MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

‘Biron.O! and I forsooth in love,I that have been love’s whip;A very beadle to an amorous sigh:A critic; nay, a night-watch constable,A domineering pedant o’er the boy,Than whom no mortal more magnificent.This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,This signior Junio, giant dwarf, Dan Cupid,Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms,Th’ anointed sovereign of sighs and groans:Liege of all loiterers and malecontents,Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,Sole imperator, and great generalOf trotting parators (O my little heart!)And I to be a corporal of his field,And wear his colours like a tumbler’s hoop?What? I love! I sue! I seek a wife!A woman, that is like a German clock,Still a repairing; ever out of frame;And never going aright, being a watch,And being watch’d, that it may still go right?Nay, to be perjur’d, which is worst of all:And among three to love the worst of all,A whitely wanton with a velvet brow,With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes;Ay, and by heav’n, one that will do the deed,Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard;And I to sigh for her! to watch for her!To pray for her! Go to; it is a plagueThat Cupid will impose for my neglectOf his almighty dreadful little might.Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan:Some men must love my lady, and some Joan.’

‘Biron.O! and I forsooth in love,

I that have been love’s whip;

A very beadle to an amorous sigh:

A critic; nay, a night-watch constable,

A domineering pedant o’er the boy,

Than whom no mortal more magnificent.

This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,

This signior Junio, giant dwarf, Dan Cupid,

Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms,

Th’ anointed sovereign of sighs and groans:

Liege of all loiterers and malecontents,

Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,

Sole imperator, and great general

Of trotting parators (O my little heart!)

And I to be a corporal of his field,

And wear his colours like a tumbler’s hoop?

What? I love! I sue! I seek a wife!

A woman, that is like a German clock,

Still a repairing; ever out of frame;

And never going aright, being a watch,

And being watch’d, that it may still go right?

Nay, to be perjur’d, which is worst of all:

And among three to love the worst of all,

A whitely wanton with a velvet brow,

With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes;

Ay, and by heav’n, one that will do the deed,

Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard;

And I to sigh for her! to watch for her!

To pray for her! Go to; it is a plague

That Cupid will impose for my neglect

Of his almighty dreadful little might.

Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan:

Some men must love my lady, and some Joan.’

The character of Biron drawn by Rosaline and that which Biron gives of Boyet are equally happy. The observations on the use and abuse of study, and on the power of beauty to quicken the understanding as well as the senses, are excellent. The scene which has the greatest dramatic effect is that in which Biron, the king, Longaville, and Dumain, successively detect each other and are detected in their breach of their vow and in their profession of attachment to their several mistresses, in which they suppose themselves to be overheard by no one. The reconciliation between these lovers and their sweethearts is also very good, and the penance which Rosaline imposes on Biron, before he can expect to gain her consent to marry him, full of propriety and beauty.

‘Rosaline.Oft have I heard of you, my lord Biron,Before I saw you: and the world’s large tongueProclaims you for a man replete with mocks;Full of comparisons, and wounding flouts;Which you on all estates will execute,That lie within the mercy of your wit.To weed this wormwood from your faithful brain;And therewithal to win me, if you please,(Without the which I am not to be won)You shall this twelvemonth term from day to dayVisit the speechless sick, and still converseWith groaning wretches; and your task shall be,With all the fierce endeavour of your wit,T’ enforce the pained impotent to smile.Biron.To move wild laughter in the throat of death?It cannot be: it is impossible:Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.Rosaline.Why, that’s the way to choke a gibing spirit,Whose influence is begot of that loose grace,Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools:A jest’s prosperity lies in the earOf him that hears it; never in the tongueOf him that makes it: then, if sickly ears,Deaf’d with the clamours of their own dear groans,Will hear your idle scorns, continue then,And I will have you, and that fault withal;But, if they will not, throw away that spirit,And I shall find you empty of that fault,Right joyful of your reformation.Biron.A twelvemonth? Well, befall what will befall,I’ll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital.’

‘Rosaline.Oft have I heard of you, my lord Biron,

Before I saw you: and the world’s large tongue

Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks;

Full of comparisons, and wounding flouts;

Which you on all estates will execute,

That lie within the mercy of your wit.

To weed this wormwood from your faithful brain;

And therewithal to win me, if you please,

(Without the which I am not to be won)

You shall this twelvemonth term from day to day

Visit the speechless sick, and still converse

With groaning wretches; and your task shall be,

With all the fierce endeavour of your wit,

T’ enforce the pained impotent to smile.

Biron.To move wild laughter in the throat of death?It cannot be: it is impossible:Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

Biron.To move wild laughter in the throat of death?

It cannot be: it is impossible:

Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

Rosaline.Why, that’s the way to choke a gibing spirit,Whose influence is begot of that loose grace,Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools:A jest’s prosperity lies in the earOf him that hears it; never in the tongueOf him that makes it: then, if sickly ears,Deaf’d with the clamours of their own dear groans,Will hear your idle scorns, continue then,And I will have you, and that fault withal;But, if they will not, throw away that spirit,And I shall find you empty of that fault,Right joyful of your reformation.

Rosaline.Why, that’s the way to choke a gibing spirit,

Whose influence is begot of that loose grace,

Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools:

A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear

Of him that hears it; never in the tongue

Of him that makes it: then, if sickly ears,

Deaf’d with the clamours of their own dear groans,

Will hear your idle scorns, continue then,

And I will have you, and that fault withal;

But, if they will not, throw away that spirit,

And I shall find you empty of that fault,

Right joyful of your reformation.

