219 He gets some of Posthumus' garments, | Then she tells an indecent anecdote, and goes to Milford Haven, expecting to meet Imogen there. On his way he mutters thus: "With that suit upon my back, will I ravish her: first kill him, and in her eyes; there shall she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and when my just has dined,-which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the clothes that she so praised, to the court I'll knock her back, foot her some again." * Others again, are but babblers: for exampie, Polonius, the grave brainless counselor; a great baby, not yet out of his "swathing clouts;" a solemn booby, who rains on men a shower of counsels, compliments, and maxims; a sort of court speaking-trumpet, useful in grand ceremonies, with the air of a thinker, but fit only to spout words. But the most complete of all these characters is that of the nurse in Romeo and Juliet, a gossip, loose in her talk, a regular kitchen oracle, smelling of the stew-pan and old boots, foolish, impudent, immoral, but otherwise a good creature, and affectionate to her nursechild. Mark this disjointed and neverending gossip's babble: "Nurse. 'Faith I can tell her age unto an hour. ... Lady Capulet. She's not fourteen. Nurse. Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen. Susan and she souls!Were of an age: well, Susan is with God; She was too good for me; but, as I said, On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen; God rest all Christian That shall she, marry; I remember it well. 'Tis since the earthquake now eleven years; And she was wean'd,-I never shall forget it, Of all the days of the year, upon that day: Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool, And since that time it is eleven years; She could have run and waddled all about; For even the day before, she broke her brow." t Cymbeline, iii. 5. † Romeo and Juliet, i. 3. which she begins over again four times She is silenced: what then? She has her anecdote in her head, and cannot cease repeating it and laughing to herself." Endless repetitions are the mind's first step. The vulgar do not pursue the straight line of reasoning and of the story; they repeat their steps, as it were merely marking time: struck with an image, they keep it for an hour before their eyes, and are never tired of it. If they do advance, they turn aside to a hundred subordinate ideas before they get at the phrase required. They allow themselves to be diverted by all the thoughts which come across them This is what the nurse does; and when she brings Juliet news of her lover, she torments and wearies her, less from a wish to tease than from a habit of wandering from the point: "Nurse. Jesu, what haste? can you no Do you not see that I am out of breath? stay awhile? Juliet. How art thou out of breath, wher thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath? Is thy news good, or bad? answer to that; N. Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man: Romeo no, not he though his face be better than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's; and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though they be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare : he is not the flower of courtesy, but, I'll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, wench; serve God. What, have you dined at home? 7. No, no: but all this did I know before. What says he of our marriage? what of that? N. Lord, how my head aches! what a head have I ! It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. My back o' t'other side,-O, my back, my back! Beshrew your heart for sending me about, To catch my death with jaunting up and down! 7. I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well. Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love? N. Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome, and, I warrant, a virtuous,-Where is your mother?" It is never-ending. Her gabble is worse when she comes to announce to Juliet the death of her cousin and the banishment of Romeo. It is the shrill cry and chatter of an overgrown asth * Ibid. ii 5. O, he's a lovely gentleman! This cool immorality, these weather- V. matic magpie. She laments, confuses | to one another, and without intermis the names, spins roundabout sentences, sion, as if with shuttlecocks, and vie ends by asking for aqua-vita. She with each other in singularity and incurses Romeo, then brings him to Ju- vention. They dress all their ideas in iiet's chamber. Next day Juliet is strange or sparkling metaphors. The ordered to marry Earl Paris; Juliet taste of the time was for masquerades ; throws herself into her nurse's arms, their conversation is a masquerade of praying for comfort, advice, assistance. ideas. They say nothing in a simple The other finds the true remedy: Mar- style; they only seek to heap together ry Paris, subtle things, far-fetched, difficult to invent and to ur derstand; al! their expressions are over-refined, unexpected, extraordinary; they strain their thought, and change it into a caricature. "Alas, poor Romeo!" says Mercutio, "he is already dead; stabbed with a white wench's black eye; shot through the ear with a love-song, the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's buttshaft." Benedick relates a conversation he has just held with his mistress. "O, she misused me past the endurance of a block! an oak, but with one green leaf on it would have answered her; my very visor began to assume life, and scold with her." These gay and perpetual extravagances show the bearing of the speakers. They do not remain quietly seated in their chairs, like the Mar quesses in the Misanthrope; they whirl round, leap, paint their faces, gesticu late boldly their ideas; their wit-rock ets end with a song. Young folk, soldiers and artists, they let off their fire works of phrases, and gambol round about. "There was a star danced, and under that was I born." expression of Beatrice's aptly describes the kind of poetical, sparkling, unreasoning, charming wit, more akin to music than to literature, a sort of dream, which is spoken out aloud, and whilst wide awake, not unlike that described by Mercutio: The mechanical imagination produces Shakspeare's fool-characters: a quick venturesome