Class.XI\2'54t- 
 
/ 
 
 
 CHAE .ISTICS 
 
BOOKS IN BLUE AND GOLD. 
 
 Public y 
 
 TICK NOR FIELDS. 
 
 LONGFELLOW'S P 
 
 LONGFELLOW 
 
 TENNYSON'S I 
 
 WHITTIER'S P 
 
 LEIGH HUNT'S 
 
 GERALD MASSx 
 WORKS. 
 
 MRS. JAMESON'S C 
 OF WOMh 
 
 MRS. JAMESON'S 
 POETS. 
 
 WORKS. 
 
 AL WORKS. 
 
 WORKS. 
 
 WORKS. 
 
 L WORKS. 
 
 ^lTICAL 
 
 CTERISTICS 
 OF THE 
 
 MRS. JAMESON'S DIARY OF AN EN- 
 
 NUYEE. 
 
 MRS. JAMESON'S SKETCHES OF ART. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE NEW EDITION. 
 
 In preparing for the press a new edition of tliis little work, the 
 author h;'S endeavored to render it more worthy of the approba- 
 tion and kindly lading with which it has been received; she can- 
 not better express her sense of both than by jiistifying, as far aS 
 it is in her po\v-er, the cordial and flattering tone of all the public 
 criticisms. It is to the great name of Shakspeabe, that bond 
 of sympathy among all who speak his language, and to the sub- 
 ject of the work, n.^t to ita own merits, that she attributes the 
 success it ha? met with, — success the more delightful, because, 
 in truth, it was from fie very first, so entirely unlooked for, as to 
 be a matter of surprise rs well as of pleasure and gratitude. 
 
 In this edition there are many corrections, and some additions 
 which the author hopes maj- be deemed improvements. She has 
 been induced to insert several quotations at length, which were 
 formerly only referred to, from observing that however familiar 
 they may be %o the mind of the reader, they are always recog- 
 nized with pleasure — like dear domestic faces; and if the memory 
 fail at the moment to recall the lines or the sentiment to which 
 the attention is directly required, few Uke to interrupt the course 
 of thought, or undertake a journey from the sofa or garden-seat 
 to the library, to hunt out the volume, the play, the passage, for 
 themselveg. 
 
 When the first edition was sent to press, the author contem- 
 plated writing the life of Mrs. Siddons, with a reference to her 
 art ; and defi?rred the complete development of the character of 
 Lady Macbeth, till she should be able to illustrate it by the im- 
 personation and commentary of that grand and gifted actress ; but 
 the task having fallen into other hands, the analysis of the charr 
 acter has been almost entirely rewritten, as at first conceived, or 
 rather restoi-ed to its original form. 
 
 This little work, as it now stands, forms only part of a plan 
 which the author hopes, if life be granted her, to accompUsh ; — 
 at aU events, lifc, while it is spared, shall be devoted to its ful- 
 filment. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Introduction - 9 
 
 characters op inteijlect. 
 
 ^1p ortia j: v*^ 63 
 
 Isabella 83 
 
 Beatrice 99 
 
 Rosalind' 110 
 
 CHARACTERS OP PASSION AND DUQINATION. 
 
 Juliet. 119 
 
 Helena 153 
 
 Perdita 172 
 
 Viola 181 
 
 Ophelia'. 187 
 
 Miranda 207 
 
 4 
 
 CHARACTERS OP THE AFPECTIONS. 
 
 Hermione 219 
 
 Desdemona 240 
 
 Imogen 259 
 
 Cordelia. . ^.,. 280 
 
 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 Cleopatra 302 
 
 Octavia 341 
 
 Volumnia 345 
 
 4r Constance of Bretagne rrrT. 357 
 
 T Elinor of Guienne rrT 387 
 
 Blanche of Castile 389 
 
 ^Margaret of Anjon 396 
 
 j<" Katlierine of Arragon 407 
 
 Lady Macbeth 437 
 
CHABACTERISTICS OF WOMEN. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 Scene — A Library, 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 You will not listen to me ? 
 
 I do, with all the deference which befits a gen- 
 tleman when a lady holds forth on the virtues of 
 her own sex. 
 
 He is a parricide of his mother's name, 
 
 And with an impious hand murders her fame, 
 
 That wi'ongs the praise of women ; that dares write 
 
 Libels on saints, or with foul ink requite 
 
 The milk they lent us. 
 
 Yours was the nobler birth. 
 For you from man were made — man but of earth — 
 The son of dust ! 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 What's this ? 
 
10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 " Only a rhyme I learned from one I talked 
 withal ; " 'tis a quotation from some old poet that 
 has fixed itself in my memory — ^from Randolph, I 
 think. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 TIs very justly thought, and very politely quoted, 
 and my best courtesy is due to him and to you : — 
 but now will you listen to me ? 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 With most profound humility. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Nay, then! I have done, unless you will lay 
 aside these mock airs of gallantry, and hsten to 
 me for a moment ! Is it fair to bring a second- 
 hand accusation against me, and not attend to my 
 defence ? 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Well, I will be serious. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Do so, and let us talk like reasonable beings. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Then tell me, (as a reasonable woman you will 
 not be affronted with the question,) do you really 
 expect that any one will read this little book of 
 yours ? 
 
INTRODUCTION. 11 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 I might answer, tliat it has been a great source 
 of amusement and interest to me for several months, 
 and that so far I am content : but no one writes a 
 book without a hope of finding readers, and I shall 
 find a few. Accident first made me an authoress ; 
 and not now, nor ever, have I written to flatter 
 any prevailing fashion of the day for the sake of 
 profit, though this is done, I know, by many who 
 have less excuse for thus coining their brains. 
 This little book was undertaken without a thought 
 of fame or money : out of the fulness of my own 
 heart and soul have I written it. In the pleasure 
 it has given me, in the new and various views of 
 human nature it has opened to me, in the beautiful 
 and soothing images it has placed before me, in the 
 exercise and improvement of my own faculties, I 
 have already been repaid : if praise or profit come 
 beside, they come as a surplus. I should be grati- 
 fied and grateful, but I have not sought for them, 
 nor worked for them. Do you beheve this ? 
 
 I do : in this I cannot suspect you of afiectation, 
 for the profession of disinterestedness is uncalled 
 for, and the contrary would be too far counte- 
 nanced by the custom of the day to be matter of 
 reserve or reproach. But how could you (saving 
 the reverence due to a lady-authoress, and speak- 
 ing as one reasonable being to another) choose 
 such a threadbare subject ? 
 
12 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 I presume you have written a book to maintain 
 the superiority of your sex over ours ; for so I 
 judge by the names at the heads of some of your 
 chapters ; women fit indeed to inlay heaven with 
 stars, but, pardon me, very unhke those who at 
 present walk upon this earth. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Very unlike the fine ladies of your acquaintance, 
 I grant you ; but as to maintaining the superiority, 
 or speculating on the rights of women — nonsense ! 
 why should you suspect me of such folly ? — it is 
 quite out of date. Why should there be compe- 
 tition or comparison ? 
 
 Both are ill-judged and odious ; but did you ever 
 meet with a woman of the world, who did not 
 abuse most heartDy the whole race of men ? 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Did you ever talk with a man of the world, who 
 did not speak with levity or contempt of the whole 
 human race of women ? 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Perhaps I might answer like Voltaire — " Helas I 
 
INTEODUCTION. 13 
 
 lis pourraient blen avoir raison tous deux." But 
 do you thence infer that both ai'e good for noth- 
 ing? 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Thence I infer that the men of the world and 
 the women of the world are neither of them — 
 good for much. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 And you have written a book to make them 
 better ? 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Heaven forbid ! else I were only fit for the next 
 lunatic asylum. Vanity run mad never conceived 
 such an impossible idea. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Then, in a few words, what is the subject, and 
 what the object, of your book ? 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 I have endeavoured to illustrate the various 
 modifications of which the female character is sus- 
 ceptible, with their causes and results. My life 
 has been spent in observing and thinking ; I have 
 had, as you well know, more opportunities for the 
 first, more leisure for the last, than have fallen to 
 the lot of most people. What I have seen, felt, 
 thought, sufiered, has led me to form certain 
 opinions. It appeal's to me that the condition of 
 women in society, as at present constituted, is false 
 in itself, and injurious to them, — that the education 
 
14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of women, as at present conducted, is founded in 
 mistaken principles, and tends to increase fear- 
 fully the sum of misery and error in both sexes ; 
 but I do not choose presumptuously to fling these 
 opinions in the face of the world, in the form of 
 essays on morality, and treatises on education. I 
 have rather chosen to illustrate certain positions 
 by examples, and leave my readers to deduce the 
 moral themselves, and draw their own inferences. 
 
 And why have you not chosen your examples 
 from real life? you might easily have done so. 
 You have not been a mere spectator, or a mere 
 actor, but a lounger behind the scenes of exist- 
 ence — have even assisted in preparing the puppets 
 for the stage : you might have given us an epitome 
 of your experience, instead of dreaming over Shak- 
 speare. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 I might so, if I had chosen to become a female 
 satirist, which I will never be. 
 
 being read. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 I am not sure of that. The vile taste for satire 
 and personal gossip will not be eradicated, I sup- 
 pose, while the elements of curiosity and malice 
 remain in human nature ; but as a fashion of liter- 
 
INTRODUCTIOX. 15 
 
 ature, I tlilnk it is passing away ; — at all events it 
 is not my forte. Long experience of what is called 
 "the world," of the folly, duplicity, shallowness, 
 selfishness, which meet us at every turn, too soon 
 unsettles our youthful creed. If it only led to the 
 knowledge of good and evil, it were well; if it 
 only taught us to despise the illusions and retire 
 from the pleasures of the world, it would be better. 
 But it destroys our belief — it dims our perception 
 of all abstract truth, vii'tue, and happiness ; it turns 
 life into a jest, and a very dull one too. It makes 
 us indifferent to beauty, and incredulous of good- 
 ness ; it teaches us to consider self as the centre on 
 which all actions turn, and to which all motives are 
 to be referred. 
 
 MED ON. 
 
 But this being so, we must either revolve with 
 these earthly natures, and round the same centre, 
 or seek a sphere for ourselves, and dwell apart 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 I trust it Is not necessary to do either. While 
 we are yet young, and the passions, powers, and 
 feelings, in their full activity, create to us a world 
 within, we cannot look fairly on the world with- 
 out: — all things then are good. When first we 
 throw ourselves forth, and meet burs and briars on 
 every side, which stick in our very hearts ; — and 
 fair tempting fruits which turn to bitter ashes in 
 the taste, then we exclaim with impatience, all 
 things are evil. But at length comes the calm 
 
16 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 hour, when they who look beyond the superficies 
 of things begin to discern their true bearings; 
 when the perception of evil, or sorrow, or sin, 
 brings also the perception of some opposite good, 
 which awakens our indulgence, or the knowl- 
 edge of the cause wliich excites our pity. Thus 
 it is with me. I can smile, — nay, I can laugh 
 still, to see folly, vanity, absurdity, meanness, ex- 
 posed by scornful wit, and depicted by othei*s in 
 fictions light and brilliant. But these very things, 
 when I encounter the reality, rather make me sad 
 than merry, and take away all the incHnation, if I 
 had the power, to hold them up to derision. 
 
 Unless, by doing so, you might correct them. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Correct them 1 Show me that one human being 
 who has been made essentially better by satire ! O 
 no, no ! there is something in human nature which 
 hardens itself against the lash — something in satiro 
 which excites only the lowest and worst of our 
 propensities. That avowal in Pope — 
 
 I must be proud to see 
 Men not afraid of God, afraid of me ! 
 
 — ^has ever filled me with terror and pity — 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 From its truth perhaps ? 
 
INTRODUCTION. 17 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 From its arrogance, — ^for the truth is, that a vice 
 never corrected a vice. Pope might be proud of 
 the terror he inspired in those who feared no God ; 
 in whom vanity was stronger than conscience : but 
 that terror made no individual man better; and 
 while he indulged his own besetting sin, he admin- 
 istered to the mahgnity of others. Your professed 
 satirists always send me to think upon the opposite 
 sentiment in Shakspeare, on " the mischievous foul 
 sin of chiding sin." I remember once hearing a 
 poem of Barry Cornwall's, (he read it to me,) 
 about a strange winged creature that, having the 
 lineaments of a man, yet preyed on a man, and 
 afterwards coming to a stream to drink, and be- 
 holding his own face therein, and that he had 
 made his prey of a creature hke himself, pined 
 away with repentance. So should those do, who 
 Laving made themselves mischievous mirth out of 
 the sins and sorrows of others, remembering their 
 own humanity, and seeing within themselves the 
 same Hueaments — so should they grieve and pine 
 away, self-jiunished. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 'Tis an old allegory, and a sad one — and but too 
 much to the purpose. 
 
 AI.DA. 
 
 I abhor the spirit of ridicule — I dread it and I 
 despise it I abhor it because it is in direct con- 
 
18 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 tradiction to the mild and serious spirit of Chris- 
 tianity ; I fear it, because we find that in every 
 state of society in which it has prevailed as a 
 fashion, and has given the tone to the manners 
 and literature, it marked the moral degradation 
 and approaching destruction of that society ; and I 
 despise it, because it is the usual resource of the • 
 shallow and the base mind, and, when wielded by 
 the strongest hand with the purest intentions, an 
 inefficient means of good. The spirit of satire 
 reversing the spirit of mercy which is twice blessed, 
 seems to me twice accursed; — evil in those who 
 indulge it — evil to those who are the objects of it. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 "Peut-etre fallait-il que la punition des im- 
 prudens et des faibles fut confiee k la malignite, 
 car la pure vertu n'eiit jamais ete assez cruelle." 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 That is a woman's sentiment. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 True — it was ; and I have pleasure in remind- 
 ing you that a female satirist by profession is yet 
 an anomaly in the history of our literature, as a 
 female schismatic is yet unknown in the history of 
 our rehgion. But to what do you attribute the 
 number of satirical women we meet in society ? 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Not to our nature ; but to a state of society in 
 
INTRODUCTION. 19 
 
 whlcli the levelling spirit of persiflage has been 
 long a fashion ; to the perverse education which 
 fosters it; to affections disappointed or unem- 
 ployed, which embitter the temper ; to faculties 
 misdirected or wasted, which oppress and irritate 
 the mind ; to an utter ignorance of ourselves, and 
 the common lot of humanity, combined with quick 
 and refined perceptions and much superficial cul- 
 tivation ; to frivolous habits, which make serious 
 thought a burden, and serious feeling a bane if 
 suppressed, if betrayed, a ridicule. Women, gen- 
 erally speaking, are by nature too much subjected 
 to suffering in many forms — ^have too much of 
 fancy and sensibility, and too much of that faculty 
 which some philosophers call veneration^ to be 
 naturally satirical. I have known but one woman 
 eminently gifted in mind and person, who is also 
 distinguished for powers of satire as bold as merci- 
 less ; and she is such a compound of all that nature 
 can give of good, and all that society can teach of 
 evil — 
 
 MEDOSr. 
 
 That she reminds us of the dragon of old, which 
 was generated between the sunbeams from heaven 
 and the sHme of earth. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 No such thing. Rather of the powerful and 
 beautiful fairy Melusina, who had every talent and 
 every charm under heaven ; but once in so many 
 hours was fated to become a serpent No, I return 
 
20 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 to my first position. It is not by exposing folly and 
 scornino; fools, that we make other people wiser, 
 or ourselves happier. But to soften the heart by 
 images and examples of the kindly and generous 
 aifeetions — to show how the human soul is dis- 
 ciplined and perfected by suffering — to prove how 
 much of possible good may exist in things evil and 
 perverted — how much hope there is for those who 
 despair — how much comfort for those whom a 
 heartless world has taught to contemn both others 
 and themselves, and so put barriers to the hard, 
 cold, selfish, mocking, and levelling spirit of the day 
 O would I could do this I 
 
 On the same principle, I suppose, that they have 
 changed the treatment of lunatics ; and whereas 
 they used to condemn poor distempered wretches 
 to straw and darkness, stripes and a strait waist- 
 coat, they now send them to sunshine and green 
 fields, to wander in gardens among birds and 
 flowers, and soothe them with soft music and kind 
 flattering speech. 
 
 AT.DA. 
 
 You laugh at me ! perhaps I deserve it. 
 
 MEDOX. 
 
 No, in truth; I am a little amused, but most 
 honestly attentive : and perhaps wish I could think 
 more like you. But to proceed : I allow that with 
 
INTRODUCTION. 21 
 
 this view of the case, you could not well have 
 chosen your illustrations from real life ; but why 
 not from history ? 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 As far as history could guide me, I have taken 
 her with me in one or two recent publications, 
 which all tend to the same object. Nor have I 
 here lost sight of her ; but I have entered on a land 
 where she alone is not to be trusted, and may make- 
 a pleasant companion but a most fallacious guide. 
 To drop metaphor: history informs us that such 
 things have been done or have occurred ; but when 
 we come to inquire into motives and characters, it 
 is the most false and partial and unsatisfactory 
 authority we can refer to. "Women are illustrious 
 in history, not from what they have been in them- 
 selves, but generally in proportion to the mischief 
 they have done or caused. Those characters best 
 fitted to my purpose are precisely those of which 
 history never heard, or disdains to speak ; of those 
 which have been handed down to us by many dif- 
 ferent authorities under different aspects we cannot 
 judge without prejudice; in others there occur 
 certain cliasms which it is difficult to supply ; and 
 hence inconsistencies we have no means of recon- 
 ciling, though doubtless they might be reconciled 
 if we knew the whole, instead of a part. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 But instance — instance ! 
 
22 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Examples crowd upon me; but take the first 
 that occurs. Do you remember that Duchesse de 
 Longueville, whose beautiful picture we were look- 
 ing at yesterday ? — the heroine of the Fronde ? — • 
 think of that woman — bold, intriguing, profligate, 
 vain, ambitious, factious ! — who made men rebels 
 with a smile ; — or if that were not enough, the lady 
 was not scrupulous, apparently without principle 
 as without shame, nothing was too much ! And 
 then think of the same woman protecting the vir- 
 tuous philosopher Arnauld, when he was denounced 
 and condemned ; and from motives which her worst 
 enemies could not malign, secreting him in her 
 house, unknown even to her own servants — pre- 
 paring his food herself, watching for his safety, and 
 at length saving him. Her tenderness, her pa- 
 tience, her discretion, her disinterested benevolence, 
 -not only defied danger, (that were httle to a woman 
 of her temper,) but endured a lengthened trial, all 
 the ennui caused by the necessity of keeping her 
 house, continual self-control, and the thousand small 
 daily sacrifices which, to a vain, dissipated, proud, 
 impatient woman, must have been hard to bear. 
 Now if Shakspeare had drawn the character of the 
 Duchesse de Longueville, he would have shown us 
 the same individual woman in both situations : — ^for 
 the same being, with the same faculties, and pas- 
 sions, and powers, it surely was : whereas in his- 
 tory, we see in one case a fury of discord, a woman 
 without modesty or pity ; and in the other an angel 
 
INTRODUCTION. 23 
 
 of benevolence, and a worshipper of goodness ; and 
 nothing to connect the two extremes in our fancy. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 But these are contradictions which we meet on 
 every page of history, which make us giddy with 
 doubt, or sick with belief, and are the proper sub- 
 jects of inquiry for the moraUst and the philosopher. 
 
 I cannot say that professed moralists and philos- 
 ophers did much to help me out of the dilemma ; 
 but the riddle wliich history presented I found 
 solved in the pages of Shakspeare. There the 
 crooked appeared straight ; the inaccessible, easy ; 
 the incomprehensible, plain. All I sought, I found 
 there ; his characters combine history and real life ; 
 they are complete individuals, whose hearts and 
 souls are laid open before us : all may behold, and 
 all judge for themselves. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 But aU will not judge alike 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 No; and herein lies a part of their wonderful 
 truth. We hear Shakspeare's men and women dis- 
 cussed, praised and dispraised, liked, disliked, as 
 real human beings ; and in forming our opinions of 
 them, we are influenced by our own characters, 
 habits of thought, prejudices, feelings, impulses, just 
 
24 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 as we are influenced with regard to our acquaint- 
 ances and associates. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 But we are then as likely to misconceive and 
 misjudge them. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Yes, if we had only the same imperfect means of 
 studying them. But we can do mth them what we 
 cannot do with real people: we can unfold the 
 whole character before us, stripped of all preten- 
 sions of self-love, all disguises of manner. We can 
 take leisure to examine, to analyze, to correct our 
 own impressions, to watch the rise and progress of 
 various passions — we can hate, love, approve, con- 
 demn, without oflfence to others, without pain to 
 ourselves. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 In this respect they may be compared to those 
 exquisite anatomical preparations of wax, which 
 those who could not without disgust and horror dis- 
 sect a real specimen, may study, and learn the 
 mysteries of our frame, and all the internal work- 
 ings of the wondrous machine of life. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 And it is the safer and the better way — for us at 
 least. But look — that brilliant rain-drop trembling 
 there in the sunshine suggests to me another illus- 
 tration. Passion, when we contemplate it through 
 
INTRODUCTION. 25 
 
 the medium of imagination, is like a ray of light 
 transmitted through a prism ; -we can calmly, 
 and with undazzled eye, study its complicate na- 
 ture, and analyze its variety of tints ; but passion 
 brought home to us in its reality, through our own 
 feelings and experience, is like the same ray trans- 
 mitted through a lens, — ^blinding, burning,' consum- 
 ing where it falls. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Your illustration is the most poetical, I allow ; 
 but not the most just. But tell me, is the ground 
 you have taken sufficiently large ? — is the founda- 
 tion you have chosen strong enough to bear the 
 moral superstructure you raise upon it ? You know 
 the prevalent idea is, that Shakspeare's women are 
 inferior to his men. This assertion is constantly 
 repeated, and has been but tamely refuted. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Professor Richardson V — 
 
 MEDOK. 
 
 He is as dry as a stick, and his refutation not 
 successful even as a piece of logic. Then it is not 
 sufficient for critics to assert this inferiority and 
 want of variety : they first assume the fallacy, then 
 argue upon it. Gibber accounts for it from the 
 circumstance that all the female parts in Shak- 
 speare's time were acted by boys — there were no 
 women on the stage ; and Mackenzie, who ought 
 to have known better, says that he was not so happy 
 
26 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 in his delineations of love and tenderness, as of the 
 other passions; because, forsooth, the majesty of 
 his genius could not stoop to the refinements of del- 
 icacy ; — ^preposterous ! 
 
 Stay ! before we waste epithets of indignation, 
 let us consider. If these people mean that Shak- 
 speare's women are inferior in power to his men, I 
 grant it at once ; for in Shakspeare the male and 
 female characters bear precisely the same relation 
 to each other that they do in nature and in society 
 — they are not equal in prominence or in power — 
 they are subordinate throughout. Richardson re- 
 marks, that "if situation influences the mind, and 
 if uniformity of conduct be frequently occasioned 
 by uniformity of condition, there must be a greater 
 diversity of male than of female characters," — 
 which is true ; add to this our limited sphere of 
 action, consequently of experience, — the habits of 
 self-control rendering the outward distinctions of 
 character and passion less striking and less strong 
 — all this we see in Shakspeare as in nature : for 
 instance, Juhet is the most impassioned of the 
 female characters, but what are her passions com- 
 pared to those which shake the soul of Othello ? 
 
 " Even as the dew-drop on the myrtle-leaf 
 To the vex'd sea." 
 
 Look at Constance, frantic for the loss of her son — 
 then look at Lear, maddened by the ingratitude of 
 
INTRODUCTION. 27 
 
 his daughters: why it is the west wind bowing 
 those aspen tops that wave before our window, 
 compared to the tropic hurricane, when forests 
 crash and burn, and mountains tremble to their 
 bases ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 True ; and Lady Macbeth, with all her soaring 
 ambition, her vigor of intellect, her subtlety, her 
 courage, and her cruelty — what is she, compared to 
 Kichard HI. ? 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 I will tell you what she is — she is a woman. 
 Place Lady Macbeth in comparison with Richard 
 in., and you see at once the essential distinction 
 between masculine and feminine ambition — though 
 both in extreme, and overleaping all restraints of 
 conscience or mercy. Richard says of himself, that 
 he has " neither pity, love, nor fear : " Lady Mac- 
 beth is susceptible of all three. You smile ! but 
 that remains to be proved. The reason that Shak- 
 speare's wicked women have such a singular hold 
 upon our fancy, is from the consistent preservation 
 of the feminine character, which renders them more 
 terrible, because more credible and inteUigible — 
 not like those monstrous caricatures we meet with 
 in history — 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 In history ? — this is new ! 
 
 Yes ! I repeat, in history, where certain isolated 
 
28 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 facts aud actions are recorded, witliout any rela- 
 tion to causes, or motives, or connecting feelings ; 
 and pictures exhibited, from which the considerate 
 mind turns in disgust, and the feeling heart has no 
 reUef but in positive, and I may add, reasonable 
 incredulity. I have lately seen one of Correggio's 
 finest pictures, in wliich the three Furies are repre- 
 sented, not as ghastly deformed hags, with talons 
 and torches, and snaky hair, but as young women, 
 with fine luxuriant forms and regular features, and 
 a single serpent wreathing the tresses hke a ban- 
 deau — ^but such countenances ! — such a hideous ex- 
 pression of malice, cunning, and cruelty ! — and the 
 effect is beyond conception appalling. Leonardo 
 da Vinci worked upon the same grand principle of 
 art in his Medusa — 
 
 Where it is less the horror than the grace 
 Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone — 
 
 ***** 
 'Tis the melodious tints of beauty thrown 
 Athwart the hue of guilt and glare of pain, 
 That humanize and harmonize the strain. 
 
 And Shakspeare, who understood all truth, worked 
 out his conceptions on the same principle, having 
 said himself, that " proper deformity shows not in 
 the fiend so horrid as in women." Hence it is that 
 whether he portrayed the wickedness founded in 
 perverted power, as in Lady Macbeth ; or the 
 wickedness founded in weakness, as in Gertrude, 
 Lady Anne, or Cressida, he is the more fearfully 
 
INTRODUCTION. 29 
 
 impressive, because we cannot claim for ourselves 
 an exemption from the same nature, before which, 
 in its corrupted state, we tremble with horror or 
 shrink with disgust. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Do you remember that some of the commentators 
 of Shakspeare have thought it incumbent on their 
 gallantry to express their utter contempt for the 
 scene between Richard and Lady Anne, as a mon- 
 strous and incredible libel on your sex ? 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 They might have spared themselves the trouble. 
 Lady Anne is just one of those women whom we 
 see walking in crowds through the drawing-rooms 
 of the world — the puppets of habit, the fools of for- 
 tune, without any particular inclination for vice, or 
 any steady principle of virtue ; whose actions are 
 inspired by vanity, not affection, and regulated by 
 opinion, not by conscience: who are good whUe 
 there is no temptation to be otherwise, and ready 
 victims of the first soliciting to evil. In the case of 
 Latly Anne, we are startled by the situation : not 
 three months a widow, and following to the sep- 
 ulchre the remains of a husband and a father, she 
 .is met and wooed and won by the very man who 
 murdered them. In such a case it required perhaps 
 cither Richard or the arch-fiend himself to tempt 
 her successfully ; but in a less critical moment, a 
 far less subtle and audacious seducer would have 
 
30 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 sufficed. Cressida is another modification of vanity, 
 weakness, and falsehood, drawn in stronger colors. 
 The world contains many Lady Annes and Cres- 
 sidas, polished and refined externally, whom chance 
 and vanity keep right, whom chance and vanity 
 lead wrong, just as it may happen. When we read 
 in history of the enormities of certain women, per- 
 fect scarecrows and ogresses, we can safely, like the 
 Pharisee in Scripture, hug ourselves in our secure 
 virtue, and thank God that we are not as others 
 are — but the wicked women in Shakspeare are 
 portrayed with such perfect consistency and truth, 
 that they leave us no such resource — they frighten 
 us into reflection — they make us believe and 
 tremble. On the other hand, his amiable women 
 are touched with such exquisite simphcity — they 
 have so little external pretensions — and are so un- 
 like the usual heroines of tragedy and romance, 
 that they delight us more " than all the nonsense 
 of the beau-ideal ! " We are flattered by the per- 
 ception of our own nature in the midst of so many 
 charms and virtues: not only are they what we 
 could wish to be, or ought to be, but what we per- 
 suade ourselves we might be, or would be, under a 
 different and a happier state of things, and, per- 
 haps, some time or other may be. They are not 
 stuck up, like the cardinal virtues, all in a row, for 
 us to admire and wonder at — they are not mere 
 poetical abstractions — nor (as they have been 
 termed) mere abstractions of the affections, — 
 But common clay ta'en from the common earth, 
 
INTEODUCTION. 31 
 
 Moulded by God, and tempered by the tears 
 Of angels, to the perfect form of— woman. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Beautiful lines ! — Where are they ? 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 I quote from memory, and I am afraid inaccu- 
 rately, from a poem of Alfred Tennyson's. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Well, between argument, and sentiment, and 
 logic, and poetry, you are making out a very 
 plausible case. I think with you that, in the in- 
 stances you have mentioned, (as Lady Macbeth 
 and Richard, Juliet, and Othello, and others,) the 
 want of comparative power is only an additional 
 excellence ; but to go to an opposite extreme of 
 delineation, we must allow that there is not one of 
 Shakspeare's women that, as a dramatic character, 
 can be compared to Falstaff.^ 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 No ; because any thing like Falstaff in the form 
 of woman — any such compound of wit, sensuality, 
 and selfishness, unchecked by the moral senti- 
 ments and the affections, and touched with the 
 same vigorous painting, would be a gross and 
 monstrous caricature. If it coidd exist in nature, 
 we might find it in Shakspeare ; but a moment's 
 reflection shows us that it would be essentially an 
 impossible combination of faculties in a female. 
 
32 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 It strikes me, however, that his humorous women 
 are feebly drawn, in comparison with some of the 
 female wits of other writers. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Because his women of wit and humor are not 
 introduced for the sole purpose of saying brilliant 
 things, and displaying the wit of the author ; they 
 are, as I will show you, real, natural women, in 
 whom wit is only a particular and occasional modi- 
 fication of intellect. They are all, in the first 
 place, affectionate, thinking beings, and moral 
 agents; and then witty, as if by accident, or as 
 the Duchesse de Chaulnes said of herself, " par la 
 grace de Dieu." As to humor, it is carried as far 
 as possible in Mrs. Quickly; in the termagant 
 Catherine; in Maria, in "Twelfth Night;" in 
 Juliet's nurse ; in Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page. What 
 can exceed in humorous naivete, Mrs. Quickly's 
 upbraiding Falstaif, and her concluding appeal — 
 " Didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee 
 thirty shillings ? " Is it not exquisite — irresistible ? 
 Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page are both " merry wives," 
 but how perfectly discriminated ! Mrs. Ford has 
 the most good nature— Mrs. Page is the cleverer 
 of the two, and has more sharpness in her tongue, 
 more mischief in her mirth. In all these instances 
 I allow that the humor is more or less vulgar ; but 
 a humorous woman, whether in high or low life, 
 has always a tinge of vulgarity. 
 
IXTRODUCTIOX. 33 
 
 I should like to sec that word vulgar properly 
 defined, and its meaning limited — at present it is 
 the most arbitrary word in the language. 
 
 Yes, like the word romantic, it is a convenient 
 " exploding word," and in its general application 
 signifies nothing more than " see how much finer I 
 am than other people ! " * but in literature and 
 character I shall adhere to the definition of Ma- 
 dame de Stael, who uses the word vulgar as the 
 reverse oi poetical. Vulgarity (as I wish to apply 
 the word) is the negative in aU things. In litera- 
 ture, it is the total absence of elevation and depth 
 in the ideas, and of elegance and delicacy in the 
 expression of them. In character, it is the absence 
 of truth, sensibility, and reflection. The vulgar in 
 manner, is the result of vulgarity of character ; it 
 is grossness, hardness, or affectation. — If you would 
 see how Shakspeare has discriminated, not only 
 different degrees, but different kinds of plebeian 
 vulgarity in women, you have only to compare the 
 nurse in Romeo and Juliet with Mrs. Quickly. 
 On the whole, if there are people who, taking the 
 strong and essential distinction of sex into con- 
 sideration, still maintain that Shakspeare's female 
 characters are not, in truth, in variety, in power, 
 
 * See Foster's E3say on the application of the word romantic. 
 — Essays, vol. i. 
 
34 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 equal to Lis men, I think I shall prove the con- 
 trary. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 I observe that you have divided your illustra- 
 tions into classes ; but shades of character so melt 
 into each ■other, and the various faculties and 
 powers are so blended and balanced, that all class- 
 ification must be arbitrary. I am at a loss to con- 
 ceive where you have drawn the line ; here, at the 
 head of your first chapter, I find '• Characters of 
 Intellect" — do you call Portia intellectual, and 
 Ilermione and Constance not so ? 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 I know that Sehlegel has said that it is impossible 
 to arrange Shakspearc's characters in classes : yet 
 some classification was necessary for my purpose. 
 I have therefore divided them into characters in 
 which intellect and wit predominate; characters 
 in which fancy and passion predominate; and 
 characters in which the moral sentiments and 
 affections predominate. The historical characters 
 I have considered apart, as requiring a different 
 mode of illustration. Portia I regard as a perfect 
 model of an intellectual woman, in whom wit is 
 tempered by sensibility, and fancy regulated by 
 strong reflection. It is obj ected to her, to Bear 
 trice, and others of Shakspearc's women, that the 
 display of intellect is tinged with a coarseness of 
 manner belonging to the age in which he wrote. 
 To remark that the conversation and letters of 
 
INTRODUCTION. 35 
 
 highbred and virtuous women of that time were 
 more bold and frank in expression than any part 
 of the dialogue appropriated to Beatrice and Rosa- 
 lind, may excuse it to our judgment, but does not 
 reconcile it to our taste. Much has been said, and 
 more might be said on this subject — but I would 
 rather not discuss it. It is a mere difference of 
 manner which is to be regretted, but has nothing 
 to do with the essence of the character. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 I tliink you have done well in avoiding the topic 
 altogether ; but between ourselves, do you really 
 think that the refinement of manner, the cen- 
 sorious, hypocritical, verbal scrupulosity, which is 
 carried so far in this " picked age " of ours, is a 
 true sign of superior refinement of taste, and 
 purity of morals ? Is it not rather a whiting of 
 the sepulchre ? I will not even allude to indi- 
 vidual instances whom we both know, but does it 
 not remind you, on the whole, of the tone of 
 French manners previous to the revolution — that 
 " d^cence," which Horace Walpole so admired,* 
 veiling the moral degradation, the inconceivable 
 profligacy of the higher classes? — Stay — I have 
 not yet done — not to you, but /or you, I will add 
 thus much ; — our modern idea of delicacy appar- 
 ently attaches more importance to words than to 
 things — to manners than to morals. You will hear 
 
 * Correspondence, vol. iii. 
 
36 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 people Invelgli against the improprieties of Shak- 
 speare, with Don Juan, or one of those infernal 
 French novels — I beg your pardon — lying on their 
 toilet table. Lady Florence is shocked at the sal- 
 lies of Beatrice, and Beatrice would certainly stand 
 aghast to see Lady Florence dressed for Almack's ; 
 so you see that in both cases the fashion makes 
 the Indecorum. Let her ladyship new model her 
 gowns ! 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Well, well, leave Lady Florence — 1 would rather 
 hear you defend Shakspeare. 
 
 I think it is Coleridge who so finely observes 
 that Shakspeare ever kept the high road of human 
 life, whereon all travel, that he did not pick out 
 by-paths of feeling and sentiment ; in him we have 
 no moral highwaymen, and sentimental thieves 
 and rat-catchers, and interesting villains, and ami- 
 able, elegant adulteresses — h-la-mode Germanorum 
 — no delicate entanglements of situation, in which 
 the grossest images are presented to the mind 
 disguised under the superficial attraction of style 
 and sentiment. He flattered no bad passion, dis- 
 guised no vice in the garb of virtue, trifled with 
 with no just and generous principle. He can 
 make us laugh at folly, and shudder at crime, yet 
 still preserve our love for our fellow-beings, and 
 our reverence for ourselves. He has a lofty and a 
 fearless trust in his own powers, and in the beauty 
 
INTRODUCTION. 37 
 
 and excellence of virtue ; and with his eye fixed 
 on the lode-star of truth, steers us triumphantly 
 among shoals and quicksands, where with any 
 other pilot we had been wrecked : — for instance, 
 who but himself would have dared to bring into 
 close contact two such characters as lago and 
 Desdemona? Had the colors in which he has 
 arrayed Desdemona been one atom less transpar- 
 ently bright and pure, the charm had been lost ; 
 she could not have borne the approximation : 
 some shadow fi-om the overpowering blackness 
 of Jiis character must have passed over the sun- 
 bright purity of hers. For observe that lago's 
 disbelief in the virtue of Desdemona is not pre- 
 tended, it is real. It arises from his total want of 
 faith in all virtue ; he is no more capable of con- 
 ceiving goodness than she is capable of conceiv- 
 ing evil. To the brutish coarseness and fiendish 
 malignity of this man, her gentleness appears only 
 a contemptible weakness ; her purity of aflection, 
 Avhich saw " Othello's visage in his mind," only a 
 perversion of taste ; her bashful modesty, only a 
 cloak for evil propensities ; so he represents them 
 with all the force of language and self-conviction, 
 and we are obhged to Hsten to him. lie rips her 
 to pieces before us — he would have bedeviled an 
 angel ! yet such is the unrivalled, though passive 
 delicacy of the delineation, that it can stand it 
 unhurt, untouched ! It is wonderful ! — ^yet natural 
 as it is wonderful ! After all, there are people in 
 the world, whose opinions and feehngs are tainted 
 
38 INTRODUCTIOX. 
 
 by an habitual acquaintance with tlie evil side of 
 society, though in action and intention they remain 
 right; and who, without^ the real depravity of 
 heart and malignity of intention of lago, judge as 
 he does of the character and productions of others. 
 