Biron.A twelvemonth? Well, befall what will befall,I’ll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital.’

Biron.A twelvemonth? Well, befall what will befall,

I’ll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital.’

The famous cuckoo-song closes the play: but we shall add no more criticisms: ‘the words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.’

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

This admirable comedy used to be frequently acted till of late years. Mr. Garrick’s Benedick was one of his most celebrated characters; and Mrs. Jordan, we have understood, played Beatrice very delightfully. The serious part is still the most prominent here, as in other instances that we have noticed. Hero is the principal figure in the piece, and leaves an indelible impression on the mind by her beauty, her tenderness, and the hard trial of her love. The passage in which Claudio first makes a confession of his affection towards her, conveys as pleasing an image of the entrance of love into a youthful bosom as can well be imagined.

‘Oh, my lord,When you went onward with this ended action,I look’d upon her with a soldier’s eye,That lik’d, but had a rougher task in handThan to drive liking to the name of love;But now I am return’d, and that war-thoughtsHave left their places vacant; in their roomsCome thronging soft and delicate desires,All prompting me how fair young Hero is,Saying, I lik’d her ere I went to wars.’

‘Oh, my lord,

When you went onward with this ended action,

I look’d upon her with a soldier’s eye,

That lik’d, but had a rougher task in hand

Than to drive liking to the name of love;

But now I am return’d, and that war-thoughts

Have left their places vacant; in their rooms

Come thronging soft and delicate desires,

All prompting me how fair young Hero is,

Saying, I lik’d her ere I went to wars.’

In the scene at the altar, when Claudio, urged on by the villain Don John, brings the charge of incontinence against her, and as it were divorces her in the very marriage-ceremony, her appeals to her own conscious innocence and honour are made with the most affecting simplicity.

‘Claudio.No, Leonato,I never tempted her with word too large,But, as a brother to his sister, shew’dBashful sincerity, and comely love.Hero.And seem’d I ever otherwise to you?Claudio.Out on thy seeming, I will write against it:You seem to me as Dian in her orb,As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;But you are more intemperate in your bloodThan Venus, or those pamper’d animalsThat rage in savage sensuality.Hero.Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide?Leonato.Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?John.Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true.Benedick.This looks not like a nuptial.Hero.True! O God!’

‘Claudio.No, Leonato,I never tempted her with word too large,But, as a brother to his sister, shew’dBashful sincerity, and comely love.

‘Claudio.No, Leonato,

I never tempted her with word too large,

But, as a brother to his sister, shew’d

Bashful sincerity, and comely love.

Hero.And seem’d I ever otherwise to you?

Claudio.Out on thy seeming, I will write against it:You seem to me as Dian in her orb,As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;But you are more intemperate in your bloodThan Venus, or those pamper’d animalsThat rage in savage sensuality.

Claudio.Out on thy seeming, I will write against it:

You seem to me as Dian in her orb,

As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;

But you are more intemperate in your blood

Than Venus, or those pamper’d animals

That rage in savage sensuality.

Hero.Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide?

Leonato.Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?

John.Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true.

Benedick.This looks not like a nuptial.

Hero.True! O God!’

The justification of Hero in the end, and her restoration to the confidence and arms of her lover, is brought about by one of those temporary consignments to the grave of which Shakespear seems to have been fond. He has perhaps explained the theory of this predilection in the following lines:—

‘Friar.She dying, as it must be so maintain’d,Upon the instant that she was accus’d,Shall be lamented, pity’d, and excus’d,Of every hearer: for it so falls out,That what we have we prize not to the worth,While we enjoy it; but being lack’d and lost,Why then we rack the value; then we findThe virtue, that possession would not shew usWhilst it was ours.—So will it fare with Claudio;When he shall hear she dy’d upon his words,The idea of her love shall sweetly creepInto his study of imagination;And every lovely organ of her lifeShall come apparel’d in more precious habit,More moving, delicate, and full of life,Into the eye and prospect of his soul,Than when she liv’d indeed.’

‘Friar.She dying, as it must be so maintain’d,

Upon the instant that she was accus’d,

Shall be lamented, pity’d, and excus’d,

Of every hearer: for it so falls out,

That what we have we prize not to the worth,

While we enjoy it; but being lack’d and lost,

Why then we rack the value; then we find

The virtue, that possession would not shew us

Whilst it was ours.—So will it fare with Claudio;

When he shall hear she dy’d upon his words,

The idea of her love shall sweetly creep

Into his study of imagination;

And every lovely organ of her life

Shall come apparel’d in more precious habit,

More moving, delicate, and full of life,

Into the eye and prospect of his soul,

Than when she liv’d indeed.’

The principal comic characters inMuch Ado about Nothing, Benedick and Beatrice, are both essences in their kind. His character as a woman-hater is admirably supported, and his conversion to matrimony is no less happily effected by the pretended story of Beatrice’s love for him. It is hard to say which of the two scenes is the best, that of the trick which is thus practised on Benedick, or that in which Beatrice is prevailed on to take pity on him by overhearing her cousin and her maid declare (which they do on purpose) that he is dying of love for her. There is something delightfully picturesque in the manner in which Beatrice is described as coming to hear the plot which is contrived against herself—

‘For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runsClose by the ground, to hear our conference.’

‘For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs

Close by the ground, to hear our conference.’

In consequence of what she hears (not a word of which is true) she exclaims when these good-natured informants are gone,

‘What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much?Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride adieu!No glory lives behind the back of such.And, Benedick, love on, I will requite thee;Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand;If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite theeTo bind our loves up in an holy band:For others say thou dost deserve; and IBelieve it better than reportingly.’