dazzling, unquiet imagination, produces his men of wit. Of wit there are many kinds. One, altogether French, which is but reason, a foe to paradox, scorner of folly, a sort of incisive common sense, having no occupation but to render truth amusing and evident, the most effective weapon with an intelligent and vain people: such was the wit of Voltaire and the drawing-rooms. The other, that of improvisatores and artists, is a mere inventive rapture, paradoxical, unshackled, exuberant, a sort of selfentertainment, a phantasmagoria of images, flashes of wit, strange ideas, dazing and intoxicating, like the move ment and illumination in a ball-room. Such is the wit of Mercutio, of the clowns, of Beatrice, Rosalind, and Benedick. They laugh, not from a sense f the ridiculous, but from the desire to laugh. You must look elsewhere for the campaigns which aggressive reason makes against human folly. Here folly is in its full bloom. Our folk think of amusement, and nothing more. They are good-humored; they let their wit prance gayly over the possible and the impossible. They play upon words, contort their sense, draw absurd and laughable inferences, send them back * Romeo and Juliet iii. § This "O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with She is the fairies' midwife; and she comes The cover of the wings of grasshoppers, * Ibid. ii. 4. ↑ Much Ado about Nothing, ii. 1 Mer waggoner a small grey-coated gnat, Through lovers' brains, and then they dream O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight, O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees, O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream. Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two And sleeps again. This is that very Mab bodes. He is as big a swindler Panurge, who had sixty-three ways of making money, "of which the hor.estest was by sly theft." And what is worse, he is an old man, a knight, a courtier, and well educated. Must he not be odious and repulsive? By no neans; we cannot help liking him. At bottom, like his brother Panurge, he is "the best fellow in the world.' He has no malice in his composition; no other wish than to laugh and be amused When insulted, he bawls out louder than his attackers, and pays them back with interest in coarse words and insults; but he owes them no grudge for it. The next minute he is sitting down with them in a low tavern, drinking their health like a brother and com rade. If he has vices, he exposes them. so frankly that we are obliged to forgive him them. He seems to say to us, "Well, so I am, what then? I like drinking: isn't the wine good? I take to my heels when hard hitting begins; don't blows hurt? I get into debt, and do fools out of their money; isn't it nice to have money in your pocket? I brag; isn't it natural to want to be well thought of?"-" Dost thou hear, Hal? thou knowest, in the state of innocency, Adam fell; and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of "Child of an idle brain, villany? Thou seest I have more Begot of nothing but vain fantasy," t flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty.' Falstaff is so frankly introduced without incongruity in the midst of a conversation of the six-immoral, that he ceases to be so. Con teenth century, and he will understand science ends at a certain point; nature the difference between the wit which assumes its place, and man rushes devotes itself to reasoning, or to record upon what he desires, without more a subject for laughter, and that imag- thought of being just or unjust than ination which is self-amused with its Falstaff, engaged in recruiting, has sold an animal in the neighboring wood. exemptions to all the rich people, and only enrolled starved and half-naked wretches. There's but a shirt and trouble him. Bah: "they'll find linen half in all his company: that does not enough on every hedge." The prince who has seen them, says, "I did never see such pitiful rascals." "Tut tut," answers Falstaff, good enough to toss; food for powder; they'll fill a pit as well as better; tish, man, mor tal men, mortal men.' † His second excuse is his unfailing sirit. 1.omeo interrupts him, or he would Lever end. Let the reader compare with the dialogue of the French theatre this little poem, cwn act Falstaff has the passions of an animal, and the imagination of a man of wit. There is no character which better exemplifies the fire and immorality of Shakspeare. Falstaff is a great supporter of disreputable places, swearer, gamester, idler, wine-bibber, as low as he well can be. He has a big belly, bloodshot eyes, bloated face, shaking legs; he spends his life with his elbows among the tavern-jugs, or asleep on the ground behind the arras; he only wakes to curse, lie, brag, and steal. • Romeo and Juliet, i. 4. If eve! • First Part of King Henr IV., iii. 3. ↑ Ibid. iv. 3. My lord I'll watch him, tame and talk him out of pa tience; His bed shall seem a school, his board a I'll intermingle everything he does She asks her favor : " Othello. Not now, sweet Desdemona, some other time. Desdemona. But shall't be shortly? Des. To-morrow dinner, then? here was a man who could jabber, it is | think of them. All that she sees is he. Insults and oaths, curses, joba- that Cassio is unhappy :tions, protests, flow from him as from "Be thou assured, good Cassio. an open barrel. He is never at a loss; shall never rest; he devises a shift for every difficulty. Lies sprout out of him, fructify, increase, beget one another, like mushrooms on a rich and rotten bed of earth. He lies still more from his imagination and nature than from interest and neessity. It is evident from the manner In which he strains his fictions. He 8ays he has fought alone against two men. The next moment it is four. Presently we have seven, then eleven, then fourteen. He is stopped in time, or he would soon be talking of a whole army. When unmasked, he does not lose his temper, and is the first to laugh at his boastings. "Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold. . . . What, shall we be merry? shall we have a play extem- I prithee, name the time, but let it not pore? He does the scolding part of Exceed three days: in faith, he's penitent.” ↑ King Henry with so much truth, that we