 Heaven bless me from such critics ! yet if genius, 
 youth, and innocence could not escape unslurred, 
 can I hope to do so ? I pity from my soul the 
 persons you allude to — ^for to such minds there can 
 exist few uncontaminated sources of pleasure, 
 either in nature or in art. 
 
 MEDOX. 
 
 Ay — " the perfumes of Paradise were poison to 
 the Dives, and made them melancholy."* You 
 pity them, and they will sneer at you. But what 
 have we here ? — " Characters of Imagination — 
 Juliet — Viola;" are these romantic young ladies 
 the pillars which are to sustain your moral edifice ? 
 Are they to serve as examples or as warnings for 
 the youth of this euhghtened age ? 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 As warnings, of course — what else ? 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Against the dangers of romance? — but where 
 
 * An Oriental proverb. 
 
IN TKODUCTION. 39 
 
 are they? " Vralment," as B. Constant says, "jo 
 ne vois pas qu'en fait d'enthousiasnie, le feu soit h. 
 la maison." Where are they — these disciples of 
 poetry and romance, these victims of disinterested 
 devotion and believing truth, these imblown roses 
 — all conscience and tenderness — whom it is so 
 necessary to guard against too much confidence in 
 others, and too little in themselves — where are 
 they? 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Wandering in the Elysian fields, I presume, 
 with the romantic young gentlemen who are too 
 generous, too zealous in defence of innocence, too 
 enthusiastic in their admiration of virtue, too vio- 
 lent in their hatred of vice, too sincere in friend- 
 ship, too faithful in love, too active and disinterested 
 in the cause of truth — 
 
 MEDOX. 
 
 Very fair ! But seriously, do you think it neces- 
 sary to guard young people, in this selfish and cal- 
 culating age, against an excess of sentiment and 
 imagination ? Do you allow no distinction between 
 the romance of exaggerated sentiment, and the 
 romance of elevated thought ? Do you bring cold 
 water to quench the smouldering ashes of enthu- 
 siasm? Methinks it is rather superfluous; and 
 that another doctrine is needed to withstand the 
 heartless system of expediency which is the favorite 
 philosophy of the day. The warning you speak of 
 may be gently hinted to the few who are in danger 
 
40 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of being misled by an excess of the generous im- 
 pulses of fancy and feeling; but need hardly, I 
 think, be proclaimed by sound of trumpet amid 
 the mocks of the world. No, no ; there are young 
 women in these days, but there is no such thing as 
 youth — the bloom of existence is sacrificed to a 
 fashionable education, and where we should find 
 the rose-buds of the spring, we see only the full- 
 blown, flaunting, precocious roses of the hot-bed. 
 
 AI^DA. 
 
 Blame then thai foixing system of education, the 
 most pernicious, the most mistaken, the most far- 
 reaching in its miserable and mischievous effects, 
 that ever prevailed in this world. The custom 
 which shut up women in convents till they were 
 married, and then launched them innocent and 
 ignorant on society, was bad enough ; but not worse 
 than a system of education which inundates us with 
 hard, clever, sophisticated girls, trained by know- 
 ing mothers, and all-accomplished governesses, with 
 whom vanity and expediency take place of con- 
 science and aifection — (in other words, of romance) 
 — " frutto senile in sul giovenil fiore ; " with feel- 
 ings and passions suppressed or contracted, not 
 governed by higher faculties and purer principles ; 
 with whom opinion — the same false honor which 
 sends men out to fight duels — ^stands instead of the 
 strength and the hglit of virtue within their own 
 souls. Ilence the strange anomalies of artificial 
 society — girls of sixteen who are models of manner, 
 
I2iTR0DUCT10N. 41 
 
 miracles of prudence, marvels of learning, who 
 sneer at sentiment, and laugh at the Juliets and the 
 Imogens; and matrons of forty, who, when the 
 passions should be tame and wait upon the judg- 
 ment, amaze the world and put us to confusion with 
 their doings. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Or turn politicians to vary the excitement. — 
 How I hate political women ! 
 
 AT.DA. 
 
 Why do }'0u hate them ? 
 
 Because they are mischievous. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 But why are they mischievous ? 
 
 Why ! — why are they mischievous ? Nay, ask 
 them, or ask the father of all mischief, who has not 
 a more efficient instrument to further his designs in 
 this world, than a woman run mad with politics. 
 The number of political intriguing women of this 
 time, whose boudoirs and drawing-rooms are the 
 foyers of party-spirit, is another trait of resemblance 
 between the state of society now, and that which 
 existed at Paris before the revolution. 
 
 And do you think, hke some interesting young 
 
42 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 lady in Miss Edgeworth's tales, that " women have 
 nothing to do with politics ? " Do you mean to say 
 that women are not capable of comprehending the 
 principles of legislation, or of feeling an interest in 
 the government and welfare of their country, or of 
 perceiving and sympathizing in the progress of 
 great events ? — That they cannot feel patriotism V 
 Beheve me, when we do feel it, our patriotism, like 
 our courage and our love, has a purer source than 
 with you ; for a man's patriotism has always some 
 tinge of egotism, while a woman's patriotism is gen- 
 erally a sentiment, and of the noblest kind. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 I agree in all this ; and all this does not mitigate 
 my horror of political women in general, who are, 
 I repeat it, both mischievous and absurd. If you 
 could but hear the reasoning in these feminine co- 
 teries ! ^but you never talk politics. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Indeed I do, when I can get any one to listen to 
 me ; but I prefer listening. As for the evil you 
 complain of, impute it to that imperfect education 
 which at once cultivates and enslaves the intellect, 
 and loads the memory, while it fetters the judgment. 
 Women, however well read in history, never gen- 
 eralize in politics ; never argue on any broad or 
 general principle ; never reason from a considera- 
 tion of past events, their causes and consequences. 
 But they are always pohtical through their aflfec-' 
 
INTRODUCTION. 43 
 
 tions, their prejudices, their personal liaisonft, their 
 hopes, tlieir fears. 
 
 WED OK. 
 
 If it were no worse, I could stand it ; for that is 
 at least feminine. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 But most mischievous. For hence it is that we 
 make such blind partisans, such violent party wo- 
 men, and such wretched politicians. I never heard 
 a woman talk politics, as it is termed, that I could 
 not discern at once the motive, the affection, the 
 secret bias which swayed her opinions and inspired 
 her arguments. If it appeared to the Grecian sage 
 so " difficult for a man not to love himself, nor tlie 
 things that belong to him, but justice only ? " — how 
 much more for woman ! 
 
 MEDOX. 
 
 Then you think that a better education, based 
 on truer moral principles, would render women 
 more reasonable politicians, or at least give them 
 some right to meddle with politics '? 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 It would cease in that case to be meddling^ as you 
 term it, for it would be legitimized. It is easy to 
 sneer at political and mathematical ladies, and quote 
 Lord Byron — but O leave those angry common- 
 places to others ! — they do not come well from you. 
 Do not force me to remind you, that women have 
 
44 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 achieved enough to silence them forever ; * and 
 how often must that truism be repeated, that it is 
 not a woman's attainments which make her amiable 
 or unamiable, estimable or the contrary, but her 
 qualities ? A time is coming, perhaps, when the 
 education of women will be considered, with a view 
 to their future destination as the mothers and nurses 
 of legislators and statesmen, and the cultivation of 
 their powers of reflection and moral feehngs super- 
 sede the exciting drudgery by which they are now 
 crammed with knowledge and accomplishments. 
 
 MEDOK. 
 
 Well — till that blessed period arrives, I wish you 
 would leave us the province of politics to ourselves. 
 I see here you have treated of a very different 
 class of beings, " women in whom the ajfeciions and 
 the moral sentiments predominate." Are there many 
 such, think you, in the world ? 
 
 Yes, many such ; the development of affection 
 and sentiment is more quiet and unobtrusive than 
 that of passion and intellect, and less observed ; it 
 is more common, too, therefore less remarked ; but 
 in women it generally gives the prevaihng tone 
 to the character, except where vanity has been 
 made the ruling motive. 
 
 * In our own time, Madame do Stael, Mrs. Somerrillc, Ilarriet 
 Martineau, Mrs. Marcet ; we need not go back to the Rolands 
 and Agnesi, nor even to our own Lucy Ilutchinson. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 45 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Except ! I admire your exception ! You make 
 in this case the rule the exception. Look round 
 the world. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 You are not one of those with whom that common 
 phrase " the world " signifies the circle, whatever 
 and wherever that may be, which limits our indi- 
 vidual expenence — as a child considers the visible 
 horizon as the bounds which shut in the mighty 
 universe. Believe me, it is a sorry, vulgar kind of 
 wisdom, if it be wisdom — a shallow and confined 
 pliilosophy, if it be philosophy — which resolves all 
 human motives and impulses into egotism in one 
 sex, and vanity in the other. Such may be the 
 way of the world, as it is called — the result of a 
 very artificial and corrupt state of society, but such 
 is not general nature, nor female nature. Would 
 you see the kindly, self-sacrificin'g affections de- 
 veloped under their most honest but least poetical 
 guise — displayed without any mixture of vanity, 
 and unchecked in the display by any fear of being 
 thought vain ? — you will see it, not among the pros- 
 perous, the high-born, the educated, " far, far re- 
 moved from want, and grief, and fear," but among 
 the poor, the miserable, the perverted — among 
 those habitually exposed to all influences that 
 harden and deprave. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 I believe it — nay, 1 know it ; but how should you 
 
46 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 know it, or anything of tlie strange places of refuge 
 which truth and nature have found in the two ex- 
 tremes of society ? 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 It is no matter what I have seen or known ; and 
 for the two extremes of society, I leave them to the 
 author of Paul Cliiford, and that most exquisite 
 painter of living manners, Mrs. Gore. St. Giles's 
 is no more nature than St. James's. I wanted 
 character in its essential truth, not mortified by 
 particular customs, by fasliion, by situation. I 
 wished to illustrate the manner in which the affec- 
 tions would naturally display themselves in women 
 — whether combined with high intellect, regulated 
 by reflection, and elevated by imagination, or exist- 
 ing with perverted dispositions, or purified by the 
 moral sentiments. I found all these in Shakspeare ; 
 his delineations of WQmen, in whom the virtuous 
 and calm affections predominate, and triumph over 
 shame, fear, pride, resentment, vanity, jealousy, — ■ 
 are particularly worthy of consideration, and per- 
 fect in their kind, because so quiet in their effect. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Several critics have remarked in general terms 
 on those beautiful pictures of female friendship, and 
 of the generous affection of women for each other, 
 which we find in Shakspeare. Other writers, 
 especially dramatic writers, have found ample food 
 for wit and satiric delineation in the littleness of 
 feminine spite and rivalry, in the mean spirit of 
 
INTRODUCTION. 47 
 
 competition, the petty jealousy of superior charms, 
 the mutual slander and mistrust, the transient 
 leagues of folly or selfishness miscalled friendsliip — 
 the result of an education wliich makes vanity the 
 ruhng principle, and of a false position in society. 
 Shakspeare, who looked upon women with the 
 spirit of humanity, wisdom, and deep love, has done 
 justice to their natural good tendencies and kindly 
 sympathies. In the friendship of Beatrice and 
 Hero, of Rosalind and Celia ; in the description of 
 the girlish attachment of Helena and Hermia, he 
 has represented truth and generous affection rising 
 superior to all the usual sources of female rivalry 
 and jealousy ; and with such force and simphcity, 
 and obvious self-conviction, that he absolutely 
 forces the same conviction on us. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Add to these the generous feeling of Viola for 
 her rival Olivia ; of Julia for her rival Sylvia ; of 
 Helena for Diana ; of the old Countess for Helena, 
 in the same play ; and even the affection of the 
 wicked queen in Hamlet for the gentle Ophelia, 
 which prove that Shakspeare thought — (and when 
 did he ever think other than the truth ?) — that 
 women have by nature " virtues that are merciful," 
 and can be just, tender, and true to their sister 
 women, whatever wits and worldlings, and satirists 
 and fashionable poets, may say or sing of us to the 
 contrary. There is another thing which he has 
 most deeply felt and beautifully represented — tlie 
 
48 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 distinction between masculine and feminine cour- 
 age. A man's courage is often a mere animal 
 quality, and in its most elevated form a point of 
 honor. But a woman's courage is always a virtue, 
 because it is not required of us, it is not one of the 
 means through which we seek admiration and ap- 
 plause ; on the contrary, we are courageous through 
 our affections and mental energies, not through our 
 vanity or our strength. A woman's heroism is 
 always the excess of sensibility. Do you remember 
 Lady Fan sh awe putting on a sailor's jacket, and 
 his " blue thrum cap," and standing at her husband's 
 side, unknown to him during a sea-fight ? There 
 she stood, all bathed in tears, but fixed to that spot. 
 Her husband's exclamation when he turned and 
 discovered her — " Good God, that love should make 
 such a change as this ! " is applicable to all the acts 
 of courage which we read or hear of in women. 
 This is the courage of Juliet, when, after summing 
 up all the possible consequences of her own act, till 
 she almost maddens herself with terror, she drinks 
 the sleeping potion ; and for that passive fortitude 
 which is founded in piety and pure strength of af- 
 fection, such as the heroism of Lady Russel and 
 Gertrude de Wart, he has given us some of the 
 noblest modifications of it in Hermione, in Cordelia, 
 in Imogen, in Katherine of Arragon. 
 
 And what do you call the courage of Lady Mac- 
 beth ?— 
 
INTRODUCTION. 49 
 
 My hands are of your color, but 1 shame 
 To wear a heart so white. 
 
 And again, 
 
 A little water clears us of this deed, 
 How easy is it then ! 
 
 If this is not mere masculine indifference to blood 
 and death, mere firmness of nerve, what is it ? 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 Not ihat^ at least, which apparently you deem it ; 
 you will find, if you have patience to read me to 
 the end, that I have judged Lady Macbeth very 
 differently. Take these frightful passages with the 
 context — take the whole situation, and you will see 
 that it is no such thing. A friend of mine truly 
 observed, that if Macbeth had been a rufiian with- 
 out any qualms of conscience, Lady Macbeth would 
 have been the one to shrink and tremble ; but that 
 which quenched him lent her fire. The absolute 
 necessity for self-command, the strength of her rea- 
 son, and her love for her husband, combine at this 
 critical moment to conquer aU fear but the fear of 
 detection, leaving her the full possession of her fac- 
 ulties. Recollect that the same woman who speaks 
 with such horrible indifference of a little water 
 clearing the blood-stain from her hand, sees in im- 
 agination that hand forever reeking, forever pol- 
 luted : and when reason is no longer awake and 
 paramount over the violated feelings of nature and 
 womanhood, we behold her making unconscious 
 4 
 
50 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 efforts to wash out tUat " damned spot," and slgh- 
 inor, heart-broken, over that little hand which all the 
 perfumes of Arabia will never sweeten more. 
 
 I hope you have given her a place among the 
 women in whom the tender affections and moral 
 sentiments predominate. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 You laugh ; but, jesting apart, perhaps it would 
 have been a more accurate classificatiou than plac- 
 ing her among the historical characters. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Apropos to the historical characters, I hope you 
 have refuted that insolent assumption, (shall I call 
 itV) that Shakspeare tampered inexcusably with 
 the truth of history. He is the truest of all his- 
 torians. His anachronisms always remind me of 
 those in the fine old Italian pictures ; either they 
 are insignificant, or, if properly considered, are 
 really beauties ; for instance, every one knows that 
 Correggio's St. Jerome presenting his books to the 
 Virgin, involves half-a-dozen anachronisms, — to 
 say nothing of that heavenly figure of the Mag- 
 dalen, in the same picture, kissing the feet of the 
 infant Saviour. Some have ridiculed, some have 
 excused this strange combination of inaccuracies ; 
 but is it less one of the divinest pieces of senti- 
 ment and poetry that ever breathed and glowed 
 
pTRODUCTIOX. 51 
 
 from the canvas ? You remember too the famous 
 nativity by some Neapolitan painter, who has 
 placed Mount Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples in 
 the background ? In these and a hundred other 
 instances, no one seems to feel that the apparent 
 absurdity involves the highest truth, and that the 
 sacred beings thus represented, if once allowed as 
 objects of faith and worship, are eternal under 
 every aspect, and independent of all time and all 
 locahty. So it is with Shakspeare and his ana- 
 chronisms. The learned scorn of Johnson and 
 some of his brotherhood of commentators, and the 
 eloquent defence of Schlegel, seem in this case 
 superfluous. If he chose to make the Delphic 
 oracle and Julio Romano contemporary — what 
 does it signify ? he committed no anachronisms of 
 character. He has not metamorphosed Cleopatra 
 into a turtle-dove, nor Katherine of Arragon into 
 a sentimental heroine. He is true to the spirit 
 and even to the letter of history; where he de- 
 viates from the latter, the reason may be found in 
 some higher beauty and more universal truth. 
 
 I have proved this, I think, by placing parallel 
 with the dramatic character all the historic testi- 
 mony I could collect relative to Constance, Cleo- 
 patra, Katherine of ArAgon, &c. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Analyzing the character of Cleopatra must have 
 
52 INTliODUCTIOX. 
 
 been sometliing like catching a meteor by the tail, 
 and making it sit for its picture. 
 
 Something like it, in truth ; but those of Miranda 
 and Ophelia were more embarrassing, because they 
 seemed to defy all analysis. It was like intercept- 
 ing the dew-drop or the snow-flake ere it fell to 
 earth, and subjecting it to a chemical process. 
 
 Some one said the other day that Shakspeare 
 had never drawn a coquette. What is Cleopatra 
 but the empress and type of all the coquettes that 
 
 ever were — or are ? She would put Lady 
 
 herself to school. But now for the moral. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 The moral!— of what? 
 
 Of your book. It has a moral, I suppose. 
 
 ALDA. 
 
 It has indeed a very deep one, which those who 
 seek will find. If now I have answered all your 
 considerations and objections, and sufliciently ex- 
 plained my own views, may I proceed ? 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 If you please — I am prepared to listen in ear- 
 nest. 
 
CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 PORTIA. 
 
 We hear it asserted, not seldom by way of com- 
 pliment to us women, that intellect is of no sex. 
 If this mean that the same faculties of mind are 
 common to men and women, it is true; in any 
 other signification it appears to me false, and the 
 reverse of a compliment. The intellect of woman 
 bears the same relation to that of man as her 
 physical organization ; — it is inferior in power, 
 and different in kind. That certain women have 
 surpassed certain men in bodily strength or intel- 
 lectual energy, does not contradict the general 
 principle founded in nature. The essential and 
 nivai'iable distinction appears to me this : in men, 
 the intellectual faculties exist more self-poised and 
 self-directed — more independent of the rest of the 
 character, than we ever find them in women, with 
 whom talent, however predominant, is in a much 
 greater degree modified by the sympathies and 
 moral qualities. 
 
 In thinking over all the distinguished women I 
 
54 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 can at this moment call to mind, I recollect but 
 one, who, in the exercise of a rare talent, belied 
 her sex, but the moral qualities had been first per- 
 verted.* It is from not knowing, or not allowing, 
 this general principle, that men of genius have 
 committed some signal mistakes. They have given 
 us exquisite and just delineations of the more pecu- 
 liar characteristics of women, as modesty, grace, 
 tenderness ; and when they have attempted to por- 
 tray them with the powers common to both sexes, 
 as wit, energy, intellect, they have blundered in 
 some respect; they could form no conception of 
 intellect which was not masculine, and therefore 
 have either suppressed the feminine attributes alto- 
 gether and drawn coarse caricatures, or they have 
 made them completely artificial.f Women dis- 
 tinguished for wit may sometimes appear mascu- 
 line and flippant, but the cause must be sought 
 elsewhere than in nature, w^ho disclauns all such. 
 Hence the witty and intellectual ladies of our 
 comedies and novels are all in the fashion of some 
 particular time ; they are like some old portraits 
 
 * Artemisia Gentileschi, an Italian artist of the seventeenth 
 century, painted one or two pictures, considered admirable as 
 •works of art, of which the subjects are the most vicious and bar- 
 barous conceivable. I remember one of these in the gallery of 
 Florence, which I looked at once, but once, and wished then, as 
 I do now, for the privilege of burning it to ashes. 
 
 t Lucy Ashton, in the Bride of Lammermoor, may be placed 
 next to Desdcniona ; Diana Vernon is (comparatively) a failure, 
 as every woman will allow ; while the masculine lady Geraldine, 
 in Miss Edgoworth's tale of Eanui, and the intellectual Coriune, 
 are consistent, essential women ; the distinction is more easily 
 felt than analyzed. 
 
55 
 
 ■which can still amuse and please by the beauty of 
 the workmanship, in spite of the graceless costume 
 or grotesque accompaniments, but from which we 
 turn to woi'ship with ever new delight the Floras 
 and goddesses of Titian — the saints and the vir- 
 gins of Raffaclle and Domenichino. So the Milla- 
 mants and Belindas, the Lady Townleys and Lady 
 Teazles are out of date, while Portia and Rosalind, 
 in whom nature and the feminine character are 
 paramount, remain bright and fresh to the fancy 
 as when first created. 
 
 Portia, Isabella, Beatrice, and Rosahnd, may be 
 classed together, as characters of intellect, because, 
 when compared with others, they are at once dis- 
 tinguished by their mental superiority. In Portia, 
 it is intellect kindled into romance by a poetical 
 imagination ; in Isabel, it is intellect elevated by 
 reUgious principle ; in Beatrice, intellect animated 
 by spirit; in Rosalind, intellect softened by sensi- 
 bility. The wit which is lavished on each is pro- 
 found, or pointed, or sparkling, or playful — but 
 always feminine ; like spirits distilled from flowers, 
 it always reminds us of its origin ; it is a volatile 
 essence, sweet as powerful; and to pursue the 
 comparison a step further, the Avit of Portia is like 
 ottar of roses, rich and concentrated; that of 
 Rosalind, Uke cotton dipped in aromatic vinegar ; 
 the "wit of Beatrice is like sal volatile ; and that of 
 Isabel, like the incense wafted to heaven. Of 
 these four exquisite characters, considered as dra- 
 matic and poetical conceptions, it is diflicult to pro- 
 
56 CnARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 nounce whicli is most perfect in its way, most 
 admirably drawn, most highly finished. But if 
 considered in another point of view, as women and 
 individuals, as breathing realities, clothed in flesh 
 and blood, I believe we must assign the first rank 
 to Portia, as uniting in herself in a more eminent 
 degree than the others, all the noblest and most 
 lovable qualities that ever met together in woman ;/ 
 and presenting a complete personification of Pe- 
 ti-arch's exquisite epitome of female perfection : — - 
 
 n vago spirito ardento, 
 E'n alto intelletto, uu pui'o core. 
 
 It is singular, that hitherto no critical justice has 
 been done to the character of Portia ; it is yet more 
 wonderful, that one of the finest writers on the 
 eternal subject of Shakspeare and his perfections, 
 should accuse Portia of pedantry and affectation, 
 and confess she is not a great favorite of his^^a 
 confession quite worthy of him, who avers his pre- 
 dilection^ for servant-maids, and his preference of 
 the Fannys and the Pamelas over the Clementinas 
 and Clarissas.* Schlegel, who has given several 
 pages to a rapturous eulogy on the Mercnant of 
 Venice, simply designates Portia as a " rich, beauti- 
 ful, clever heiress : "—whether the fault lie in the 
 writer or translator, I do protest against the word 
 clever.f Portia clever ! what an epithet to apply 
 
 * Ilazlitt's Essays, vol. ii. p. 167. 
 
 t I am informed that the original German word is geistretche, 
 literally, rich in soul or spirit^ a just and beautiful epithet. 2d 
 Edit. 
 
PORTIA. 57 
 
 to this heavenly compound of talent, feeling, wis- 
 dom, beauty, and gentleness ! Now would it not 
 be well, if this common and comprehensive word 
 were more accurately defined, or at least more 
 accurately used? It signifies properly, not so 
 much the possession of high powers, as dexterity in 
 the adaptation of certain faculties (not necessarily 
 of a high order) to a certain end or aim — not 
 always the worthiest. It impUes something com- 
 monplace, inasmuch as it speaks the presence of 
 the active and perceptive, with a deficiency of the 
 feeling and reflective powers ; and applied to a wo- 
 man, does it not almost invariably suggest the idea 
 of something we should distrust or shrink from, if 
 not allied to a higher nature ? The profligate 
 French women, who ruled the councils of Europe 
 in the middle of the last century, were clever 
 women ; and that philosopheress Madame du Chate- 
 let, who managed, at one and the same moment, 
 the thread of an intrigue, her cards at piquet, and 
 a calculation in algebra, was a very clever woman ! 
 If Portia had been created as a mere instrument to 
 bring about a dramatic catastrophe — if she had 
 merely detected the flaw in Antonio's bond; and 
 used it as a means to baffle the Jew, she might have 
 been pronounced a clever woman. But what Por- 
 tia does, is forgotten in what she is. The rare and 
 harmonious blending of energy, reflection, and feel- 
 ing, in her fine character, make the epithet clever 
 sound like a discord as applied to her, and place 
 her infinitely beyond the slight praise of Richardson 
 
58 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 and Sclilegel, neither of wliom appear to have fully 
 comprehended her. 
 
 These and other critics have been apparently so 
 dazzled and engrossed by the amazing character of 
 Shylock, that Portia has received less than justice 
 at their hands ; while the fact is, that Shylock is 
 not a finer or more finished character in his way, 
 than Portia is in hers. These two splendid figures 
 are worthy of each other ; worthy of being placed 
 together within the same rich framework of en- 
 chanting poetry, and glorious and graceful forms. 
 She hangs beside the terrible, inexorable Jew, the 
 brilliant lights of her character set off by the shad- 
 owy power of his, like a magnificent beauty- 
 breathing Titian by the side of a gorgeous Rem- 
 brandt. 
 
 Portia is endued with her own share of those 
 delightful qualities, which Shakspeare has lavished 
 on many of his female characters ; but besides the 
 dignity, the sweetness, and tenderness which should 
 distinguish her sex generally, she is individualized 
 by qualities peculiar to herself; by her high mental 
 powers, her enthusiasm of temperament, her decis- 
 ion of purpose, and her buoyancy of spirit. These 
 are innate ; she has other distinguishing qualities 
 more external, and which are the result of the cir- 
 cumstances in which she is placed. Thus she is 
 the heiress of a princely name and countless wealth ; 
 a train of obedient pleasures have ever waited 
 round her; and from infancy she has breathed an 
 atmosphere redolent of perfume and blandishment. 
 
roRTiA. 59 
 
 V Accordingly there is a commanding grace, a liigli- 
 bred, airy elegance, a spirit of magnificence in all 
 that she does and says, as one to whom splendor 
 had been familiar from her very birth, fehe treads 
 as though her footsteps had been among marble 
 palaces, beneath roofs of fretted gold, o'er cedar 
 floors and pavements of jasper and porphyry — 
 amid gardens full of statues, and flowers, and foun- 
 tains, and haunting music. ) She is full of penetra- 
 tive wisdom, and genuine tenderness, and livifly 
 wit ; but as she has never known want, or grief, or 
 fear, or disappointment, her wisdom is without a 
 touch of the sombre or the sad ; her afFections are 
 all mixecj up with faith, hope and joy; and her wit 
 has not a particle of malevolence or causticity. 
 
 It is well known that the Merchant of Venice is 
 founded on two diiFerent tales; and in weaving 
 together his double plot in so masterly a manner, 
 Shakspeare has rejected altogether the character of 
 the astutious Lady of Belmont with her magic po- 
 tions, who figures in the Italian novel. With yet 
 more refinement, he has thrown out all the licen- 
 tious part of the story, which some of his contem- 
 porary dramatists would have seized on with a^^dity, 
 and made the best or worst of it possible ; and he 
 has substituted the trial of the caskets from another 
 source.* We are not told expressly where Belmont 
 
 * In the " Mercatante di Venezla " of Ser. Giovanni, we have 
 the whole story of Antonio and Bassanio, and part of the story, 
 bnt not the character of Portia. The incident of the caskets is 
 from the Gesta Komanorum. 
 
60 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 is situated ; but as Bassanio takes ship to go thither 
 from Venice, and as we find them afterwards order- 
 ing horses from Behnont to Padua, we will imagine 
 Portia's hereditary palace as standing on some 
 lovely promontory between Venice and Trieste, 
 overlooking the blue Adriatic, with the Friuli 
 mountains or the Euganean hills for its background, 
 such as we often see in one of Claude's or Poussin's 
 elysian landscapes. In a scene, in a home like this, 
 Shakspeare, having first exorcised the original pos- 
 sessor, has placed his Portia ; and so endowed her, 
 that all the wild, strange, and moving circumstances 
 of the story, become natural, probable, and neces- 
 sary in connexion with her. That such a woman 
 should be chosen by the solving of an enigma, is 
 not surprising : herself and all around her, the 
 scene, the country, the age in which she is placed, 
 breathe of poetry, romance, and enchantment. 
 
 From the four qtiarters of the earth they come 
 To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathinj^ saint. 
 The Hyi'canian desert, and the vasty wilds 
 Of wide Arabia, are as thoroughfares now. 
 For princes to come view fairPortiar 
 The watery kingdom, whose ambitioixs head 
 Spits in the face of lifeaven is no bar 
 To stop the foreign spirits ; but they come 
 As o'er a brook to sec fair Portia. 
 
 The sudden plan which she fonns for the release 
 of her husband's friend, her disguise, and her de- 
 portment as the young and learned doctor, would 
 appear forced and improbable in any other woman 
 
PORTIA. Gl 
 
 but in Poi-tia are the simple and natural result of 
 her character.* The quickness with which she 
 perceives the legal advantage which may be taken 
 of the circumstances ; the spirit of adventure with 
 w^hich she engages in the masquerading, and the 
 decision, firmness, and intelligence with which she 
 executes her generous purpose, are all in perfect 
 keeping, and nothing appears forced — nothing as 
 introduced merely for theatrical eifect. 
 
 But all the finest parts of Portia's character are 
 brought to bear in the trial scene. There she 
 sliines forth all her divine self. Her intellectual 
 powei'S, her elevated sense of religion, her high 
 honorable principles, her best feelings as a woman, 
 are all displayed. She maintains at first a calm 
 self-command, as one sure of carrying her point in 
 the end ; yet the painful heart-thrilling uncertainty 
 in which she keeps the whole court, until suspense 
 verges upon agony, is not contrived for eifect 
 merely ; it is necessary and inevitable. She has 
 two objects in view; to deliver her husband's 
 friend, and to maintain her husband's honor by 
 the discharge of his just debt, though paid out of 
 her own wealth ten times over. It is evident that 
 she would rather owe the safety of Antonio to any 
 thing rather than the legal quibble with which her 
 cousin Bellario has armed her, and which she 
 
 * In that age, delicate points of law were not determined by 
 the ordinary judges of the provinces, but by doctors of law, who 
 were called from Bologna, Padua, and other places celebrated for 
 th(!u: legal colleges. 
 
02 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 reserves as a last resource. Thus all the speeches 
 addressed to Shylock in the first instance, are 
 either direct or indirect experiments on his tem- 
 per and feelings. She must b6 understood from 
 the befrinnino; to the end as examininfr with in- 
 tense anxiety, the effect of her own words on his 
 mind and countenance ; as watching for that relent- 
 ing spirit, which she hopes to awaken either by 
 reason or persuasion. She begins by an appeal to 
 his mercy, in that matchless piece of eloquence, 
 v/hich, with an irresistible and solemn pathos, falls 
 upon the heart like " gentle dew from heaven : " — 
 but in vain ; for that blessed dew drops not more 
 fruitless and unfelt on the parched sand of the 
 desert, than do these heavenly words upon the ear 
 of Shylock. She next attacks his avarice : 
 
 Shylock, there's thice thy money offered thee ! 
 
 Then she appeals, in the same breath, both to his 
 avarice and his pity : 
 
 Be merciful ! 
 Take thrice tliy money. Bid me tear the bond. 
 
 All that she says afterwards — her strong expres- 
 sions, which are calculated to strike a shuddering 
 horror through the nerves — the reflections she 
 interposes — her delays and circumlocution to give 
 time for any latent feeling of commiseration to dis- 
 play itself — all, all are premeditated and tend in 
 the same manner to the object she has in view. 
 Thus— 
 
 You must prepare yoiir bosom for his knife. 
 Therefore lay bare your bosom ! 
 
PORTIA. 63 
 
 These two speeches, though addressed apparently 
 to Antonio, are spoken at Shylock, and are evi- 
 dently intended to penetrate his bosom. In the 
 same spirit she asks for the balance to weigh the 
 pound of flesh ; and entreats of Shylock to have a 
 surgeon ready — 
 
 Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, 
 To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death ! 
 
 SHYLOCK. 
 
 Is it so nominated in the bond V 
 
 PORTIA. 
 
 It is not so expressed — but what of that ? 
 'Twere good you do so much, for charity. 
 
 So unwilling is her sanguine and generous spirit 
 to resign all hope, or to believe that humanity is 
 absolutely extinct in the bosom of the Jew, that 
 she calls on Antonio, as a last resource, to speak for 
 himself. His gentle, yet manly resignation — the 
 deep pathos of his farewell, and the affectionate 
 allusion to herself in his last address to Bassanio — ■ 
 
 Commend me to yoiu: honorable wife ; 
 
 Say how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death, &c. 
 
 are well calculated to swell that emotion, which 
 through the whole scene must have been laboring 
 suppressed within her heart. 
 
 At length the crisis arrives, for patience and 
 womanhood can endure no longer; and when 
 Shylock, carrying his savage bent " to the last 
 hour of act," springs on his victim — "A sentence I 
 
Gi CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 come, prepare ! " then the smothered scorn, indig- 
 nation, and disgust, burst forth with an impetuosity 
 which interferes with the judicial solemnity she 
 had at first affected ; — ^particularly in the speech — • 
 
 Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 
 
 Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less, nor more, 
 
 But just the pound of flesh; if thou tak'st more. 
 
 Or less than a just pound, — be it but so much 
 
 As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, 
 
 Or the division of the twentieth part 
 
 Of one poor scruple ; nay, if the scale do turn 
 
 But in the estimation of a hair, — 
 
 Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. 
 
 But she afterwards recovers her propriety, and 
 triumphs with a cooler scorn and a more self- 
 possessed exultation. 
 
 It is clear that, to feel the full force and dramatic 
 beauty of this marvellous scene, we must go along 
 with Portia as well as with Shylock; we must 
 understand her concealed purpose, keep in mind 
 her noble motives, and pursue in our fancy the 
 under current of feeling, working in her mind 
 throughout. The terror and the power of Shylock's 
 character, — his deadly and inexorable mahce, — 
 would be too oppressive ; the pain and pity too 
 intolerable, and the horror of the possible issue 
 too overwhelming, but for the intellectual rehef 
 afforded by this double source of interest and con- 
 templation. 
 
 I come now to that capacity for warm and gen- 
 erous affection, that tenderness of heart, which 
 
PORTIA. 65 
 
 render Poi-tia not less lovable as a woman, than 
 admirable for her mental endowments. The affec- 
 tions are to the intellect, what the forge is to the 
 metal ; it is they which temper and shape it to all 
 good purposes, and soften, strengthen, and purify 
 it. IVliat an exquisite stroke of judgment in the 
 poet, to make the mutual passion of Portia and 
 Bassanio, though unacknowledged to each other, 
 anterior to the opening of the play ! Bassanio's 
 confession very properly comes first : — 
 
 BASSANIO. 
 
 In Belmont is a lady richly left, 
 And she is fair, and fairer than that word, " 
 Of wond' reus virtues; sometimes from her eyes 
 I did receive fair speechless messages; 
 
 ***** 
 
 and prepares us for Portia's half betrayed, uncon- 
 scious election of this most gi-aceful and chivalrous 
 admirer — 
 
 KERIS'SA. 
 
 Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a 
 Venetiim, a scholar, and a soldier, that came hither m 
 company of the Marquis of MoutfeiTat ? 
 
