Chapter 82

Contrasts in Shakespeare.Oration delivered at the Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute ofElocution and Languages, June, 1886.Through the whole of Shakespeare’s plays, we find every prominent character stamped with a separate individuality, which is preserved in every detail and characteristic, whether in the insane jealousy of Othello, the impetuosity of Harry Hotspur, the constancy of Portia, the vindictiveness of Shylock, the wickedness of Don John, or the benign, forgiving spirit of Prospero.There is a silvery vein of wit threading his plays, gleaming and flashing like a sparkling brook in the sunshine.It runs smoothly in the calmly-uttered and thoughtful sentences of Hamlet; it bubbles and laughs in the saucy badinage of Beatrice and Celia; seeks the shadow in the melancholy of Jacques; enters the realm of the pun in the wordy self-assertion of Polonius, and descends to the comic and sometimes the vulgar in Falstaff and Dogberry.In the character of Hamlet we find a keen sense of humor, overcast by the ever-present suspicion of his father’s foul end, and a vague distrust of those around him. A certain sarcasm lurks in the depths, and imparts an incisiveness to every well-turned sentence. He says to Guildenstern:Hamlet.—Will you play upon this pipe?Guildenstern replies:Guild.—My lord, I cannot.Ham.—I pray you.Guild.—Believe me, I cannot.Ham.—I do beseech you.Guild.—I know no touch of it, my lord.Ham.—’Tis as easy as lying: Govern these ventages with your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most excellent music. Look you, these are the stops.Guild.—But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony; I have not the skill.Ham.—Why, look you, now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass: and there is much music, excellent voice in this little organ; yet cannot you make it speak! ’Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.Hamlet deals largely in simile and metaphor; no finer instance occurring than in the passage where he is called upon to account for the body of Polonius. Rosencranz, repelling his insinuations, asks:Ros.—Take you me for a sponge, my lord?Ham.—Ay, sir, that soaks up the king’s countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the end: he keeps them like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again.With a feeling of relief we turn to merry, heart-whole Beatrice, and we glory in the ease with which she puts to rout the valiant soldier Benedick. With what exquisite nonchalance she remarks:Beat.—I wonder that you will still be talking, Signor Benedick, nobody marks you.She throws down the gauntlet of defiance to Cupid in the words:Beat.—I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me.And she retains her woman’s right to the last word in her parting shot:Beat.—You always end with a jade’s trick. I know you of old.Her merry derision of Don Pedro is shown in her reply to his gallant offer:Don P.—Will you have me, my lady?Beat.—No, my lord, unless I could have another for working days. Your grace is too costly to wear every day.Of the same bright, refreshing character is Celia, but Beatrice is more brusque, while Celia has a tender vein of womanliness which tones her raillery, while her sprightliness is more strongly thrown out in the early scenes of the play by its contrast with the constantly recurring melancholy of Rosalind. This antithesis is clearly observable in the following:Cel.—Why cousin! why Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! not a word?Ros.—Not one to throw at a dog.Cel.—No, thy words are too precious to cast away upon curs; throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.Ros.—Then were two cousins laid up; when the one should be lamed with reasons and the other mad without any.Cel.—But is this all for your father?Ros.—No, some of it is for my child’s father. Oh, how full of briers is this working-day world.Cel.—They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them.Ros.—I could shake them off my coat; these burs are in my heart.Cel.—Hem them away.Ros.—I would try if I could cry “hem” and have him.Cel.—Come, come; wrestle with thy affections.Ros.—O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself!Cel.—O, a good wish upon you! You will try in time in despite of a fall.After Rosalind and her cousin leave the court for the Forest of Arden, Rosalind’s spirits rise, and then it is she who becomes the prominent sprightly character in the play. She receives Orlando after a short absence with the reproach:Ros.—Why how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You a lover! And you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.Orl.—My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.Ros.—Break an hour’s promise in love! He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him on the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heartwhole.Orl.—Pardon me, dear Rosalind.Ros.—Nay, and you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: I had as lief be wooed of a snail.Orl.—Of a snail!Ros.—Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman.In Polonius we meet with a character in direct contrast to those we have mentioned. The old gentleman, like many of the present day, loves to hear himself talk, and, owing to his high political position, has probably become so accustomed to receiving the applause of fawning courtiers, that the habit of punning has become a second nature to him; even after receiving the gentle reprimand of his Queen, it still is impossible for him to abstain from them, as is instanced in the conversation on the cause of Hamlet’s peculiarities.Pol.—My liege and madam, to expostulateWhat majesty should be, what duty is,Why day is day, night night, and time is time,Were nothing but to waste night, day and time.Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,I will be brief. Your noble son is mad:Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,What is’t but to be nothing else but mad?But let that go.Queen.—More matter, with less art.Pol.—Madam, I swear I use no art at all,That he is mad, ’tis true; ’tis true ’tis pity,And pity ’tis ’tis true; a foolish figure;But farewell it, for I will use no art.Mad let us grant him, then; and now remainsThat we find out the cause of this effect,Or rather say, the cause of this defect,For this effect, defective, comes by cause:Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.Let us now turn to Portia, happy, witty Portia, with a soul far above the fickle spendthrift, Bassanio, but with all a woman’s devotion, adoring him in spite of his faults. Her gentle dignity in accepting the hoped-for result of his choice of the caskets is sweetly evinced in the following:Por.—You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,Such as I am; though for myself aloneI would not be ambitious in my wish,To wish myself much better; yet, for youI would be trebled twenty times myself;A thousand times more fair, ten thousand timesMore rich;That only to stand high in your account,I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,Exceed account; but the full sum of meIs sum of nothing, which, to term in gross,Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d;Happy in this, she is not yet so oldBut she may learn; happier than this,She is not bred so dull but she can learn;Happiest of all is that her gentle spiritCommits itself to yours to be directed,As from her lord, her governor, her king.In the Trial Scene we discover the contrasting side ofPortia’s character, and we will close with a quotation from her speech to Shylock.Por.—The quality of mercy is not strained,It droppeth as the gentle rain from heavenUpon the place beneath: it is twice blest;It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomesThe thronèd monarch better than his crown;His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,The attribute to awe and majesty,Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;But mercy is above this sceptred sway;It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,It is an attribute to God himself;And earthly power doth then show likest God’s"poem"Ahen mercy seasons justice.F. Lizzie Peirce.

