thou did’st kill this child.—If thou did’st but consentTo this most cruel act, do but despair:And if thou want’st a cord, the smallest threadThat ever spider twisted from her wombWill strangle thee; a rush will be a beamTo hang thee on: or would’st thou drown thyself,Put but a little water in a spoon,And it shall be as all the ocean,Enough to stifle such a villain up.’
‘There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hellAs thou shalt be, if thou did’st kill this child.—If thou did’st but consentTo this most cruel act, do but despair:And if thou want’st a cord, the smallest threadThat ever spider twisted from her wombWill strangle thee; a rush will be a beamTo hang thee on: or would’st thou drown thyself,Put but a little water in a spoon,And it shall be as all the ocean,Enough to stifle such a villain up.’
‘There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell
As thou shalt be, if thou did’st kill this child.
—If thou did’st but consent
To this most cruel act, do but despair:
And if thou want’st a cord, the smallest thread
That ever spider twisted from her womb
Will strangle thee; a rush will be a beam
To hang thee on: or would’st thou drown thyself,
Put but a little water in a spoon,
And it shall be as all the ocean,
Enough to stifle such a villain up.’
The excess of maternal tenderness, rendered desperate by the fickleness of friends and the injustice of fortune, and made stronger in will, in proportion to the want of all other power, was never more finely expressed than in Constance. The dignity of her answer to King Philip, when she refuses to accompany his messenger, ‘To me and to the state of my great grief, let kings assemble,’ her indignant reproach to Austria for deserting her cause, her invocation to death, ‘that love of misery,’ however fine and spirited, all yield to the beauty of the passage, where, her passion subsiding into tenderness, she addresses the Cardinal in these words:—
‘Oh father Cardinal, I have heard you sayThat we shall see and know our friends in heav’n:If that be, I shall see my boy again,For since the birth of Cain, the first male child,To him that did but yesterday suspire,There was not such a gracious creature born.But now will canker-sorrow eat my bud,And chase the native beauty from his cheek,And he will look as hollow as a ghost,As dim and meagre as an ague’s fit,And so he’ll die; and rising so again,When I shall meet him in the court of heav’n,I shall not know him; therefore never, neverMust I behold my pretty Arthur more.K. Philip.You are as fond of grief as of your child.Constance.Grief fills the room up of my absent child:Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,Remembers me of all his gracious parts;Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.Then have I reason to be fond of grief.’
‘Oh father Cardinal, I have heard you sayThat we shall see and know our friends in heav’n:If that be, I shall see my boy again,For since the birth of Cain, the first male child,To him that did but yesterday suspire,There was not such a gracious creature born.But now will canker-sorrow eat my bud,And chase the native beauty from his cheek,And he will look as hollow as a ghost,As dim and meagre as an ague’s fit,And so he’ll die; and rising so again,When I shall meet him in the court of heav’n,I shall not know him; therefore never, neverMust I behold my pretty Arthur more.K. Philip.You are as fond of grief as of your child.Constance.Grief fills the room up of my absent child:Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,Remembers me of all his gracious parts;Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.Then have I reason to be fond of grief.’
‘Oh father Cardinal, I have heard you sayThat we shall see and know our friends in heav’n:If that be, I shall see my boy again,For since the birth of Cain, the first male child,To him that did but yesterday suspire,There was not such a gracious creature born.But now will canker-sorrow eat my bud,And chase the native beauty from his cheek,And he will look as hollow as a ghost,As dim and meagre as an ague’s fit,And so he’ll die; and rising so again,When I shall meet him in the court of heav’n,I shall not know him; therefore never, neverMust I behold my pretty Arthur more.
‘Oh father Cardinal, I have heard you say
That we shall see and know our friends in heav’n:
If that be, I shall see my boy again,
For since the birth of Cain, the first male child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire,
There was not such a gracious creature born.
But now will canker-sorrow eat my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow as a ghost,
As dim and meagre as an ague’s fit,
And so he’ll die; and rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heav’n,
I shall not know him; therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.