 PORTIA. 
 
 Yes, yes, it was Bassanio ; as I think, so he was called. 
 
 NERISSA. 
 
 True, madam ; he of all the men that ever my fool- 
 ish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair 
 lady. 
 
 PORTIA. 
 
 I remember him well; and I remember him worthy of 
 thy praise. 
 
 5 
 
66 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 Our Interest is tlius awakened for the lovers 
 from the very first ; and what shall be said of the 
 casket-scene with Bassauio, where every line which 
 Portia speaks is so worthy of herself, so full of sen- 
 timent and beauty, and poetry and passion ? Too 
 naturally frank for disguise, too modest to confess 
 her depth of love while the issue of the trial re- 
 mains in suspense, the conflict between love and 
 fear, and maidenly dignity, cause the most delicious 
 confusion that ever tinged a woman's cheek, or 
 dropped in broken utterance from her lips. 
 
 I pray you, tairy, pause a day or two. 
 Before you hazard; for in choosing wrong, 
 I lose your company ; therefore, forbear awhile ; 
 There's something tells me, (but it is not love,) 
 I would not lose you ; and you know yourself, 
 Hate counsels not in such a quality: 
 But lest you should not understand me well, 
 (And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,) 
 I woiild detain you here some month or two 
 Befoi-e you venture for me. I could teach you 
 How to choose right, — but then I am forsworn ; — 
 So will I never be : so you may miss me ; — 
 But if you do, you'll make mo wish a sin, 
 That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, 
 They have o'erlooked me, and divided me: 
 One half of me is yours, the other half yours, — 
 Mine own, I would say ; but if mine, then yours. 
 And so all yours ! 
 
 The short dialogue between the lovers is ex- 
 quisite. 
 
PORTIA. 
 BASSANIO. 
 
 Let me choose ; 
 For, as I am, I live upon the rack. 
 
 PORTIA. 
 
 Upon the rack, Bassanio ? Then confess 
 What treason there is mingled with your love. 
 
 BASSASnO. 
 
 None, but that ugly treason of mistrust. 
 Which makes me fear the enjoying of my love. 
 There may as well be amity and life 
 'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love. 
 
 Ay ! but I fear you speak upon the rack, 
 Where men enforced do speak any thing. 
 
 BASSANIO. 
 
 Promise me life, and I'U confess the truth. 
 
 PORTIA. 
 
 Well then, confess, and live. 
 
 BASSANIO. 
 
 Confess and love 
 Had been the very sum of my confession ! 
 happy torment, when my tortui'er 
 Doth teach me answers for deliverance ! 
 
 A prominent feature in Portia's character is that 
 confiding, buoyant spirit, whicli mingles with all 
 her thoughts and affections. And here let me ob- 
 serve, that I never yet met in real life, nor ever 
 read in tale or history, of any woman, distinguished 
 
68 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 for intellect of the highest order, who was not also 
 remarkable for this trusting spiiit, this hopefulness 
 and cheerfulness of temper, which is compatible 
 with the most serious habits of thought, and the 
 most profound sensibility. Lady Wortley Montagu 
 was one instance ; and Madame de Stael furnishes 
 another much more memorable. In her Corinne, 
 whom she drew from herself, this natural brightness ' 
 of temper is a prominent part of the character. A 
 disposition to doubt, to suspect, and to despond, in 
 the young, argues, in general, some inherent weak- 
 ness, moral or physical, or some miserable and rad- 
 ical error of education ; in the old, it is one of the 
 first symptoms of age ; it speaks of the influence of 
 sorrow and experience, and foreshows the decay of 
 the stronger and more generous powers of the soul. 
 Portia's strength of intellect takes a natural tinge 
 from the flush and bloom of her young and prosper- 
 ous existence, and from her fervent imagination. 
 In the casket-scene, she fears indeed the issue of 
 the trial, on which more tlian her life is hazarded ; 
 but while she trembles, her hope is stronger than 
 her fear. While Bassanio is contemplating the 
 caskets, she suffers herself to dwell for one moment 
 on the possibiKty of disappointment and misery. 
 
 Let music sound while ho doth make his choice; 
 Then if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, 
 Fading in music : that the comparison 
 May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream 
 And waterv death-bed for him. 
 
PORTIA. 69 
 
 Then immediately follows that revulsion of feel- 
 ing, so beautifully characteristic of the hopeful, 
 trusting, mounting spirit of this noble creature. 
 
 But he may wm ! 
 And what is music then ? — then music is 
 Even as the flourish, Avlien true siibjects bow 
 To a new-crowned monarch : such it is 
 As are those diilcet sounds at break of day, 
 That ci-eep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear, 
 And summon him to marriage. Now he goes 
 With no less presence, but with much more love 
 Than young Alcides, when he did redeem 
 The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy 
 To the sea monster. I stand here for sacrifice. 
 
 Here, not only the feeling itself, born of the 
 elastic and sanguine spirit which had never been 
 touched by grief, but the images in which it comes 
 arrayed to her fancy, — the bridegroom waked by 
 music on his wedding-morn, — the new-crowned 
 monarch, — the comparison of Bassanio to the young 
 Alcides, and of herself to the daughter of Laome- 
 don, — are all precisely what would have suggested 
 themselves to the fine poetical imagination of Por- 
 tia in such a moment. 
 
 Her passionate exclamations of delight, when 
 Bassanio has fixed on the right casket, are as strong 
 as though she had despaired before. Fear and 
 doubt she could repel ; the native elasticity of her 
 mind bore up against them ; yet she makes us feel, 
 that, as the sudden joy overpowers her almost to 
 fainting, the disappointment would as certainly 
 have killed her. 
 
70 CHARACTERS OP INTELLECT. 
 
 How all the other passions fleet to air, 
 
 As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair, 
 
 And shudd'ring fear, and green-eyed jealousy? 
 
 love! be moderate, allay thy ecstasy; 
 In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess ; 
 
 1 feel too much thy blessing : make it less, 
 For fear I surfeit ! 
 
 Her subsequent surrender of herself in heart and 
 soul, of her maiden freedom, and her vast posses- 
 sions, can never be read without deep emotions ; 
 for not only all the tenderness and delicacy of a 
 devoted woman, are here blended with all the 
 dignity which becomes the princely heiress of Bel- 
 mont, but the serious, measured self-possession of 
 her address to her lover, when all suspense is over, 
 and all concealment superfluous, is most beautifully 
 consistent with the character. It is, in truth, an 
 awful moment, that in which a gifted woman first 
 discovers, that besides talents and powers, she has 
 also passions and affections ; when she first begins 
 to suspect their vast importance in the sum of her 
 existence ; when she first confesses that her happi- 
 ness is no longer in her own keeping, but is sur- 
 rendered forever and forever into the dominion 
 of another ! The possession of uncommon powers 
 of mind are so far from affording rehef or resource 
 in the first intoxicating surprise — I had almost said 
 terror — of such a revolution, that they render it 
 more intense. The sources of thought multiply 
 beyond calculation the sources of feeling; and 
 mingled, they rush together, a torrent deep as 
 
71 
 
 strong. Because Portia is endued with that en- 
 larged comprehension which looks before and after, 
 she does not feel the less, but the more : because 
 from the height of her commanding intellect she 
 can contemplate the force, the tendency, the con- 
 sequences of her own sentiments — because she is 
 fully sensible of her own situation, and the value 
 of all she concedes — the concession is not made 
 with less entireness and devotion of heart, less con- 
 fidence in the truth and worth of her lover, than 
 when Juhet, in a similar moment, but without any 
 such intrusive reflections — any check but the in- 
 stinctive delicacy of her sex, flings herself and her 
 fortunes at the feet of her lover : 
 
 And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay. 
 And follow thee, my lord, through all the world.* 
 In Portia's confessioif, which is not breathed from 
 a moonlit balcony, but spoken openly in the pres- 
 ence of her attendants and vassals, there is nothiufi* 
 of the passionate self-abandonment of JuHet, nor 
 of the artless simplicity of Miranda, but a concious- 
 uess and a tender seriousness, approaching to 
 solemnity, which are not less touching. 
 
 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 
 
 * Romeo and Juliet, Act ii. Scene 2. 
 
72 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 More rich ; that only to stand high in your account, 
 
 I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, 
 
 Exceed account ; but the full sura of me 
 
 Is sum of something; 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 ; and 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. 
 
 Mj^self and what is mine, to you and yours 
 
 Is now converted. But now, I was the lord, 
 
 Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, 
 
 Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now, 
 
 This house, these servants, and this same myself, 
 
 Are yours, my lord. 
 
 We must also remark that the sweetness, the 
 solicitude, the subdued fondness which she after- 
 wards displays, relative to the letter, are as true to 
 the softness of her sex, as the generous self-denial 
 with which she urges the departure of Bassanio, 
 (having first given him a husband's right over her- 
 self and all her countless wealth,) is consistent with 
 a reflecting mind, and a spirit at once tender, 
 reasonable, and magnanimous. 
 
 It is not only in the trial scene that Portia's 
 acuteness, eloquence, and lively intelligence are 
 revealed to us ; they are displayed in the first in- 
 stance, and kept up consistently to the end. Her 
 reflections, arising from the most usual aspects of 
 nature, and from the commonest incidents of life, 
 are in such a poetical spirit, and are at the same 
 
73 
 
 time so pointed, so profound, that they have passed 
 into familiar and daily application, with all the 
 force of proverbs. 
 
 If to do, were as easy as to know what were good to 
 do, chapels had been churches, aud poor men's cottages 
 princes' palaces. 
 
 I can easier teach twenty what were good to he done, 
 than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. 
 
 The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark. 
 When neither is attended ; and, I think, 
 The nightingale, if she should sing by day, 
 When eveiy goose is cackling, would be thought 
 No better a musician than the wren. 
 How many things by season, seasoned are 
 To their right praise and true perfection ! 
 
 How far that Httle candle throws his beams ! 
 So shines a good deed in a naughty world. 
 A substitute shines as brightly as a king, 
 Until a king be by ; and then his state 
 Empties itself, as doth an inland brook, 
 Into the main of waters. 
 
 Her reflections on the friendship between her 
 husband and Antonio are as full of deep meaning 
 as of tenderness ; and her portrait of a young cox- 
 comb, in the same scene, is touched with a truth 
 and spirit which show with what a keen observing 
 eye she has looked upon men and things. 
 
 I'll hold thee any wager. 
 
 When we are both accouter'd like young men, 
 I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two, 
 And wear my dagger with the braver grace 
 
74 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 And speak, between the change of man and boy, 
 
 With a reed voice ; and turn two mincing steps 
 
 Into a manly stride ; and speak of frays. 
 
 Like a fine bragging youth ; and tell quaint lies — 
 
 How honorable ladies sought my love, 
 
 Which I denying, they fell sick and died ; 
 
 I could not do withal : then I'll repent, 
 
 And wish, for all that, that I had not killed them ; 
 
 And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell. 
 
 That men should swear, I have discontinued school 
 
 Above a twelvemonth ! 
 
 And in the description of lier various suitors, in 
 tlie first scene witli Nerissa, what infinite power, 
 wit, and vivacity ! She half checks herself as she 
 is about to give the reins to her sportive humor : 
 " In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker." — 
 But if it carries her away, it is so perfectly good- 
 natured, so temperately bright, so lady-Hke, it is 
 ever without ofience ; and so far, most unHke the 
 satirical, poignant, unsparing wit of Beatrice, " mis- 
 prising what she loolcs on." In fact, I can scarce 
 conceive a greater contrast than between the vivac- 
 ity of Portia and the vivacity of Beatrice. Portia, 
 with all her airy brilliance, is supremely soft and 
 dignified; every thing she says or does, displays 
 her capability for profound thought and feeling, as 
 well as her lively and romantic disposition ; and as 
 I have seen in an Itahan garden a fountain fling- 
 ing round its wreaths of showery light, while the 
 many-colored Iris hung brooding above it, in its 
 calm and soul-felt glory ; so in Portia the wit is 
 ever kept subordinate to the poetry, and we still 
 
PORTIA. 75 
 
 feel the tender, the intellectual, and the imagina- 
 tive part of the character, as superior to, and pre- 
 siding over its spirit and vivacity. 
 
 In the last act, Shylock and his machinations be- 
 ing dismissed from our thoughts, and the rest of the 
 dramatis persnnce assembled together at Belmont, 
 all our interest and all our attention are riveted 
 on Portia, and the conclusion leaves the most de- 
 lightful impression on the fancy. The playful 
 equivoque of the rings, the sportive trick she puts 
 on her husband, and her thorough enjoyment of 
 the jest, which she checks just as it is proceeding 
 beyond the bounds of propriety, show how little 
 she was displeased by the sacrifice of her gift, and 
 are all consistent with her bright and buoyant 
 spirit. In conclusion, when Portia invites her com- 
 pany to enter her palace to refresh themselves 
 after their travels, and talk over " these events at 
 full," the imagination, unAvilling to lose sight of the 
 brilhant group, follows them in gay procession from 
 the Lovely moonlight garden to marble halls and 
 princely revels, to splendor and festive mirth, to 
 love and happiness. 
 
 Many women have possessed many of those 
 qualities which render Portia so delightful. She 
 is in herself a piece of reality, in whose possible 
 existence we have no doubt : and yet a human 
 being, in whom the moral, intellectual, and sen- 
 tient faculties should be so exquisitely blended and 
 proportioned to each other; and these again, in 
 harmony with all outward aspects and influences, 
 
76 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 probably never existed — certainly could not no^ 
 exist. A woman constituted like Portia, and placed 
 in this age, and in the actual state of society, would 
 find society armed against her ; and instead of be- 
 ing Hke Portia, a gracious, happy, beloved, and 
 loving creature, would be a victim, immolated in 
 fire to that multitudinous Moloch termed Opinion. 
 With her, the world without would be at war with 
 the world within ; in the perpetual strife, either 
 her nature would " be subdued to the element it 
 worked in," and bending to a necessity it could 
 neither escape nor approve, lose at last something 
 of its original brightness; or otherwise — a per- 
 petual spirit of resistance, cherished as a safeguard, 
 might perhaps in the end destroy the equipoise ; 
 firmness would become pride and self-assurance ; 
 and the soft, sweet, feminine texture of the mind, 
 settle into rigidity. Is there then no sanctuary for 
 such a mind ? — Where shall it find a refuge from 
 the world ? — Where seek for strength against it- 
 self? Where, but in heaven ? 
 
 Camiola, in Massinger's Maid of Honor, is said to 
 emulate Portia ; and the real story of Camiola (for 
 she is an historical personage) is very beautiful. 
 She was a lady of Messina, who lived in the begin- 
 ning -of the fourteenth century; and was the con- 
 temporary of Queen Joanna, of Petrarch and Boc- 
 caccio. It fell out in those days, that Prince Or- 
 lando of Arragon, the younger brother of th-e King 
 of Sicily, having taken the command of a naval 
 armament against the Neapohtans, was defeated, 
 
PORTIA. 77 
 
 wounded, taken prisoner, and confined by Robert 
 of Naples (the father of Queen Joanna) in one 
 of his strongest castles. As the prince had distin- 
 guished himself by his enmity to the Neapolitans, 
 and by many exploits against them, his ransom was 
 fixed at an exorbitant sum, and his captivity was 
 unusually severe ; while the King of Sicily, who 
 had some cause of displeasure against his brother, 
 and imputed to him the defeat of his armament, re- 
 fused either to negotiate for his release, or to pay 
 the ransom demanded. 
 
 Orlando, who was celebrated for his fine person 
 and reckless valour, was apparently doomed to 
 languish away the rest of his life in a dungeon, 
 when Camiola Turinga, a rich Sicilian heiress, de- 
 voted the half of her fortune to release him. But 
 as such an action might expose her to evil com- 
 ments, she made it a condition, that Orlando should 
 marry her. The' prince gladly accepted the terms, 
 and sent her the contract of marriage, signed by 
 his hand ; but no sooner was he at liberty, than he 
 refused to fulfil it, and even denied all knoAvledge 
 of his benefactress. 
 
 Camiola appealed to the tribunal of state, pro- 
 duced the written contract, and described the obli- 
 gations she had heaped on this ungrateful and un- 
 generous man ; sentence was given against him, 
 and he was adjudged to Camiola, not only as her 
 rightful husband, but as a property which, accord- 
 ing to the laws of war in that age, she had purchased 
 with her gold. The day of marriage was fixed ; 
 
78 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 Orlando presented himself with a splendfd'retlnue ; 
 Camiola also appeared, decorated as fdf^r bridal ; 
 but instead of bestowing her hand on the recreant, 
 she reproached him in the presence of all with his 
 breach of faith, declared her irtter contempt for his 
 baseness; and then freely bestowTg on him the 
 sura paid for his ransom, as a- gift worthy of his 
 mean soul, she turned away, -atid dedicated herself 
 and her heart to heaven. In this resolution she 
 remained inflexible, though the, king and all the 
 court united in entreaties to soften her. She took 
 the veil ; and Orlando, henceforth regarded as one 
 who had stained his knighthood, and violated his 
 faith, passed the rest of his life as a dishonored 
 man, and died in obscurity. 
 
 Camiola, in " The Maid of Honor," is, like Por- 
 tia, a wealthy heiress, surrounded by suitors, and 
 " queen o'er herself: " the character is constructed 
 upon the same principles, as great intellectual 
 power, magnanimity of temper, and feminine ten- 
 derness ; but not only do pain and disquiet, and 
 the change induced by unkind and inauspicious in- 
 fluences, enter into this sweet picture to mar and 
 cloud its happy beauty,— but the portrait itself may 
 be pronounced out of drawing ; — for Massinger ap- 
 parently had not sufficient delicacy of sentiment, to 
 work out his own conception of the character with 
 perfect consistency. In his adaptation of the story, 
 he represents the mutual love of Orlando and Ca- 
 miola as existing previous to the captivity of the 
 former, and on his part declared with many vows 
 
79 
 
 of eternal faith, yet sTie requires a -written contract 
 of marriage before she Hberates him. It will per- 
 haps be said that she has penetrated his weakness, 
 and anticipates his falsehood : miserable excuse ! — 
 how could a magnanimous woman love a man, 
 whose falsehood she beUeves but possible ? — or lov- 
 ing him, how could she deign to secure herself by 
 such means against the consequences ? Shakspeare 
 and Nature never committed such a solecism. Ca- 
 miola doubts before she has been wronged; the 
 firmness and assurance in herself border on harsh- 
 ness. ^Yhat in Portia is the gentle wisdom of a 
 noble nature, appears, in Camiola, too much a 
 spirit of calculation : it savors a Kttle of the count- 
 ing house. As Portia is the heiress of Belmont, 
 and Camiola a merchant's daughter, the distinction 
 may be proper and characteristic, but it is not in 
 favor of Camiola. The con^*ast may be thus il- 
 lustrated : 
 
 CAMIOLA. 
 
 You have heard of Bertoldo's captivity and the king's 
 neglect, the gi-eatness of his ransom; ffty thousand 
 crowns, Adorui ! Two parts of my estate ! Yet I so 
 love the gentleman, for to you I will confess my weak- 
 ness, that I purpose now, when he is forsaken by the 
 king and his own hopes, to ransom him. 
 
 Maid of Honor, Act. 3. 
 
 PORTIA. 
 
 What sum owes he the Jew? 
 
 BASSANIO. 
 
 For nie — three thousand ducats. 
 
80 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 PORTIA. 
 
 What ! no more ! 
 
 Pay him six thousand and deface the bond, 
 
 Double six thousand, and then ti-eble that, 
 
 Before a friend of this description 
 
 Shall lose a hair thro' my Bassanio's fault. 
 
 You shall have gold 
 
 To pay the petty debt twenty times o'er. 
 
 Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Camiola, wlio is a Sicilian, might as well have been 
 born at Amsterdam : Portia could have only existed 
 in Italy. Portia is profound as she is brilliant; 
 Camiola is sensible and sententious ; she asserts her 
 dignity very successfully ; but we cannot for a mo- 
 ment imagine Portia as reduced to the necessity of 
 asserting hers. The idiot Sylli, in " The Maid of 
 Honor," who follows Camiola like one of the de- 
 formed dwarfs of old time, is an intolerable viola- 
 tion of taste and propriety, and it sensibly lowers 
 our impression of the principal character. Shak- 
 speare would never have placed Sir Andrew Ague- 
 cheek in constant and immediate approximation 
 with such a woman as Portia. 
 
 Lastly, the charm of the poetical coloring is 
 wholly wanting in Camiola, so that when she is 
 placed in contrast with the glowing eloquence, the 
 luxuriant gi^ace, the buoyant spirit of Portia, the 
 effect is somewhat that of coldness and formality. 
 Notwithstanding the dignity and the beauty of 
 Massinger's delineation, and the noble self-devotion 
 of Camiola, which I acknowledge and admire, the 
 
PORTIA. 81 
 
 two characters will admit of no comparison as 
 sources of contemplation and pleasure. 
 
 It is observable that something of the intellectual 
 briUiance of Portia is reflected on the other female 
 characters of the " Merchant of Venice," so as to 
 preserve in the midst of contrast a certain harmony 
 and keeping. Thus Jessica, though properly kept 
 subordinate, is certainly 
 
 A most beautiful pagan — a most sweet Jew. 
 
 She cannot be called a sketch — or if a sketch, she 
 is like one of those dashed off in glowing colors 
 from the rainbow pallette of a Rubens ; she has a 
 rich tinge of orientahsm shed over her, worthy of 
 her eastern origin. In any other play, and in any 
 other companionship than that of the matchless 
 Portia, Jessica would make a very beautiful heroine 
 of herself. Nothing can be more poetically, more 
 classically fanciful and elegant, than the scenes be- 
 tween her and Lorenzo ; — the celebrated moonlight 
 dialogue, for instance, which we all have by heart. 
 Every sentiment she utters interests us for her : — 
 more particularly her bashful self-reproach, when 
 flying in the disguise of a page ; — 
 
 I am glad 'tis night, you do not look upon me, 
 For I am much asliam'd of my exchange; 
 But love is blind, and lovers cannot see 
 
82 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 The pretty follies that themselves commit ; 
 For if they could, Cupid himself would blush 
 To see me thus transformed to a boy. 
 
 And tlie enthusiastic and generous testimony to 
 the superior graces and accomplishments of Portia 
 comes with a peculiar grace from her lips. 
 
 Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match, 
 And on the wager lay two eartlily women. 
 And Portia one, there must be something else 
 Pawned with the other; for the poor rude world 
 Hath not her fellow. 
 
 We should not, however, easily pardon her for 
 cheating her father with so much indifference, but" 
 for the perception that Shylock values his daughter 
 far beneath his wealth. 
 
 I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the 
 jewels in her ear! — would she were hearsed at my foot, 
 and the ducats in her coffin ! 
 
 Nerissa Is a good specimen of a common genus 
 of characters ; she is a clever confidential waiting- 
 woman, who has caught a little of her lady's ele- 
 gance and romance ; she affects to be lively and 
 sententious, falls in love, and makes her favor 
 conditional on the fortune of the caskets, and in 
 short mimics her mistress with good emphasis and 
 discretion. Nerlssa and the gay talkative Gratiano 
 are as well matched as the incomparable Portia 
 and her magnificent and captivating lover. 
 
ISABELLA. 83 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 The character of Isabella, considered as a poet- 
 ical delineation, is less mixed than that of Portia ; 
 and the dissimilarity between the two appears, at 
 first view, so complete that we can scarce believe 
 that the same elements enter into the composi- 
 tion of each. Yet so it is ; they are portrayed as 
 equally wise, gracious, vii-tuous, fair, and young; 
 we perceive in both the same exalted principle 
 and firmness of character; the same depth of 
 reflection and persuasive eloquence; the same 
 self-denj-ing generosity and capability of strong 
 afiections; and we must wonder at that marvel- 
 lous power by which qualities and endowments, 
 essentially and closely allied, are so combined and 
 modified as to produce a result altogether different. 
 " O Nature ! O Shakspeare ! which of ye drew 
 from the other ? " 
 
 Isabella is distinguished from Portia, and strongly 
 individualized by a certain moral grandeur, a saintly 
 grace, something of vestal dignity and purity, which 
 render her less attractive and more imposing ; she 
 is " severe in youthful beauty," and inspires a rev- 
 erence which would have placed her beyond the 
 daring of one unholy wish or thought, except in 
 such a man as Angelo — 
 
 cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, < 
 
 With saints dost bait thy hook ! 
 
84 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 This impression of her character is conveyed 
 from the very first, when Lucio, the libertine jester, 
 whose coarse audacious wit checks at every feather, 
 thus expresses his respect for her, — 
 
 I would not — though 'tis my familiar sin 
 With maids to seem the lapwing, and to jest 
 Tongue far from heart — play with all virgins so. 
 I hold you as a thing enskyed, and sainted; 
 By your renouncement an immortal spirit, 
 And to be talked with in sincerity. 
 As with a saint. 
 
 A strong distinction between Isabella and Por- 
 tia is produced by the circumstances in which they 
 are respectively placed. Portia is a high-born 
 heiress, " Lord of a fair mansion, master of her ser- 
 vants, queen o'er herself; " easy and decided, as 
 one born to command, and used to iu Isabella 
 has also the innate dignity which renders her 
 " queen o'er herself," but she has lived far from 
 the world and its pomps and pleasures ; she is one 
 of a consecrated sisterhood — a novice of St. Clare ; 
 the power to command obedience and to con- 
 fer happiness are to her unknown. Portia is a 
 splendid creature, radiant with confidence, hope, 
 and joy. She is like the orange-tree, hung at 
 once with golden fruit and luxuriant flowers, which 
 has expanded into bloom and fragrance beneath 
 favoring skies, and has been nursed into beauty by 
 the sunshine and the dews of heaven. Isabella is 
 like a stately and graceful cedar, towering on some 
 alpine chff, unbowed and unscathed amid the 
 
ISABELLA. 85 
 
 storm. She gives us the impression of one who 
 has passed under the ennobling discipline of suf- 
 fering and self-denial: a melancholy charm tem- 
 pers the natural vigor of her mind: her spirit 
 seems to stand upon an eminence, and look down 
 upon the world as if already enskyed and sainted ; 
 and yet when brought in contact with that world 
 which she inwardly despises, she shrinks back with 
 all the timidity natural to her cloistral education. 
 
 This union of natural grace and grandeur with 
 the habits and sentiments of a recluse, — of auster- 
 ity of life with gentleness of manner, — of inflexible 
 moral principle with humility and even bashful- 
 ness of deportment, is dehneated with the most 
 beautiful and wonderful consistency. Thus when 
 her brother sends to her, to entreat her mediation, 
 her first feeling is fear, and a distrust in her own 
 powers : 
 
 . . . Alas ! what poor ability's in me 
 To do him good? 
 
 LUCIO. 
 
 Essay the power you have. 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 ^ly power, alas ! I doubt. 
 
 In the first scene with Angelo she seems divided 
 between her love for her brother and her sense of 
 his fault ; between her self-respect and her maid- 
 enly bashfulness. She begins with a kind of hesi- 
 tation " at war 'twixt will and will not : " and when 
 Angelo quotes the law, and insists on the justice of 
 
86 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 his sentence, and the responsibility of his station, 
 her native sense of moral rectitude and severe 
 principles takes the lead, and she shrinks back : — 
 
 just, but severe law ! 
 I liad a brother then — Heaven keep your honor ! 
 
 {Retiring.) 
 
 Excited and encouraged by Lucio, and sup- 
 ported by her own natural spirit, she returns to 
 the charge, — she gains energy and self-possession 
 as she proceeds, grows more earnest and passionate 
 from the difficulty she encounters, and displays 
 that eloquence and power of reasoning for which 
 we had been already prepared by Claudlo's first 
 allusion to her : — 
 
 In her youth 
 
 There is a prone and speechless dialect, 
 Such as moves men; besides, she hath prosperous art, 
 When she will play with reason and discourse, 
 And well she can persuade. 
 
 It is a curious coincidence that Isabella, exhort- 
 ing Angelo to mercy, avails herself of precisely the 
 same arguments, and Insists on the self-same topics 
 ■which Portia addresses to Shylock in her celebrated 
 speech ; but how beautifully and how truly is the 
 distinction marked ! how like, and yet how unlike ! 
 Portia's eulogy on mercy is a piece of heavenly 
 rhetoric ; it falls on the ear with a solenm meas- 
 ured harmony ; it is the voice of a descended angel 
 addressing an inferior nature : if not premeditated, 
 it is at least part of a preconcerted scheme ; while 
 Isabella's pleadings are poured from the abundance 
 
ISABELLA. 87 
 
 of her heart in broken sentences, and with the art- 
 less vehemence of one who feels that life and death 
 hang upon her appeal. Tliis will be best under- 
 stood by placing the corresponding passages in 
 immediate comparison with each other. 
 
 PORTIA. 
 
 The quality of mercy is not strain' d, 
 It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, 
 Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; 
 It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 
 'Tis mightiest in tlie mightiest; it becomes 
 The throned 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. 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 Well, believe this, 
 No ceremony that to great ones 'longs. 
 Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, 
 The marshal's tmncheon, nor the judge's robe. 
 Become them -with one half so good a grace 
 . As mercy does. 
 
 POKTIA. 
 
 Consider this — 
 That in the course of justice, none of us 
 Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy; 
 And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
 The deeds of mercy. 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 Alas! alas! 
 Wliy all the souls that were, were forfeit once ; 
 
88 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 And He, that might the 'vantage best have took, 
 Found out the remedy. How would you be, 
 If He, whicli is the top of judgment, should 
 But judge you as you are ? 0, think on that, 
 And mercy then will breathe within your lips, 
 Like man new made ! 
 
 The beautiful things which Isabella Is made to 
 utter, have, like the sayings of Portia, become 
 proverbial ; but In spirit and character they are as 
 distinct as are the two women. In all that Portia 
 says, we confess the power of a rich poetical Imag- 
 ination, blended with a quick practical spirit of 
 observation, familiar with the surfaces of things; 
 while there is a profound yet simple morality, a 
 depth of religious feeling, a touch of melancholy, in 
 Isabella's sentiments, and something earnest and 
 authoritative in the manner and expression, as 
 though they had grown up in her mind from long 
 and deep meditation in the silence and solitude of" 
 her convent cell : — 
 
 0' it is excellent 
 To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous 
 To use it like a giant. 
 
 Could great men thunder, 
 As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet: 
 For every pelting, petty officer 
 
 Would use his heaven for thunder ; nothing but thunder. 
 Merciful Heaven ! 
 
 Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt 
 Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak 
 Than the soft myrtle. but man, proud man ! 
 
ISABELLA. 89 
 
 Drost in a little brief authority, 
 
 Most ignorant of what he's most assured, 
 
 His glassy essence, like an angry ape, 
 
 Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, 
 
 As make the angels Aveep. 
 
 Great men may jest with saints, 'tis wit in them; 
 But in the less, foul profanation. 
 That in the captain's but a choleric word. 
 Which iu the soldier is flat blasphemy. 
 
 Authority, although it eiT like others, 
 
 Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself 
 
 That skins the vice o' the top. Go to your bosom ; 
 
 Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know 
 
 That's like my brother's fault: if it confess 
 
 A natui'al guiltiness such as his is. 
 
 Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue 
 
 Against my brother's life. 
 
 Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good, 
 But graciously to know I am no better. 
 
 The sense of death is most in apprehension ; 
 And the poor beetle that we tread upon. 
 In coi-poral sufferance finds a pang as great 
 As when a giant dies ! 
 
 'Tis not impossible 
 But one, the wicked'st caitiff on the ground, 
 j\Iay seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute 
 As Angelo; even so may Angelo, 
 In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms. 
 Be an arch villain. 
 
 Her fine powers of reasoning, and that natural 
 
90 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 uprightness and purity wlilcli no sopliistry can 
 warp, and no allurement betray, are farther dis- 
 played in the second scene with Angelo. 
 
 ANGELO. 
 
 What would you do ? 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 As much for my poor brother as myself; 
 
 That is, were I under the temis of death, 
 
 The impression of keen whips I'd wear as rubies, 
 
 And strip myself to death as to a bed 
 
 That, longing, I have been sick for, ere I'd yield 
 
 My body up to shame. 
 
 ANGELO. 
 
 Then must your brother die. 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 And 'twere the cheaper way; 
 Better it were a brother died at once, 
 Than that a sister, by redeeming him, 
 Should die forever. 
 
 ANGELO. 
 
 Were you not then cruel as the sentence. 
 That you have slander' d so! 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 Ignominy in ransom, and free pardon, 
 Are of two houses : lawful mercy is 
 Nothing akin to foul redemption. 
 
 ANGELO. 
 
 You seem'd of late to make the law a tyrant; 
 
ISABELLA. 91 
 
 And rrther proved the sliding of your brother 
 A memment than a vice. 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 pardon me, my lord; it oft falls out, 
 
 To have what we'd have, we speak not what we mean: 
 
 1 something do exciise the thing I hate, 
 For his advantage that I dearly love. 
 
 Towards the conclusion of the play we have 
 another instance of that rigid sense of justice, 
 which is a prominent part of Isabella's character, 
 and almost silences her earnest intercession for her 
 brother, when his fault is placed between her plea 
 and her conscience. The Duke condemns the ^nl- 
 lain Angelo to death, and his wife Mariana entreats 
 Isabella to plead for him. 
 
 Sweet Isabel, take my part. 
 Lend me your knees, and all my life to come 
 I'U lend you aU my life to do you service. 
 
 Isabella remains silent, and Mariana reiterates 
 her prayer. 
 
 • MARIANA. 
 
 Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me. 
 
 Hold up your hands, say nothing, I'll speak all! 
 
 Isabel ! will you not lend a knee ? 
 
 Isabella, thus urged, breaks silence and appeals 
 to the Duke, not with supphcatlon, or persuasion, 
 but with grave argument, and a kind of dignified 
 humility and conscious power, which are finely 
 characteristic of the individual woman. 
 
92 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 Most bounteous Sir, 
 Look, if it please you, on this man condemn' d, 
 As if my brother liv'd; I partly think 
 A due sincerity govern'dhis deeds 
 Till he did look on me ; since it is so 
 Let him not die. Mj brother had but justice, 
 In that he did the thing for which he died. 
 For Angelo, 
 
 His art did not o'ertake his bad intent. 
 That perish' d by the way: thoughts ai-e no subjects, 
 Intents, but merely thoughts. 
 
 In tliis Instance, as in the one before mentioned, 
 Isabella's conscientiousness is overcome by the only 
 sentiment which ought to temper justice into mercy, 
 the power of affection and sympathy. 
 
 Isabella's confession of the general frailty of her 
 sex, has a peculiar softness, beauty, and propriety. 
 She admits the imputation with all the sympathy 
 of woman for woman ; yet with all the dignity of 
 one who felt her own superiority to the weakness 
 she acknowledges. 
 
 ANGELO. 
 
 Nay, women are frail too. 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves ; 
 Which are as easy broke as they make forms. 
 Women ! help heaven ! men their creation mar 
 In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail ; 
 For we are soft as our complexions are, 
 And credulous to false prints. 
 
 Nor should we fail to remark the deeper interest 
 
ISABELLA. 93 
 
 which is thrown round Isabella, by one part of her 
 character, which is betrayed rather than exhibited 
 in the progress of the action ; and for which we are 
 not at first prepared, though it is so perfectly nat- 
 ural. It is the strong under-current of passion and 
 enthusiasm flowing beneath this calm and saintly 
 self-possession ; it is the capacity for high feeling 
 and g(i^erous and strong indignation, veiled beneath 
 the sweet austere composure of the religious re- 
 cluse, which, by the very force of contrast, power- 
 fully impress the imagination. As we see in real 
 life that where, from some external or habitual 
 cause, a strong control is exercised over naturally 
 C[ulck feelings and an impetuous temper, they dis- 
 play themselves with a proportionate vehemence 
 when that restraint is removed ; so the very vio- 
 lence with which her passions burst forth, when op- 
 posed or under the influence .of strong excitement, 
 is admirably characteristic. 
 
 Thus in her exclamation, when she first allows 
 herself to perceive Angclo's vile design — 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 Ha! little honor to be much believed, 
 
 And most pernicious purpose! — seeming! — seeming! 
 
 I -n-ill proclaim thee, Angelo: lools. for it! 
 
 Sign me a present pardon for my brother, 
 
 Or with an outstretched throat I'll tell the world 
 
 Aloud, what man thou art ! 
 
 And again, where she finds that the " outward 
 sainted deputy," has deceived her — 
 
94 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 I will to him, and pluck out his eyes ! 
 Unhappy Claudio! wretched Isabel! 
 Injurious world ! most damned Ajigelo ! 
 
 Slie places at first a strong and higli-souled con- 
 fidence in her brother's fortitude and magnanimity, 
 judging him by her own lofty spirit : 
 
 I'll to my brother; 
 Though he hath fallen by prompture of the blood, 
 Yet hath he in him such a mind of honor, 
 That had he twenty heads to tender down, 
 On twenty bloody blocks, he'd yield them up 
 Before his sister should her body stoop 
 To such abhorr'd pollution. 
 