Oration delivered at the Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute ofElocution and Languages, June, 1886.

Through the whole of Shakespeare’s plays, we find every prominent character stamped with a separate individuality, which is preserved in every detail and characteristic, whether in the insane jealousy of Othello, the impetuosity of Harry Hotspur, the constancy of Portia, the vindictiveness of Shylock, the wickedness of Don John, or the benign, forgiving spirit of Prospero.

There is a silvery vein of wit threading his plays, gleaming and flashing like a sparkling brook in the sunshine.

It runs smoothly in the calmly-uttered and thoughtful sentences of Hamlet; it bubbles and laughs in the saucy badinage of Beatrice and Celia; seeks the shadow in the melancholy of Jacques; enters the realm of the pun in the wordy self-assertion of Polonius, and descends to the comic and sometimes the vulgar in Falstaff and Dogberry.

In the character of Hamlet we find a keen sense of humor, overcast by the ever-present suspicion of his father’s foul end, and a vague distrust of those around him. A certain sarcasm lurks in the depths, and imparts an incisiveness to every well-turned sentence. He says to Guildenstern:

Hamlet.—Will you play upon this pipe?

Guildenstern replies:

Guild.—My lord, I cannot.

Ham.—I pray you.

Guild.—Believe me, I cannot.

Ham.—I do beseech you.

Guild.—I know no touch of it, my lord.

Ham.—’Tis as easy as lying: Govern these ventages with your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most excellent music. Look you, these are the stops.

Guild.—But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony; I have not the skill.

Ham.—Why, look you, now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass: and there is much music, excellent voice in this little organ; yet cannot you make it speak! ’Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

Hamlet deals largely in simile and metaphor; no finer instance occurring than in the passage where he is called upon to account for the body of Polonius. Rosencranz, repelling his insinuations, asks:

Ros.—Take you me for a sponge, my lord?

Ham.—Ay, sir, that soaks up the king’s countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the end: he keeps them like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again.

With a feeling of relief we turn to merry, heart-whole Beatrice, and we glory in the ease with which she puts to rout the valiant soldier Benedick. With what exquisite nonchalance she remarks:

Beat.—I wonder that you will still be talking, Signor Benedick, nobody marks you.

She throws down the gauntlet of defiance to Cupid in the words:

Beat.—I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me.

And she retains her woman’s right to the last word in her parting shot:

Beat.—You always end with a jade’s trick. I know you of old.

Her merry derision of Don Pedro is shown in her reply to his gallant offer:

Don P.—Will you have me, my lady?

Beat.—No, my lord, unless I could have another for working days. Your grace is too costly to wear every day.

Of the same bright, refreshing character is Celia, but Beatrice is more brusque, while Celia has a tender vein of womanliness which tones her raillery, while her sprightliness is more strongly thrown out in the early scenes of the play by its contrast with the constantly recurring melancholy of Rosalind. This antithesis is clearly observable in the following:

Cel.—Why cousin! why Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! not a word?

Ros.—Not one to throw at a dog.

Cel.—No, thy words are too precious to cast away upon curs; throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

Ros.—Then were two cousins laid up; when the one should be lamed with reasons and the other mad without any.

Cel.—But is this all for your father?

Ros.—No, some of it is for my child’s father. Oh, how full of briers is this working-day world.

Cel.—They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them.