‘What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?

Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much?

Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride adieu!

No glory lives behind the back of such.

And, Benedick, love on, I will requite thee;

Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand;

If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee

To bind our loves up in an holy band:

For others say thou dost deserve; and I

Believe it better than reportingly.’

And Benedick, on his part, is equally sincere in his repentance with equal reason, after he has heard the grey-beard, Leonato, and his friend, ‘Monsieur Love,’ discourse of the desperate state of his supposed inamorata.

‘This can be no trick; the conference was sadly borne.—They have the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady; it seems her affections have the full bent. Love me! why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censur’d: they say, I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her; they say too, that she will rather die than give any sign of affection.—I did never think to marry: I must not seem proud:—happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending. They say, the lady is fair; ’tis a truth, I can bear them witness: and virtuous;—’tis so, I cannot reprove it: and wise—but for loving me:—by my troth it is no addition to her wit;—nor no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her.—I may chance to have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have rail’d so long against marriage: but doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth, that he cannot endure in his age.—Shall quips, and sentences, and these paper bullets of the brain, awe a man from the career of his humour? No: the world must be peopled. When I said, I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were marry’d.—Here comes Beatrice: by this day, she’s a fair lady: I do spy some marks of love in her.

The beauty of all this arises from the characters of the persons so entrapped. Benedick is a professed and staunch enemy to marriage, and gives very plausible reasons for the faith that is in him. And as to Beatrice, she persecutes him all day with her jests (so that he could hardly think of being troubled with them at night) she not only turns him but all other things into jest, and is proof against everything serious.

‘Hero.Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,Misprising what they look on; and her witValues itself so highly, that to herAll matter else seems weak: she cannot love,Nor take no shape nor project of affection,She is so self-endeared.Ursula.Sure, I think so;And therefore, certainly, it were not goodShe knew his love, lest she make sport at it.Hero.Why, you speak truth: I never yet saw man,How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur’d,But she would spell him backward: if fair-fac’d,She’d swear the gentleman should be her sister;If black, why, nature, drawing of an antick,Made a foul blot: if tall, a lance ill-headed;If low, an agate very vilely cut:If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;If silent, why, a block moved with none.So turns she every man the wrong side out;And never gives to truth and virtue thatWhich simpleness and merit purchaseth.’

‘Hero.Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,

Misprising what they look on; and her wit

Values itself so highly, that to her

All matter else seems weak: she cannot love,

Nor take no shape nor project of affection,

She is so self-endeared.

Ursula.Sure, I think so;And therefore, certainly, it were not goodShe knew his love, lest she make sport at it.

Ursula.Sure, I think so;

And therefore, certainly, it were not good

She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.

Hero.Why, you speak truth: I never yet saw man,How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur’d,But she would spell him backward: if fair-fac’d,She’d swear the gentleman should be her sister;If black, why, nature, drawing of an antick,Made a foul blot: if tall, a lance ill-headed;If low, an agate very vilely cut:If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;If silent, why, a block moved with none.So turns she every man the wrong side out;And never gives to truth and virtue thatWhich simpleness and merit purchaseth.’

Hero.Why, you speak truth: I never yet saw man,

How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur’d,

But she would spell him backward: if fair-fac’d,

She’d swear the gentleman should be her sister;

If black, why, nature, drawing of an antick,

Made a foul blot: if tall, a lance ill-headed;

If low, an agate very vilely cut:

If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;

If silent, why, a block moved with none.

So turns she every man the wrong side out;

And never gives to truth and virtue that

Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.’

These were happy materials for Shakespear to work on, and he has made a happy use of them. Perhaps that middle point of comedy was never more nicely hit in which the ludicrous blends with the tender, and our follies, turning round against themselves in support of our affections, retain nothing but their humanity.

Dogberry and Verges in this play are inimitable specimens of quaint blundering and misprisions of meaning; and are a standing record of that formal gravity of pretension and total want of common understanding, which Shakespear no doubt copied from real life, and which in the course of two hundred years appear to have ascended from the lowest to the highest offices in the state.

Shakespearhas here converted the forest of Arden into another Arcadia, where they ‘fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.’ It is the most ideal of any of this author’s plays. It is a pastoral drama, in which the interest arises more out of the sentiments and characters than out of the actions or situations. It is not what is done, but what is said, that claims our attention. Nursed in solitude, ‘under the shade of melancholy boughs,’ the imagination grows soft and delicate, and the wit runs riot in idleness, like a spoiled child, that is never sent to school. Caprice and fancy reign and revel here, and stern necessity is banished to the court. The mild sentiments of humanity are strengthened with thought and leisure; the echo of the cares and noise of the world strikes upon the ear of those ‘who have felt them knowingly,’ softened by time and distance. ‘They hear the tumult, and are still.’ The very air of the place seems to breathe a spirit of philosophical poetry: to stir the thoughts, to touch the heart with pity, as the drowsy forest rustlesto the sighing gale. Never was there such beautiful moralising, equally free from pedantry or petulance.

‘And this their life, exempt from public haunts,Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.’

‘And this their life, exempt from public haunts,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.’

Jaques is the only purely contemplative character in Shakespear. He thinks, and does nothing. His whole occupation is to amuse his mind, and he is totally regardless of his body and his fortunes. He is the prince of philosophical idlers; his only passion is thought; he sets no value upon any thing but as it serves as food for reflection. He can ‘suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs’; the motley fool, ‘who morals on the time,’ is the greatest prize he meets with in the forest. He resents Orlando’s passion for Rosalind as some disparagement of his own passion for abstract truth; and leaves the Duke, as soon as he is restored to his sovereignty, to seek his brother out who has quitted it, and turned hermit.