 But when her trust in his honor is deceived by 
 his momentary weakness, her scorn has a bitter- 
 ness, and her indignation a force of expression al- 
 most fearful ; and both are carried to an exti-eme, 
 which is perfectly in character : 
 
 faithless coward ! dishonest Avretch ! : 
 
 Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice ? 
 
 Is't not a kind of incest to take life 
 
 From thine own sister's shame? What should I think? 
 
 Heaven shield, my mother play'd my father fair! 
 
 For such a wai'ped slip of wilderness 
 
 Ne'er issued from his blood. Take my defiance; 
 
 Die ! perish ! might but my bending down, 
 
 Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed. 
 
 I'll pray a thousand prayers for th}'- death, 
 
 No word to save thee. 
 
ISABELLA. 95 
 
 The whole of this scene with Claudio is inexpres- 
 sibly grand in the poetry and the sentiment ; and 
 the entire play abounds in those passages and 
 phrases which must have become trite from famiUar 
 and constant use and abuse, if their wisdom and 
 unequalled beauty did not invest them with an im- 
 mortal freshness and vigor, and a perpetual charm. 
 
 The story of Measure for Measure is a tradition 
 of great antiquity, of which there are several ver- 
 sions, narrative and dramatic. A contemptible 
 tragedy, the Promos and Cassandra of George 
 Whetstone, is supposed, from various coincidences, 
 to have fur»ished Shakspeare with the groundwork 
 of the play ; but the character of Isabella is, in con- 
 ception and execution, all his own. The commen- 
 tators have collected with infinite industry all the 
 sources of the plot ; but to the grand creation of 
 Isabella, they award either silence or worse than 
 silence. Johnson and the rest of the black-letter 
 crew, pass over her without a word. One critic, a 
 lady-critic too, whose name I will be so merciful as 
 to suppress, treats Isabella as a coarse vixen. Haz- 
 ^itt, with that strange perversion of sentiment and 
 want of taste which sometimes mingle with his 
 piercing and powerful intellect, dismisses Isabella 
 with a slight remark, that "we are not greatly 
 enamoured of her rigid chastity, nor can feel much 
 confidence in the virtue that is sublimely good at 
 another's expense." AYhat shall we answer to such 
 ciiticism ? Upon what ground can we read the 
 play from beginning to end, and doubt the angel- 
 
06 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 purity of Isabella, or contemplate her possible lapse 
 from virtue ? Such gratuitous mistrust is liere a 
 sin against the light of heaven. 
 
 Having waste ground enough, 
 
 Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary, 
 
 And pitch our evils there ? 
 
 Professor Richardson is more just, and truly 
 sums up her character as " amiable, pious, sen- 
 sible, resolute, determined, and eloquent : " but his 
 remarks are rather superficial. 
 
 Schlegel's observations are also brief and gen- 
 eral, and in no way distinguish Isabella from many 
 other characters ; neither did his plan allow him to 
 be more minute. Of the play altogether, he ob- 
 serves very beautifully, " that the title Measure for 
 Measure is in reahty a misnomer, the sense of the 
 whole being properly the triumph of mercy over 
 strict justice : " but it is also true that there is " an 
 original sin in the nature of the subject, which 
 prevents us from taking a cordial interest in it." * 
 Of all the characters, Isabella alone has our sym- 
 pathy. But though she triumphs in the conclusion, 
 her trimnph is not produced in a pleasing manner. 
 There are too many disguises and tricks, too many 
 "by-paths and indirect crooked ways," to conduct 
 us to the natural and foreseen catastrophe, which 
 the Duke's presence throughout renders inevitable. 
 This Duke seems to have a predilection for bring- 
 ing about justice by a most unjustifiable succession 
 
 * Characters of Sbakspeare's Plays. 
 
ISABELLA. 97 
 
 of falsehoods and countei-plots. He really deserves 
 Lucio's satirical designation, who somewhere styles 
 him "The Fantastical Duke of Dark Corners." 
 But Isabella is ever consistent in her pure and up- 
 right simphcity, and in the midst of this sunulation, 
 expresses a characteristic disapprobation of the 
 part she is made to play, 
 
 To speak so indirectly I am loth: 
 
 I would say the truth.* 
 She yields to the supposed Friar with a kind of 
 forced docility, because her situation as a religious 
 novice, and his station, habit, and authority, as her 
 spiritual director, demand this sacrifice. In the 
 end we are made to feel that her transition from 
 the convent to the throne has but placed this noble 
 creature in her natural sphere : for though Isabella, 
 as Duchess of Vienna, could not more command 
 our highest reverence than Isabella, the novice of 
 Saint Clare, yet a wider range of usefulness and 
 benevolence, of trial and action, was better suited 
 to the large capacity, the ardent affections, the 
 energetic intellect, and firm principle of such a 
 woman as Isabella, than the walls of a cloister. 
 The philosophical Duke observes in the very fii-st 
 
 scene — 
 
 Spirits are not finely touched. 
 But to fine issues : nor nature never lends 
 The smallest scruple of her excellence. 
 But like a thrifty goddess she determines, 
 Herself the glory of a creditor, 
 Both thanks and use.f 
 
 ♦ Act iv. Scend 5. t Vse, i. e. usury, interest. 
 
 7 
 
98 CHARACTERS OP INTELLECT. 
 
 This profound and beautiful sentiment is illus- 
 b'ated in the character and destiny of Isabella. 
 She says, of herself, that " she has spirit to act 
 ■whatever her heart approves ; " and what her heart 
 approves we know. 
 
 In the convent, (which may stand here poetically 
 for any narrow and obscure situation in which 
 such a woman might be placed,) Isabella would 
 not have been unhappy, but happiness would have 
 been tlie result of an effort, or of the concentration 
 of her great mental powers to some particular pur- 
 pose; as St. Theresa's intellect, enthusiasm, ten- 
 derness, restless activity, and burning eloquence, 
 governed by one overpowering sentiment of devo- 
 tion, rendered her the most extraordinary of saints. 
 Isabella, like St. Theresa, complains that the rules 
 of her order are not sufficiently severe, and from 
 the same cause, — that from the consciousness of 
 strong intellectual ^nd imaginative power, and of 
 overflowing sensibihty, she desires a more " strict 
 restraint," or, from the continual, involuntary 
 struggle against the trammels imposed, feels its 
 necessity. 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 And have you nuns no further privileges ? 
 
 FRANCISCA. 
 
 Are not these large enough ? 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 Yes, truly; I speak, not as desiring more, 
 But rather wishing a more strict restraint 
 Upon the sisterhood ! 
 
BEATRICE. 99 
 
 Such women as Desdemona and Ophelia would 
 have passed their lives in the seclusion of a nun- 
 nery, without wishing, like Isabella, for stricter 
 bonds, or planning, like St. Theresa, the reforma- 
 tion of their order, simply, because any restraint 
 would have been efficient, as far as they were con- 
 cerned. Isabella, " dedicate to nothing temporal," 
 might have found resignation through self govern- 
 ment, or have become a religious enthusiast : while 
 " place and greatness " would have appeared to her 
 strong and upright mind, only a more extended 
 field of action, a trust and a trial. The mere trap- 
 pings of power and state, the gemmed coronal, the 
 ermined robe, she would have regarded as the out- 
 ward emblems of her earthly profession ; and would 
 have worn them with as much simplicity as her 
 novice's hood and scapular ; still, under whatever 
 guise she might tread this thorny world — the same 
 " annrel of liirht." 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 Shakspeare has exhibited in Beatrice a spir- 
 ited and faithful portrait of the fine lady of his 
 own time. The deportment, language, manners, and 
 allusions, are those of a particular class in a partic- 
 ular age; but the individual and dramatic char- 
 acter which forms the groundwork, is strongly 
 
100 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 discriminated ; and being taken from general na- 
 ture, belongs to every age. In Beatrice, high 
 intellect and high animal spirits meet, and excite 
 each other like fire and air. In her wit (which is 
 brilliant without being imaginative) there is a 
 touch of insolence, not unfrequent in women when 
 the wit predominates over reflection and imagina- 
 tion. In her temper, too, there is a slight infusion 
 of the termagant; and her satirical humor plays 
 with such an unrespective levity'over all subjects 
 ahke, that it required a profound knowledge of 
 women to bring such a character within the pale 
 of our sympathy. But Beatrice, though wilful, is 
 not wayward ; she is volatile, not unfeeling. She 
 has not only an exuberance of wit and gayety, but 
 of heart, and soul, and energy of spirit ; and is no 
 more like the fine ladies of modern comedy, — 
 whose wit consists in a temporary allusion, or a 
 play upon words, and whose petulance is displayed 
 in a toss of the head, a flirt of the fan, or a flour- 
 ish of the pocket handkerchief, — ^than one of our 
 modern dandies is Uke Sir PhiHp Sydney. 
 
 In Beatrice, Shakspeare has contrived that the 
 poetry of the character shall not only soften, but 
 heighten its comic effect. We are not only in- 
 clined to forgive Beatrice all her scornful airs, all 
 her biting jests, all her assumption of superiority ; 
 but they amuse and delight us the more, when we 
 find her, with all the headlong simplicity of a child, 
 falling at once into the snare laid for her affec- 
 tions ; when we see her, who thought a man of 
 
BEATRICE. 101 
 
 God's making not good enough for her, who dis- 
 dained to be o'ermastered by " a piece of valiant 
 dust," stooping like the rest of her sex, vailing her 
 proud spirit, and taming her wild heart to the lov- 
 ing hand of him whom she had scorned, flouted, 
 and misused, "past the endurance of a block." 
 And we are yet more completely won by her gen- 
 erous enthusiastic attachment to her cousin. "When 
 the father of Hero believes the tale of her guilt; 
 when Claudio, her lover, without remorse or a lin- 
 gering doubt, consigns her to shame; when the 
 Friar remains silent, and the generous Benedick 
 himself knows not what to say, Beatrice, confident 
 in her affections, and guided only by the impulses 
 of her own feminine heart, sees through the incon- 
 sistency, the impossibility of the charge, and ex- 
 claims, without a moment's hesitation, 
 
 0, on my soul, my cousin is belied ! 
 
 Schlegel, in his remarks on the play of " Much 
 Ado about nothing," has given us an amusing in- 
 stance of that sense of reality with which we are 
 impressed by Shakspeare's characters. He says of 
 Benedick and Beatrice, as if he had known them 
 personally, that the exclusive direction of their 
 pointed raillery against each other " is a proof of a 
 growing inclination." Tliis is not unlikely; and 
 the same inference would lead us to suppose that 
 this mutual incHnatlon had commenced before the 
 opening of the play. The very first words uttered 
 by Beatrice are an Inquiry after Benedick, though 
 expressed with her usual arch impertinence : — 
 
102 . CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 I pray you, is Signior Montanto returned from the 
 •wars, or no ? 
 
 I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in 
 these wars ? But how many hath he killed '? for indeed I 
 promised to eat all of his killing. 
 
 And in the unprovoked hostility with, which she 
 falls upon him in his absence, in the pertinacity 
 and bitterness of her satire, there is certainly great 
 argument that he occupies much more of her 
 thoughts than she would have been willing to con- 
 fess, even to herself. In the same manner Bene- 
 dick betrays a lurking partiality for his fascinating 
 enemy ; he shows that he has looked upon her 
 with no careless eye, when he says, 
 
 There's her cousin, (meaning Beatrice,) an' she were 
 not possessed with a fury, excels her as much in beauty 
 as the fii'st of May does the last of December. 
 
 Infinite skill, as well as humor, is shown in mak- 
 ing this pair of airy beings the exact counterpart 
 of each other; but of the two portraits, that of 
 Benedick is by far the most pleasing, because the 
 independence and gay indifference of temper, the 
 laughing defiance of love and marriage, the satirical 
 freedom of expression, common to both, are more 
 becoming to the masculine than to the feminine 
 character. Any woman might love such a cavalier 
 as Benedick, and be proud of his affection ; his 
 valor, his wit, and his gayety sit so gracefully upon 
 him ! and his light scoffs against the poAver of love 
 are but just sufficient to render more piquant the 
 conquest of this " heretic in despite of beauty.** 
 
BEATRICE. 103 
 
 But a man mlglit -well be pardoned who sliould 
 shrink from encountering such a spirit as that of 
 Beatrice, unless, indeed, he had " served an ap- 
 prenticeship to the taming schooL" The wit of 
 Beatrice is less good-humored than that of Bene- 
 dick ; or, from the difference of sex, appears so. 
 It is observable that the power is throughout on 
 her side, and the sympathy and interest on his : 
 wliich, by reversing the usual order of things, 
 seems to excite us against the grain, if I may use 
 such an expression. In all their encounters she 
 constantly gets the better of him, and the gentle- 
 man's wits go off halting, if he is not himself fairly 
 Jiors de combat. Beatrice, woman-like, generally 
 has the first word, and will have the last. Thus, 
 when they first meet, she begins by provoking the 
 merry warfare : — 
 
 I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Bene- 
 dick ; nobody marks you. 
 
 BENEDICK. 
 
 What, ray dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living? 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 Is it possible Disdain should die, while she hath such 
 meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy 
 itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her pres- 
 ence. 
 
 It is clear that she cannot for a moment endure 
 his neglect, and he can as Httle tolerate her scorn. 
 Nothing that Benedick addresses to Beatrice per- 
 
104 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 sonally can equal the malicious force of some of 
 her attacks upon him : he is either restrained by a 
 feeling of natural gallantry, little as she deserves 
 the consideration due to her sex, (for a female 
 satirist ever places herself beyond the pale of such 
 forbearance,) or he is subdued by her superior 
 volubility. He revenges himself, however, in her 
 absence: he abuses her with such a variety of 
 comic invective, and pours forth his pent-up wrath 
 with such a ludicrous extravagance and exaggera- 
 tion, that he betrays at once how deep is his morti- 
 fication, and hoAv unreal his enmity. 
 
 In the midst of all this tilting and sparring of 
 their nimble and j&ery wits, we find them infinitely 
 anxious for the good opinion of each other, and 
 secretly impatient of each other's scorn : but Bea- 
 ta-ice is the most truly indifferent of the two ; the 
 most assured of herself The comic effect pro- 
 duced by their mutual attachment, which, however 
 natural and expected, comes upon us with all the 
 force of a surprise, cannot be surpassed : and how 
 exquisitely characteristic the mutual avowal ! 
 
 BENEDICK. 
 
 By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me. 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 Do not swear by it, and eat it. 
 
 BENEDICK. 
 
 I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make 
 bim eat it, that says, I love not you. 
 
BEATRICE. 105 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 Will you not eat your word ? 
 
 BENEDICK. 
 
 With no sauce that can be devised to it : I protest, I 
 love thee. 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 Why, then, God forgive me ! 
 
 BENEDICK. 
 
 AVhat offence, sweet Beatrice ? 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 You stayed me in a happy hour. I was about to pro- 
 test, I loved you. 
 
 BENEDICK. 
 
 And do it with all thy heart. 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 I love you with so much of my heart, that there is 
 none left to protest. 
 
 But here again the dominion rests with Beatrice, 
 and she appears in a less amiable light than her 
 lover. Benedick surrenders his whole heart to her 
 and to his new passion. The revulsion of feeling 
 even causes it to overflow in an excess of fond- 
 ness ; but with Beatrice temper has still the mas- 
 tery. The affection of Benedick induces him to 
 challenge his intimate friend for her sake, but the 
 affection of Beatrice does not prevent her from 
 risking the life of her lover. 
 
 The character of Hero is well contrasted with 
 that of Beatrice, and their mutual attachment is 
 
106 CHARACTEUS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 very beautiful and natural. When they are both 
 on the scene together, Hero has but little to say 
 for herself: Beatrice asserts the rule of a master 
 spirit, eclipses her by her mental superiority, 
 abashes her by her raillery, dictates to her, an- 
 swers for her, and would fain inspire her gentle- 
 hearted cousin with some of her own assurance. 
 
 Yes, faith; it is my cousin's duty to make a curtsey, 
 and say, "Father, as it please you;" but yet, for all 
 that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make 
 another curtsey, and, " Father, as it please me." 
 
 But Shakspeare knew well how to make one char- 
 acter subordinate to another, without sacrificing 
 the shghtest portion of its effect ; and Hero, added 
 to her grace and softness, and all the interest which 
 attaches to her as the sentimental heroine of the 
 play, possesses an intellectual beauty of her own. 
 When she has Beatrice at an advantage, she re- 
 pays her with interest, in the severe, but most 
 animated and elegant picture she draws of her 
 cousin's imperious character and unbridled levity 
 of tongue. The portrait is a httle overcharged, 
 because administered as a corrective, and intended 
 to be overheard. 
 
 But nature never fram'd a woman's heart 
 Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice : 
 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-endeai-ed. 
 
BEATKICE, 107 
 
 URSULA. 
 
 Siu'e, sure, such carping is not commendable. 
 
 HERO. 
 
 No: not to be so odd, and from all fashions, 
 As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable: 
 But who dare tell her soV If I should speak, 
 She'd mock me into air: she would laugh me 
 Out of myself, press me to death with wit. 
 Therefore let Benedick, like cover'd fire. 
 Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly: 
 It were a better death than die with mocks, 
 Which is as bad as die with tickling. 
 
 Beatrice never appears to greater advantage 
 than in her soliloquy after leaving her conceal- 
 ment " in the pleached bower where honeysuckles, 
 ripened by the sun, forbid the sun to enter ; " she 
 exclaims, after listening to this tirade against her- 
 self,— 
 
 "Wliat fire is in mine ears ? Can this be true ? 
 
 Stand 1 condemned for pride and scorn so much ? 
 The sense of wounded vanity is lost in bitter feel- 
 ings, and she is infinitely more struck by what is 
 said in praise of Benedick, and the history of his 
 supposed love for her than by the dispraise of her- 
 self. The immediate success of the trick is a most 
 natural consequence of the self-assurance and mag- 
 nanimity of her character ; she is so accustomed to 
 assert dominion over the spirits of others, that she 
 cannot suspect the possibility of a plot laid against 
 herself. 
 
 A haughty, excitable, and violent temper is an- 
 
108 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 other of the characteristics of Beatrice ; but there 
 is more of impulse than of passion in her vehe- 
 mence. In the marriage scene where she has be- 
 held her gentle-sjDlrited cousin, — whom she loves 
 the more for those very qualities which are most 
 unlike her own, — slandered, deserted, and devoted 
 to public shame, her indignation, and the eager- 
 ness with which she hungers and thirsts after 
 revenge, are, Hke the rest of her character, open, 
 ardent, impetuous, but not deep or implacable. 
 When she bursts into that outrageous speech — 
 
 Is he not approved in the height a villain that hath 
 slandei-ed, scorned, dishonored my kinswoman ? that 
 I were a man ! What ! bear lier in hand until they come 
 to take hands; and tlien, with public accusation, uncov- 
 ered slander, unmitigated rancor — God, that I were a 
 man ! I would eat his heart in the market-place ! 
 
 And when she commands her lover, as the first 
 proof of his affection, " to kill Claudio," the very 
 consciousness of the exaggeration, — of the contrast 
 between the real good-nature of Beatrice and the 
 fierce tenor of her language, keeps alive the comic 
 effect, mingling the ludicrous with the serious. It 
 is remarkable that, notwithstanding the point and 
 vivacity of the dialogue, few of the speeches of 
 Beatrice are capable of a general application, or 
 engrave themselves distinctly on the memory ; they 
 contain more mirth than matter ; and though wit 
 be the predominant feature in the dramatic por- 
 trait, Beatrice more charms and dazzles us by what 
 she is than by what she says. It is not merely her 
 
BEATRICE. 109 
 
 sparkling repartees and saucy jests, it is the soul 
 of wit, and the spirit of gaycty in forming the whole 
 character, — looking out from her brilliant eyes, and 
 laughing on her full lips that pout with scorn, — 
 which we have before us, moving and full of life. 
 On the whole, we dismiss Benedick and Beatrice 
 to their matrimonial bonds rather with a sense of 
 amusement than a feeling of congratulation or sym- 
 pathy ; rather with an acknowledgment that they 
 are well-matched, and worthy of each other than 
 with any well-founded expectation of their domes- 
 tic tranquillity. If, as Benedick assei-ts, they are 
 both " too wise to woo peaceably," it may be added 
 that both are too wise, too witty, and too wilful to 
 live peaceably together. We have some misgiv- 
 ings about Beatrice — some apprehensions that 
 poor Benedick will not escape the " predestinated 
 scratched face," which he had foretold to him who 
 should win and wear this quick-witted and pleasant- 
 spirited lady; yet when we recollect that to the 
 wit and imperious temper of Beatrice is united a 
 magnanimity of spirit which would naturally place 
 her far above all selfishness, and all paltry strug- 
 gles for power — when we perceive, in the midst of 
 her sarcastic levity and volubility of tongue, so 
 much of generous aifection, and such a high sense 
 of female virtue and honor, we are inclined to hope 
 the best. We think it possible that though the 
 gentleman may now and then swear, and the lady 
 scold, the native good-humor of the one, the really 
 fine understandino; of the other, and the value 
 
110 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 they so evidently attach to each other's esteem, 
 wfil ensure them a tolerable portion of domestic 
 feHcity, and in this hope we leave them. 
 
 ^t^^ 
 
 ROSALIND. 
 
 I COME now to Rosalind, whom I should have 
 ranked before Beatrice, inasmuch as the greater 
 degree of her sex's softness and sensibility, united 
 with equal wit and intellect, give her the superiority 
 as a woman ; but that, as a dramatic character, she 
 is inferior in force. The portrait is one of infinitely 
 more delicacy and variety, but of less strength and 
 depth. It is easy to seize on the prominent feat- 
 ures in the mind of Beatrice, but extremely diffi- 
 cult to catch and fix the more fanciful graces of 
 Rosalind. She is like a compound of essences, so 
 volatile in their nature, and so exquisitely blended, 
 that on any attempt to analyze them, they seem to 
 escape us. To what else shall we compare her, 
 all-enchanting as she is ? — to the silvery summer 
 clouds which, even while we gaze on them, shift 
 their hues and forms dissolving into air, and light, 
 and rainbow showers ? — to the May-morning, flush 
 with opening blossoms and roseate dews, and 
 " charm of earhest birds ? " — to some wild and 
 beautiful melody, such as some shepherd boy 
 
ROSALIND. Ill 
 
 miglit " pipe to Amarillls in tlie sliade ? " — to a 
 mountain streamlet, now smooth as a mirror in 
 which the skies may glass themselves, and anon 
 leaping and sparkling in the sunshine — or rather 
 to the very sunshine itself? for so her genial spirit 
 touches into life and beauty whatever it shines on ! 
 But this impression, though produced by the 
 complete development of the character, and in 
 the end possessing the whole fancy, is not imme- 
 diate. The first introduction of Rosalind is less 
 striking than interesting ; we see her a dependant, 
 almost a captive, in the house of her usurping 
 uncle; her genial spirits are subdued by her situa- 
 tion, and the remembrance of her banished father : 
 her playfulness is under a temporary eclipse. 
 
 I pray thee, Eosalind, sweet my coz, be merry ! 
 
 is an adjuration which Rosalind needed not when 
 once at liberty, and sporting " under the green- 
 wood tree." The sensibihty and even pensiveness 
 of her demeanor in the first instance, render her 
 archness and gayety afterwards, more graceful and 
 more fascinating. 
 
 Though Rosalind is a princess, she is a princess 
 of Arcady; and notwithstanding the charming 
 effect produced by her first scenes, we scarcely 
 ever think of her with a reference to them, or 
 associate her with a court, and the artificial append- 
 ages of her rank. She was not made to " lord it 
 o'er a fair mansion," and take state upon her like 
 the all-accomplished Portia ; but to breathe the free 
 
112 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 air of heaven, and frolic among green leaves. Slie 
 was not made to stand the siege of daring profli- 
 gacy, and oppose high action and high passion 
 to the assaults of adverse fortune, hke Isabel ; but 
 to " fleet the time carelessly as they did i' the 
 golden age." She was not made to bandy wit with 
 lords, and tread courtly measures with plumed and 
 warlike cavaliers, like Beatrice ; but to dance on 
 the green sward, and "murmur among living 
 brooks a music sweeter than their own." 
 
 Though sprightliness is the distinguishing charac- 
 teristic of Rosalind, as of Beatrice, yet we find her 
 much more nearly allied to Portia in temper and 
 intellect. The tone of her mind is, like Portia's, 
 genial and buoyant : she has something, too, of her 
 softness and sentiment ; there is the same confiding 
 abandonment of self in her affections; but the 
 characters are otherwise as distinct as the situa- 
 tions are dissimilar. The age, the manners, the 
 circumstance in which Shakspeare has placed his 
 Portia, are not bej'^ond the bounds of probability ; 
 nay, have a certain reality and locality. We 
 fancy her a contemporary of the Raffaelles and the 
 Ariostos; the sea-wedded Venice, its merchants 
 and Magnificos, — the Bialto, and the long canals, — 
 rise up before us when we think of her. But Rosa- 
 lind is surrounded with the purely ideal and imag- 
 inative ; the reality is in tlie characters and in the 
 sentiments, not in the circumstances or situation. 
 Portia is dignified, splendid, and romantic ; Rosa- 
 lind is playful, pastoral, and picturesque : both are 
 
ROSALIND. 113 
 
 in the highest degree poetical, but the one is epic 
 and the other lyric. 
 
 Every thing about Rosalind breathes of " youth 
 and youth's sweet prime." She is fresh as the 
 morning, sweet as the dew-awakened blossoms, 
 and light as the breeze that plays among them. 
 She is as witty, as voluble, as sprightly as Bea- 
 trice; but in a style altogether distinct. In 
 both, the wit is equally unconscious; but in Bea- 
 trice it plays about us like the lightning, dazzling 
 but also alarming ; while the wit of Rosalind bub- 
 bles up and sparkles like the living fountain, re- 
 freshing all around. Her volubiUty is like the 
 bird's song ; it is the outpouring of a heart filled to 
 overflowing with life, love, and joy, and all sweet 
 and afiectionate impulses. She has as much ten- 
 derness as mirth, and in her most petulant raillery 
 there is a touch of softness — " By this hand, it will 
 not hurt a fly ! " As her vivacity never lessens 
 our impression of her sensibility, so she wears her 
 masculine attire without the slightest impugnment 
 of her dehcacy. Shakspeare did not make the 
 modesty of his women depend on their dress, as 
 we shall see further when we come to Viola and 
 Imogen. Rosalind has in truth " no doublet and 
 hose in her disposition." How her heart seems to 
 throb and flutter under her page's vest! What 
 depth of love in her passion for Orlando ! whether 
 disguised beneath a saucy playfulness, or breaking 
 forth with a fond impatience, or half betrayed in 
 that beautiful scene where she faints at the sight 
 
114 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 of his 'kerchief stained with his blood ! Here her 
 recovery of her self-possession — her fears lest she 
 should have revealed her sex — her presence of 
 mind, and quick-witted excuse — 
 
 I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited — 
 
 and the characteristic playfulness which seems to 
 return so naturally with her recovered senses, — 
 are all as amusing as consistent. Then how beauti- 
 fully is the dialogue managed between herself and 
 Orlando ! how well she assumes the airs of a saucy 
 page, without throwing off her feminine sweetness ! 
 How her wit flutters free as air over every sub- 
 ject ! With what a careless grace, yet with what 
 exquisite propriety ! 
 
 For innocence hath a privilege in her 
 To dignify arch jests and laughing eyes. 
 
 And if the freedom of some of the expressions 
 used by Rosalind or Beatrice be objected to, let 
 it be remembered that this was not the fault of 
 Shakspeare or the women, but generally of the 
 age. Portia, Beatrice, Rosalind, and the rest, 
 lived in times when more importance was attached 
 to things than to words; now we think more of 
 words than of things ; and happy are we in these 
 later days of super-refinement, if we are to be 
 saved by our verbal morality. But this is med- 
 dling with the province of the melancholy Jaques, 
 and our argument is Rosalind. 
 
 The impression left upon our hearts and minda 
 
ROSALIXD. 115 
 
 by the character of Rosalind — by the mixture 
 of playfulness, sensibility, and what the French 
 (and we for lack of a better expression) call nai- 
 vete — is like a delicious strain of music. There is 
 a depth of delight, and a subtlety of words to ex- 
 press that dehght, which is enchanting. Yet when 
 we call to mind particular speeches and passages, 
 we find that they have a relative beauty and pro- 
 priety, which renders it difficult to separate them 
 from the context without injuring their efiect. 
 She says some of the most charming things in the 
 world, and some of the most humorous : but we 
 apply them as pkrases rather than as maxims, and 
 remember them rather for their pointed felicity of 
 expression and fanciful application, than for their 
 general truth and depth of meaning. I will give a 
 few instances : — 
 
 I was never so bc-rhymed since Pythagoras' time — ^that 
 I was an Iinsh rat — which I can hardly remember.* 
 
 Good, my complexion ! Dost thou think, thougli I am 
 caparisoned like a man, that I have a doublet and hoso 
 in my disposition ? 
 
 We dwell here in the skirts of the forest, like Muge 
 upon a petticoat. 
 
 * In Sbakspeare's time, there were people in Ireland, (there 
 may be so still, for aught I know,) who undertook to charm ratd 
 to death, by chanting certain Terses which acted as a spell. 
 "Rhyme them to death, as they do rats in Ireland," is a lino 
 in one of Ben Jonson's comedies ; this will explain Rosalind'8 
 humorous allusion. 
 
116 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 
 
 Love is merely a madness ; and, I tell you, deserves as 
 well a dark house and a whip as madmen do ; and the 
 reason why they are not so punished and cured is, that 
 the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love 
 too. 
 
 A traveller ! By my faith you have great reason to be 
 sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other 
 men's; then to have seen much and to have nothing, is to 
 have rich eyes and poor hands. 
 
 Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look you lisp, and 
 wear strange suits ; disable all the benefits of your own 
 country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost 
 chide God for making you that countenance you are ; or 
 I wiU scarce think you have swam in a gondola. 
 
 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 clapp'd him o' the 
 shoulder, but I warrant him heart-whole. 
 
 Men have died from time to time, and worms have 
 eaten them — ^but not for love. 
 
 I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's appai-el, 
 and to cry like a woman ; but I must comfort the weaker 
 vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself coura- 
 geous to petticoat. 
 
 Rosalind has not the impressive eloquence of 
 Portia, nor the sweet wisdom of Isabella. Her 
 longest speeches are not her best ; nor is her taunt- 
 ing address to Phebe, beautiful and celebrated as 
 
ROSALIND. 117 
 
 it is, equal to Phebe's own description of her. Tlie 
 latter, indeed, is more in earnest.* 
 
 Celia is more quiet and retired : but she rather 
 yields to Rosalind, than is eclipsed by her. She is 
 as full of sweetness, kindness, and intelligence, 
 quite as susceptible, and almost as witty, though 
 she makes less display of wit. ^he is described as 
 less fair and less gifted ; yet the attempt to excite 
 in her mind a jealousy of her loveUer friend, by 
 placing them in comparison — 
 
 Thou art a fool ; slie robs thee of thy name ; 
 
 And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more virtuous, 
 
 When she is gone — 
 
 fails to awaken in the generous heart of Celia any 
 other feeling than an increased tenderness and 
 sympathy for her cousin. To Celia, Shakspeare 
 has given some of the most striking and animated 
 parts of the dialogue ; and in particular, that ex- 
 quisite description of the friendship between her 
 and Rosalind — 
 
 If she be a traitor. 
 Why, so am I ; we have still slept together, 
 Kose at an instant, learned, played, eat together, 
 And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans. 
 Still Ave were coupled and inseparable. 
 
 * Rousseau could describe such a character as Rosalind, but 
 failed to represent it consistently. " N'est-ce pas dc ton coeur 
 que viennent Ics graces de ton eujouement? Tes railleries sent 
 des signes d'interet plus touchauts que les compliments d'un 
 autre. Tu caresses quand tu folutres. Tu ris, mais ton rire 
 p6n6tre I'aane ; tu ris, mais tu fais pleurer de tendresse. et je te 
 vois presque toujours s6rieuse avec les indiff^rents." — Heloise. 
 
118 --X!HARACTEIIS OP INTELLECT. 
 
 The feeling of interest and admiration thus ex- 
 cited for Cella at the first, follows her through the 
 whole play. We listen to her as to one who has 
 made herself worthy of our love ; and her silence 
 expresses more than eloquence. 
 
 Phebe is quite an Arcadian coquette ; she is a 
 piece of pastoral poetry. Audrey is only rustic. 
 A very amusing effect is produced by the contrast 
 between the frank and free bearing of the two 
 princesses in disguise, and the scornful airs of the 
 real Shepherdess. In the speeches of Phebe, and 
 in the dialogue between her and Sylvius, Shak- 
 speare has anticipated all the beauties of the Italian 
 pastoral, and surpassed Tasso and Guarini. We 
 find two among the most poetical passages of the 
 play appropriated to Phebe ; the taunting speech 
 to Sylvius, and the description of Rosahnd in her 
 page's costume ; — which last is finer than the por- 
 trait of BathyUus in Anacreon. 
 
CHARACTERS OF PASSION AND 
 IMAGINATION. 
 
 JULIET. . 
 
 O Love ! thou teacher ! — O Grief! thou tamer 
 — and Time, thou healer of human hearts ! — bring 
 hither all your deep and serious revelations ! — And 
 ye too, rich fancies of unbruised, unbowed youth — 
 ye visions of long perished hopes — shadows of un- 
 born joys — gay colorings of the dawn of existence ! 
 whatever memory hath treasured up of bright and 
 beautiful in nature or in art ; all soft and delicate 
 images — all lovely forms — divinest voices and en- 
 trancing melodies — gleams of sunnier skies and 
 fairer climes, — Italian moonlights and airs that 
 " breathe of the sweet south," — now, if it be pos- 
 sible, revive to my imagination — live once more to 
 my heart! Come, thronging around me, all inspi- 
 rations that wait on passion, on power, on beauty ; 
 give me to tread, not bold, and yet unblamed, 
 within the inmost sanctuary of Shakspeare's genius, 
 in Juliet's moonlight bower, and ]\Iiranda's en- 
 chanted isle ! 
 
120 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 It Is not without emotion, that I attempt to touch 
 on the character of Juliet. Such beautiful things 
 have already been said of her — only to be exceeded 
 in beauty by the subject that inspired them ! — It Is 
 impossible to say any thing better ; but it is possible 
 to say something more. Such in fact is the sim- 
 plicity, the truth, and the loveliness of Juliet's 
 character, that we are not at first aware of its com- 
 plexity, its depth, and its variety. There is in it 
 an intensity of passion, a singleness of purpose, an 
 entireness, a completeness of effect, which we feel 
 as a whole ; and to attempt to analyze the Impres- 
 sion thus conveyed at once to soul and sense, is as 
 if while hanging over a half-blown rose, and revel- 
 ling in its intoxicating perfume, we should pull it 
 asunder, leaflet by leaflet, the better to display Its 
 bloom and fragrance. Yet how otherwise should 
 we disclose the wonders of Its formation, or do 
 justice to the skill of the divine hand that hath 
 thus fashioned It in Its beauty ? 
 
 Love, as a passion, forms the groundwork of the 
 drama. Now, admitting the axiom of Rochefou- 
 cauld, that there Is but one love, though a thousand 
 different copies, yet the true sentiment Itself has as 
 many different aspects as the human soul of which 
 it forms a part. It is not only modified by the 
 individual character and temperament, but it is 
 under the Influence of climate and circumstance. 
 The love that is calm in one moment, shall show 
 itself vehement and tumultuous at another. The 
 love that is wild and passionate in the south. Is deep 
 
JULIET. 121 
 
 and contemplatiTe in the north ; as the Spanish or 
 Eoman girl perhaps poisons a rival, or stabs herself 
 for the sake of a living lover, and the German or 
 Russian girl pines into the grave for love of the 
 false, the absent, or the dead. Love is ardent or 
 deep, bold or timid, jealous or confiding, impatient 
 or humble, hopeful or desponding — and yet there 
 are not many loves, but one love. 
 
 All Shakspeare's women, being essentially 
 women, either love or have loved, or are capable of 
 loving ; but Juliet is love itself The passion is 
 her state of being, and out of it she has no exist- 
 ence. It is the soul within her soul; the pulse 
 within her heart; the life-blood along her veins, 
 " blending with every atom of her frame." The 
 love that is so chaste and dignified in Portia — so 
 airy-delicate and fearless in IMiranda — so sweetly 
 confiding in Pcrdita — so playfully fond in Rosalind 
 — so constant in Imogen — so devoted in Desde- 
 mona — so fervent in Helen- — so tender in Viola, — 
 is each and all of these in Juliet. All these remind 
 us of her ; but she reminds us of nothing but her 
 own sweet self; or if she does, it is of the Gismunda, 
 or the Lisetta, or the Fiammetta of Boccaccio, to 
 whom she is allied, not in the character or circum- 
 stances, but in the truly Itahan spirit, the glowing, 
 national complexion of the portrait.* 
 
 * Lord Byron remarked of the Italian women, (and he could 
 speak avec connaissance de /ait,) that they are the only women 
 in the world capable of impressions, at once very sudden and 
 very durable ; which, he adds, is to be found in no other nation. 
 