K. Philip.You are as fond of grief as of your child.
K. Philip.You are as fond of grief as of your child.
Constance.Grief fills the room up of my absent child:Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,Remembers me of all his gracious parts;Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.Then have I reason to be fond of grief.’
Constance.Grief fills the room up of my absent child:
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts;
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.’
The contrast between the mild resignation of Queen Katherine to her own wrongs, and the wild, uncontroulable affliction of Constance for the wrongs which she sustains as a mother, is no less naturally conceived than it is ably sustained throughout these two wonderful characters.
The accompaniment of the comic character of the Bastard was well chosen to relieve the poignant agony of suffering, and the cold cowardly policy of behaviour in the principal characters of this play. Its spirit, invention, volubility of tongue and forwardness in action, are unbounded.Aliquando sufflaminandus erat, says Ben Jonson of Shakespear. But we should be sorry if Ben Jonson had been his licenser. We prefer the heedless magnanimity of his wit infinitely to all Jonson’s laborious caution. The character of the Bastard’s comic humour is the same in essence as that of other comic characters in Shakespear; they always run on with good things and are never exhausted; they are always daring and successful. They have words at will, and a flow of wit like a flow of animal spirits. The difference between Falconbridge and the others is that he is a soldier, and brings his wit to bear upon action, is courageous with his sword as well as tongue, and stimulates his gallantry by his jokes, his enemies feeling the sharpness of his blows and the sting of his sarcasms at the same time. Among his happiest sallies are his descanting on the composition of his own person, his invective against ‘commodity, tickling commodity,’ and his expression of contempt for the Archduke of Austria, who had killed his father, which begins in jest but ends in serious earnest. His conduct at the siege of Angiers shews that his resources were not confined to verbal retorts.—The same exposure of the policy of courts and camps, of kings, nobles, priests, and cardinals, takes place here as in the other plays we have gone through, and we shall not go into a disgusting repetition.
This, like the other plays taken from English history, is written in a remarkably smooth and flowing style, very different from some of the tragedies,Macbeth, for instance. The passages consist of aseries of single lines, not running into one another. This peculiarity in the versification, which is most common in the three parts ofHenry VI.has been assigned as a reason why those plays were not written by Shakespear. But the same structure of verse occurs in his other undoubted plays, as inRichard II.and inKing John. The following are instances:—
‘That daughter there of Spain, the lady Blanch,Is near to England; look upon the yearsOf Lewis the dauphin, and that lovely maid.If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch?If zealous love should go in search of virtue,Where should he find it purer than in Blanch?If love ambitious sought a match of birth,Whose veins bound richer blood than lady Blanch?Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth,Is the young dauphin every way complete:If not complete of, say he is not she;And she again wants nothing, to name want,If want it be not, that she is not he.He is the half part of a blessed man,Left to be finished by such as she;And she a fair divided excellence,Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.O, two such silver currents, when they join,Do glorify the banks that bound them in:And two such shores to two such streams made one,Two such controuling bounds, shall you be, kings,To these two princes, if you marry them.’
‘That daughter there of Spain, the lady Blanch,Is near to England; look upon the yearsOf Lewis the dauphin, and that lovely maid.If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch?If zealous love should go in search of virtue,Where should he find it purer than in Blanch?If love ambitious sought a match of birth,Whose veins bound richer blood than lady Blanch?Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth,Is the young dauphin every way complete:If not complete of, say he is not she;And she again wants nothing, to name want,If want it be not, that she is not he.He is the half part of a blessed man,Left to be finished by such as she;And she a fair divided excellence,Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.O, two such silver currents, when they join,Do glorify the banks that bound them in:And two such shores to two such streams made one,Two such controuling bounds, shall you be, kings,To these two princes, if you marry them.’
‘That daughter there of Spain, the lady Blanch,Is near to England; look upon the yearsOf Lewis the dauphin, and that lovely maid.If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch?If zealous love should go in search of virtue,Where should he find it purer than in Blanch?If love ambitious sought a match of birth,Whose veins bound richer blood than lady Blanch?Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth,Is the young dauphin every way complete:If not complete of, say he is not she;And she again wants nothing, to name want,If want it be not, that she is not he.He is the half part of a blessed man,Left to be finished by such as she;And she a fair divided excellence,Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.O, two such silver currents, when they join,Do glorify the banks that bound them in:And two such shores to two such streams made one,Two such controuling bounds, shall you be, kings,To these two princes, if you marry them.’