Ros.—I could shake them off my coat; these burs are in my heart.

Cel.—Hem them away.

Ros.—I would try if I could cry “hem” and have him.

Cel.—Come, come; wrestle with thy affections.

Ros.—O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself!

Cel.—O, a good wish upon you! You will try in time in despite of a fall.

After Rosalind and her cousin leave the court for the Forest of Arden, Rosalind’s spirits rise, and then it is she who becomes the prominent sprightly character in the play. She receives Orlando after a short absence with the reproach:

Ros.—Why how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You a lover! And you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.

Orl.—My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

Ros.—Break an hour’s promise in love! He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him on the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heartwhole.

Orl.—Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

Ros.—Nay, and you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: I had as lief be wooed of a snail.

Orl.—Of a snail!

Ros.—Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman.

In Polonius we meet with a character in direct contrast to those we have mentioned. The old gentleman, like many of the present day, loves to hear himself talk, and, owing to his high political position, has probably become so accustomed to receiving the applause of fawning courtiers, that the habit of punning has become a second nature to him; even after receiving the gentle reprimand of his Queen, it still is impossible for him to abstain from them, as is instanced in the conversation on the cause of Hamlet’s peculiarities.

Pol.—My liege and madam, to expostulateWhat majesty should be, what duty is,Why day is day, night night, and time is time,Were nothing but to waste night, day and time.Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,I will be brief. Your noble son is mad:Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,What is’t but to be nothing else but mad?But let that go.Queen.—More matter, with less art.Pol.—Madam, I swear I use no art at all,That he is mad, ’tis true; ’tis true ’tis pity,And pity ’tis ’tis true; a foolish figure;But farewell it, for I will use no art.Mad let us grant him, then; and now remainsThat we find out the cause of this effect,Or rather say, the cause of this defect,For this effect, defective, comes by cause:Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.

Pol.—My liege and madam, to expostulate

What majesty should be, what duty is,

Why day is day, night night, and time is time,

Were nothing but to waste night, day and time.

Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,

And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,

I will be brief. Your noble son is mad:

Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,

What is’t but to be nothing else but mad?

But let that go.

Queen.—More matter, with less art.

Pol.—Madam, I swear I use no art at all,That he is mad, ’tis true; ’tis true ’tis pity,And pity ’tis ’tis true; a foolish figure;But farewell it, for I will use no art.Mad let us grant him, then; and now remainsThat we find out the cause of this effect,Or rather say, the cause of this defect,For this effect, defective, comes by cause:Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.

Pol.—Madam, I swear I use no art at all,

That he is mad, ’tis true; ’tis true ’tis pity,

And pity ’tis ’tis true; a foolish figure;

But farewell it, for I will use no art.

Mad let us grant him, then; and now remains

That we find out the cause of this effect,

Or rather say, the cause of this defect,

For this effect, defective, comes by cause:

Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.

Let us now turn to Portia, happy, witty Portia, with a soul far above the fickle spendthrift, Bassanio, but with all a woman’s devotion, adoring him in spite of his faults. Her gentle dignity in accepting the hoped-for result of his choice of the caskets is sweetly evinced in the following:

Por.—You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,Such as I am; though for myself aloneI would not be ambitious in my wish,To wish myself much better; yet, for youI would be trebled twenty times myself;A thousand times more fair, ten thousand timesMore rich;That only to stand high in your account,I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,Exceed account; but the full sum of meIs sum of nothing, which, to term in gross,Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d;Happy in this, she is not yet so oldBut she may learn; happier than this,She is not bred so dull but she can learn;Happiest of all is that her gentle spiritCommits itself to yours to be directed,As from her lord, her governor, her king.

Por.—You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,

Such as I am; though for myself alone

I would not be ambitious in my wish,

To wish myself much better; yet, for you

I would be trebled twenty times myself;

A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times

More rich;

That only to stand high in your account,

I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,

Exceed account; but the full sum of me

Is sum of nothing, which, to term in gross,

Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d;

Happy in this, she is not yet so old

But she may learn; happier than this,

She is not bred so dull but she can learn;

Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit

Commits itself to yours to be directed,

As from her lord, her governor, her king.

In the Trial Scene we discover the contrasting side ofPortia’s character, and we will close with a quotation from her speech to Shylock.

Por.—The quality of mercy is not strained,It droppeth as the gentle rain from heavenUpon the place beneath: it is twice blest;It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomesThe thronèd monarch better than his crown;His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,The attribute to awe and majesty,Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;But mercy is above this sceptred sway;It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,It is an attribute to God himself;And earthly power doth then show likest God’s"poem"Ahen mercy seasons justice.

Por.—The quality of mercy is not strained,

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:

’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes

The thronèd monarch better than his crown;

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,

The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;

But mercy is above this sceptred sway;

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God’s"poem"

Ahen mercy seasons justice.

F. Lizzie Peirce.

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