122 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 There Tvas an Italian painter who said that the 
 secret of all effect in color consisted in white upon 
 black, and black upon white. How perfectly did 
 Shakspeare understand this secret of effect ! and 
 how beautifully he has exemplified it in Juliet ? 
 
 So shows a snovry dove ti'ooping with crows, 
 As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows! 
 
 Thus she and her lover are in contrast with all 
 around them. They are all love, surrounded with 
 all hate ; all harmony, surrounded with all discord : 
 all pure nature, in the midst of polished and artifi- 
 cial life. Juliet, like Portia, is the foster child of 
 opulence and splendor ; she dwells in a fair city — 
 she has been nurtured in a palace — she clasps her 
 robe with jewels — she braids her hair with rainbow- 
 tinted pearls ; but in herself she has no more con- 
 nection with the trappings around her, than the 
 lovely exotic, transplanted from some Eden-like 
 climate, has with the carved and gilded conser- 
 vatory which has reared and sheltered its luxuriant 
 beauty. 
 
 But in this vivid impression of contrast, there is 
 nothing abrupt or harsh. A tissue of beautiful 
 
 Mr. Moore observes afterwards, how completely an Italian 
 woman, either from nature or her social position, is led to invert 
 the usual course of frailty among ourselves, and, weak in resist- 
 ing the first impulses of passion, to reserve the whole strength 
 of her character for a display of constancy and devotednesa 
 afterwards. — Both these traits of national character are exempli- 
 fied in Juliet.— JVIoore's Life of Byroji, vol. ii. pp. 303, 338. 4to 
 edit 
 
JULIET. 1 23 
 
 poetry weaves together the principal figures, and 
 the subordinate personages. The consistent truth 
 of the costume, and the exquisite gradations of re- 
 lief with which the most opposite hues are approx- 
 imated, blend all into harmony. Komeo and Juliet 
 are not poetical beings placed on a prosaic back- 
 ground; nor are they, like Thekla and Max in, 
 the Wallenstein, two angels of light amid the dark- 
 est and harshest, the most debased and revolting 
 aspects of humanity ; but every circumstance, and 
 every personage, and every shade of character in 
 each, tends to the development of the sentiment 
 which is the subject of the drama. The poetry, 
 too, the richest that can possibly be conceived, is 
 interftised through all the characters ; the splendid 
 imagery lavished upon all with the careless prodi- 
 gality of genius, and the whole is lighted up into 
 such a sunny brilliance of effect, as though Shak- 
 spcare had really transported himself into Italy, and 
 had drunk to intoxication of her genial atmos- 
 phere. How truly it has been said, that " although 
 Romeo and Juliet are in love, they are not love- 
 sick ! " What a false idea would anything of the 
 mere whining amoroso, give us of Romeo, such as 
 he really is in Shakspeare — the noble, gallant, 
 ardent, brave, and witty ! And Juliet — with even 
 less truth could the phrase or idea apply to her ! 
 The picture in " Twelfth Night " of the wan girl 
 dying of love, " who pined in thought, and with a 
 green and yellow melancholy," would never surely 
 occur to us, when thinking on the enamored and 
 
124 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 impassioned Juliet, in wliose bosom love keeps a 
 fiery vigil, kindling tenderness into enthusiasm, 
 enthusiasm into passion, passion into heroism ! No, 
 the whole sentiment of the play is of a far difierent 
 cast. It is flushed with the genial spirit of the south : 
 it tastes of youth, and of the essence of youth ; of 
 ♦life, and of the very sap of life.* We have indeed 
 the struggle of love against evil destinies, and a 
 thorny world ; the pain, the grief, the anguish, the 
 terror, the despair; the aching adieu; the pang 
 unutterable of parted affection ; and rapture, truth, 
 and tenderness trampled into an early grave : but 
 still an Elysian grace lingers round the whole, and 
 the blue sky of Italy bends over all ! 
 
 In the dehneation of that sentiment which forms 
 the groundwork of the drama, nothing in fact can 
 equal the power of the picture, but its inexpressible 
 sweetness and its perfect grace : the passion which 
 has taken possession of Juliet's whole soul, has the 
 force, the rapidity, the resistless violence of the tor- 
 rent : but she is herself as " moving delicate," as 
 fair, as soft, as flexible as the willow that bends 
 over it, whose light leaves tremble even with the 
 motion of the current which hurries beneath them. 
 But at the same time that the pervading sentiment 
 is never lost sight of, and is one and the same 
 throughout, the individual part of the character in 
 all its variety is developed, and marked with the 
 nicest discrimination. For instance, — the simplicity 
 
 * La seve dt la vie., is an expression used somewhere by Ma- 
 dame de Stael. 
 
JULIET. 125 
 
 of Juliet is very different from the simplicity of 
 Miranda : her innocence is not the innocence of a 
 desert island. The energy she displays does not 
 once renund us of the moral grandeur of Isabel, or 
 the intellectual power of Portia ; — it is founded in 
 the strength of passion, not in the strength of char- 
 acter : — it is acciderrtal rather than inherent, rising 
 with the tide of feeling or temper, and with it sub- 
 siding. Her romance is not the pastoral romance 
 of Perdita, nor the fanciful romance of Viola ; it is 
 the romance of a tender heart and a poetical imag- 
 ination. Her inexperience is not ignorance : she 
 has heard that there is such a thing as falsehood, 
 though she can scarcely conceive it. Her mother 
 and her nurse have perhaps warned her against 
 flattering vows and man's inconstancy ; or she has 
 even 
 
 Turned the tale by Ariosto told, 
 
 Of fan- Olympia, loved and left, of old ! 
 
 Hence that bashful doubt, dispelled almost as soon 
 as felt — 
 
 Ah, gentle Romeo ! 
 If thou dost love, pronounce it faitlifully. 
 
 That conscious shrinking from her own confes- 
 sion — 
 
 Fain would I dwell on form ; fain, fain deny 
 What I have spoke ! 
 
 The ingenuous simplicity of her avowal — 
 
126 CHAEACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 Or if thou tliink'st I am too quickly won, 
 
 I'll frowu, and be perverse, and say thee nay, 
 
 So thou wilt woo — but else, not for the woi'ld ! 
 
 In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond. 
 
 And therefore thou may'st tlamk my 'havior light, 
 
 But tnist me, gentleman, I'll prove more ti-ue 
 
 Than those who have more cunning to be strange. 
 
 And the proud yet timid delicacy, with which she 
 throws herself for forbearance and pardon upon 
 the tenderness of him she loves, even for the love 
 she bears him — 
 
 Therefore pardon me. 
 And not impute this yielding to light love. 
 Which the dark night hath so discovered. 
 
 In the alternative, which she afterwards places 
 before her lover with such a charming mixture of 
 conscious delicacy and girlish simplicity, there is 
 that jealousy of female honor which precept and 
 education have infused into her mind, without one 
 real doubt of his truth, or the slightest hesitation in 
 her self-abandonment : for she does not even wait 
 to hear his asseverations ; — 
 
 But if thou mean'st not well, I do beseech thee 
 To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief. 
 
 BOMEO. 
 
 So thrive my soul 
 
 JULIET. 
 
 A thousand times, good night ! 
 
JULIET. 127 
 
 But all these flutterings between native impulses 
 and maiden fears become gradually absorbed, swept 
 away, lost, and swallowed up in the depth and en- 
 thusiasm of confiding love. 
 
 My bounty is as boundless as the sea, 
 My love as deep ; the more I give to you 
 The more I have — for both are injinite! 
 
 What a picture of the young heart, that sees no 
 bound to its hopes, no end to its affections ! For 
 " what was to hinder the thrilling tide of pleasure 
 ■which had just gushed from her heart, from flow- 
 ing on without stint or measure, but experiencp, 
 which she was yet without ? What was to abate 
 the transport of the first sweet sense of pleasure 
 which her heart had just tasted, but indifference, 
 to which she was yet a stranger ? What was there 
 to check the ardor of hope, of faith, of constancy, 
 just rising in her breast, but disappointment, which 
 she had never yet felt ? " * 
 
 Lord Byron's Haidee is a copy of Juhet in the 
 Oriental costume, but tlie development is epic, not 
 dramatic .f 
 
 * Characters of Shakspeare's Plays. 
 
 t I must allude, but >vith reluctauce, to another character, 
 which I have heard likened to Juliet, and often quoted as the 
 heroine par excellence of amatory fiction — I mean the Julie of 
 Rousseau's NouTclIe HeloYsc ; I protest against her altogether. 
 As a creation of fancy the portrait is a compound of the most 
 gross and glaring incousL^itcncies ; as false and impossible to the 
 rctlcctitig and philosophical mind, as the fiibled Syrens, Hama- 
 dryads and Centaurs to the eye of the anatomist. As a woman, 
 
128 CHAKACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 I remember no dramatic character, conveying 
 the same impression of singleness of purpose, and 
 devotion of heart and soul, except the Thekla of 
 Schiller's Wallenstein ; she is the German Juliet ; 
 far unequal, indeed, but conceived, nevertheless, in 
 a kindred spirit. I know not if critics have ever 
 compared them, or whether Schiller is supposed to 
 have had the English, or rather the Italian, Juliet 
 in his fancy when he portrayed Thekla ; but there 
 arc some striking points of coincidence, while the 
 national distinction in the character of the passion 
 leaves to Thekla a strong cast of originality.* The 
 
 Julie belongs neither to nature nor to artificial society; and if 
 the pages of melting and dazzling eloquence in which Rousseau 
 has garnished out his idol did not blind and intoxicate us, as the 
 incense and the garlands did the votaries of Isis, we should be 
 disgusted. Rousseau, haying composed his Julie of the com- 
 monest clay of the earth, does not animate her with fire from 
 heaven, but breathes his own spirit into her, and then calls the 
 " impetticoated " paradox a tooman. He makes her a peg on 
 which to hang his own visions and sentiments — and what senti- 
 ments I but that I fear to soil my pages, I would pick out a few 
 of them, and show the difference between this strange combina- 
 tion of youth and innocence, philosophy and pedantry, sophist- 
 ical prudery, and detestable grossicrete^ and our own Juliet. 
 No ! if we seek a French Juliet, we must go far — far back to the 
 real HeloYse, to her eloquence, her sensibility, her fervor of pas- 
 sion, her devotedness of truth. She, at least, married the man 
 she loved, and loved the man she married, and more than died 
 for him; but enough of both. 
 * B. Constant describes her beautifully — " Sa voix si douce au 
 travera le bruit des armes, sa forme delicate au milieu de ces 
 hommes tous converts de fer, la purete de son amc opposee ^ 
 leurs calculs avides, son calmc celeste qui contrasto avec leurs 
 agitations, remplisseat le spoctatcur d'une emotion constante et 
 melancolique, telle que ne la fiiit ressentir nville tragedie ordi- 
 naire." 
 
JULIET. 129 
 
 Princess Thckla is, like Juliet, the heiress of rank 
 and opulence ; her first introduction to us, in her 
 full dress and diamonds, does not impair the im- 
 pression of her softness and simplicity. We do 
 not think of them, nor do we sympathize with the 
 complaint of her lover, — 
 
 The dazzle of the jewels which played round you 
 Hid the beloved from me. 
 
 We almost feel the reply of Thekla before she* 
 titters it, — 
 
 Then you saw me 
 Not with your heart, but with your eyes ! 
 
 The timidity of Thekla in her first scene, her 
 trembling silence in the commencement, and the 
 few words she addresses to her mother, remind us of 
 the unobtrusive simplicity of Juliet's first appear- 
 ance ; but the impression is difi'erent ; the one is 
 the shrinking violet, the other the un expanded 
 rose-bud. Thekla and Max Piccolomini are, like 
 Romeo and Juliet, divided by the hatred of their 
 fathers. The death of Max, and the resolute des- 
 pair of Thekla, are also points of resemblance ; and 
 Thekla's complete devotion, her frank yet dignified 
 abandonment of all disguise, and her apology for 
 her own unreserve, are quite in JuHet's style, — 
 
 I ought to be less open, ought to hide 
 My heart more ft-om thee — so decorum dictates : 
 But where in this place wouldst thou seek for trutlT, 
 If in my mouth thou didst not find it ? 
 9 
 
130 CHARACTERS OF PASSIOJ^", ETC. 
 
 The same confidence, innocence, and fervor of 
 affection, distinguish both heroines ; but the love 
 of Juliet is more vehement, the love of Thekla is 
 more calm, and reposes more on itself; the love of 
 Juliet gives us the idea of infinitude, and that of 
 Thekla of eternity : the love of Juliet flows on with 
 an increasing tide, like the river pouring to the 
 ocean ; and the love of Thekla stands unalterable, 
 and enduring as the rock. In the heart of Thekla 
 love shelters as in a home ; but in the heart of 
 Juliet he reigns a crowned king, — " he rides on its 
 pants triumphant ! " As women, they would divide 
 the loves and suffrages of mankind, but not as 
 dramatic characters : the moment we come to look 
 nearer, we acknowledge that it is indeed " rash- 
 ness and ignorance to compare Schiller with Shak- 
 speare."* Thekla is a fine conception in the 
 German spirit, but Juliet is a lovely and palpable 
 creation. The coloring in which Schiller has ar- 
 rayed his Thekla is pale, sombre, vague, compared 
 with the strong individual marking, the rich glow 
 of life and reality, which distinguish Juliet. One 
 contrast in particular has always struck me ; the 
 two beautiful speeches in the first interview be- 
 tween Max and Thekla, that in which she describes 
 her father's astrological chamber, and that in which 
 he replies with reflections on the influence of the 
 stars, are said to " form in themselves a fine poem." 
 They do so; but never would Shakspeare have 
 
 * Coleridge— preface to Wallenstein. 
 
JULIET. 131 
 
 placed such extraneous description and reflection 
 in the mouths of Ms lovers. Romeo and Juliet 
 speak of themselves only ; they see only themselves 
 in the universe, all things else are as an idle mat- 
 ter. Not a word they utter, though every word is 
 poetay — not a sentiment or description, though 
 dressed in the most luxuriant imagery, but has a 
 direct relation to themselves, or to the situation in 
 which they are placed, and the feehngs that en- 
 gross them : and besides, it may be remarked of 
 Thekla, and generally of all tragedy heroines in 
 love, that, however beautifully and distinctly char- 
 acterized, we see the passion only under one or 
 two aspects at most, or in conflict with some one 
 circumstance or contending duty or feeling. In 
 Juliet alone we find it exhibited under every 
 variety of aspect, and every gradation of feeling 
 it could possibly assume in a delicate female 
 heart : as we see the rose, when passed through 
 the colors of the prism, catch and reflect every 
 tint of the divided ray, and still it is the same 
 sweet rose. 
 
 I have already remarked the quiet manner in 
 which Juliet steals upon us in her first scene, as 
 tlie serene, graceful girl, her feelings as yet un- 
 awakened, and her energies all unknown to her- 
 self, and unsuspected by others. Her silence and 
 her filial deference are charming : — 
 
 I'll look to like, if looking liking move; 
 But no more deep will I endart mine eye. 
 Than yoar consent shall give it strength to fly. 
 
132 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC 
 
 Much in the same unconscious way we are im- 
 pressed with an idea of her excelling loveliness : — 
 
 Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear ! 
 
 and which could make the dark vault of death " a 
 feasting presence full of light." Without any 
 elaborate description, we behold Juliet, as she is 
 reflected in the heart of her lover, like a single 
 bright star mirrored in the bosom of a deep, trans- 
 parent well. The rapture with which he dwells 
 on the " white wonder of her hand ; " on her lips, 
 That even in pure and vestal modesty 
 Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin. 
 And then her eyes, " two of the fairest stars in 
 all the heavens ! " In his exclamation in the 
 sepulchre. 
 
 Ah, dear Juliet, why art thou yet so fair ! 
 there is life and death, beauty and horror, rapture 
 and anguish combined. The Friar's description of 
 
 her approach, 
 
 0, so light a step 
 Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint! 
 
 and then her father's similitude. 
 
 Death lies on her, like an untimely frost 
 Upon the sweetest flower of all the field; — 
 all these mingle into a beautiful picture of youth- 
 ful, airy, deUcate grace, feminine sweetness, and 
 patrician elegance. 
 
 And our impression of Juliet's loveliness and 
 sensibiHty is enhanced, when we find it overcom- 
 ing in the bosom of Romeo a previous love for 
 
JULIET. 133 
 
 another. His visionary passion for the cold, inac- 
 cessible Rosaline, forms but the prologue, the 
 threshold, to the true — the real sentiment which 
 succeeds to it. This incident, which is found in 
 the original story, has been retained by Shakspeare 
 with equal feehng and judgment; and far from 
 being a fault in taste and sentiment, far from pre- 
 judicing us against Romeo, by casting on him, at 
 the outset of the piece, the stigma of inconstancy, 
 it becomes, if properly considered, a beauty in the 
 drama, and adds a fresh stroke of truth to the por- 
 trait of the lover. Why, after all, should we be 
 offended at what does not offend JuUet herself? 
 for in the original story we find that her attention 
 is first attracted towards Romeo, by seeing him 
 " fancy sick and pale of cheer," for love of a cold 
 beauty. We must remember that in those times 
 every young cavalier of any distinction devoted 
 himself, at his first entrance into the world, to the 
 service of some fair lady, who was selected to be 
 his fancy's queen ; and the more rigorous the 
 beauty, and the more hopeless the love, the more 
 honorable the slavery. To go about "metamor- 
 phosed by a mistress," as Speed hmnorously ex- 
 presses it,* — to maintain her supremacy in charms 
 at the sword's point ; to sigh ; to walk with folded 
 arms ; to be negligent and melancholy, and to show 
 a careless desolation, was the fashion of the day. 
 The Surreys, the Sydneys, the Bayards, the Her- 
 berts of the time — all those who were the mirrors 
 * In the " Two Gentlemen of Verona." 
 
131 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 " in which the noble youth did dress themselves," 
 ■were of this fantastic school of gallantry — the last 
 remains of the age of chivalry ; and it was especially 
 prevalent in Italy. Shakspeare has ridiculed it in 
 many places with exquisite humor ; but he wished 
 to show us that it has its serious as well as its comic 
 aspect. Romeo, then, is introduced to us with 
 perfect truth of costume, as the thrall of a dream- 
 ing, fanciful passion for the scornful Rosaline, who 
 had forsworn to love ; and on her charms and 
 coldness, and on the power of love generally, he 
 descants to his companions in pretty phrases, quite 
 in the style and taste of the day.* 
 
 Why then, brawling love, loving hate, 
 any thing, of nothing first create ! 
 heavy lightness, serious vanity, 
 Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms ! 
 
 Love is-a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; 
 Being pnrg'd, a fire sparkling in lover's eyes; 
 Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lover's tears. 
 
 * There is an allusion to this court language of love in "All's 
 "Well that Ends Well," where Helena says,— 
 
 There shall your master have a thousand loves — 
 
 A guide, a goddess, and a sorereign; 
 
 A counsellor, a traitress, aud a dear. 
 
 His humble ambition, proud humility. 
 
 His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet, 
 
 His faith, his sweet disaster, with a world 
 
 Of pretty fond adoptions Christendoms 
 
 That blinlcing Cupid gossips.— Act i. Scene 1 
 The courtly poets of Elizabeth's time, who copied the Italian 
 Bonnetteers of the sixteenth century, are fuU of these quaini 
 conceits. 
 
JULIET. 135 
 
 But when once he has beheld Juliet, and quaffed 
 intoxicating draughts of hope and love from her 
 soft glance, how all these airy fancies fade before 
 the soul-absorbing reality ! The lambent fire that 
 played round his heart, burns to that heart's very 
 core. We no longer find him adorning his lamen- 
 tations in picked phrases, or making a confidant of 
 his gay companions : he is no longer " for the 
 numbers that Petrarch flowed in ; " but all is con- 
 secrated, earnest, rapturous, in the feeling and the 
 expression. Compare, for instance, the sparkling 
 antithetical passages just quoted, with one or two 
 of his passionate speeches to or of Juliet : — 
 
 Heaven is here, 
 Where Juliet lives ! &c. 
 
 Ah Juliet ! if the measure of thy joy 
 Be heaped like mine, and that thy skill be more 
 To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath 
 This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue 
 Unfold the imagin'd happiness, that both 
 Receive in either by this dear encounter. 
 
 Come what sorrow may. 
 
 It cannot countervail the exchange of joy 
 
 That one short minute gives me in her sight. 
 
 How different ! and how finely the distinction is 
 drawn ! His first passion is indulged as a waking 
 dream, a reverie of the fancy ; it is depressing, in- 
 dolent, fantastic ; his second elevates him to the 
 third heaven, or hurries him to despair. It rushes 
 
136 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 to its object through all impediments, defies all 
 dangers, and seeks at last a triumphant grave, in 
 the arms of her he so loved. Thus Romeo's pre- 
 vious attachment to Rosaline is so contrived as to 
 exhibit to us another variety in that passion, which 
 is the subject of the poem, by showing us the dis- 
 tinction between the fancied and the real sentiment. 
 It adds a deeper effect to the beauty of Juliet ; it 
 interests us in the commencement for the tender 
 and romantic Romeo ; and gives an individual real- 
 ity to his character, by stamping him like an 
 historical, as well as a dramatic portrait, with the 
 very spirit of the age in which he lived.* 
 
 It may be remarked of Juliet as of Portia, that 
 we not only trace the component qualities in each 
 as they expand before us in the course of the ac- 
 tion, but we seem to have known them previously, 
 and mingle a consciousness of their past, with the 
 interest of their present and their future. Thus, 
 in the dialogue between Juliet and her parents, 
 and in the scenes with the Nurse, we seem to have 
 before us the whole of her previous education and 
 habits : we see her, on the one hand, kept in severe 
 subjection by her austere parents ; and on the 
 other, fondled and spoiled by a foolish old nurse — 
 a situation perfectly accordant with the manners of 
 the time. Then Lady Capulet comes sweeping by 
 with her train of velvet, her black hood, her fan, 
 
 * Since this was written, I have met with some remarks of a 
 similar tendency in that most interesting book, " The Life of 
 Lord E. Fitzgerald." 
 
JULIET. 137 
 
 and her rosary — the very heau-ideal of a proud 
 Italian matron of the fifteenth century, whose offer 
 to poison Komeo in revenge for the death of Ty- 
 balt, stamps her with one very characteristic trait 
 of the age and country. Yet she loves her daugh- 
 ter \ and there is a touch of remorseful tenderness 
 in her lamentation over her, which adds to our im- 
 pression of the timid softness of Juliet, and the 
 harsh subjection in which she has been kept : — 
 
 But one, poor one ! — one poor and loving child, 
 
 But one thing to rejoice and solace in. 
 
 And ci-uel death hath catched it from my sight ! 
 
 Capulet, as the jovial, testy old man, the self- 
 willed, violent, tyrannical father, — to whom his 
 daughter is but a property, the appanage of his 
 house, and the object of his pride, — is equal as a 
 portrait : but both must yield to the Nurse, who is 
 drawn with the most wonderful power and discrim- 
 ination. In the prosaic homeliness of the outline, 
 and the magical illusion of the coloring, she reminds 
 us of some of the marvellous Dutch paintings, from 
 which, with all their coarseness, we start back as 
 from a reality. Her low humor, her shallow gar- 
 rulity, mixed with the dotage and petulance of age 
 — her subserviency, her secrecy, and her total want 
 of elevated principle, or even common honesty — 
 are brought before us like a living and palpable 
 truth. 
 
 Among these harsh and inferior spiiits is Juliet 
 placed; her haughty parents, and her plebeian 
 
138 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 nurse, not only throw into beautiful relief her own 
 native softness and elegance, but are at once the 
 cause and the excuse of her subsequent conduct. 
 She trembles before her stern mother and her 
 violent father : but, like a petted child, alternately 
 cajoles and commands' her nurse. It is her old 
 foster-mother who is the confidante of her love. It 
 is the woman who cherished her infancy, who aids 
 and abets her in her clandestine marriage. Do we 
 not perceive how immediately our impression of 
 Juliet's character would have been lowered, if 
 Shakspeare had placed her in connection ^\ith any 
 common-place dramatic waiting-woman ? — even 
 with Portia's adroit Nerissa, or Desdemona's 
 Emilia ? By giving her the Nurse for her con- 
 fidante, the sweetness and dignity of Juliet's char- 
 acter are preserved inviolate to the fancy, even in 
 the midst of all the romance and wilfulness of pas- 
 sion. 
 
 The natural result of these extremes of subjec- 
 tion and independence, is exhibited in the char- 
 acter of Juliet, as it gradually opens upon us. We 
 behold it in the mixture of self-will and timidity, of 
 strength and weakness, of Confidence and reserve, 
 which are developed as the action of the play pro- 
 ceeds. We see it in the fond eagerness of the in- 
 dulged girl, for whose impatience the " nimblest of 
 the lightning- winged loves " had been too slow a 
 messenger ; in her petulance with her nurse ; in 
 those bursts of vehement feeling, which prepare us 
 for the climax of passion at the catastrophe ; in her 
 
139 
 
 invectives against Roraco, "when she hears of the 
 death of Tybalt ; in her indignation when the nurse 
 echoes those reproaches, and the rising of her 
 temper against unwonted contradiction : — 
 
 NURSE. 
 
 Shame come to Eomeo ! 
 
 JULIET. 
 
 Blistered be thy tongue, 
 For such a wish ! he was not born to shame. 
 
 Then comes that revulsion of strong feeling, that 
 burst of magnificent exultation in the virtue and 
 honor of her lover : — 
 
 Upon )iis brow Shame is ashamed to sit, 
 
 For 'tis a throne where Honor may be crown'd 
 
 Sole monarch of the universal earth ! 
 
 And this, by one of those quick transitions of 
 feeling which belong to the character, is immediate- 
 ly succeeded by a gush of tenderness and self- 
 reproach — 
 
 All, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name, 
 When I, thy three-hours' wife, have mangled it ? 
 
 With the same admirable truth of nature, Juliet 
 is represented as at first bewildered by the fearful 
 destiny that closes round her ; reverse is new and 
 terrible to one nursed in the lap of luxury, and 
 whose energies arc yet untried. 
 
140 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems 
 Upon so soft a subject as myself. 
 
 While a stay remains to her amid the evils that 
 encompass her, she clings to it. She appeals to her 
 father — to her mother — 
 
 Good father, I beseech you on my knees, 
 Hear me with patience but to speak one word ! 
 
 ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 Ah, sweet my mother, cast me not away ! 
 Delay this marriage for a month, — a week ! 
 
 And, rejected by both, she throws herself upon 
 lier nurse in all the helplessness of anguish,' of con- 
 fiding affection, of habitual dependence — 
 
 God! nurse! how shall this be prevented? 
 Some comfort, nurse ! 
 
 The old woman, true to her vocation, and fear- 
 ful lest her share in these events should be dis- 
 covered, counsels her to forget Romeo and marry 
 Paris ; and the moment which unveils to Juliet the 
 weakness and baseness of her confidante, is the 
 moment which reveals her to herself She does 
 not break into upbraidings; it is no moment for 
 anger ; it is incredulous amazement, succeeded by 
 the extremity of scorn and abhorrence, which take 
 possession of her mind. She assumes at once and 
 asserts all her own superiority, and rises to majesty 
 in the strength of her despair. 
 
JULIET. 141 
 
 JULIET. 
 
 Speakest tliou from thy heart ? 
 
 NURSE. 
 
 Aye, and from my soul too; — or else 
 Beshrew them both ! 
 
 JULIET. 
 
 Amen ! 
 
 This final severing of all the old familiar ties of 
 her childhood — 
 
 Go, counsellor! 
 Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain ! 
 
 and the calm, concentrated force of her resolve, 
 
 If all else fail, — myself have power to die ; 
 
 have a sublime pathos. It appears to me also an 
 admirable touch of nature, considering the master- 
 passion which, at this moment, rules in Juliet's soul, 
 that she is as much shocked by the nurse's dispraise 
 of her lover, as by her wicked, time-serving ad- 
 vice. 
 
 This scene is the crisis in the character ; and 
 henceforth we see Juliet assume a new aspect. The 
 fond, impatient, timid girl, puts on the wife and the 
 ■woman : she has learned heroism from suifering, 
 and subtlety from oppression. It is idle to criticize 
 her dissembling submission to her father and 
 mother; a higher duty has taken place of that 
 which she owed to them ; a more sacred tie has 
 severed all others. Her parents are pictured as 
 
142 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 tliey are, that no feeling for them may interfere in 
 the slightest degree with our sympathy for the 
 lovers. In the mind of Juliet there is no struggle 
 between her filial and her conjugal duties, and 
 there ought to be none. The Friar, her spiritual 
 director, dismisses her with these instructions : — 
 
 Go home, — be merry, — ^give consent 
 To marry Paris ; 
 
 and she obeys him. Death and suffering in every 
 horrid form she is ready to brave, without fear or 
 doubt, " to live an unstained wife : " and the artifice 
 to which she has recourse, which she is even in- 
 structed to use, in no respect impairs the beauty of 
 the character; we regard it with pain and pity; 
 but excuse it, as the natural and inevitable conse- 
 quence of the situation in which she is placed. Nor 
 should we forget, that the dissimulation, as well as 
 the courage of Juliet, though they spring from pas- 
 sion, are justified by principle : — 
 
 My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven ; 
 How shall my faith return again to earth, 
 Unless that husband send it me from heaven? 
 
 In her successive appeals to her father, her 
 mother, her nurse, and the Friar, she seeks those 
 remedies which would first suggest themselves to a 
 gentle and virtuous nature, and grasps her dagger 
 only as the last resource agciinst dishonor and 
 violated faith ; — 
 
JULIET. 143 
 
 God join'd my heart with Romeo's, — thou our hands. 
 
 And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo seal'd, 
 
 Shall be the label to another deed, 
 
 Or my tnie heai-t with treacherous revolt 
 
 Turn to another, — ilds shall slay them both! 
 
 Thus, in the very tempest and whirlwind of pas- 
 sion and terror, preserving, to a certain degree, 
 that moral and feminine dignity which harmonizes 
 with our best feelings, and commands our unre- 
 proved sympathy. 
 
 I reserve my remarks on the catastrophe, which 
 demands separate consideration ; and return to 
 trace from the opening, another and distinguishing 
 ti*ait in Juliet's character. 
 
 In the extreme vivacity of her imagination, and 
 its influence upon the action, the language, the 
 sentiments of the drama, JuHet resembles Portia ; 
 but with this striking difference. In Portia, the 
 imaginative power, though, developed in a high 
 degree, is so equally blended with the other intel- 
 lectual and moral faculties, that it does not give us 
 the idea of excess. It is subject to her nobler 
 reason ; it adorns and heightens all her feelings ; it 
 does not overwhelm or mislead them. In Juliet, it 
 is rather a part of her southern temperament, con- 
 trolling and modifying the rest of her character ; 
 springing from her sensibility, humed along by 
 her passions, animating her joys, darkening her 
 sorrows, exaggerating her terrors, and, in the end, 
 overpowering her reason. With Juliet, imagina- 
 tion is, in the first instance, if not the source, the 
 
144 CHARACTERS OP PASSION, ETC. 
 
 medium of passion ; and passion again kindles her 
 imagination. It is through the power of imagina- 
 tion that the eloquence of Juliet is so vividly 
 poetical ; that every feeling, every sentiment comes> 
 to her, clothed in the richest imagery, and is thus 
 reflected from her mind to ours. The poetry is not 
 here the mere adornment, the outward garnishing 
 of the character ; but its result, or rather blended 
 with its essence. It is indivisible from it, and inter- 
 fused through it like moonlight through the summer 
 air. To particularize is almost impossible, since 
 the whole of the dialogue appropriated to Juliet is 
 one rich stream of imagery : she speaks in pictures • 
 and sometimes they are crowded one upon another ; 
 — thus in the balcony scene — 
 
 I have no joy of this contract to-night: 
 It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, 
 Too like the lightning which doth cease to be 
 Ere one can say it lightens. 
 
 This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, 
 May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. 
 
 Again, 
 
 for a falconer's voice 
 To lure this tassel-gentle back again ! 
 Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud, 
 Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies. 
 And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine 
 With repetition of my Romeo's name. 
 
 Here there are three Images in the course of six 
 
145 
 
 lines. In the same scene, the speech of twenty- 
 two lines, beginning, 
 
 Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face, 
 
 contains but one figurative expression, the mask of 
 night; and every one reading this speech with the 
 context, must have felt the peculiar propriety of its 
 simplicity, though perhaps without examining the 
 cause of an omission which certainly is not for- 
 tuitous. The reason lies in the situation and in 
 the feeling of the moment ; where confusion, and 
 anxiety, and earnest self-defence predominate, the 
 excitability and play of the imagination would be 
 checked and subdued for the time. 
 
 In the soHloquy of the second act, where she is 
 chiding at the nurse's delay ; — 
 
 she is lame ! Love's hei-alds should be thoughts, 
 That ten times faster glide than the sun's beams, 
 Driving back shadows over low'ring hiUs: 
 Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love, 
 And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings ! 
 
 How beautiful ! how the lines mount and float 
 responsive to tlie sense ! She goes on — 
 
 Had she affections, and warm youthful blood, 
 She'd be as swift in motion as a ball; 
 My words should bandy her to my sweet love, 
 And his to me ! 
 
 The famous soliloquy, " Gallop apace, ye fiery- 
 footed steeds," teems with luxuriant imagery. The 
 fond adjuration, " Come night ! come Romeo ! covie 
 10 
 
146 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 thou day in night ! " expresses that fulness of en- 
 thusiastic admiration for her lover, which possesses 
 her whole soul; but expresses it as only Juhet 
 could or would have expressed it, — in a bold and 
 beautiful metaphor. Let it be remembered, that, in 
 this speech, Juliet is not supposed to be addressing 
 an audience, nor even a confidante ; and I confess 
 I have been shocked at the utter want of taste and 
 refinement in those who, with coarse derision, or 
 in a spirit of prudery, yet more gross and perverse, 
 have dared to comment on this beautiful " Hymn 
 to the Night," breathed out by Juliet in the silence 
 and solitude of her chamber. She is thinking 
 aloud ; it is the young heart " triumphing to itself 
 in words." In the midst of all the vehemence with 
 which she calls upon the night to bring Romeo to 
 her arms, there is something so almost infantine in 
 her perfect simpHcity, so playful and fantastic in 
 the imagery and language, that the charm of sen- 
 timent and innocence is thrown over the whole ; 
 and her impatience, to use her own expression, is 
 truly that of " a child before a festival, that hath 
 new robes and may not wear them." It is at the 
 very moment too that her whole heart and fancy 
 are abandoned to blissful anticipation, that the 
 nurse enters with the news of Romeo's banishment ; 
 and the immediate transition from rapture to de- 
 spair has a most powerful effect. 
 
 It is the same shaping spirit of imagination which, 
 in the scene with the Friar, heaps together all im- 
 ages of horror that ever hung upon a troubled 
 dream. 
 
JULIET. 147 
 
 bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, 
 From off the battlements of yonder tower. 
 Or walk in thievish ways ; or bid me lurk 
 Whore sei-pents are — chain me with roaring bears, 
 Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house 
 O'ercovered quite with dead men's rattling bones; 
 Or bid me go into a new made grave; 
 Or hide me with a dead man in his shroud ; — 
 Things that to hoar them told have made me tremble ! 
 
 But she inimediately adds, — 
 
 And I wiU do it without fear or doubt. 
 
 To live an unstained wife to my sweet love ! 
 
 In the scene where she drinks the sleeping po- 
 tion, although her spirit does not quail, nor her de- 
 termination falter for an instant, her vivid fancy 
 conjures up one terrible apprehension after another, 
 till gradually, and most naturally in such a mind 
 once thrown off its poise, the horror rises to frenzy 
 — her imagination realizes its own hideous crea- 
 tions, and she sees her cousin Tybalt's ghost. * 
 
 In particular passages this luxuriance of fancy 
 may seem to wander into excess. For instance, — 
 
 serpent heart, hid with a flowery face! 
 Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? 
 Beautiful tyrant ! fiend angelical ! 
 Dove-feather' d raven! wolfish ravening lamb, &c. 
 
 * Juliet, courageously drinking off the potion, after she ha3 
 placed before herself in the most fearful colors all its possible 
 consequences, is compared by Schlegel to the fsunous story of 
 Alexauder and his physician. 
 