—‘Out of these convertitesThere is much matter to be heard and learnt.’

—‘Out of these convertites

There is much matter to be heard and learnt.’

Within the sequestered and romantic glades of the forest of Arden, they find leisure to be good and wise, or to play the fool and fall in love. Rosalind’s character is made up of sportive gaiety and natural tenderness: her tongue runs the faster to conceal the pressure at her heart. She talks herself out of breath, only to get deeper in love. The coquetry with which she plays with her lover in the double character which she has to support is managed with the nicest address. How full of voluble, laughing grace is all her conversation with Orlando—

—‘In heedless mazes runningWith wanton haste and giddy cunning.’

—‘In heedless mazes running

With wanton haste and giddy cunning.’

How full of real fondness and pretended cruelty is her answer to him when he promises to love her ‘For ever and a day!’

‘Say a day without the ever: no, no, Orlando, men are April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives: I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen; more clamorous than a parrot against rain; more new-fangled than an ape; more giddy in my desires than a monkey; I will weep for nothing like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when you are inclined to sleep.

Orlando.But will my Rosalind do so?

Rosalind.By my life she will do as I do.’

The silent and retired character of Celia is a necessary relief to the provoking loquacity of Rosalind, nor can anything be better conceived or more beautifully described than the mutual affection between the two cousins:—

—‘We still have slept together,Rose at an instant, learn’d, play’d, eat together,And wheresoe’r we went, like Juno’s swans,Still we went coupled and inseparable.’

—‘We still have slept together,

Rose at an instant, learn’d, play’d, eat together,

And wheresoe’r we went, like Juno’s swans,

Still we went coupled and inseparable.’

The unrequited love of Silvius for Phebe shews the perversity of this passion in the commonest scenes of life, and the rubs and stops which nature throws in its way, where fortune has placed none. Touchstone is not in love, but he will have a mistress as a subject for the exercise of his grotesque humour, and to shew his contempt for the passion, by his indifference about the person. He is a rare fellow. He is a mixture of the ancient cynic philosopher with the modern buffoon, and turns folly into wit, and wit into folly, just as the fit takes him. His courtship of Audrey not only throws a degree of ridicule on the state of wedlock itself, but he is equally an enemy to the prejudices of opinion in other respects. The lofty tone of enthusiasm, which the Duke and his companions in exile spread over the stillness and solitude of a country life, receives a pleasant shock from Touchstone’s sceptical determination of the question.

‘Corin.And how like you this shepherd’s life, Mr. Touchstone?

Clown.Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd’s life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach.’

Zimmerman’s celebrated work on Solitude discovers onlyhalfthe sense of this passage.

There is hardly any of Shakespear’s plays that contains a greater number of passages that have been quoted in books of extracts, or a greater number of phrases that have become in a manner proverbial. If we were to give all the striking passages, we should give half the play. We will only recall a few of the most delightful to the reader’s recollection. Such are the meeting between Orlando and Adam, the exquisite appeal of Orlando to the humanity of the Duke and his company to supply him with food for the old man, and their answer, the Duke’s description of a country life, and the account of Jaquesmoralising on the wounded deer, his meeting with Touchstone in the forest, his apology for his own melancholy and his satirical vein, and the well-known speech on the stages of human life, the old song of ‘Blow, blow, thou winter’s wind,’ Rosalind’s description of the marks of a lover and of the progress of time with different persons, the picture of the snake wreathed round Oliver’s neck while the lioness watches her sleeping prey, and Touchstone’s lecture to the shepherd, his defence of cuckolds, and panegyric on the virtues of ‘an If.’—All of these are familiar to the reader: there is one passage of equal delicacy and beauty which may have escaped him, and with it we shall close our account ofAs You Like It. It is Phebe’s description of Ganimed at the end of the third act.

‘Think not I love him, tho’ I ask for him;’Tis but a peevish boy, yet he talks well;—But what care I for words! yet words do well,When he that speaks them pleases those that hear:It is a pretty youth; not very pretty;But sure he’s proud, and yet his pride becomes him;He’ll make a proper man; the best thing in himIs his complexion; and faster than his tongueDid make offence, his eye did heal it up:He is not very tall, yet for his years he’s tall;His leg is but so so, and yet ’tis well;There was a pretty redness in his lip,A little riper, and more lusty redThan that mix’d in his cheek; ’twas just the differenceBetwixt the constant red and mingled damask.There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d himIn parcels as I did, would have gone nearTo fall in love with him: but for my partI love him not, nor hate him not; and yetI have more cause to hate him than to love him;For what had he to do to chide at me?’

‘Think not I love him, tho’ I ask for him;

’Tis but a peevish boy, yet he talks well;—

But what care I for words! yet words do well,

When he that speaks them pleases those that hear:

It is a pretty youth; not very pretty;

But sure he’s proud, and yet his pride becomes him;

He’ll make a proper man; the best thing in him

Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue

Did make offence, his eye did heal it up:

He is not very tall, yet for his years he’s tall;

His leg is but so so, and yet ’tis well;

There was a pretty redness in his lip,

A little riper, and more lusty red

Than that mix’d in his cheek; ’twas just the difference

Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.

There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d him

In parcels as I did, would have gone near

To fall in love with him: but for my part

I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet

I have more cause to hate him than to love him;

For what had he to do to chide at me?’