She is somewhat astonished to see hermight take him for a king, or an actor.. self refused: she scolds Othello. He This big pot-bellied fellow, a coward, yields: who would not yield seeing a a cynic, a brawler, a drunkard, a lewd reproach in those lovely sulking eyes? rascal, a pothouse poet, is one of Shak-O, says she, with a pretty pout: speare's favorites. The reason is, that his morals are those of pure nature, and Shakspeare's mind is congenial with his own. ... VI. Nature is shameless and gross amidst this mass of flesh, heavy with wine and fatness. It is delicate in the delicate body of women, but as unreasoning and impassioned in Desdemona as in Falstaff. Shakspeare's women are charming children, who feel in excess and love passionately. They have unconstrained manners, little rages, nice words of friendship, a coquettish rebelliousness, a graceful volubility which recall the warbling and the prettiness of birds. The heroines of the French stage are a most men; these are women and in every sense of the word. More imprudent than Desdemona a woman could not be. She is moved with pity for Cassio, and asks a favor for him passionately, recklessly, be the thing just or no, dangerous or no. She knows nothing of man's laws, and does not * First Part of King Henry IV. ü. 4. I On O. I shall not dine at home; meet the captains at the citadel. Des. Why, then, to-morrow night; or Tuesday morn; Tuesday noon, or night; on Wednesday morn; "This is not a boon; 'Tis as I should entreat you wear your gloves, Or feed on nourishing dishes, or keep you warm, Or sue to you to do peculiar profit A moment after, when he prays her to "Shall I deny you? no: farewell, my lord... Emilia, come: Be as your fancies teach you; Whate'er you be, I am obedient." § This vivacity, this petulance, does not prevent shrinking modesty and silent timidity: on the contrary, they spring from a common cause, extreme sensi bility. She who feels much and quick has more reserve and more passion than others; she breaks out or is silent; she says nothing or every thing. Such is this Imogen "So tender of rebukes that words are strokes, Such is Virgilia, the sweet wife of Itid. Cymbeline, iii. § victories: when Volumnia describes him stamping on the field of battle, and wiping his bloody brow with his hand, she grows pale: His bloody brow! O Jupiter, no blood! Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius!"* She wishes to forget all that she knows of these dangers; she dare not think of them When asked if Coriolanus does not generally return wounded, she cies, "O, no, no, no." She avoids this cruel picture, and yet nurses a secret pang at the bottom of her heart. She will not leave the house: "I'll not over the threshold till my lord return." She does not smile, will hardly admit a visitor; she would blame herself, as for a lack of tenderness, for a moment's forgetfulness or gayety. When he does return, she can only blush and weep. This exalted sensibility must needs end in love. All Shakspeare's women love without measure, and nearly all at first sight. At the first look Juliet casts on Romeo, she says to the nurse: "Go, ask his name: if he be married, My grave is like to be my wedding bed." + It is the revelation of their destiny. As Shakspeare has made them, they cannot but love, and they must love till death. But this first look is an " a ecstasy: and this sudden approach of love is a transport. Miranda seeing Fernando, fancies that she sees thing divine." She halts motionless, in the amazement of this sudden vision, at the sound of these heavenly harmonies which rise from the depths of her heart. She weeps, on seeing him drag the heavy logs; with her slender white hands she would do the work whilst he reposed. Her compassion and tenderness carry her away; she is no longer mistress of her words, she says what she would not, what her father has forbidden her to disclose, what an instant before she would never have confessed. The too full heart overflows unwittingly, happy, and ashamed at the current of joy and new sensations with which an unknown feeling has flooded her: "Miranda. I am a fool to weep at wha I am glad of. Fernando. Wherefore weep you? M. At mine unworthiness that dare not offer What I desire to give, and much less take What I shall die to want. . . . I am your wife, if you will marry me ; If not, I'll die your maid." * This irresistible invasion of love transforms the whole character. The shrinking and tender Desdemona, sud denly, in full senate, before her father renounces her father; dreams not fo an instant of asking his pardon, or con. soling him. She will leave for Cyprus with Othello, through the enemy's fleet and the tempest. Every thing vanishes before the one and adored image which has taken entire and absolute posses. sion of her whole heart. So, extreme evils, bloody resolves, are only the natural sequence of such love. Ophelia becomes mad, Juliet commits suicide; no one but looks upon such madness and death as necessary. You will not then discover virtue in these souls, for by virtue is implied a determinate desire to do good, and a rational observance of duty. They are only pure through delicacy or love. They recoil from vice as a gross thing, not as an immoral for the marriage vow, but adoration of thing. What they feel is not respect their husband. "O sweetest, fairest lily!" So Cymbeline speaks of one of these frail and lovely flowers which cannot be torn from the tree to which they have grown, whose least impurity would tarnish their whiteness. When Imogen learns that her husband means to kill her as being faithless, she does not revolt at the outrage; she has no bed1" She faints at the thought that "False to his pride, but only love. she is no longer loved. When Cordelia hears her father, an irritable old man, already almost insane, ask her how she loves him, she cannot make up her mind to say aloud the flattering protestations which her sisters have been lavishing. She is ashamed to display her tenderness before the world, and to buy a dowry by it. He disinherits her, and drives her away; she holds her tongue. And when she afterwards finds him abandoned and mad, she goes on her knees before him, with such a touching emotion, she • The Tempest, iii. s. |