148 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 Yet this highly figurative and antithetical ex- 
 uberance of language is defended by Schlegel on 
 strong and just grounds ; and to me also it appears 
 natural, however critics may argue against its taste 
 or propriety* The warmth and vivacity of Juliet's 
 fancy, which plays like a light over every part of 
 her character — which animates every line she uttei'o 
 ■ — which kindles every thought into a picture, and 
 clothes her emotions in visible images, would natu- 
 rally, under strong and unusual excitement, and in 
 the conflict of opposing sentiments, run into some 
 extravagance of diction.f 
 
 With regard to the termination of the play, which 
 
 * Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 
 Thoughts so all unUke each other ; 
 To mutter and mock a broken charm. 
 To dally with wropg that does no harm! 
 Perhaps 'tis tender, too, and pretty, 
 At each wild word to feel within 
 A sweet recoil of love and pity. 
 And what if in a world of sin 
 (0 sorrow and shame should this be true !) 
 Such giddiness of heart and brain 
 Comes seldom save from rage and pain, 
 So talks as it's most used to do? Coleridge. 
 
 These lines seem to me to form the truest comment on Juliet's 
 wild exclamations against Romeo 
 
 t "The censure," observes Schlegel, " originates" in a fanciless 
 way of thinking, to which every thing appears unnatural that 
 does not suit its tame insipidity. Hence an idea has been 
 formed of simple and natural pathos which consists in exclama- 
 tions destitute of imagery, and nowise elevated above every-day 
 life; but energetic passions electrify the whole mental powers, 
 and will, consequently, in highly-favored natures, express them- 
 selves in an ingenious and figurative manner " 
 
JULIET. 149 
 
 has been a subject of much critical argument, it is 
 well known that Shakspeare, following the old 
 English versions, has departed from the original 
 story of Da Porta ; * and I am incUned to believe 
 
 * The " Giulietta " of Luig:i da Porta was written about 1520. 
 In a popular little book published in 1565, thirty years before 
 Shakspeare wrote his tragedy, the name of Juliet occurs as an 
 example of faithful love, and is thus explained by a note in the 
 margin. " Juliet, a noble maiden of the citie of Verona, which 
 loved Romeo, eldest son of the Lord Monteschi ; and being privily 
 married together, he at last poisoned himself for love of her : 
 she, for sorrow of his death, slew herself with his dagger." This 
 note, which furnishes, in brief, the whole argument of Shak- 
 speare's play, might possibly have made the first impression on 
 bis fancy. In the novel of Da Porta the catastrophe is alto- 
 gether different. After the death of Romeo, the Friar Lorenzo 
 endeavors to persuade Juliet to leave the fatal monument. She 
 refuses ; and throwing herself back on the dead body of her 
 husband, she resolutely holds her breath and dies. — "E volta- 
 tasi al gia,cente corpo di Romeo, il cui capo sopra un origlicre, 
 che con lei neir area era stato lasciato, posto aveva; gli occhi 
 meglio rinchiusi avendogli, e di lagrime il freddo volto bagnan- 
 dogli, disse; " Che debbo senza di te in vita pia fare, signor mio? 
 e che altro mi resta verso te se non coUa mia morte seguirti? 
 " E detto questo, la sua gran sciagura nell' animo recatasi, e la 
 perdita del caro amante ricordandosi, deliberaudo di piu non 
 vivere, raccolto a se il fiato, e per buono spazio tenutolo, e pos- 
 cia con un gran grido fuori mandandolo, sopra il morto corpo, 
 morta ricadde." 
 
 There is nothing so improbable in the story of Romeo and 
 Juliet as to make us doubt the tradition that it is a real fact. 
 " The Veronese," says Lord Byron, in one of his letters from 
 Verona, " are tenacious to a degree of the truth of Juliet's story, 
 insisting on the fact, giving the date 1303, and showing a tomb. 
 It is a plain, open, and partly decayed sarcophagus, with withered 
 leaves in it, in a wild and desolate conventual garden — once a 
 cemetery, now ruined, to the very graves! The situation struck 
 me as very appropriate to the legend, being blighted as their 
 
150 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 that Da Porta, in making Juliet waken from lier 
 trance while Romeo yet lives, and in his terrible 
 final scene between the lovers, has himself departed 
 from the old tradition, and, as a romance, has cer- 
 tainly improved it ; but that which is effective in 
 a narrative, is not always calculated for the drama ; 
 and I cannot but agree with Schlegel, that Shak. ■ 
 speare has done well and wisely in adhering to the 
 old story. Can we doubt for a moment that he who 
 has given us the catastrophe of Othello, and the 
 tempest scene in Lear, might also have adopted 
 these additional circumstances of horror in the fate 
 of the lovers, and have so treated them as to har- 
 row up our very soul — had it been his object to do 
 so ? But apparently it was not. The tale is one, 
 
 Such as, once heard, in gentle heai't destroys 
 All pain but pity. 
 
 It is in truth a tale of love and sorrow, not of 
 anguish and terror. We behold the catastrophe 
 afar off with scarcely a wish to avert it. Romeo 
 and Juliet must die ; their destiny is fulfilled ; they 
 have quaffed off the cup of life, with all its infinite 
 of joys and agonies, in one intoxicating draught. 
 What have they to do more upon this earth? 
 
 love." He mig-ht have added, that when Verona itself, with its 
 amphitheatre and its Paladian structures, lies level with the 
 earth, the very spot on which 4>; stood will be consecrated by the 
 memory of Juliet. 
 
 When in Italy, I met a gentleman, who being then " dans le 
 genre romantique,^^ wore a fragment of JuUet's tomb set in a 
 ring. 
 
JULIET. 151 
 
 Younfr, innocent, lo\'ing; and beloved, they descend 
 together into the tomb : but Shakspeare has made 
 tliat tomb a shrine of mart}Ted and sainted affec- 
 tion consecrated for the worship of all hearts, — not 
 a dark charnel vault, haunted by spectres of pain, 
 rage, and desperation. Romeo and Juliet are 
 pictured lovely in death as in life ; the sympathy 
 they inspire does not oppress us with that suffocat- 
 ing sense of horror, which in the altered tragedy 
 makes the fall of the curtain a relief; but all pain 
 is lost in the tenderness and poetic beauty of the 
 picture. Romeo's last speech over his bride is not 
 like the raving of a disappointed boy : in its deep 
 pathos, its rapturous despair, its glowing imagery, 
 there is the very luxury of life and love. JuHet, 
 who had drunk off the sleeping potion in a fit of 
 frenzy, wakes calm and collected — 
 
 I do remember well where I should be, 
 And there I am — Where is my EomeoV 
 
 The profound slumber in which her senses have 
 been steeped for so many hours has tranquillized 
 her nerves, and stilled the fever in her blood ; she 
 wakes " like a sweet child who has been dreaming 
 of something promised to it by its mother," and 
 opens her eyes to ask for it — 
 
 Where is my Eomeo ? 
 
 she is answered at once, — 
 
 Thy husband in thy bosom here lies dead. 
 
152 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 This Is enough : she sees at once the whole horror 
 of her situation — she sees it with a quiet and re- 
 solved despair — she utters no reproach against the 
 Friar — makes no inquiries, no complaints, except 
 that affecting remonstrance — 
 
 churl — drink all, and leave no friendly drop 
 
 To help me after ! ^ 
 
 All that is left to her is to die, and she dies. The 
 poem, which opened with the enmity of the two 
 families, closes with their reconciliation over the 
 breathless remains of their children ; and no vio- 
 lent, frightful, or discordant feeling is suffered to 
 mingle with that soft impression of melancholy left 
 within the heart, and which Schlegel compares to 
 one long, endless sigh. 
 
 " A youthful passion," says Goethe, (alluding to 
 one of his own early attachments,) " which is con- 
 ceived and cherished without any certain object, 
 may be compared to a shell thrown from a mortar 
 by night : it rises calmly in a brilliant track, and 
 seems to mix, and even to dwell for a moment, 
 with the stars of heaven ; but at length it falls — it 
 bursts — consuming and destroying all around, even 
 as itself expires." 
 
 ***** 
 
 To conclude : love, considered under its poetical 
 aspect, is the union of passion and imagination ; 
 and accordingly, to one of these, or to both, all the 
 qualities of Juliet's mind and heart (unfolding and 
 varying as the action of the drama proceeds) may 
 
HELENA. 153 
 
 '■ ' t. 
 
 be finally traced ; the former concentrating all ' 
 those natural impulses, fervent affections and high 
 energies, -which lend the character its internal 
 charm, its moral power and individual interest : the 
 latter diverging from all those splendid and luxu- 
 riant accompaniments which invest it with its ex- 
 ternal glow, its beauty, its vigor, its freshness, and 
 its truth. 
 
 With all this inmiense capacity of affection and 
 imagination, there is a deficiency of reflection and 
 of moral energ}^ arising from previous habit and 
 education : and the action of the drama, while 
 it serves to developc the character, appears but 
 its natural and necessary result. " Le myst^re 
 de I'existence," said Madame de Stael to her 
 daughter, "e'est le rapport de nos erreurs avec 
 nos peines." 
 
 HELENA. 
 
 In the character of Juliet we have seen the pas- 
 sionate and the imaginative blended in an equal 
 degree, and in the highest conceivable degree 
 as combined with delicate female nature. In 
 Helena we have a modification of character al- 
 together distinct; allied, indeed, to Juliet as a 
 picture of fervent, enthusiastic, self-forgetting love, 
 but differing wholly from her in other respects ; for 
 Helen is the union of strength of passion with 
 strength of character. 
 
154: CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC 
 
 " To be tremblingly alive to gentle impressions, 
 and yet be able to preserve, when the prosecution 
 of a design requires it, an immovable heart amidst 
 even the most imperious causes of subduing emo- 
 tion, is perhaps not an impossible constitution of 
 mind, but it is the utmost and rarest endowment of 
 humanity." * Such a character, almost as difficult 
 
 ^W delineate in fiction as to find in real life, has 
 Shakspeare given us in Helena ; touched with the 
 most soul-subduing pathos, and develojDcd with the 
 most consummate skill. 
 
 Helena, as a woman, is more passionate than im- 
 aginative ; and, as a character, she bears the same 
 relation to Juliet that Isabel bears to Portia. There 
 is equal unity of purpose and effect, with much less 
 of the glow of imagery and the external coloring of 
 poetry in the sentiments, language, and details. It 
 is passion developed under its most profound and 
 serious aspect ; as in Isabella, we have the serious 
 and the thoughtful, not the brilliant side of intel- 
 lect. Both Helena and Isabel are distinguished by 
 
 ._high mental ^pewers, tinged with a melancholy 
 sweetness ; but in Isabella the serious and energetic 
 part of the character is founded in religious prin- 
 ciple ; in Helena it is founded in deep passion. 
 
 There never was, perhaps, a more beautiful 
 picture of a woman's love, cherished in secret, not 
 self-consuming in silent languishment — not pining 
 in thought — not passive and " desponding over its 
 idol" — but patient and hopeful, strong in its own 
 * Foster's Essays. 
 
HELENA. 155 
 
 intensity, and sustained by its own fond faitli. The 
 passion here reposes upon itself for all its interest ; 
 it derives nothing from art or ornament or circum- 
 stance ; it has nothing of the picturesque charm or 
 glowing romance of Juliet ; nothing of the poetical 
 splendor of Portia, or the vestal grandeur of Isabel. 
 The situation of Helena is the most painful and 
 degrading in which a woman can be placed. She 
 is poor and lowly ; she loves a man who is far her 
 superior in rank, who repays her love with indiflfer- 
 ence, and rejects her hand with scorn. She mar- 
 ries him against his will ; he leaves her with con- 
 tumely on the day of their marriage, and makes his 
 return to her arms depend on conditions apparently 
 impossible.* J All the circumstances and details 
 with which Helena is surrounded, are shocking to 
 our feelings and wounding to our delicacy : and yet 
 the beauty of the character is made to triumph over 
 all : and Shakspeare, resting for all his effect on 
 its internal resources and its genuine truth and 
 -,^weetness, has not even availed himself of some 
 extraneous advantages with which Helen is repre- 
 sented in the original story. She is the Giletta di 
 Narbonna of Boccaccio. In the Italian tale, Giletta 
 is the daughter of a celebrated physician attached 
 to the court of Roussillon ; she is represented as a 
 rich heiress, who rejects many suitors of worth and 
 
 * I bare read somewhere that the play of which Helena is the 
 heroine, (All's Well that Encls Well,) was at first entitled by 
 Shakspeare " Loye's Labor Won." 'Why the title was altered, 
 or by whom, I cannot discover. 
 
156 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 rank, in consequence of her secret attaclunent to 
 the young Bertram de Koussillon. She cures the 
 King of France of a grievous distemper, by one of 
 her father's prescriptions ; and she asks and re- 
 ceives as her reward the young Count of Roussillon 
 as her wedded husband. He forsakes her on their 
 wedding day, and she retires, by his order, to his 
 territory of Roussillon. There she is received with 
 honor, takes state upon her in her husband's ab- 
 sence as the " lady of the land," administers justice, 
 and rules her lord's dominions so wisely and so 
 well, that she is universally loved and reverenced 
 by his subjects. In the mean time, the Count, in- 
 stead of rejoining her, flies to Tuscany, and the 
 rest of the story is closely followed in the drama. 
 The beauty, wisdom, and royal demeanor of Giletta 
 are charmingly described, as well as her fervent 
 love for Bertram. But Helena, in the play, derives 
 no dignity or interest from place or circumstance, 
 and rests for all our sympathy and respect solely 
 upon the truth and intensity of her affections. 
 She is indeed represented to us as one 
 
 Whose beauty did astonish the siu-vey 
 Of richest eyes : whose words all ears took captive ; 
 Whose dear perfection, hearts that scom'd to serve, 
 Humbly called mistress. 
 
 As her dignity is derived from mental power, with- 
 out any alloy of pride, so her humility has a pecu- 
 liar grace. If she feels and repines over her lowly 
 birth, it is merely as an obstacle wliich separates 
 
HELENA. 157 
 
 her from the man she loves. She is more sensible 
 to his greatness than her own littleness : she is con- 
 tinually looking from herself up to him, not fi'om 
 him down to herself. She has been bred up under 
 the same roof with him ; she has adored him from 
 infancy. Her love is not " th' infection taken in at 
 the eyes," nor kindled by youthful romance : it ap- 
 pears to have taken root in her being ; to have 
 grown with her years ; and to have gradually ab- 
 sorbed all her thoughts and faculties, until her 
 fancy " carries no favor in it but Bertram's," and 
 " there is no hving, none, if Bertram be away." 
 
 It may be said that Bertram, arrogant, wayward, 
 and heartless, does not justify this ardent and deep 
 devotion. But Helena does not behold him with 
 our eyes ; but as he is " sanctified in her idolatrous 
 fancy." Dr. Johnson says he cannot reconcile 
 himself to a man who marries Helena like a coward, 
 and leaves her like a profligate. This is much too 
 severe ; in the first place, there is no necessity that 
 we should reconcile ourselves to him. In this con- 
 sists a part of the v/onderful beauty of the character 
 of Helena — a part of its womanly truth, which 
 Johnson, who accuses Bertram, and those who so 
 plausibly defend him, did not understand. If it 
 never happened in real life, that a woman, richly 
 endued with heaven's best gifts, loved with all her 
 heart, and soul, and strength, a man unequal to or 
 unworthy of her, and to whose faults herself alone 
 was blind — I would give up the point : but if it be 
 in nature, why should it not be in Shakspeare ? 
 
158 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 We are not to look into Bertram's character for tho 
 spring and source of Helena's love for liim, but into 
 her own. She loves Bertram, — because she loves 
 him ! — a woman's reason, — but here, and sometimes 
 elsewhere, all-sufficient. 
 
 And although Helena tells herself that she loves 
 in vain, a conviction stronger than reason tells her 
 that she does not : her love is like a religion, pure, 
 holy, and deep : the blessedness to which she has 
 lifted her thoughts is forever before her ; to despair 
 would be a crime, — ^it would be to cast herself 
 away and die. The faith of her afi'ection, combin- 
 ing with the natural energy of her character, be- 
 lieving all things possible makes them so. It could 
 say to the mountain of pride which stands between 
 her and her hopes, " Be thou removed ! " and it is 
 removed. This is the solution of her behavior in 
 the marriage scene, where Bertram, with obvious 
 reluctance and disdain, accepts her hand, which the 
 king, his feudal lord and guardian, forces on him. 
 Her maidenly feeling is at first shocked, and she 
 shrinks back — 
 
 That you are well restor'd, my lord, I am glad: 
 Let the rest go. 
 
 But shall she weakly relinquish the golden oppor- 
 tunity, and dash the cup from her lips at the mo- 
 ment it is presented ? Shall she cast away the 
 treasure for which she has ventured both life and 
 honor, when it is just within her grasp ? Shall she, 
 after compromising her feminine delicacy by the 
 
HELENA. 159 
 
 public disclosure of her preference, be thrust back 
 into shame, " to blush out the remainder of her 
 life," and die a poor, lost, scorned thing ? This 
 would be very pretty and interesting and character- 
 istic in Viola or Ophelia, but not at all consistent 
 with that high determined spirit, that moral energy, 
 with which Helena is portrayed. Pride is the only 
 obstacle opposed to her. She is not despised and 
 rejected as a woman, but as a poor physician's 
 daughter ; and tliis, to an understanding so clear, 
 so strong, so just as Helena's, is not felt as an un- 
 pardonable insult. The mere pride of rank and 
 birth is a prejudice of which she cannot comprehend 
 the force, because her mind towers so immeasurably 
 above it ; and, compared to the infinite love which 
 swells within her own bosom, it sinks into nothing. 
 She cannot conceive that he, to whom she has de- 
 voted her heart and truth, her soul, her life, her 
 service, must not one day love her in return ; and 
 once her own beyond the reach of fate, that her 
 cares, her caresses, her unwearied patient tender- 
 ness, will not at last " win her lord to look upon 
 her "— 
 
 For time will bring on summer, 
 
 When briars shall have leaves as well as thorns, 
 
 And be as sweet as sharp. 
 
 It is this fond faith which, hoping all things, 
 enables her to endure all things : — which hallows 
 and dignifies the surrender of her woman's pride, 
 making it a sacrifice on wliich virtue and love 
 throw a mingled incense. 
 
16D CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 The scene in wliich tlie Countess extorts from 
 Helen the confession of her love, must, as an illus- 
 tration, be given here. It is perhaps, the finest in 
 the whole play, and brings out all the striking 
 points of Helen's character, to which I have already 
 alluded. We must not fail to remark, that though 
 the acknowledgment is wrung from her with an 
 agony which seems to convulse her whole being, 
 yet when once she has given it solemn utterance, 
 she recovers her presence of mind, and asserts her 
 native dignity. In her justification of her feelings 
 and her conduct, there is neither sophistry, nor 
 self-deception, nor presumption, but a noble sim- 
 plicity, combined with the most impassioned 
 earnestness ; while the language naturally rises in 
 its eloquent beauty, as the tide of feeling, now first 
 let loose from the bursting heart, comes pouring 
 forth in words. The whole scene is wonderfully 
 beautiful. 
 
 HELENA. 
 
 What is your pleasure, madam? 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 You know, Helen, I am a mother to you . 
 
 HELENA. 
 
 Mine honorable mistress. 
 
 Nay, a mother; 
 Why not a mother? When I said a mother, 
 Methought you saw a serpent : what's in mother, 
 That you start at it ? I say, I am your mother ; 
 
161 
 
 Aiid put you in the catalogue of those 
 That were enwombed mine: 'tis often seen, 
 Adoption strives with nature; and choice breeds 
 A native slip to us from foreign seeds. 
 You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan, 
 Yet I express to you a mother's care; — 
 God's mercy, maiden ! does it curd thy blood, 
 To say, I am thy mother? What's the matter, 
 That this distempered messenger of wet. 
 The many-color'd Iris, rounds thine eye? 
 Why ? that you are my daughter ? 
 
 HELENA. 
 
 That I am not. 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 I say, I am your mother. 
 
 HELENA. 
 
 Pardon, madam : 
 The Count Roussillon cannot be my brother : 
 I am from humble, he from honor'd name; 
 No note upon my parents, his all noble : 
 My master, my dear lord he is : and I 
 His servant live, and will his vassal die : 
 He must not be my brother. 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 Nor I your mother? 
 
 HELENA. 
 
 You are my mother, madam ; would you were 
 (So that my lord, your son, were not my brother,) 
 Indeed my mother, or, were you both our mothers, 
 I care no more for, than I do for Heaven,* 
 
 ♦i.e. I care as much for as I do for heaven. 
 11 
 
162 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 So I were not his sister; can't no other, 
 
 But I, your daughter, he must be my brother? 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law ; 
 God shield, you mean it not ! daughter and mother 
 So strive upon your pulse: what, pale again? 
 My fear hath catch'd your fondness: now I see 
 The mystery of your loneliness, and find 
 Your salt tears' head. Now to all sense 'tis gross 
 You love my son; invention is asham'd, 
 Against the proclamation of thy passion. 
 To say, thou dost not : therefore teU me true ; 
 But tell me, then, 'tis so: — for, look, thy cheeks 
 Confess it, one to the other. 
 
 Speak, is't so? 
 If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue ! 
 If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee, 
 As heaven shall work in me for thy avail. 
 To tell me truly. 
 
 HELENA. 
 
 Good madam, pardon me ! 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 Do you love my son ? 
 
 HELENA. 
 
 Yom- pardon, noble mistress ! 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 Love you my son ? 
 
 HELENA. 
 
 Do not you love him, madam ? 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 Go not about; my love hath in't a bond, 
 
163 
 
 Whereof the world takes note : come, come, disclose 
 The state of j^our affection ; for your passions 
 Have to the full appeach'd. 
 
 HELENA. 
 
 Then I confess 
 Here on my knee, before high heaven and you. 
 That before you, and next unto high heaven, 
 I love your son : — 
 
 My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love. 
 Be not offended ; for it hurts not him, 
 That he is loved of me ; I follow him not 
 By any token of presumptuous suit ; 
 Nor would I have him till I do deserve him: 
 Yet never know how that desert should be. 
 I know I love in vain ; strive against hope ; 
 Yet, in this captious and untenible sieve, 
 I still pour in the waters of my love. 
 And lack not to love still : thus, Indian-like, 
 Religious in mine error, I adore 
 The sun that looks upon his worshipper. 
 But knows of him no more. My dearest madam, 
 Let not your hate encounter with my love. 
 For loving where you do : but, if yourself, 
 Wliose aged honor cites a virtuous youth, 
 Did ever in so true a flame of liking, 
 Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian 
 Was both herself and love ; then give pity 
 To her, whose state is such, that cannot choose 
 But lend and give, where she is sure to lose; 
 That seeks not to find that her search implies, 
 But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies. 
 
 This old Countess of Rousslllon is a cliarming 
 sketch. She is like one of Titian's old women, who 
 
164 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 still, amid their wrinkles, remind us of that soul of 
 beauty and sensibility, which must have animated 
 them when young. She is a fine contrast to Lady 
 Capulet — ^benign, cheerful, and affectionate ; she 
 has a benevolent enthusiasm, which neither age, 
 nor sorrow, nor pride can wear away. Thus, when 
 she is brought to believe that Helen nourishes a 
 secret attachment for her son, she observes — 
 
 Even so it was with me when I was young ! 
 
 This thorn 
 Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong, 
 It is the show and seal of nature's ti'uth. 
 When love's strong passion is impress'd in youth. 
 
 Her fond, maternal love for Helena, whom she 
 has brought up : her pride in her good qualities 
 overpowering all her own prejudices of rank and 
 birth, are most natural in such a mind ; and her 
 indignation against her son, however strongly ex- 
 pressed, never forgets the mother. 
 
 What angel shall 
 Bless this unworthy husband ? he cannot thrive 
 Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear 
 And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath 
 Of greatest justice. 
 
 Which of them both 
 Is dearest to me — I have no skill in sense 
 To make distinction. 
 
 This is very skilfully, as well as delicately con- 
 ceived. In rejecting those poetical and accidental 
 advantages which Giletta possesses in the original 
 
165 
 
 story, Shakspeare has substituted the beautiful 
 character of the Countess ; and he has contrived, 
 that, as the character of Helena should rest for its 
 internal charm on the depth of her own affections, 
 so it should depend for its external interest on the 
 affection she inspires. The enthusiastic tenderness 
 of the old Countess, the admiration and respect of 
 the King, Lafeu, and all who are brought in con- 
 nection with her, make amends for the humiliating 
 neglect of Berti^am; and cast round Helen that 
 collateral light, which Giletta in the story owes to 
 other circumstances, striking indeed, and well im- 
 agined, but not (I think) so finely harmonizing 
 with the character. 
 
 It is also very natural that Helen, with the in- 
 tuitive discernment of a pure and upright mind, 
 and the penetration of a quick-witted woman, 
 should be the first to detect the falsehood and 
 cowardice of the boaster Parolles, who imposes on 
 every one else. 
 
 It has been remarked, that there is less of poet- 
 ical imagery in tliis play than in many of the 
 others. V.A certain solidity in Helen's character 
 takes place of the ideal power ; and with consistent 
 truth of keeping, the same predominance of feeling 
 over fancy, of .the reflective over the imaginative 
 faculty, is maintained through the whole dialogue. 
 Yet the finest passages in the serious scenes are 
 those appropriated to her ; they are familiar and 
 celebrated as quotations, but fully to understand 
 their beauty and truth, they should be considered 
 
166 CHAKACTEKS OF PASSlO^y, ETC 
 
 relatively to her character and situation ; thus, 
 when in speaking of Beiiram, she says, " that he is 
 one to whom she wishes well," the consciousness of 
 the disproportion between her words and her feel- 
 ings draws from her this beautiful and affecting ob- 
 servation, so just in itself, and so true to her situ- 
 ation, and to the sentiment which fills her whole 
 
 heart : — 
 
 'Tis pity 
 That wishing well had not a body in't 
 Which might be felt : that we the poorer born. 
 Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes, 
 Might with effects of them follow our friends, 
 And act what we must only think, which never 
 Returns us thanks. 
 
 Some of her general reflections have a senten- 
 tious depth and a contemplative melancholy, which 
 remind us of Isabella : — 
 
 Our remedies oft in themselves do lie 
 Which we ascribe to heaven ; the fated sky 
 Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull 
 Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. 
 
 Impossible be strange events to those 
 
 That weigh their pains in sense ; and do suppose 
 
 What hath been cannot be. 
 
 He that of greatest works is finisher, 
 Oft does them by the weakest minister; 
 So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown, 
 When judges have been babes. 
 
 Oft expectation fails, and most oft there 
 
i 
 
 HELENA. 167 
 
 Where most it promises ; and oft it hits, 
 Where hope is coldest, and despair most sits. 
 
 Her sentiments in the same manner are remark- 
 able for the union of profound sense with the most 
 \ passionate feeling ; and when her language is figu- 
 I rative, which is seldom, the picture presented to us 
 is invariably touched either with a serious, a lofty, 
 or a melancholy beauty. For instance : — 
 
 It were all one 
 
 That I should love a bright particular star, 
 
 And think to wed it — he's so far above me. 
 
 And when she is brought to choose a husband 
 from among the young lords at the court, her heart 
 having already made its election, the strangeness 
 of that very privilege for which she had ventured 
 all, nearly overpowers her, and she says beauti- 
 fuDy:— 
 
 The blushes on my cheeks thus whisper me, 
 " We blush that thou shouldst choose ; — but be refused, 
 Let the white death sit on that cheek for ever 
 We'll ne'er come there again! " 
 
 In her soliloquy after she has been forsaken by 
 Bertram, the beauty lies in the intense feeling, the 
 force and simplicity of the expressions. There is 
 little imagery, and wherever it occurs, it is as bold 
 as it is beautiful, and springs out of the energy of 
 tlie sentiment, and the pathos of the situation. She 
 has been reading his cruel letter. 
 
168 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 Till I have no wife [have nothing in France. 
 'Tis bitter! 
 ^Nothing in Frtince, until he has no wife ! 
 Thou shalt have none, Eoussillon, none in France, 
 Then hast thou all again. Poor lord ! is't I 
 That chase thee from thy country, and expose 
 Those tender limbs of thine to the event 
 Of the none-sparing war? And is it I 
 That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou 
 Wast shot at with fiiir eyes, to be the mai'k 
 Of smoky muskets ? you leaden messengers. 
 That ride upon the violent speed of fire, 
 Fly with false aim ! move the still-piei'cing air, 
 That sings with piercing, do not touch my lord ! 
 Whoever shoots at him, I set him there ; 
 Whoever charges on his forward breast, 
 1 am the caitiflf that do hold him to it ; 
 And though I kill him not, I am the cause 
 His death was so eflected; better 'twere 
 I met the ravin lion when he roared 
 With sharp constraint of hunger; better 'twere 
 That all the miseries which nature owes. 
 Were mine at once. 
 
 No, no, although 
 The air of paradise did fan the house. 
 And angels officed all ; I will be gone. 
 
 Thoiigli I cannot go the length of those who have 
 defended Bertram on almost every point, still I 
 think the censure which Johnson has passed on the 
 character is much too severe. Bertram is certainly 
 not a pattern hero of romance, but full of faults 
 such as we meet with every day in men of his age 
 and class. He is a bold, ardent, self-willed youth^. 
 
[69 
 
 .^just dismissed into the world from domestic indul- 
 gence, with an excess of aristocratic and military 
 pride, but not without some sense of true honor 
 and generosity. I have lately read a defence of 
 Bertram's character, written with much elegance 
 and plausibiHty. " The young Count," says this 
 critic, " comes before us possessed of a good heart, 
 and of no mean capacity, but with a haughtiness 
 which threatens to dull the kinder passions, and to 
 cloud the intellect. This is the inevitable conse- 
 quence of an illustrious education. The glare of 
 his birthright has dazzled his young faculties. Per- 
 haps the first words he could distinguish were from 
 the important nurse, giving elaborate directions 
 about his lordship's pap. As soon as he could walk, 
 a crowd of submissive vassals doffed their caps, and 
 hailed his first appearance on his legs. His spell- 
 ing book had the arms of the family emblazoned 
 on the cover. He had been accustomed to hear 
 himself called the great, the mighty son of Roussil- 
 lou, ever since he was a helpless child. A succes- 
 sion of complacent tutors would by no means de- 
 stroy the illusion ; and it is from their hands that 
 * Shakspeare receives him, while yet in his minority. 
 An overweening pride of birth is Bertram's great 
 foible. To cure him of this, Shakspeare sends him 
 to the wars, that he may win fame for himself, and 
 thus exchange a shadow for a reality. There the 
 great dignity that his valor acquired for him places 
 him on an equality with any one of his ancestors, 
 apd he is no longer beholden to them alone for the 
 
170 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 world's observance. Thus in his own person he 
 discovers there is something better than mere 
 hereditary honors ; and his heart is prepared to 
 acknowledge that the entire devotion of a Helen's 
 love is of more worth than the court-bred smiles of 
 a princess." * 
 
 It is not extraordinary that, in the first instance, 
 his spirit should revolt at the idea of marrying his 
 mother's " waiting gentlewoman," or that he should 
 refuse her ; yet when the king, his feudal lord, whose 
 despotic authority was in this case legal and in- 
 disputable, threatens him with the extremity of his 
 wrath and vengeance, that he should submit him- 
 self to a hard necessity, was too consistent with the 
 manners of the time to be called cowardice. Such 
 forced marriages were not uncommon even in our 
 own country, when the right of wardship, now 
 vested in the Lord Chancellor, was exercised with 
 uncontrolled and often cruel despotism by the 
 sovereign. 
 
 There is an old ballad, in which the king bestows 
 a maid of low degree on a noble of his court, and 
 the undisguised scorn and reluctance of the knight, 
 and the pertinacity of the lady, are in point. 
 
 He brought her down full forty pound 
 
 Tyed up within a glove, 
 " Fair maid, I'll give the same to thee, 
 
 Go seek another love." 
 
 I'll have none of your gold," she said, 
 " Nor I'll have none of your fee ; 
 
 * New Monthly Magazine, vol. iv. 
 
171 
 
 But your fair bodye I must have, 
 The king hath granted me." 
 
 Sir William ran and fetched her then, 
 
 Five hundred pounds in gold, 
 Saying, " Fair maid, take this to thee, 
 
 My fault will ne'er be told." 
 
 " 'Tis not the gold that shall me tempt," 
 
 These words then answered she ; 
 " But your own bodye I must have, 
 
 The king hath granted me." 
 
 " Would I had drank the water clear, 
 
 When I did drink the wine, 
 Eather than my shepherd's brat 
 
 Should be a ladye of mine ! " * 
 
 Bertram's disgust at the tyranny which has made 
 his freedom the payment of another's debt, which 
 has united him to a woman whose merits are not 
 towards him — whose secret love, and long-enduring 
 faith, are yet unknown and untried — might well 
 make his bride distasteful to him. He flies her on 
 the very day of their mariiage, most like a wilful, 
 haughty, angry boy, but not like a profligate. On 
 other points he is not so easily defended ; and 
 Sliakspeare, we see, has not defended, but corrected 
 him. The latter part of the play is more perplex- 
 ing than pleasing. "We do not, indeed, repine with 
 Dr. Johnson, that Bertram, after all his misde- 
 meanors, is " dismissed to happiness ; " but, not- 
 
 * Percy's Reliquee. 
 
172 CHARACTERS OP PASSION, ETC. 
 
 ■withstanding the clever defence that has been made 
 for him, he has our pardon rather than our sym- 
 pathy ; and for mine own part, I could find it 
 easier to love Bertram as Helena does, than to ex- 
 cuse hun ; her love for him is his best excuse. 
 
 PERDITA. 
 
 In Viola and Perdita the distinguishing traits arc 
 the same — sentiment and elegance ; thus we as- 
 sociate them together, though nothing can be more 
 distinct to the fancy than the Doric grace of Per- 
 dita, compared to the romantic sweetness of Viola. 
 They are created out of the same materials, and 
 are equal to each other in the tenderness, delicacy, 
 and poetical beauty of the conception. They are 
 both more imaginative than passionate ; but Per- 
 dita is the more imaginative of the two. She is the 
 union of the pastoral and romantic with the clas- 
 sical and poetical, as if a dryad of the woods had 
 turned shepherdess. The perfections with which 
 the poet has so lavishly endowed her, sit upon her 
 with a certain careless and picturesque grace, " as 
 though they had fallen upon her unawares." Thus 
 Belphoebe, in the Fairy Queen, issues from the 
 flowering forest with hair and garments all be- 
 sprinkled with the leaves and blossoms they had 
 entangled in their flight ; and so arrayed by chance 
 and " heedless hap," takes all hearts with " stately 
 
PERDITA. 173 
 
 presence and with princely port," — most like to 
 Perdita ! 
 
 The story of Florlzel and Perdita is but an epi- 
 sode in the " Winter's Tale ; " and the character of 
 Perdita is properly kept subordinate to that of her 
 mother, Hermione : yet the picture is perfectly 
 finished in every part ; — Juliet herself is not more 
 firmly and distinctly drawn. But the coloring in 
 Perdita is more silvery light and delicate ; the per- 
 vading sentiment more touched with the ideal; 
 compared with Juliet, she is like a Guido hung be- 
 side a Georgione, or one of Paesiello's airs heard 
 after one of Mozart's. 
 
 The qualities which impart to Perdita her distinct 
 individuality, are the beautiful combination of the 
 pastoral with the elegant — of simplicity with ele- 
 vation — of spirit with sweetness. The exquisite 
 delicacy of the picture is apparent. To under- 
 stand and appreciate its effective tnith and 
 nature, we should place Perdita beside some of 
 the njonphs of Arcadia, or the Chloris' and Sylvias 
 of the ItaUan pastorals, who, however graceful in 
 themselves, when opposed to Perdita, seem to melt 
 away into mere poetical abstractions ; — as, in 
 Spenser, the fair but fictitious Florimel, which the 
 subtle enchantress had moulded out of snow, " ver- 
 meil tinctured," and informed with an airy spirit, 
 that knew " all wiles of woman's wits," fades and 
 dissolves away, when placed next to the real Flori- 
 mel, in her warm, breathing, human loveliness. 
 
 Perdita does not appear till the fourth act, and 
 
174 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 tlie whole of the character is developed in the 
 course of a single scene, (the third,) with a com- 
 pleteness of effect which leaves nothing to be 
 required — nothing to be supplied. She is first 
 introduced in the dialogue between herself and 
 Florizel, where she compares her own lowly state 
 to his princely rank, and expresses her fears of the 
 issue of their unequal attachment. With all her 
 timidity and her sense of the distance which sepa- 
 rates her from her lover, she breathes not a single 
 word which could lead us to impugn either her 
 delicacy or her dignity. 
 
 FLORIZEL,. 
 
 These your unusual weeds to each part of you 
 Do give a life — no shepherdess, but Flora 
 Peering in April's front; this your sheep-shearmg 
 Is as the meeting of the petty gods. 
 And vou the queen on't. 
 
 PEBDITA. 
 