The Taming of the Shrewis almost the only one of Shakespear’s comedies that has a regular plot, and downright moral. It is full of bustle, animation, and rapidity of action. It shews admirably how self-will is only to be got the better of by stronger will, and how one degree of ridiculous perversity is only to be driven out by another still greater. Petruchio is a madman in his senses; a very honestfellow, who hardly speaks a word of truth, and succeeds in all his tricks and impostures. He acts his assumed character to the life, with the most fantastical extravagance, with complete presence of mind, with untired animal spirits, and without a particle of ill humour from beginning to end.—The situation of poor Katherine, worn out by his incessant persecutions, becomes at last almost as pitiable as it is ludicrous, and it is difficult to say which to admire most, the unaccountableness of his actions, or the unalterableness of his resolutions. It is a character which most husbands ought to study, unless perhaps the very audacity of Petruchio’s attempt might alarm them more than his success would encourage them. What a sound must the following speech carry to some married ears!

‘Think you a little din can daunt my ears?Have I not in my time heard lions roar?Have I not heard the sea, puff’d up with winds,Rage like an angry boar, chafed with sweat?Have I not heard great ordnance in the field?And heav’n’s artillery thunder in the skies?Have I not in a pitched battle heardLoud larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue,That gives not half so great a blow to hear,As will a chesnut in a farmer’s fire?’

‘Think you a little din can daunt my ears?

Have I not in my time heard lions roar?

Have I not heard the sea, puff’d up with winds,

Rage like an angry boar, chafed with sweat?

Have I not heard great ordnance in the field?

And heav’n’s artillery thunder in the skies?

Have I not in a pitched battle heard

Loud larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?

And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue,

That gives not half so great a blow to hear,

As will a chesnut in a farmer’s fire?’

Not all Petruchio’s rhetoric would persuade more than ‘some dozen followers’ to be of this heretical way of thinking. He unfolds his scheme for theTaming of the Shrew, on a principle of contradiction, thus:—

‘I’ll woo her with some spirit when she comes.Say that she rail, why then I’ll tell her plainShe sings as sweetly as a nightingale;Say that she frown, I’ll say she looks as clearAs morning roses newly wash’d with dew;Say she be mute, and will not speak a word,Then I’ll commend her volubility,And say she uttereth piercing eloquence:If she do bid me pack, I’ll give her thanks,As though she bid me stay by her a week;If she deny to wed, I’ll crave the day,When I shall ask the banns, and when be married?’

‘I’ll woo her with some spirit when she comes.

Say that she rail, why then I’ll tell her plain

She sings as sweetly as a nightingale;

Say that she frown, I’ll say she looks as clear

As morning roses newly wash’d with dew;

Say she be mute, and will not speak a word,

Then I’ll commend her volubility,

And say she uttereth piercing eloquence:

If she do bid me pack, I’ll give her thanks,

As though she bid me stay by her a week;

If she deny to wed, I’ll crave the day,

When I shall ask the banns, and when be married?’

He accordingly gains her consent to the match, by telling her father that he has got it; disappoints her by not returning at the time he has promised to wed her, and when he returns, creates no small consternation by the oddity of his dress and equipage. This, however,is nothing to the astonishment excited by his mad-brained behaviour at the marriage. Here is the account of it by an eye-witness:—

‘Gremio.Tut, she’s a lamb, a dove, a fool to him:I’ll tell you, Sir Lucentio; when the priestShould ask if Katherine should be his wife?Ay, by gogs woons, quoth he; and swore so loud,That, all amaz’d, the priest let fall the book;And as he stooped again to take it up,This mad-brain’d bridegroom took him such a cuff,That down fell priest and book, and book and priest.Now take them up, quoth he, if any list.Tranio.What said the wench when he rose up again?Gremio.Trembled and shook; for why, he stamp’d and swore,As if the vicar meant to cozen him.But after many ceremonies done,He calls for wine; a health, quoth he; as ifHe’ad been aboard carousing with his matesAfter a storm; quaft off the muscadel,And threw the sops all in the sexton’s face;Having no other cause but that his beardGrew thin and hungerly, and seem’d to askHis sops as he was drinking. This done, he tookThe bride about the neck, and kiss’d her lipsWith such a clamourous smack, that at their partingAll the church echoed: and I seeing this,Came thence for very shame; and after me,I know, the rout is coming;—Such a mad marriage never was before.’

‘Gremio.Tut, she’s a lamb, a dove, a fool to him:

I’ll tell you, Sir Lucentio; when the priest

Should ask if Katherine should be his wife?

Ay, by gogs woons, quoth he; and swore so loud,

That, all amaz’d, the priest let fall the book;

And as he stooped again to take it up,

This mad-brain’d bridegroom took him such a cuff,

That down fell priest and book, and book and priest.

Now take them up, quoth he, if any list.

Tranio.What said the wench when he rose up again?

Gremio.Trembled and shook; for why, he stamp’d and swore,As if the vicar meant to cozen him.But after many ceremonies done,He calls for wine; a health, quoth he; as ifHe’ad been aboard carousing with his matesAfter a storm; quaft off the muscadel,And threw the sops all in the sexton’s face;Having no other cause but that his beardGrew thin and hungerly, and seem’d to askHis sops as he was drinking. This done, he tookThe bride about the neck, and kiss’d her lipsWith such a clamourous smack, that at their partingAll the church echoed: and I seeing this,Came thence for very shame; and after me,I know, the rout is coming;—Such a mad marriage never was before.’

Gremio.Trembled and shook; for why, he stamp’d and swore,

As if the vicar meant to cozen him.