‘That daughter there of Spain, the lady Blanch,
Is near to England; look upon the years
Of Lewis the dauphin, and that lovely maid.
If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,
Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch?
If zealous love should go in search of virtue,
Where should he find it purer than in Blanch?
If love ambitious sought a match of birth,
Whose veins bound richer blood than lady Blanch?
Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth,
Is the young dauphin every way complete:
If not complete of, say he is not she;
And she again wants nothing, to name want,
If want it be not, that she is not he.
He is the half part of a blessed man,
Left to be finished by such as she;
And she a fair divided excellence,
Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.
O, two such silver currents, when they join,
Do glorify the banks that bound them in:
And two such shores to two such streams made one,
Two such controuling bounds, shall you be, kings,
To these two princes, if you marry them.’
Another instance, which is certainly very happy as an example of the simple enumeration of a number of particulars, is Salisbury’s remonstrance against the second crowning of the king.
‘Therefore to be possessed with double pomp,To guard a title that was rich before;To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,To throw a perfume on the violet,To smooth the ice, to add another hueUnto the rainbow, or with taper lightTo seek the beauteous eye of heav’n to garnish;Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.’
‘Therefore to be possessed with double pomp,To guard a title that was rich before;To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,To throw a perfume on the violet,To smooth the ice, to add another hueUnto the rainbow, or with taper lightTo seek the beauteous eye of heav’n to garnish;Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.’
‘Therefore to be possessed with double pomp,To guard a title that was rich before;To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,To throw a perfume on the violet,To smooth the ice, to add another hueUnto the rainbow, or with taper lightTo seek the beauteous eye of heav’n to garnish;Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.’
‘Therefore to be possessed with double pomp,
To guard a title that was rich before;
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, to add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper light
To seek the beauteous eye of heav’n to garnish;
Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.’
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL
This is justly considered as one of the most delightful of Shakespear’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. Shakespear’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 the 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 shew 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, etc. 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 neutralising the materials of comic character, both natural and artificial, leaves no comedy at all—butthe 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 Shakespear.—Whether the analysis here given be just or not, the spirit of his comedies is evidentlyquite 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 Molière, though he was more systematic in his extravagance than Shakespear. Shakespear’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 idolises 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 Ague-cheek. 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 afterwardschirp 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 every thing, 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, every thing gives way to ridicule and indifference, there being nothing left but affectation on one side, and incredulity on the other.—Much as we like Shakespear’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 ofTwelfth Nightis the character of Viola. Much as we like catches and cakesand ale, there is something that we like better. We have a friendship for Sir Toby; we patronise Sir Andrew; we have an understanding with the Clown, a sneaking kindness for Maria and her rogueries; we feel a regard for Malvolio, and sympathise 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 shews 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.’—
‘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 shews 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.’—
‘Duke.What’s her history?
‘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 shews are more than will; for still we proveMuch in our vows, but little in our love.
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 shews are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.
Duke.But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
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.’—
Viola.I am all the daughters of my father’s house,
And all the brothers too;—and yet I know not.’—
Shakespear 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.’
‘Oh, it came o’er the ear like the sweet southThat breathes upon a bank of violets,Stealing and giving odour.’
‘Oh, it came o’er the ear like the sweet southThat breathes upon a bank of violets,Stealing and giving odour.’
‘Oh, it came o’er the ear like the sweet south
That 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.’
‘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.’
‘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.’
‘Blame not this haste of mine: if you mean well,
Now go with me and with this holy man
Into 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 soul
May live at peace.’
We have already said something of Shakespear’s songs. One ofthe 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 strewn;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.’
‘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 strewn;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.’
‘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.
‘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.
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.
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 true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,On my black coffin let there be strewn;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.’
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strewn;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O! where
Sad true-love never find my grave,
To weep there.’
Who after this will say that Shakespear’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.