 Sir, my gracious lord, 
 
 To chide at your extremes it not becomes me ; 
 
 pardon that I name them : your high self, 
 
 The gracious mark o' the land, you have obscured 
 
 With a swain's bearing; and me, poor lowly maid, 
 
 Most goddess-like prank' d up : — but that our feasts 
 
 In every mess have folly, and the feeders 
 
 Digest it with a custom, I should blush 
 
 To see you so attired ; sworn, I think, 
 
 To show myself a glass. 
 
 The impression of her perfect beauty and airy 
 elegance of demeanor is conveyed in two exquisite 
 passages : — 
 
PERDITA. 175 
 
 What you do 
 Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, 
 I'd have you do it ever. When you sing, 
 I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms, 
 Pray so,- and for the ordering your affairs 
 To sing them too. "When you do dance, I wish you 
 A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do 
 Nothing but that; move still, still so, and own 
 No other function. 
 
 I take thy hand ; this hand 
 As soft as dove's down, and as white as it; 
 Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow. 
 That's bolted by the northern blasts twice o'er. 
 
 The artless manner in which her innate nobility 
 of soul shines forth through her pastoral disguise, is 
 thus brought before us at once : — 
 
 This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
 Ran on the green sward ; nothing she does or seems, 
 But smacks of something gi-eater than herself; 
 Too noble for this place. 
 
 Her natural loftiness of spirit breaks out where 
 she is menaced and reviled by the King, as one 
 whom his son has degraded himself by merely look- 
 ing on ; she bears the royal frown without quailing ; 
 but the moment he is gone, the immediate recollec- 
 tion of herself, and of her humble state, of her hap- 
 less love, is full of beauty, tenderness, and nature : — 
 
 Even here undone ! 
 I was much afeai-d : for once or twice, 
 I was about to speak: and tell him plain! v 
 
176 CHARACTERS OF PASSIOX, ETC 
 
 The self-same sun, that shines upon his court 
 Hides not his visage from our cottage, but 
 Looks on alike. 
 
 Will't please, you Sir, be gone ? 
 I told you what would come of this. Beseech you. 
 Of your own state take care; this dream of mine — 
 Being now awake — I'U queen it no inch further, 
 But milk my ewes, and weep. 
 
 How often have I told you 'twould be thus ! 
 How often said, my dignity would last 
 But till 'twere known ! 
 
 FLORIZEL. 
 
 It cannot faU, but by 
 The violation of my faith ; and then 
 Let nature crush the sides o' the earth together 
 And mar the seeds within ! Lift up thy looks. 
 ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may 
 Be thereat glean' d! for aU the sun sees, or 
 The close earth wombs, or the profound seas hide 
 In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath 
 To thee, my fair beloved ! 
 
 Pcrdita has another characteristic, which lends 
 to the poetical delicacy of the delineation a certain 
 strength and moral elevation, which is peculiarly 
 striking. It is that sense of truth and rectitude, 
 that upright simplicity of mind, which disdains all 
 crooked and indirect means, which would not stoop 
 for an instant to dissemblance, and is mingled with 
 a noble confidence in her love and in her lover. 
 In this spirit is her answer to Camilla, who says, 
 courtier-like, — 
 
PERDITA. 177 
 
 Besides, you know 
 Prosperity's the very bond of love; 
 Whose fresh complexion, and whose heart together, 
 Affliction altei's. 
 
 To which she replies, — 
 
 One of these is true ; 
 I think, affliction may subdue the cheek, • 
 But not take in the mind. 
 
 In that elegant scene where she receives the 
 guests at the sheep-shearing, and distributes the 
 flowers, there is in the full flow of the poetry, a 
 most beautiful and striking touch of individual 
 character : but here it is impossible to mutilate the 
 
 dialogue. 
 
 Eeverend sirs, 
 For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep 
 Seeming and savor all the winter long; 
 Grace and remembrance be to you both, 
 And welcome to our shearing ! 
 
 POLIXENES. 
 
 Shepherdess, 
 (A fair one are yT)u,) well you fit our ages 
 With flowers of winter. 
 
 PERPITA. 
 
 Sir, the year growing ancient. 
 Nor yet on summer's death, nor on the birth 
 Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' the season 
 Are our carnations, and streaked gilliflowers, 
 Which some call nature's bastards : of that kinji 
 Our rustic garden's barren; and I care not 
 To get slips of them. 
 12 
 
178 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 POLTXENES. 
 
 Wherefore, gentle maiden, 
 Do you neglect them ? 
 
 PERDITA. 
 
 For I have heard it said. 
 There is an art, which in their piedness, shares 
 With great creating nature. 
 
 POLIXENES. 
 
 Say there be ; 
 Yet nature is made better by no mean 
 But nature makes that mean; so o'er that art 
 Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art 
 That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry 
 A gentle scion to the wildest stock ; 
 And make conceive a bark of baser kind 
 By bud of nobler race. This is an art 
 Which does mend nature, change it rather ; but 
 The art itself is nature. 
 
 PERDITA. 
 
 So it is. 
 
 POLIXENES. 
 
 Then make your garden rich in gilliflowers, 
 And do not call them bastards. 
 
 PERDITA. 
 
 I'U not put 
 The dibble in earth to set one slip of them; 
 No more than were I painted, I would wish 
 This youth should say 'twere well. 
 
 It has been well remarked of this passage, that 
 Perdita does not attempt to answer the reasoning 
 
PERDITA. 1 79 
 
 of Polixenes : she gives up the argument, but, 
 woman-like, retains her own opinion, or rather, her 
 sense of right, unshaken by his sophistry. She 
 goes on in a strain of poetry, which comes over the 
 soul hke music and fragrance mingled : we seem to 
 inhale the blended odors of a thousand flowers, till 
 the sense faints with their sweetness ; and she con- 
 cludes with a touch of passionate sentiment, which 
 melts into the very heart : — 
 
 Proserpina! 
 For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'st fall 
 From Dis's wagon! daffodils. 
 That come before the swallow dares, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim, 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, 
 Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, 
 That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
 Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady 
 Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips, and 
 The crown imperial ; lilies of aU kinds, 
 The flower-de-luce being one ! 0, these I lack, 
 To make you garlands of; and my sweet friend 
 To strew him o'er and o'er. 
 
 « 
 
 FLORIZEL. 
 
 What ! like a corse ? 
 
 PERDITA. 
 
 No, like a bank, for Love to lie and play on ; 
 Not like a corse: or if, — not to be buried. 
 But quick, and in mine arms ! 
 
 This love of truth, this conscientiousness, which 
 forms so distinct a feature in the character of Per- 
 
180 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 dlta, and mingles with its picturesque delicacy a 
 certain firmness and dignity, is maintained con- 
 sistently to the last. When the two lovers fly 
 together from Bohemia, and take refuge in the 
 court of Leontes, the real father of Perdita, Florizel 
 presents himself before the king with a feigned tale, 
 in which he has been artfully instructed by the old 
 counsellor Camillo. During this scene, Perdita 
 does not utter a word. In the strait in which they 
 are placed, she cannot deny the story which Florizel 
 relates — she will not confirm it. Her silence, in 
 spite of all the compliments and greetings of 
 Leontes, has a peculiar and characteristic grace ; 
 and, at the conclusion of the scene, when they are 
 betrayed, the truth bursts from her as if instinc- 
 tively, and she exclaims, with emotion, — 
 
 The heavens set spies upon us — will not have 
 Our contract celebrated. 
 
 After this scene, Perdita says very little. The 
 description of her grief, while listening to the re- 
 lation of her mother's death, — 
 
 " One of the prettiest touches of all, was, when at the 
 relation of the queen's death, Avith the manner how she 
 came by it, how attentiveness wounded her daughter: till 
 from one sign of dolor to another, she did, with an alas ! 
 I would fain say, bleed tears: " — 
 
 her deportment too as she stands gazing on the 
 statue of Hermione, fixed in wonder, admiration, 
 and sorrow, as if she too were marble — 
 
VIOLA. 181 
 
 royal piece ! 
 There's magic in thy majesty, which has 
 From thy admiring daughter ta'en the spirits, 
 Standing like stone beside thee ! 
 
 are touches of character conveyed indirectly, and 
 which serve to give a more finished eflfect to this 
 beautiful picture. 
 
 VIOLA. 
 
 As the innate dignity of Perdita pierces through 
 her rustic disguise, so the exquisite refinement of 
 Viola triumphs over her masculine attire. Viola 
 is, perhaps, in a degree less elevated and ideal 
 than Perdita, but with a touch of sentiment more 
 profound and heart-stirring ; she is " deep-learned 
 in the lore of love," — at least theoretically, — and 
 speaks as masterly on the subject as Perdita does 
 of flowers. 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 How dost thou like this tune ? 
 
 VIOLA. 
 
 It gives a very echo to the seat 
 Where love is thron'd. 
 
 And again, 
 
 If I did love you in my master's flame, 
 With such a suffering, such a deadly life — 
 In your denial I would find no sense, 
 I would not understand it. 
 
182 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 OLIVIA. 
 Why, what would you do ? 
 
 VIOLA. 
 
 Make me a willow cabin at your gate, 
 And call upon my soul within the house; 
 Write loyal cantons * of contemned love, 
 And sing them loud even in the dead of night. 
 Holla your name to the reverberate hills, 
 And make babbling gossip of the air 
 Cry out, Olivia ! you should not rest 
 Between the elements of air and earth, 
 But you should pity me. 
 
 OLIVIA. 
 
 You might do much. 
 
 The situation and the character of Viola have 
 been censured for their want of consistency and 
 probability ; it is therefore worth while to examine 
 how far tliis criticism is true. As for her situation 
 In the drama, (of which she is properly the heroine,) 
 it is shortly this. She is shipwrecked on the coast 
 of Illyria : she is alone and without protection in a 
 strange country. She wishes to enter into the ser- 
 vice of the Countess Olivia ; but she is assured that 
 this is impossible ; " for the lady having recently 
 lost an only and beloved brother, has abjured the 
 sight of men, has shut herself up in her palace, and 
 will admit no kind of suit." In this perplexity, 
 Viola remembers to have heard her father speak 
 with praise and admiration of Orsino, the Duke of 
 
 * i. e. canzons^ songs 
 
VIOLA. 183 
 
 the country ; and having ascertained that he is not 
 married, and that therefore his court is not a proper 
 asylum for her in her feminine character, she at- 
 tires herself in the disguise of a page, as the best 
 protection against unci\il comments, till she can 
 gain some tidings of her brother. 
 
 If we carry our thoughts back to a romantic and 
 chivalrous age, there is surely sufficient probability 
 here for all the pui-poses of poetry. To pursue the 
 thread of Viola's destiny ; — she is engaged in the 
 service of the Duke, whom she finds " fancy-sick " 
 for the love of Olivia. We are left to infer, (for so 
 it is hinted in the first scene,) that this Duke — who 
 with his accomplishments, and his personal attrac- 
 tions, his taste for music, his chivalrous tenderness, 
 and his unrequited love, is really a very fascinating 
 and poetical personage, though a little passionate 
 and fantastic — had already made some impression 
 on Viola's imagination ; and when she comes to 
 play the confidante, and to be loaded with favors 
 and kindness in her assumed character, that she 
 should be touched by a passion made up of pity, 
 admiration, gratitude, and tenderness, does not, I 
 think, in any way detract from the genuine sweet- 
 ness and delicacy of her character, for " she never 
 told her love." 
 
 Now all this, as the critic wisely observes, may 
 not present a very just picture of life ; and it may 
 also fail to impart any moral lesson for the especial 
 profit of well-bred young ladies : but is it not in 
 truth and in nature ? Did it ever fail to charm or 
 
184 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 to interest, to seize on the coldest fancy, to touch 
 the most insensible heart ? 
 
 Yiola then is the chosen favorite of the enamour- 
 ed Duke, and becomes his messenger to Olivia, and 
 the interpreter of his sufferings to that inaccessible 
 beauty. In her character of a youthful page, she 
 attracts the favor of 01i\aa, and excites the jealousy 
 of her lord. The situation is critical and delicate ; 
 but how exquisitely is the character of Viola fitted 
 to her part, carrying her through the ordeal with 
 all the inward and spiritual grace of modesty! 
 What beautiful propriety in the distinction drawn 
 between Rosalind and Viola ! The wild sweetness, 
 the frolic humor which sports free and unblamed 
 amid the shades of Ardennes, would ill become 
 Viola, whose playfulness is assumed as part of her 
 disguise as a court-page, and is guarded by the 
 strictest delicacy. She has not, like Rosalind, a 
 saucy enjoyment in her own incognito ; her disguise 
 does not sit so easily upon her ; her heart does not 
 beat freely under it. As in the old ballad, where 
 " Sweet William " is detected weeping in secret 
 over her " man's array," * so in Viola, a sweet con- 
 sciousness of her feminine nature is for ever break- 
 ing through her masquerade : — 
 
 And on her cheek is ready with a blush 
 Modest as morning, when she coldly eyes 
 The youthiful Phoebus. 
 
 * Percy's Reliques, vol. iii.— see the ballad of the " Lady turn- 
 ing Serving Man." 
 
185 
 
 She plays her part well, but never forgets nor 
 allows us to forget, that she is playing a part. 
 
 OLIVIA. 
 
 Are you a comedian ? 
 
 VIOLA. 
 
 No, my profound heart ! and yet by the very fangs of 
 malice I swear, I am not that I play ! 
 
 And thus she comments on it : — 
 
 Disguise, I see thou art wickedness, 
 Wherein the pregnant enemy does much ; 
 How easy is it for the proper false 
 In women's waxen hearts to set their forms ! 
 Alas ! our frailty is the cause, not we. 
 
 The feminine cowardice of Viola, which will not 
 allow her even to aifect a courage becoming her 
 attire,— her horror at the idea of drawing a sword, 
 is very natural and characteristic ; and produces a 
 most humorous effect, even at the very moment it 
 charms and interests us. 
 
 Contrasted with the deep, silent, patient love of 
 Viola for the Duke, we have the lady-like wilful- 
 ness of Olivia ; and her sudden passion, or rather 
 fancy, for the disguised page, takes so beautiful a 
 coloring of poetry and sentiment, that we do not 
 think her forward. Olivia is like a princess of 
 romance, and has all the privileges of one ; she is, 
 like Portia, high born and high bred, mistress over 
 her servants — but not like Portia, " queen o'er her- 
 self" She has never in her life been opposed ; the 
 first contradiction, therefore, rouses all the woman 
 
186 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 in her, and turns a caprice into a lieadlong pas- 
 sion ; yet she apologizes for herself. 
 
 I have said too much unto a heart of stone, 
 And laid mine honor too unchary out ; 
 There's something in me that reproves my fault; 
 But such a headstrong potent fault it is, 
 That it but mocks reproof! 
 
 And in the midst of her self-abandonment, never 
 allows us to contemn, even while we pity her : — 
 
 What shall you ask of me that I'll deny. 
 That honor, saved, may upon asking give ? 
 
 The distance of rank wliieh separates the 
 Countess from the youthful page — the real sex of 
 Viola — the dignified elegance of Olivia's deport- 
 ment, except where passion gets the better of her 
 pride — her consistent coldness towards the Duke — 
 the description of that "smooth, discreet, and 
 stable bearing" with which she rules her house- 
 hold — her generous care for her steward Malvollo, 
 in the midst of her own distress, — all these circum- 
 stances raise Olivia in our fancy, and render her 
 caprice for the page a source of amusement and 
 interest, not a subject of reproach. Twelfth Nu/ht 
 is a genuine comedy ; — a perpetual spring of the 
 gayest and the sweetest fancies. In artificial so- 
 ciety men and women are divided into castes and 
 classes, and it is rarely that extremes in character 
 or manners can approximate. To blend into one 
 harmonious picture the utmost grace and refine- 
 
ornELiA. 187 
 
 ment of sentiment, and the broadest effects of 
 humor ; the most poignant wit, and the most in- 
 dulgent benignity ; — in short, to bring before us in 
 the same scene, Viola and Olivia, with MalvoHo 
 and Sir Toby, belonged only to Nature and to 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 OPHELIA. 
 
 A woman's affections, however strong, are senti- 
 ments, when they run smooth ; and become pas- 
 sions only when opposed. 
 
 In Juliet and Helena, love is depicted as a pas- 
 sion, properly so called ; that is, a natural impulse, 
 throbbing in the heart's blood, and mingling with 
 the ver}' sources of life ; — a sentiment more or less 
 modified by the imagination ; a strong abiding 
 principle and motive, excited by resistance, acting 
 upon the will, animating all the other faculties, and 
 again influenced by them. This is the most com- 
 plex aspect of love, and in these two characters, it 
 is depicted in colors at once the most various, the 
 most intense, and the most brilhant. 
 
 In Viola and Perdita, love, being less complex, 
 appears more refined; more a sentiment than a 
 passion — a compound of impulse and fancy, while 
 the reflective powers and moral energies are more 
 faintly developed. The same remark applies also 
 to Julia and Silvia, in the Two Gentlemen of 
 
188 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 Verona, and, in a greater degree, to Hermia and 
 Helena in the Midsummer Night's Dream. In the 
 two latter, though perfectly discriminated, love 
 takes the visionary fanciful cast, which belongs to 
 the whole piece ; it is scarcely a passion or a senti- 
 ment, but a dreamy enchantment, a reverie, which 
 a fairy spell dissolves or fixes at pleasure. 
 
 But there was yet another possible modification 
 of the sentiment, as combined with female nature ; 
 and this Shakspeare has shown to us. He has por- 
 trayed two beings, in whom all intellectual and 
 moral energy is in a manner latent, if existing ; in 
 whom love is an unconscious impulse, and imagina- 
 tion lends the external charm and hue, not the in- 
 ternal power ; in whom the feminine character ap- 
 pears resolved into its very elementary principles 
 — as modesty, grace,* tenderness. Without these 
 a woman is no woman, but a thing which, luckily, 
 wants a name yet ; with these, though every other 
 faculty were passive or deficient, she might still be 
 herself. These are the inherent qualities with 
 which God sent us into the world : they may be 
 perverted by a bad education — they may be ob- 
 ' scured by harsh and evil destinies — they may be 
 overpowered by the development of some particular 
 mental power, the predominance of some passion ; 
 
 * By this word, as used here, I would be understood to mean 
 that inexpressible something within the soul, which tends to the 
 good, the beautiful, the true, and is the antipodes to the vulgar, 
 the violent, and the false ; — th<at which we see diffused externally 
 over the form and movements, where there is perfect innocence 
 and unconsciousness, as in children. 
 
OPHELIA. 189 
 
 — but they are never wholly crushed out of the 
 woman's soul, while it retains those faculties which 
 render it responsible to its Creator. Shakspeare 
 then has shown us that these elemental feminine 
 qualities, modesty, grace, tenderness, when ex- 
 panded under genial influences, suffice to constitute 
 a perfect and happy human creature : such is Mi- 
 randa. When thrown alone amid harsh and ad- 
 verse destinies, and amid the trammels and corrup- 
 tions of society, without energy to resist, or will to 
 act, or strength to endure, the end must needs be 
 desolation. 
 
 Opheha — poor Ophelia ! O far too soft, too 
 good, too fair, to be cast among the briers of this 
 working-day world, and fall and bleed upon the 
 thorns of life ! What shall be said of her ? for 
 eloquence is mute before her ! Like a strain of sad 
 sweet music which comes floating by us on the 
 wings of night and silence, and which we rather 
 feel than hear — like the exhalation of the violet 
 dying even upon the sense it charms — like the 
 snow-flake dissolved in air before it has caught a 
 stain of earth — Uke the light surf severed from the 
 billow, which a breath disperses — such is the char- 
 acter of Opheha : so exquisitely delicate, it seems 
 as if a touch would profane it ; so sanctified in our 
 thoughts by the last and worst of human woes, that 
 we scarcely dare to consider it too deeply. The 
 love of Ophelia, which she never once confesses, is 
 like a secret which we have stolen from her, and 
 which ought to die upon our hearts as upon her 
 
190 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. ^V 
 
 own. H^r sorrows ask., not woro^Dut tears ; an^^ 
 her '^adn^s has ^precisely the sSie effect that 
 would be^^'^rq^uced %y the spectacle of real in- 
 sanity, if brought before us : we feel inclined to 
 turn away, and veil our eyes in reverential pity, 
 and too painful sympathy. 
 
 Beyond every character that Shakspeare has 
 drawn, (Hamlet alone excepted,) that of Ophelia 
 makes us forget the poet in his own creation. 
 Whenever we bring her to mind, it is with the 
 same exclusive sense of her real existence, without 
 reference to the wondrous power which called her 
 into life. The effect (and what an effect !) is pro- 
 duced by means so simple, by strokes so few, and 
 so unobtrusive, that we take no thought of them. 
 It is so purely natural and unsophisticated, yet so 
 profound in its pathos, that, as HazUtt observes, it 
 takes us back to the old ballads ; we forget that, in 
 its perfect artlessness, it is the supreme and con- 
 summate triumph of art. 
 
 The situation of Ophelia in the story,* is that of 
 a young girl who, at an early age, is brought fro. 
 a hfe of privacy into the circle of a court — a cou. 
 such as we read of in those early times, at once 
 rude, magnificent, and corrupted. She is placed 
 immediately about the person of the queen, and is 
 
 * i. e. In the story of the drama : for in the original "History 
 of Amleth the Dane," from which Shakspeare drew his materials, 
 there is a woman introduced who is emploj'ed as an instrument 
 to seduce Amleth, hut not even the germ of the character of 
 Ophelia. 
 
OPHELIA. 191 
 
 apparently her favorite attendant. The affection 
 of the wicked queen for this gentle and innocent 
 creature, is one of those beautiful redeeming 
 touches, one of those penetrating glances into 
 the secret springs of natural and feminine feeling 
 which we find only in Shakspeare. Gertrude, who 
 is not so wholly abandoned but that there remains 
 within her heart some sense of the virtue she has 
 forfeited, seems to look wi:h a kind yet melancholy 
 complacency on the lovely being she has destined 
 for the bride of her son ; and the scene in which 
 she is introduced as scattering flowers on the grave 
 of Ophelia, is one of those effects of contrast in 
 poetry, in character and in feeling, at once natural 
 and unexpected ; which fill the eye, and make the 
 heart swell and tremble within itself — like the 
 nightingales singing in the grove of the Furies in 
 Sophocles.* 
 
 Again, in the father of Ophelia, the Lord Cham- 
 berlain Polonius — the shrewd, wary, subtle, pom- 
 pous, garrulous old courtier — ^have we not the very 
 fan who would send his son into the world to see 
 .u'l, learn all it could teach of good and evil, but 
 keep his only daughter as far as possible from 
 every taint of that world he knew so well ? So that 
 when she is brought to the court, she seems in her 
 loveliness and perfect purity, like a seraph that 
 had wandered out of bounds, and yet breathed on 
 earth the air of paradise. When her father and 
 her brother find it necessary to warn her simplicity, 
 
 * In the CEdipus Coloneus 
 
192 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. • 
 
 give her lessons of worldly wisdom, and instruct 
 her " to be scanter of her maiden presence," for 
 that Hamlet's vows of love " but breathe Hke 
 sanctified and pious bonds, the better to beguile," 
 we feel at once that it comes too late ; for from the 
 moment she appears on the scene amid the dark 
 conflict of crime and vengeance, and supernatural 
 terrors, we know what must be her destiny. Once, 
 at Murano, I saw a dove caught in a tempest ; per- 
 haps it was young, and either lacked strength of 
 wing to reach its home, or the instinct which 
 teaches to shun the brooding storm ; but so it was 
 — and I watched it, pitying, as it flitted, poor bird ! 
 hither and thither, with its silver pinions shining 
 against the black thunder-cloud, till, after a few 
 giddy whirls, it fell bUnded, affrighted, and bewil- 
 dered, into the turbid wave beneath, and was swal- 
 lowed up forever. It reminded me then of the 
 fate of Ophelia ; and now when I think of her, I 
 see again before me that poor dove, beating with 
 weary wing, bewildered amid the storm. It is the 
 helplessness of Ophelia, arising merely from her 
 innocence, and pictured without any indication of 
 weakness, which melts us with such profound pity. 
 She is so young, that neither her mind nor her per- 
 son have attained maturity ; she is not aware of 
 the nature of her own feelings ; they are prema- 
 turely developed 'in their full force before she has 
 strength to bear them ; and love and grief together 
 rend and shatter the frail texture of her existence, 
 like the burning fluid poured into a crystal vase. 
 
OPHELIA. 193 
 
 She says very little, and what she does say seems 
 rather intended to hide than to reveal the emotions 
 of her heart ; yet in those few words we are made 
 as perfectly acquainted with her character, and 
 with what is passing in her mind, as if she had 
 thrown forth her soul with all the glowing eloquence 
 of Juliet. Passion with Juliet seems innate, a part 
 of her being, " as dwells the gathered lightning in 
 the cloud ; " and we never fancy her but with the 
 dark splendid eyes and Titian-like complexion of 
 the south. While in Ophelia we recognize as dis- 
 tinctly the pensive, fair-haired, blue-eyed daughter 
 of the north, whose heart seems to vibrate to the 
 passion she has inspired, more conscious of being 
 loved than of loving ; and yet, alas ! loving in the 
 silent depths of her young heart far more than she 
 is loved. 
 
 When her brother warns her against Hamlet's 
 importunities — 
 
 For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favor, 
 Hold it a fashion, and a toy of blood, 
 A violet in the youth of primy nature. 
 Forward not permanent, sweet not lasting. 
 The perfume and the suppliance of a minute — 
 No more ! 
 
 she replies with a kind of half consciousness — 
 
 No more but so ? 
 
 LAERTES. 
 
 Think it no more. 
 13 
 
194 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC 
 
 He concludes his admonition witli that most 
 beautiful, passage, in which the soundest sense, the 
 most excellent advice, is conveyed in a strain of 
 the most exquisite poetry. 
 
 The chariest maid is prodigal enough, 
 If she unmasli her beauty to the moon : 
 Virtue itself 'scapes not calumnious strokes. 
 The canker galls the infants of the spring 
 Too oft before their buttons be disclos'd: 
 And in the morn and liquid dew of youth, 
 Contagious blastments are most imminent. 
 
 She answers with the same modesty, yet with a 
 kind of involuntary avowal, that his fears are not 
 altogether without cause : — 
 
 I shall the effect of this good lesson keep 
 
 As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother, 
 
 Do not, as some ungracioiis pastors do. 
 
 Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven ; 
 
 Whilst, like the puff'd and reckless libertine, 
 
 Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, 
 
 And recks not his own read.* 
 
 When her father, immediately afterwards, cate- 
 chizes her on the same subject, he extorts from her, 
 in short sentences, uttered with bashful reluctance, 
 the confession of Hamlet's love for her, but not 
 a word of her love for him. The whole scene 
 is managed with inexpressible delicacy: it is 
 one of those instances, common in Shakspeare, 
 in which we are allowed to perceive what is 
 
 * " And recks not his own read," t. c. heeda not his own lesson. 
 
OPHELIA. 195 
 
 passing in the mind of a person, without any con- 
 sciousness on their p art. Only Ophelia herself is 
 unaware that while she is admitting the extent of 
 Hamlet's courtship, she is also betraying how deep 
 is the impression it has made, how entire the love 
 with which it is returned. 
 
 POLOXIUS. 
 
 What is between you ? give me up the ti'uth ! 
 
 OPHELIA. 
 
 He hath, my lord, of late, made many tenders 
 Of his affection to me. 
 
 poLOxros. 
 Affection ! poh ! you speak like a green girl. 
 Unsifted in such perilous circumstances. 
 Do you believe his tenders, as you call them ? 
 
 OPHELIA. 
 
 I do not know, my lord, what I should think. 
 
 POLONIUS. 
 
 Marry, I'll teach you: think yourself a baby; 
 That you have taken these tenders for true pay 
 Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly ; 
 Or (not to crack the wind of the poor phrase. 
 Wronging it thus) you'll tender me a fool. 
 
 OPHELIA.' 
 
 My lord, he hath importun'd me with love 
 In honorable fashion. 
 
 POLONIUS. 
 
 Ay, fashion you may call it ; go to, go to. 
 
196 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 OPHELIA. 
 
 And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord, 
 With almost all the holy vows of heaven. 
 
 POLONIUS. 
 
 Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. 
 
 This is for all: 
 I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth 
 Have you so slander any moment's leisure 
 As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet, 
 Look to't, I charge you: come your ways. 
 
 OPHELIA. 
 
 I shall obey, my lord. • 
 
 Besides its intrinsic loveliness, the ctaracter of 
 Ophelia has a relatiye; beauty and delicacy when 
 considered in relation j|m thaji of Hamlet, which is 
 the delineation of a man of genius in contest with 
 the powers of this world, TUe^ "weakness of volition, 
 the instability of purpose, the contemplative sen- 
 sibility, the subtlety of thought, always shrinking 
 i n action, and always occupied in " thinking too 
 preci ely on the event," united to immense intel- 
 lectual f ower, render him unspeakably interesting : 
 and yet I doubt whether any woman, who would 
 have been cr^ able of understanding and appreciat>- 
 ing such a man, would have passionately loved him. 
 Let us for a mou ent imagine any one of Shak- 
 speare's most beauli 'd and striking female char- 
 acters in immediate con. ection with Hamlet. The 
 gentle Desdemona would never have despatched 
 her household cares- in haste, :o listen to his philo- 
 
OPHELIA. 197 
 
 sophical speculations, his dark conflicts with his 
 own spirit. Such a woman as Portia would have 
 studied him ; Juliet would have pitied him ; Rosa- 
 lind would have turned him over with a smile to 
 the melancholy Jacques ; Beatrice would have 
 laughed at him outright; Isabel would have rea- 
 soned with him ; Miranda could but have won- 
 dered at him : but Ophelia loves him. Ophelia, 
 the young, fair, inexperienced girl, facile to 
 every impression, fond in her simplicity, and cred- 
 ulous in her innocence, loves Hamlet; not from 
 what he is in himself, but for that which appears 
 to her — the gentle, accomplished prince, upon 
 whom she has been accustomed to see all eyes 
 fixed in hope and admiration, "the expectancy 
 and rose of the fair state," vlie star of the court in 
 which she moves, the first who has ever whispered 
 soft vows in her ear : and what can be more 
 natural ? 
 
 But it is not singular, that while no one enter- 
 tains a doubt of Ophelia's love for Hamlet — though 
 never once expressed by herself, or asserted by 
 others, in the whole course of the drama — yet it is 
 a subject of dispute whether Hamlet loves Ophelia, 
 though she herself allows that he had importuned 
 her with love, and " had given countenance to his 
 suit with almost all the holy vows of heaven ; " al- 
 though in the letter which Polonius intercepted, 
 Hamlet declares that he loves her " best, O most 
 best ! " — though he asserts himself, with the wildest 
 vehemence, — 
 
198 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ^16. 
 
 I lov'd Ophelia; forty thousand brothers 
 Could not, with all their quantity of love, 
 Make up my sum: 
 
 — still I have heard the question canvassed ; I have 
 even heard it denied that Hamlet did love Ophelia. 
 The author of the finest remarks I have yet seen 
 on the play and character of Hamlet, leaiis to this 
 opinion. As the observations I allude to are con- 
 tained in a periodical publication, and may not be 
 at hand for immediate reference, I shall indulge 
 myself (and the reader no less) by quoting the 
 opening paragraphs of this noble piece of criticism, 
 upon the principle, and for the reason I have al- 
 ready stated in the introduction. 
 
 " We take up a play, and ideas come rolling in 
 upon us, like waves impelled by a strong wind. 
 There is in the ebb and flow of Shakspeare's soul 
 all the grandeur of a mighty operation of nature ; 
 and when we think or speak of him, it should be 
 with humlHty where we do not understand, and a 
 conviction that it is rather to the narrowness of our 
 own mind than to any failing in the art of the great 
 magician, that we ought to attribute any sense of 
 weakness, which may assail us during the contem- 
 plation of his created worlds. 
 
 " Shakspeare himself, had he even been as great 
 a critic as a poet, could not have written a regular 
 dissertation upon Hamlet. So ideal, and yet so 
 real an existence, could have been shadowed out 
 only in the colors of poetry. When a character 
 deals solely or chiefly with this world and its events, 
 
OPHELIA. 199 
 
 when It acts and is acted upon by objects that have 
 a palpable existence, we see it distinctly, as if it 
 were cast in a material mould, as if it partook of 
 the fixed and settled lineaments of the things on 
 which it lavishes its sensibilities and its passions. 
 We see in such cases the vision of an individual 
 soul, as we see the vision of an individual counte- 
 nance. We can describe both, and can let a 
 stranger into our knowledge. But how tell in 
 words, so pure, so fine, so ideal an abstraction as 
 Hamlet ? AVe can, indeed, figure to ourselves gen- 
 erally his princely form, that outshone all others in 
 manly beauty, and adorn it with the consummation 
 of all liberal accomphshment. We can behold in 
 every look, every gesture, every motion, the future 
 king,— 
 
 The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword, 
 Th' expectancy and rose of the fair state ; 
 The glass of fashion, and the mould of form, 
 Th' observ'd of all observers. 
 
 " But when we would penetrate into his spirit, 
 meditate on those things on which he meditates, ac- 
 company him even unto the brink of eternity, 
 fluctuate with him on the ghastly sea of despair, 
 soar with him into the purest and serenest regions 
 of human thought, feel with him the curse of be- 
 holding iniquity, and the troubled delight of think- 
 ing on innocence, and gentleness, and beauty ; 
 come with him from all the glorious dreams cher- 
 ished by a noble spirit in the halls of wisdom and 
 
2(70 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 philosophy, of a sudden into the gloomy courts of 
 sin, and incest, and murder ; shudder with him 
 over the broken and shattered fragments of all the 
 fairest creations of his fancy, — be borne with him 
 at once, from calm, and lofty, and delighted specu- 
 lations, into the very heart of fear, and horror, and 
 tribulations, — have the agonies and the guilt of our 
 mortal world brought into immediate contact with 
 the world beyond the grave, and the influence of 
 an awful shadow hanging forever on our thoughts, — 
 be present at a fearful combat between all the stir- 
 red-up passions of humanity in the soul of man, a 
 combat in which one and all of these passions are 
 alternately victorious and overcome ; I say, that 
 when we are thus placed and acted upon, how is it 
 possible to draw a character of this sublime drama, 
 or of the mysterious being who is its moving spirit ? 
 In him, his character and situation, there is a con- 
 centration of all the interests that belong to human- 
 ity. There is scarcely a trait of frailty or of gran- 
 deur, which may have endeared to us our most 
 beloved friends in real life, that is not to be found 
 in Hamlet. Undoubtedly Shakspeare loved him 
 beyond all his other creations. Soon as he appears 
 on the stage we are satisfied : when absent we long 
 for his return. This is the only play which exists 
 almost altogether in the character of one single 
 person. Who ever knew a Hamlet in real life ? 
 yet who, ideal as the character is, feels not its 
 reality ? This is the wonder. We love him not, 
 we think of him, not because he is witty, because 
 
OPHELIA. 201 
 
 he was melancholy, because he "was filial ; but we 
 love him because he existed, and was himself. This 
 is the sum total of the impression. I believe that, 
 of every other character, either in tragic or epic 
 poetry, the story makes part of the conception ; but 
 of Hamlet, the deep and pei-manent interest is the 
 conception of himself This seems to belong, not 
 to the character being more perfectly drawn, but 
 to there being a more intense conception of individ- 
 ual human life than perhaps any other human 
 composition. Here is a being with springs of 
 thought, and feeling, and action, deeper than we 
 can search. These springs rise from an unknown 
 depth, and in that depth there seems to be a one- 
 ness of being wliich we cannot distinctly behold, 
 but which we believe to be there ; and thus irrec- 
 oncilable circumstances, floating on the surface of 
 his actions, have not the effect of making us doubt 
 the truth of the general picture." * 
 
 This is all most admirable, most eloquent, most 
 true ! but the critic subsequently declares, that 
 "there is nothing in Ophelia which could make 
 her the object of an engrossing passion to so ma- 
 jestic a spirit as Hamlet." 
 
 Now, though it be with reluctance, and even 
 considerable mistrust of myself^ that I differ from 
 a critic who can thus feel and write, I do not think 
 so : — I do think, with submission, that the love of 
 Hamlet for Ophelia is deep, is real, and is precisely 
 
 * Blackwood's Magazine, toI. ii. 
 
202 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 the kind of love whicli such a man as Hamlet 
 would feel for such a woman as Ophelia. 
 