But after many ceremonies done,

He calls for wine; a health, quoth he; as if

He’ad been aboard carousing with his mates

After a storm; quaft off the muscadel,

And threw the sops all in the sexton’s face;

Having no other cause but that his beard

Grew thin and hungerly, and seem’d to ask

His sops as he was drinking. This done, he took

The bride about the neck, and kiss’d her lips

With such a clamourous smack, that at their parting

All the church echoed: and I seeing this,

Came thence for very shame; and after me,

I know, the rout is coming;—

Such a mad marriage never was before.’

The most striking and at the same time laughable feature in the character of Petruchio throughout, is the studied approximation to the intractable character of real madness, his apparent insensibility to all external considerations, and utter indifference to every thing but the wild and extravagant freaks of his own self-will. There is no contending with a person on whom nothing makes any impression but his own purposes, and who is bent on his own whims just in proportion as they seem to want common sense. With him a thing’s being plain and reasonable is a reason against it. The airs he gives himself are infinite, and his caprices as sudden as they are groundless. The whole of his treatment of his wife at home is in the same spirit of ironical attention and inverted gallantry. Every thing flies before his will, like a conjuror’s wand, and he only metamorphoses his wife’s temper by metamorphosing her senses and all the objects she sees, at a word’s speaking. Such are his insisting that it is the moon and not the sun which they see, etc. This extravagance reaches its most pleasant and poetical height in the scene where, on their returnto her father’s, they meet old Vincentio, whom Petruchio immediately addresses as a young lady:—

‘Petruchio.Good morrow, gentle mistress, where away?Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too,Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman?Such war of white and red within her cheeks;What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty,As those two eyes become that heav’nly face?Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee:Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty’s sake.Hortensio.He’ll make the man mad to make a woman of him.Katherine.Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet,Whither away, or where is thy abode?Happy the parents of so fair a child;Happier the man whom favourable starsAllot thee for his lovely bed-fellow.Petruchio.Why, how now, Kate, I hope thou art not mad:This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither’d,And not a maiden, as thou say’st he is.Katherine.Pardon, old father, my mistaken eyesThat have been so bedazed with the sunThat everything I look on seemeth green.Now I perceive thou art a reverend father.’

‘Petruchio.Good morrow, gentle mistress, where away?

Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too,

Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman?

Such war of white and red within her cheeks;

What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty,

As those two eyes become that heav’nly face?

Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee:

Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty’s sake.

Hortensio.He’ll make the man mad to make a woman of him.

Katherine.Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet,Whither away, or where is thy abode?Happy the parents of so fair a child;Happier the man whom favourable starsAllot thee for his lovely bed-fellow.

Katherine.Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet,

Whither away, or where is thy abode?

Happy the parents of so fair a child;

Happier the man whom favourable stars

Allot thee for his lovely bed-fellow.

Petruchio.Why, how now, Kate, I hope thou art not mad:This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither’d,And not a maiden, as thou say’st he is.

Petruchio.Why, how now, Kate, I hope thou art not mad:

This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither’d,

And not a maiden, as thou say’st he is.

Katherine.Pardon, old father, my mistaken eyesThat have been so bedazed with the sunThat everything I look on seemeth green.Now I perceive thou art a reverend father.’

Katherine.Pardon, old father, my mistaken eyes

That have been so bedazed with the sun

That everything I look on seemeth green.

Now I perceive thou art a reverend father.’

The whole is carried off with equal spirit, as if the poet’s comic Muse had wings of fire. It is strange how one man could be so many things; but so it is. The concluding scene, in which trial is made of the obedience of the new-married wives (so triumphantly for Petruchio) is a very happy one.—In some parts of this play there is a little too much about music-masters and masters of philosophy. They were things of greater rarity in those days than they are now. Nothing however can be better than the advice which Tranio gives his master for the prosecution of his studies:—

‘The mathematics, and the metaphysics,Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you:No profit grows, where is no pleasure ta’en:In brief, sir, study what you most affect.’

‘The mathematics, and the metaphysics,

Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you:

No profit grows, where is no pleasure ta’en:

In brief, sir, study what you most affect.’

We have heard theHoney-Mooncalled ‘an elegant Katherine and Petruchio.’ We suspect we do not understand this wordelegantin the sense that many people do. But in our sense of the word, we should call Lucentio’s description of his mistress elegant.

‘Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move,And with her breath she did perfume the air:Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her.’

‘Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move,

And with her breath she did perfume the air:

Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her.’

When Biondello tells the same Lucentio for his encouragement, ‘I knew a wench married in an afternoon as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit, and so may you, sir’—there is nothing elegant in this, and yet we hardly know which of the two passages is the best.

The Taming of the Shrewis a play within a play. It is supposed to be a play acted for the benefit of Sly the tinker, who is made to believe himself a lord, when he wakes after a drunken brawl. The character of Sly and the remarks with which he accompanies the play are as good as the play itself. His answer when he is asked how he likes it, ‘Indifferent well; ’tis a good piece of work, would ‘twere done,’ is in good keeping, as if he were thinking of his Saturday night’s job. Sly does not change his tastes with his new situation, but in the midst of splendour and luxury still calls out lustily and repeatedly ‘for a pot o’ the smallest ale.’ He is very slow in giving up his personal identity in his sudden advancement.—‘I am Christophero Sly, call not me honour nor lordship. I ne’er drank sack in my life: and if you give me any conserves, give me conserves of beef: ne’er ask me what raiment I’ll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet, nay, sometimes more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the over-leather.—What, would you make me mad? Am not I Christophero Sly, old Sly’s son of Burton-heath, by birth a pedlar, by education a card-maker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat alewife of Wincot, if she know me not; if she say I am not fourteen-pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lying’st knave in Christendom.’

This is honest. ‘The Slies are no rogues,’ as he says of himself. We have a great predilection for this representative of the family; and what makes us like him the better is, that we take him to be of kin (not many degrees removed) to Sancho Panza.

This is a play as full of genius as it is of wisdom. Yet there is an original sin in the nature of the subject, which prevents us from taking a cordial interest in it. ‘The height of moral argument’ which the author has maintained in the intervals of passion or blended with the more powerful impulses of nature, is hardly surpassed in any of his plays. But there is in general a want of passion; the affectionsare at a stand; our sympathies are repulsed and defeated in all directions. The only passion which influences the story is that of Angelo; and yet he seems to have a much greater passion for hypocrisy than for his mistress. Neither are we greatly enamoured of Isabella’s rigid chastity, though she could not act otherwise than she did. We do not feel the same confidence in the virtue that is ‘sublimely good’ at another’s expense, as if it had been put to some less disinterested trial. As to the Duke, who makes a very imposing and mysterious stage-character, he is more absorbed in his own plots and gravity than anxious for the welfare of the state; more tenacious of his own character than attentive to the feelings and apprehensions of others. Claudio is the only person who feels naturally; and yet he is placed in circumstances of distress which almost preclude the wish for his deliverance. Mariana is also in love with Angelo, whom we hate. In this respect, there may be said to be a general system of cross-purposes between the feelings of the different characters and the sympathy of the reader or the audience. This principle of repugnance seems to have reached its height in the character of Master Barnardine, who not only sets at defiance the opinions of others, but has even thrown off all self-regard,—‘one that apprehends death no more dreadfully but as a drunken sleep; careless, reckless, and fearless of what’s past, present, and to come.’ He is a fine antithesis to the morality and the hypocrisy of the other characters of the play. Barnardine is Caliban transported from Prospero’s wizard island to the forests of Bohemia or the prisons of Vienna. He is the creature of bad habits as Caliban is of gross instincts. He has however a strong notion of the natural fitness of things, according to his own sensations—‘He has been drinking hard all night, and he will not be hanged that day’—and Shakespear has let him off at last. We do not understand why the philosophical German critic, Schlegel, should be so severe on those pleasant persons, Lucio, Pompey, and Master Froth, as to call them ‘wretches.’ They appear all mighty comfortable in their occupations, and determined to pursue them, ‘as the flesh and fortune should serve.’ A very good exposure of the want of self-knowledge and contempt for others, which is so common in the world, is put into the mouth of Abhorson, the jailor, when the Provost proposes to associate Pompey with him in his office—‘A bawd, sir? Fie upon him, he will discredit our mystery.’ And the same answer will serve in nine instances out of ten to the same kind of remark, ‘Go to, sir, you weigh equally; a feather will turn the scale.’ Shakespear was in one sense the least moral of all writers; for morality (commonly so called) is made up of antipathies; and his talent consistedin sympathy with human nature, in all its shapes, degrees, depressions, and elevations. The object of the pedantic moralist is to find out the bad in everything: his was to shew that ‘there is some soul of goodness in things evil.’ Even Master Barnardine is not left to the mercy of what others think of him; but when he comes in, speaks for himself, and pleads his own cause, as well as if counsel had been assigned him. In one sense, Shakespear was no moralist at all: in another, he was the greatest of all moralists. He was a moralist in the same sense in which nature is one. He taught what he had learnt from her. He shewed the greatest knowledge of humanity with the greatest fellow-feeling for it.

One of the most dramatic passages in the present play is the interview between Claudio and his sister, when she comes to inform him of the conditions on which Angelo will spare his life.

‘Claudio.Let me know the point.Isabella.O, I do fear thee, Claudio: and I quake,Lest thou a feverous life should’st entertain,And six or seven winters more respectThan a perpetual honour. Dar’st thou die?The sense of death is most in apprehension;And the poor beetle, that we tread upon,In corporal sufferance finds a pang as greatAs when a giant dies.Claudio.Why give you me this shame?Think you I can a resolution fetchFrom flowery tenderness; if I must die,I will encounter darkness as a bride,And hug it in mine arms.Isabella.There spake my brother! there my father’s graveDid utter forth a voice! Yes, thou must die:Thou art too noble to conserve a lifeIn base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy—Whose settled visage and deliberate wordNips youth i’ the head, and follies doth emmew,As faulcon doth the fowl—is yet a devil.Claudio.The princely Angelo?Isabella.Oh, ’tis the cunning livery of hell,The damned’st body to invest and coverIn princely guards! Dost thou think, Claudio,If I would yield him my virginity,Thou might’st be freed?Claudio.Oh, heavens! it cannot be.Isabella.Yes, he would give it thee, for this rank offence,So to offend him still: this night’s the timeThat I should do what I abhor to name,Or else thou dy’st to-morrow.Claudio.Thou shalt not do’t.Isabella.Oh, were it but my life,I’d throw it down for your deliveranceAs frankly as a pin.Claudio.Thanks, dear Isabel.Isabella.Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow.Claudio.Yes.—Has he affections in him,That thus can make him bite the law by the nose?When he would force it, sure it is no sin;Or of the deadly seven it is the least.Isabella.Which is the least?Claudio.If it were damnable, he, being so wise,Why would he for the momentary trickBe perdurably fin’d? Oh, Isabel!Isabella.What says my brother?Claudio.Death is a fearful thing.Isabella.And shamed life a hateful.Claudio.Aye, but to die, and go we know not where;To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;This sensible warm motion to becomeA kneaded clod; and the delighted spiritTo bathe in fiery floods, or to resideIn thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;To be imprison’d in the viewless winds,And blown with restless violence round aboutThe pendant world; or to be worse than worstOf those, that lawless and incertain thoughtsImagine howling!—’tis too horrible!The weariest and most loathed worldly life,That age, ache, penury, and imprisonmentCan lay on nature, is a paradiseTo what we fear of death.Isabella.Alas! alas!Claudio.Sweet sister, let me live:What sin you do to save a brother’s life,Nature dispenses with the deed so far,That it becomes a virtue.’

‘Claudio.Let me know the point.

Isabella.O, I do fear thee, Claudio: and I quake,Lest thou a feverous life should’st entertain,And six or seven winters more respectThan a perpetual honour. Dar’st thou die?The sense of death is most in apprehension;And the poor beetle, that we tread upon,In corporal sufferance finds a pang as greatAs when a giant dies.

Isabella.O, I do fear thee, Claudio: and I quake,

Lest thou a feverous life should’st entertain,

And six or seven winters more respect

Than a perpetual honour. Dar’st thou die?

The sense of death is most in apprehension;

And the poor beetle, that we tread upon,

In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great

As when a giant dies.

Claudio.Why give you me this shame?Think you I can a resolution fetchFrom flowery tenderness; if I must die,I will encounter darkness as a bride,And hug it in mine arms.

Claudio.Why give you me this shame?

Think you I can a resolution fetch

From flowery tenderness; if I must die,

I will encounter darkness as a bride,

And hug it in mine arms.

Isabella.There spake my brother! there my father’s graveDid utter forth a voice! Yes, thou must die:Thou art too noble to conserve a lifeIn base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy—Whose settled visage and deliberate wordNips youth i’ the head, and follies doth emmew,As faulcon doth the fowl—is yet a devil.

Isabella.There spake my brother! there my father’s grave

Did utter forth a voice! Yes, thou must die:

Thou art too noble to conserve a life

In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy—

Whose settled visage and deliberate word

Nips youth i’ the head, and follies doth emmew,

As faulcon doth the fowl—is yet a devil.

Claudio.The princely Angelo?

Isabella.Oh, ’tis the cunning livery of hell,The damned’st body to invest and coverIn princely guards! Dost thou think, Claudio,If I would yield him my virginity,Thou might’st be freed?

Isabella.Oh, ’tis the cunning livery of hell,

The damned’st body to invest and cover

In princely guards! Dost thou think, Claudio,

If I would yield him my virginity,

Thou might’st be freed?

Claudio.Oh, heavens! it cannot be.

Isabella.Yes, he would give it thee, for this rank offence,So to offend him still: this night’s the timeThat I should do what I abhor to name,Or else thou dy’st to-morrow.

Isabella.Yes, he would give it thee, for this rank offence,

So to offend him still: this night’s the time

That I should do what I abhor to name,

Or else thou dy’st to-morrow.

Claudio.Thou shalt not do’t.

Isabella.Oh, were it but my life,I’d throw it down for your deliveranceAs frankly as a pin.

Isabella.Oh, were it but my life,

I’d throw it down for your deliverance

As frankly as a pin.

Claudio.Thanks, dear Isabel.

Isabella.Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow.

Claudio.Yes.—Has he affections in him,That thus can make him bite the law by the nose?When he would force it, sure it is no sin;Or of the deadly seven it is the least.

Claudio.Yes.—Has he affections in him,

That thus can make him bite the law by the nose?

When he would force it, sure it is no sin;

Or of the deadly seven it is the least.

Isabella.Which is the least?

Claudio.If it were damnable, he, being so wise,Why would he for the momentary trickBe perdurably fin’d? Oh, Isabel!

Claudio.If it were damnable, he, being so wise,

Why would he for the momentary trick

Be perdurably fin’d? Oh, Isabel!

Isabella.What says my brother?

Claudio.Death is a fearful thing.

Isabella.And shamed life a hateful.

Claudio.Aye, but to die, and go we know not where;To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;This sensible warm motion to becomeA kneaded clod; and the delighted spiritTo bathe in fiery floods, or to resideIn thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;To be imprison’d in the viewless winds,And blown with restless violence round aboutThe pendant world; or to be worse than worstOf those, that lawless and incertain thoughtsImagine howling!—’tis too horrible!The weariest and most loathed worldly life,That age, ache, penury, and imprisonmentCan lay on nature, is a paradiseTo what we fear of death.

Claudio.Aye, but to die, and go we know not where;

To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;

This sensible warm motion to become

A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit

To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside

In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;

To be imprison’d in the viewless winds,

And blown with restless violence round about

The pendant world; or to be worse than worst

Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts

Imagine howling!—’tis too horrible!

The weariest and most loathed worldly life,

That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment

Can lay on nature, is a paradise

To what we fear of death.

Isabella.Alas! alas!

Claudio.Sweet sister, let me live:What sin you do to save a brother’s life,Nature dispenses with the deed so far,That it becomes a virtue.’

Claudio.Sweet sister, let me live:

What sin you do to save a brother’s life,

Nature dispenses with the deed so far,

That it becomes a virtue.’

What adds to the dramatic beauty of this scene and the effect of Claudio’s passionate attachment to life is, that it immediately follows the Duke’s lecture to him, in the character of the Friar, recommending an absolute indifference to it.

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