 When the heathen would represent their Jove 
 as clothed in all his Olympian terrors, they mounted 
 him on the back of an eagle, and armed him with 
 the lightnings ; but when in Holy Writ the Su- 
 preme Being is described as coming in his glory, 
 He is upborne on the wings of cherubim, and his 
 emblem is the dove. Even so our blessed religion, 
 which has revealed deeper mysteries in the human 
 soul than ever were dreamt of by philosophy till 
 she went hand-in-hand with faith, has taught us to 
 pay that worship to the symbols of purity and in- 
 nocence, which in darker times was paid to the 
 manifestations of power : and therefore do I think 
 that the mighty intellect, the capacious, soaring, 
 penetrating genius of Hamlet may be represented, 
 without detracting from its grandeur, as reposing 
 upon the tender virgin innocence of Ophelia, with 
 all that deep delight with which a superior nature 
 contemplates the goodness which is at once perfect 
 in itself, and of itself unconscious. That Hamlet 
 regards Ophelia with tliis kind of tenderness, — that 
 he loves her with a love as intense as can belong to 
 a nature in which there is, (I think,) much more of 
 contemplation and sensibility than action or pas- 
 sion — is the feeling and conviction with which I 
 have always read the play of Hamlet. 
 
 As to whether the mind of Hamlet be, or be not, 
 touched with madness — tliis is another point at 
 issue among critics, philosophers, ay, and physi- 
 
OPHELIA. 203 
 
 cians. To me it seems that he is not so far disor- 
 dered as to cease to be a responsible Imman being 
 ^-that were too pitiable: but rather that his mind 
 is shaken from its equilibrium, and bewildered by 
 the horrors of his situation — horrors "which his fine 
 and subtle intellect, his strong imagination, and his 
 tendency to melancholy, at once exaggerate, and 
 take fi'om him the power either to endure, or " by 
 opposing, end them." We do not see him as a 
 lover, nor as Ophelia first beheld him ; for the days 
 when he importuned her with love were before the 
 opening of the drama — before his father's spirit re- 
 visited the earth ; but we behold him at once in a 
 sea of troubles, of perplexities, of agonies, of ter- 
 rors. Without remorse, he endures all it? horrors ; 
 without guilt, he endures all its shame. A loathing 
 of the crime he is called on to revenge, which re- 
 venge is again abhorrent to his nature, has set him 
 at strife with himself; the supernatural visitation 
 has perturbed his soul to its inmost depths; all 
 things else, all interests, all hopes, all affections, 
 appear as futile, when the majestic shadow comes 
 lamenting from its place of tonnent " to shake him 
 with thoughts beyond the reaches of his soul !" 
 His love for Ophelia is then ranked by himself 
 among those trivial, fond records which he has 
 deeply sworn to erase from his heart and brain. 
 He has no tliought to link his terrible destiny with 
 hers : he cannot marry her : he cannot reveal to 
 her, young, gentle, innocent as she is, the tenific 
 influences which have chansed the whole current 
 
204 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 of his life and purposes. In his distraction he over- 
 acts the painful part to which he had tasked him- 
 self; he is like that judge of the Areopagus, who 
 being occupied with graver matters, flung from 
 him the little bird which had sought refuge in his 
 bosom, and with such angry violence, that unwit- 
 tingly he killed it. 
 
 In the scene with Hamlet,* in which he madly 
 outrages her and upbraids himself, Ophelia says 
 very little : there are two short sentences in which 
 she replies to his wild, abrupt discourse : — 
 
 HAMLET. 
 
 I did love you once. 
 
 OrHELIA. 
 
 Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so. 
 
 HAMLET. 
 
 You should not have believed me: for virtue cannot so 
 inocculate our old stock, but we shall relish of it. I loved 
 you not. 
 
 OPHELIA. 
 
 I was the more deceived. 
 
 Those who ever heard Mrs. Siddons read the play 
 of Hamlet, cannot forget the world of meaning, of 
 love, of sorrow, of despair, conveyed in these two 
 simple phrases. Here, and in the soliloquy after- 
 wards, where she says, — 
 
 And I of ladies most deject and wretched, 
 That sucked the lioney of his music vows, 
 
 are the only allusions to herself and her own feel- 
 
 * Act iii. scene 1. 
 
OPHELIA. 205 
 
 ings in the course of the play ; and tbese, uttered 
 almost without consciousness on her own part, con- 
 tain the revelation of a life of love, and disclose 
 the secret burthen of a heart bursting with its own 
 unuttered grief. She believes Hamlet crazed ; she 
 is repulsed, she is forsaken, she is outraged, where 
 she had bestowed her young heart, with all its hopes 
 and wishes ; her father is slain by the hand of her 
 lover, as it is supposed, in a paroxysm of insanity : 
 she is entangled inextricably in a web of horrors 
 which she cannot even comprehend, and the result 
 seems inevitable. 
 
 Of her subsequent madness, what can be said ? 
 What an affecting — what an astonishing picture of 
 a mind utterly, hopelessly wrecked ! — past hope — 
 past cure ! There is the frenzy of excited passion 
 — ithere is the madness caused by intense and con- 
 tinued thought — there is the delirium of fevered 
 nerves; but Ophelia's madness is distinct from 
 these : it is not the suspension, but the utter destruc- 
 tion of the reasoning powers ; it is the total imbecil- 
 ity which, as medical people well know, frequently 
 follows some terrible shock to the spirits. Con- 
 stance is frantic ; Lear is mad ; Ophelia is insane. 
 Her sweet mind lies in fragments before us — a piti- 
 ful spectacle ! Her wild, rambling fancies ; her 
 aimless, broken speeches; her quick transitions 
 from gayet}^ to sadness — each equally purposeless 
 and causeless ; her snatches of old ballads, such as 
 perhaps her nurse sung her to sleep with in her in- 
 fancy — are all so true to the life, that we forget to 
 
206 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC 
 
 wonder, and can only weep. It belonged to Shak- 
 speare alone so to temper such a picture that we 
 can endure to dwell upon it : — 
 
 Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, 
 She turns to favor and to prettiness. 
 
 That in her madness she should exchange her 
 bashful silence for empty babbling, her sweet 
 maidenly demeanor for the impatient restlessness 
 that spurns at straws, and say and sing precisely 
 what she never would or could have uttered had 
 she been in possession of her reason, is so far from 
 being an impropriety, that it is an additional stroke 
 of nature. It is one of the sjTnptoms of this species 
 of insanity, as we are assured by physicians. I 
 have myself known one instance in the case of a 
 young Quaker girl, whose character resembled that 
 of Ophelia, and whose malady arose from a similar 
 cause. 
 
 The whole action of this play sweeps past us 
 like a torrent, which hurries along in its dark and 
 resistless course all the personages of the drama 
 towards a catastrophe that is not brought about by 
 human will, but seems like an abyss ready dug to 
 receive them, where the good and the wicked are 
 whelmed together.* As the character of Hamlet 
 has been compared, or rather contrasted, with the 
 Greek Orestes, being like him, called on to avenge 
 a crime by a crune, tormented by remorseful doubts, 
 and pursued by distraction, so, to me, the character 
 
 * Goethe. See the analysis of Hamlet in Wilhelm Mcister. 
 
MIRANDA. 207 
 
 of Opliolia bears a certain relation to that of the 
 Greek Iphigcnia,* with the same strong distmction 
 between the classical and the romantic conception 
 of the portrait. Iphigenia led forth to sacrifice, 
 with her unresisting tenderness, her mournful 
 sweetness, her virgin innocence, is doomed to perish 
 by that relentless power, which has linked her 
 destiny with crimes and contests, in which she has 
 no part but as a sufierer ; and even so, poor 
 Opheha, " divided from herself and her fair judg- 
 ment," appears here like a spotless victim offered 
 up to the mysteiious and inexorable fates. 
 
 " For it is the property of crime to extend its 
 mischiefs over innocence, as it is of virtue to ex- 
 tend its blessings over many that deserve them 
 not, while frequently the author of one or the other 
 is not, as far as we can see, either punished or 
 rewarded. "f But there's a heaven above us ! 
 
 J\nRANDA. 
 
 We might have deemed it impossible to go beyond 
 Viola, Perdita, and Ophelia, as pictures of feminine 
 beauty ; to exceed the one in tender delicacy, the 
 other in ideal grace, and the last in simplicity, — 
 if Shakspeare had not done this; and he alone 
 • The Iphigenia in Aulis of Euripides. t Goethe. 
 
208 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 could have done it. Had he never created a 
 IVIiranda, we should never have been made to feel 
 how completely the purely natural and the purely 
 ideal can blend into each other. 
 
 The character of Mranda resolves itself into 
 the very elements of womanhood. She is beauti- 
 ful, modest, and tender, and she is these only ; they 
 comprise her whole being, external and internal. 
 She is so perfectly unsophisticated, so delicately 
 refined, that she is all but ethereal. Let us imagine 
 any other woman placed beside Miranda — even 
 one of Shakspeare's own loveliest and sweetest 
 creations — there is not one of them that could sus- 
 tain the comparison for a moment; not one that 
 would not appear somewhat coarse or artificial when 
 brought into immediate contact with this pure child 
 of nature, this " Eve of an enchanted Paradise." 
 
 What, then, has Shakspeare done ? — " O wondrous 
 skill and sweet wit of the man ! " — he has removed 
 Miranda far from all comparison with her own sex ; 
 he has placed her between the demi-demon of 
 earth and the delicate spirit of air. The next step 
 is into the ideal and supernatural ; and the only 
 being who approaches IMiranda, with whom she can 
 be contrasted, is Ariel. Beside the subtle essence 
 of this ethereal sprite, this creature of elemental 
 light and air, that " ran upon the winds, rode the 
 curl'd clouds, and in the colors of the rainbow 
 lived," JVIiranda herself appears a palpable reality, 
 a woman, " breathing thoughtful breatli," a woman, 
 walking the earth in her mortal loveliness, with a 
 
MIRANDA. 209 
 
 heart as frail-strung, as passion-touched, as ever 
 fluttered in a female bosom. 
 
 I have said that Miranda possesses merely the 
 elementary attributes of womanhood, but each of 
 these stand in her with a distinct and peculiar 
 grace. She resembles nothing upon earth ; but do 
 we therefore compare her, in our own minds, with 
 any of those fabled beings with which the fancy 
 of ancient poets peopled the forest depths, the 
 fountain or the ocean ? — oread or dryad fleet, sea- 
 maid, or naiad of the stream ? We cannot think 
 of them together. Miranda is a consistent, natural, 
 human being. Our impression of her nymph-like 
 beauty, her peerless grace, and purity of soul, has 
 a distinct and individual character. 2^[ot only is 
 she exquisitely lovely, being what she is, but we are 
 made to feel that she could not possibly be other- 
 wise than as she is portrayed. She has never be- 
 held one of her own sex ; she has never caught 
 from society one imitated or artificial grace. The 
 impulses which have come to her, in her enchanted 
 solitude, are of heaven and nature, not of the 
 world and its vanities. She has sprung up into- 
 beauty beneath the eye of her father," the princely 
 magician ; her companions have been the rocks 
 and woods, the many-shaped, many-tinted clouds, 
 and the silent stars ; her playmates the ocean bil- 
 lows, that stooped their foamy crests, and ran rip- 
 pling to kiss her feet. Ariel and his attendant 
 sprites hovered over her head, ministered duteous 
 to her every wish, and presented before her 
 14 
 
210 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 pageants of beauty and grandeur. The very air, 
 made vocal by lier father's art, floated in music 
 around her. If we can presuppose such a situation 
 with all its circumstances, do we not behold in the 
 character of Miranda not only the credible, but 
 the natural, the necessary results of such a situar 
 tion V She retains her woman's heart, for that is 
 unalterable and inalienable, as a part of her being ; 
 but her deportment, her looks, her language, her 
 thoughts — aU these, from the supernatural and 
 poetical circumstances around her, assume a cast 
 of the pure ideal ; and to us, who are in the secret 
 of her human and pitying nature, nothing can be 
 more charming and consistent than the effect which 
 she produces upon others, who never having be- 
 held any thing resembling her, approach her as " a 
 wonder," as something celestial : — 
 
 Be sure ! the goddess on whom these airs attend ! 
 
 And again : — 
 
 What is this maid ? 
 Is she the goddess who hath severed us, 
 And brought us thus together ? 
 
 And Ferdinand exclaims, while gazing on her, — 
 
 My spirits as in a dream are all bound up ! 
 My father's loss, the weakness that I feel, 
 The wreck of all my friends, or this man's threats, 
 To whom I am subdued, are but light to me 
 Might I but through my prison once a day 
 Behold this maid : all comers else o' the earth 
 Let liberty make use of, space enough 
 Have I in such a prison. 
 
MIRANDA. 211 
 
 Contrasted with tlie impression of her refined 
 and dignified beauty, and its effect on all beholders, 
 is JVliranda's own soft simplicity, ber virgin inno- 
 cence, her total ignorance of the conventional 
 forms and language of society. It is most natural 
 that in a being thus constituted, the first tears should 
 spring from compassion, " suffering with those that 
 she saw suffer : "— 
 
 the cry did knock 
 Against my very heart. Poor souls ! they perished. 
 Had I been any god of power, I would 
 Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er 
 It should the good ship so have swallowed, 
 And the freighting souls within her ; 
 
 and that her first sigh should be offered to a love 
 at once fearless and submissive, delicate and fond. 
 She has no taught scruples of honor like Juliet ; 
 no coy concealments like Viola ; no assmned dig- 
 nity standing in its own defence. Her bashfulness 
 is less a quality than an instinct ; it is like the self- 
 folding of a flower, spontaneous and unconscious. 
 I suppose there is nothing of the kind in poetry 
 equal to the scene between Ferdinand and Mir- 
 anda. In Ferdinand, who is a noble creature, we 
 have all the chivalrous magnanimity vnth which 
 man, in a high state of civilization, disguises his 
 real superiority, and does humble homage to the 
 being of whose destiny he disposes ; while Miranda, 
 the mere child of nature, is struck with wonder at 
 her own new emotions. Only conscious of her 
 
212 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 own weakness as a woman, and ignorant of those 
 usages of society which teach us to dissemble the 
 real passion, and assume (and sometimes abuse) an 
 unreal and transient power, she is equally ready 
 to place her life, her love, her service beneath his 
 feet. 
 
 MIRANDA. 
 
 Alas, now ! pray you. 
 Work not so hard : I would the lightning had 
 Burnt up those logs, that you are enjoined to pile ! 
 Pray set it down and rest you : when this burns, 
 'Twill weep for having weary'd you. My father 
 Is hard at study ; pray now, rest yourself: 
 He's safe for these three hours. 
 
 FERDINAND. 
 
 most dear mistress, 
 The sun will set before I shall discharge 
 What I must strive to do. 
 
 MIRANDA. 
 
 If you'll sit down, 
 I'll bear your logs the while. Pray give me that, 
 I'll carry it to the pile. 
 
 FERDINAND. 
 
 No, precious creature ; 
 I had rather crack my sinews, break my back. 
 Than you should such dishonor undergo, 
 ' While I sit lazy by. 
 
 MIRANDA. 
 
 It would become me 
 As well as it does you ; and I should do it 
 
MIRANDA. 213 
 
 With much more ease ; for my good will is to it, 
 And yours against. 
 
 ***** 
 
 MIRANDA, 
 
 You look -wearily. 
 
 FEEDIXAXD. 
 
 No, noble mistress ; 'tis fresh morning with me 
 When you are by at night. I do beseech you, 
 (Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers,) 
 What is your name V 
 
 MIRANDA. 
 
 Miranda. my father, 
 I have broke your 'best to say so ! 
 
 FERDINAND. 
 
 Admir'd Miranda! 
 Indeed the top of admiration ; woi-th 
 What's dearest to the world ! Full many a lady 
 I have eyed with best regard : and many a time 
 The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage 
 Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues 
 Have I liked several women ; never any 
 With so full soul, but some defect in her 
 Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed 
 And put it to the foil. But you, you. 
 So perfect and so peerless, are created 
 Of every creature's best! 
 
 MIRANDA. 
 
 I do not know 
 One of my sex: no woman's face remember. 
 Save, from my glass, mine own ; nor have I seen 
 More that I may call men, than you, good friend, 
 And my dear father. How features are abroad 
 
214 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 I am skill-less of: but, by my modesty, 
 (The jewel in my dower,) I would not wish 
 Any companion in the world but you ; 
 Nor can imagination form a shape, 
 Besides yourself, to like of — But I prattle 
 Something too wildly, and my father's pi'ecepts 
 Therein forget. 
 
 FERDINAJID. 
 
 I am, in my condition 
 A prince, IMiranda — I do think a king — 
 (I would, not so ! ) and would no more endure 
 This wooden slavery, than I would suffer 
 The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak; 
 The very instant that I saw j'ou, did 
 My heart fly to your service ; there resides, 
 To make me slave to it ; and for your sake, 
 Am I this patient log-man. 
 
 MIRANDA. 
 
 Do you love me ? 
 
 FERDINAND. 
 
 heaven! earth! bear witness to this sound, 
 And crown what I profess with kind event, 
 If I speak true : if hollowly, invert 
 What best is boded me, to mischief! I, 
 Beyond all limit of what else i' the world, 
 Do love, prize, honor you. 
 
 MIRANDA. 
 
 I am a fool. 
 To weep at w^hat I am glad of, 
 
 FERDINAND. 
 
 Wherefore weep you? 
 
MIRANDA. 215 
 
 MIRANDA. 
 
 At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer 
 
 What I desire to give ; and much less take, 
 
 What I shall die to want — But this is trifling: 
 
 And all the more it seeks to hide itself, 
 
 The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning; 
 
 And prompt me, plain and holy innocence ! 
 
 I am your wife, if you will marry me ; 
 
 If not I'Ll die your maid : to be your fellow 
 
 You may deny me; but I'll be your servant 
 
 Whether you will or no ! 
 
 FERDINAND. 
 
 My mistress, dearest ! 
 And I thus humble ever. 
 
 MIRANTJA. 
 
 My husband, then? 
 
 FERDINAND. 
 
 Ay, with a heart as willing. 
 
 As bondage e'er of freedom. Here's my hand. 
 
 MIRANDA. 
 
 And mine with my heart in it. And now farewell 
 Till half an hour hence. 
 
 As Miranda, being what she is, could only have 
 had a Ferdinand for a lover, and an Ariel for her 
 attendant, so she could have had with propriety no 
 other father than the majestic and gifted being, 
 who fondly claims her as " a thread of his own 
 life — nay, that fbr which he lives." Prospero, with 
 his magical powers, his superhuman wisdom, his 
 moral worth and grandeur, and his kingly dignity, 
 
216 CnAllACTERS OF PASSIOX, ETC. 
 
 is one of tlie most sublime visions that ever swept 
 with ample robes, pale brow, and sceptred hand, 
 before the eye of fancy. He controls the Invisible 
 world, and works through the agency of spirits ! 
 not by any evil and forbidden compact, but solely 
 by superior might of intellect — by potent spells 
 gathered from the lore of ages, and abjured when 
 he mingles again as a man with his fellow men. 
 He is as distinct a being from the necromancers 
 and astrologers celebrated in Shakspeare's age, as 
 can well be imagined : * and all the wizards of 
 poetry and fiction, even Faust and St. Leon, sink 
 into commonplaces before the princely, the philo- 
 sopliic, the benevolent Prospero. 
 
 The Bermuda Isles, in which Shakspeare has 
 placed the scene of the Tempest, were discovered 
 in his time : Sir George Somers and his companions 
 having been wrecked there in a terrible storm,f 
 brought back a most fearful account of those un- 
 known Islands, which they described as " a land of 
 devils — a most prodigious and enchanted place, 
 subject to continual tempests and supernatural 
 visitings." Such was the idea entertained of the 
 " still-vext Bermoothes " in Shakspeare's age ; but 
 later travellers describe them as perfect regions of 
 enchantment in a far different sense ; as so many 
 
 * Such as Cornelius Agrippa, Michael Scott, Dr. Dee. The last 
 was the contemporary of Shakspeare. 
 
 t lu 1609, about three years before Shakspeare produced the 
 Tempest, which, though placed first in all the editions of his 
 works, was one of the last of his dramas 
 
MIRANDA. 217 
 
 fairy Edens, clustered like a knot of gems upon 
 the bosom of the Atlantic, decked out in all the 
 lavish luxuriance of nature, with shades of myrtle 
 and cedar, fringed round with groves of coral 
 in short, each island a tiny paradise, rich with 
 perpetual blossoms, in which Ariel might have 
 slumbered, and ever-verdant bowers, in which 
 Ferdinand and Miranda might have strayed: so 
 that Shakspeare, in blending the wild relations of 
 the shipwrecked mariners with his own inspired 
 fancies, has produced notliing, however lovely in 
 nature and sublime in magical power, which does 
 not harmonize with the beautiful and wondrous 
 reality. 
 
 There is another circumstance connected with 
 the Tempest, which is rather interesting. It was 
 produced and acted for the first time upon the 
 occasion of the nuptials of the Princess Elizabeth, 
 the eldest daughter of James I. with Frederic, the 
 elector palatine. It is hardly necessary to remind 
 the reader of the fate of this amiable but most un- 
 happy woman, whose life, almost from the period 
 of her marriage, was one long tempestuous scene 
 of trouble and adversity. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The characters which I have here classed 
 together, as principally distinguished by the pre- 
 dominance of passion and fancy, appear to me to 
 rise, in the scale of ideality and simplicity, from 
 Juliet to Miranda; the last being in comparison so 
 refined, so elevated above all stain of earth, that 
 
218 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 
 
 Tve can only acknowledge her in connection with it 
 through the emotions of sympathy she feels and 
 inspires. 
 
 I remember, when I was in Italy, standing " at 
 evening on the top of Flesole," and at my feet I 
 beheld the city of Florence and the Val d'Arno, 
 with its villas, its luxuriant gardens, groves, and 
 olive grounds, all bathed In crimson light. A trans- 
 parent vapor or exhalation, which in its tint was 
 almost as rich as the pomegranate flower, moving 
 with soft undulation, rolled through the valley, and 
 the very earth seemed to pant with warm life 
 beneath its rosy veil. A dark purple shade, the 
 forerunner of night, was already stealing over the 
 east ; in the western sky still lingered the blaze of 
 the sunset, while the faint perfume of trees, and 
 flowers, and now and then a strain of music wafted 
 upwards, completed the intoxication of the senses. 
 But I looked from the earth to the sky, and im- 
 mediately above this scene hung the soft crescent 
 moon — alone, with all the bright heaven to herself; 
 and as that sweet moon to the glowing landscape 
 beneath it, such is the character of JMIranda com- 
 pared to that of Juliet. 
 
 c^ 
 
CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 CnARACTERS in whicli the affections and the 
 moral qualities predominate over fancy and all that 
 bears the name of passion, are not, when we meet 
 with them in real life, the most striking and inter- 
 esting, nor the easiest to be understood and appre- 
 ciated ; but they are those on which, in the long 
 run, we repose with increasing confidence and ever- 
 new delight. Such characters are not easily ex- 
 hibited in the colors of poetry, and when we meet 
 with them there, we are reminded of the effect of 
 Raffaelle's pictures. Sir Joshua Reynolds assures 
 us, that it took him three weeks to discover the 
 beauty of the frescos in the Vatican ; and many, if 
 they spoke the truth, would prefer one of Titian's 
 or Murillo's Virgins to one of Raffaelle's heavenly 
 Madonnas. The less there is of marked expression 
 or vivid color in a countenance or character, the 
 more difficult to delineate it in such a manner as to 
 captivate and interest us : but when this is done, 
 and done to perfection, it is the miracle of poetry 
 in painting, and of painting in poetry. Only Raf- 
 faelle and Correggio have achieved it in one case, 
 and only Shakspeare in the other. 
 
220 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 "When, by the presence or the agency of some 
 predominant and exciting power, the feelings and 
 affections are upturned from the depths of the 
 heart, and flung to the surface, tKe painter or the 
 poet has but to watch the workings of the passions, 
 thus in a manner made visible, and transfer them 
 to his page or his canvas, in colors more or less 
 vigorous : but where all is calm without and around, 
 to dive into the profoundest abysses of character, 
 trace the affections where they lie hidden like the 
 ocean springs, wind into the most intricate involu- 
 tions of the heart, patiently unravel its most del- 
 icate fibres, and in a few graceful touches place be- 
 fore us the distinct and visible result, — to do this, 
 demanded power of another and a rarer kind. 
 
 There are several of Shakspeare's characters 
 "which are especially distinguished by this profound 
 feeling in the conception, and subdued harmony of 
 tone in the delineation. To them may be particu- 
 larly applied the ingenious simile which Goethe has 
 used to illustrate generally all Shakspeare's char- 
 acters, when he compares them to the old-fashioned 
 watches in glass cases, which not only showed the 
 index pointing to the hour, but the wheels and 
 springs within, which set that index in motion. 
 
 Imogen, Desdemona, and Hermione, are three 
 women placed in situations nearly similar, and 
 equally endowed with all the qualities which can 
 render that situation striking and interesting. They 
 are all gentle, beautiful, and innocent; all are 
 models of conjugal submission, truth, and tender- 
 
HERMIOXE. 221 
 
 ness ; and all are victims of the unfounded jealousy 
 of their husbands. So far the parallel is close, but 
 here the resemblance ceases ; the circumstances of 
 each situation are varied with wonderful skill, and 
 the characters, which are as different as it is pos- 
 sible to imagine, conceived and discriminated with 
 a power of truth and a dehcacy of feeling yet more 
 astonishing. 
 
 Critically speaking, the character of Hermione is 
 the most simple in point of dramatic effect, that of 
 Imogen is the most varied and complex. Hermione 
 is most distinguished by her magnanimity and her 
 fortitude, Desdemona by her gentleness and refined 
 grace, while Imogen combines all the best quahties 
 of both, with others which they do not possess ; 
 consequently she is, as a character, superior to 
 either ; but considered as women, I suppose the 
 preference would depend on individual taste. 
 
 Hermione is the heroine of the first three acts of 
 the Winter's Tale. She is the wife of Leontes, 
 king of Sicilia, and though in the prime of beauty 
 and womanhood, is not represented in the first 
 bloom of youth. Her husband on slight grounds 
 suspects her of infidelity with his friend Polixenes, 
 king of Bohemia ; the suspicion once admitted, and 
 working on a jealous, passionate, and vindictive 
 mind, becomes a settled and confirmed opinion. 
 Hermione is thrown into a dungeon ; her new-born 
 mfant is taken from her, and by the order of her 
 husband, frantic with jealousy, exposed to death on 
 a desert shore ; she is herself brought to a public 
 
222 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 trial for treason and incontinency, defends herself 
 nobly, and is pronounced innocent by the oracle. 
 But at the very moment that she is acquitted, she 
 learns the death of the prince her son, who 
 
 Conceiving the dishonor of his mother, 
 Had straight declined, drooped, took it deeply. 
 Fastened and fixed the shame on't in himself, 
 Threw off his spirit, appetite, and sleep. 
 And downright languished. 
 
 She swoons away with grief, and her supposed 
 death concludes the third act. The last two acts 
 are occupied with the adventures of her daughter 
 Perdita ; and with the restoration of Perdita to the 
 arms of her mother, and the reconciliation of Her- 
 mione and Leontes, the piece concludes. 
 
 Such, in few words, is the dramatic situation. 
 The character of Hermione exhibits what is never 
 found in the other sex, but rarely in our own — yet 
 sometimes; — dignity without pride, love without 
 passion, and tenderness without weakness. To 
 conceive a character in wliicli there enters so much 
 of the negative, required perhaps no rare and 
 astonisliing effort of genius, such as created a Ju- 
 liet, a Miranda, or a Lady Macbeth ; but to de- 
 lineate such a character in the poetical form, to 
 develop it through the medium of action and dia- 
 logue, without the aid of description : to preserve 
 its tranquil, mild, and serious beauty, its unimpas- 
 sioned dignity, and at the same time keep the 
 strongest hold upon our spnpathy and our imag- 
 
HERMIONE. 223 
 
 ination ; and out of tliis exterior calm, produce the 
 most profound pathos, the most vivid impression of 
 life and internal power : — it is this which rendei-s 
 the character of Hermione one of Shakspeare's 
 * masterpieces. 
 
 Hermione is a queen, a matron, and a mother ; 
 she is good and beautiful, and royally descended. 
 A majestic sweetness, a grand and gracious simplic- 
 ity, an easy, unforced, yet dignified self-possession, 
 are in all her deportment, and in every word she 
 utters. She is one of those characters, of whom it 
 has been said proverbially, that " still waters run 
 deep." Her passions are not vehement, but in her 
 settled mind the sources of pain or pleasure, love or 
 resentment, are like the springs that feed the moun- 
 tain lakes, impenetrable, unfathomable, and inex- 
 haustible. 
 
 Shakspeare has conveyed (as is his custom) a 
 part of the character of Hermione in scattered 
 touches and through the impressions which she 
 produces on all around her. Her surpassing beauty 
 is alluded to in few but strong terms : — 
 
 This jealousy 
 Is for a precious creature ; as she is rare 
 Must it be great. 
 
 Praise her but for this her out-door form, 
 (Which, on my faith, deserves high speech — ) 
 
 If one by one you wedded all the world, 
 Or from the all that are, took something good 
 To make a perfect woman; she you killed 
 Would be unpiu'allcled. 
 
224 CnARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 I might have looked upon my queen's full eyes, 
 Have taken treasure from her lips — 
 
 and left them 
 
 More rich for Avhat they yielded. 
 
 The expressions " most sacred lady," " dread 
 mistress," " sovereign," with which she is addressed 
 or alluded to, the boundless devotion and respect 
 of those around her, and their confidence in her 
 goodness and innocence, are so many additional 
 strokes in the portrait. 
 
 For her, my lord, 
 I dare my life lay down, and will do't, sir. 
 Please you t' accept it, that the queen is spotless 
 I' the eyes of heaven, and to you. 
 
 Every inch of woman in the world. 
 
 Ay, every dram of woman's flesh is false. 
 
 If she be so. 
 
 I would not be a stander-by to hear 
 
 My sovereign mistress clouded so, without 
 
 My present vengeance taken ! 
 
 The mixture of playful courtesy, queenly-- dignity, 
 and lady-like sweetness, with which she prevails on 
 Polixenes to prolong his visit, is charaiing. 
 
 HERMIONK. 
 
 You'll stay ! 
 
 No, madam. 
 
 POLIXKNES. 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 Nay, but you will. 
 
HERMIONE. 225 
 
 POLIXEXEB. 
 I may not, vei'ily. 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 Verily! 
 You put me off with limber vows ; but I, 
 Tho' yoii would seek t' unspliei'e the stars Avith oaths 
 Should still say, " Sir, no going! " Verily, 
 You shall not go ! A lady's verily is 
 As potent as a lord's. Will you go yet? 
 Force me to keep you as a pi-isoner, 
 Not like a guest ? 
 
 And though the situation of Hermione admits but 
 of few general reflections, one little speech, inimi- 
 tably beautiful and characteristic, has become almost 
 proverbial from its truth. She says : — 
 
 One good deed, dying tongueless, 
 Slaughters a thousand, waiting upon that. 
 Our praises are our wages ; you may ride us 
 With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs, ere 
 With spur we heat an acre. 
 
 She receives the first intimation of her husband's 
 jealous suspicions with incredulous astonishment. 
 It is not that, like Desdemona, she does not or can- 
 not understand ; but she will not. When he ac- 
 cuses her more plainly, she replies with a calm 
 dignity : — 
 
 Should a villain say so — 
 The most replenished villain in the world — 
 He were as much more villain : you, my lord, 
 Do but mistake. 
 15 
 
226 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 This characteristic composure of temper never 
 forsakes lier ; and yet it is so delineated that the 
 impression is that of grandeur, and never borders 
 upon pride or coldness : it is the fortitude of a 
 gentle but a strong mind, conscious of its own in- 
 nocence. Nothing can be more affecting than her 
 calm reply to Leontes, who, in his jealous rage, 
 heaps insult upon insult, and accuses her before her 
 own attendants, as no better " than one of those to 
 whom the vulgar give bold titles." 
 
 How will this grieve you, 
 When you shall come to cleax-er knowledge, that 
 You have thus published me ! Gentle my lord. 
 You scarce can right me thoroughly then, to say 
 You did mistake. 
 
 Her mild dignity and saint-like patience, com- 
 bined as they are with the strongest sense of the 
 cruel injustice of her husband, thrill us with admi- 
 ration as well as pity ; and we cannot but see and 
 feel, that for Hermione to give way to tears and 
 feminine complaints under such a blow, would be 
 quite incompatible with the character. Thus she 
 says of herself, as she is led to prison : — 
 
 There's some ill planet reigns: 
 I must be patient till the heavens look 
 With an aspect more favorable. Good my lords, 
 I am not prone to weeping, as our sex 
 Commonly are ; the want of which vain dew 
 Perchance shall dry your pities ; but I have 
 That honorable grief lodged here, that burns 
 
HERMIONE. 227 
 
 Worse than tears drown. Beseech you all, my lords, 
 With thought so qualified as your charities 
 Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so 
 The kmg's will be performed. 
 
 When she is brought to trial for supposed crimes, 
 called on to defend herself, " standing to prate and 
 talk for life and honor, before who please to come 
 and hear," the sense of her ignominious situation — 
 all its shame and all its horror press upon her, and 
 would apparently crush even her magnanimous 
 spirit, but for the consciousness of her own worth 
 and innocence, and the necessity that exists for as- 
 serting and defending both. 
 
 If powers divine 
 Behold our human actions, (as they do,) 
 I doubt not, then, but innocence shall make 
 False accusation blush, and tyranny 
 Tremble at patience. 
 
 ***** 
 For life, I prize it 
 As I weigh gi'ief, which I would spare. For honor — 
 'Tis a derivative from mo to mine, 
 And only that I stand for. 
 
 Her earnest, eloquent justification of herself, and 
 her lofty sense of female honor, are rendered more 
 affecting and impressive by that chilling despair, 
 that contempt for a life which has been made bitter 
 to her through unkindness, which is betrayed in 
 every word of her speech, though so calmly char- 
 acteristic. When she enumerates the unmerited in- 
 sults which have been heaped upon her, it is with- 
 
228 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 out asperity or reproach, yet in a tone which shows 
 how completely the iron has entered her soul. 
 Thus, when Leontes threatens her with death : — 
 
 Sir, spare your threats ; 
 The bug which you would fright me with, I seek. 
 To me can life be no commodity ; 
 The crown and comfort of my life, your favor, 
 I do give lost ; for I do feel it gone, 
 But know not how it went. My second joy. 
 The first-fi'uits of my body, from his presence 
 I am barr'd, like one infectious. My third comfort — 
 Starr'd most unluckily ! — is from my breast, 
 The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth, 
 Haled out to murder. Myself on every post 
 Proclaimed a strumpet ; with immodest hatred, 
 The childbed privilege denied, which 'longs 
 To women of all fashion. Lastly, hurried 
 Here to this place, i' the open air, before 
 I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege, 
 Tell me what blessings I have hei-e alive, 
 That I should fear to die. Therefore, proceed. 
 But yet hear this ; mistake me not. No ! life, 
 I prize it not a straw : — but for mine honor, 
 (Which I would free,) if I shall be condemned 
 Upon surmises ; all proof sleeping else. 
 But what your jealousies awake; I tell you, 
 'Tis rigor and not law. 
 
 The character of Hermione is considered open 
 to criticism on one point. I have heard it remark- 
 ed that when she secludes herself from the world 
 for sixteen years, during which time she is mourned 
 as dead by her repentant husband, and is not won 
 to relent from her resolve by his sorrow, his re- 
 
HERMIONE. 229 
 
 morse, his constancy to her memory; such conduct, 
 argues the critic, is unfeeling as it is inconceivable 
 in a tender and virtuous woman. Would Imogen 
 have done so, "who is so generously ready to grant 
 a pardon before it be asked ? or Desdemona, who 
 does not forgive because she cannot even resent ? 
 No, assuredly ; but this is only another proof of 
 the wonderful delicacy and consistency with which 
 Shakspeare has discriminated the characters of all 
 three. The incident of Hermione's supposed death 
 and concealment for sixteen years, is not indeed 
 very probable in itself, nor very likely to occur ia 
 every-day life. But besides all the probability nec- 
 essary for the purposes of poetry, it has all the 
 likelihood it can derive from the peculiar character 
 of Hermione, who is precisely the woman who 
 could and would have acted in this manner. In 
 such a mind as hers, the sense of a cruel injury, in- 
 flicted by one she had loved and trusted, without 
 awakening any violent anger or any desire of ven- 
 geance, would sink deep — almost incurably and 
 lastingly deep. So far she is most unlike either 
 Imogen or Desdemona, who are portrayed as much 
 more flexible in temper ; but then the circumstances 
 under which she is wronged are very difierent, and 
 far more unpardonable. The self-created, frantic 
 jealousy of Leontes is very distinct from that of 
 Othello, writhing under the arts of lago : or that of 
 Posthumus, whose understanding has been cheated 
 by the most damning evidence of his wife's infidel- 
 ity. The jealousy which in Othello and Posthumus 
 
230 HAKACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 is an error of judgment, in Leontes is a vice of the 
 blood ; lie suspects without cause, condemns without 
 proof; he is without excuse — unless the mixture of 
 pride, passion, and imagination, and the predispo- 
 sition to jealousy with which Shakspeare has por- 
 ti'ayed him, be considered as an excuse. Hermione 
 has been openly insulted : he to whom she gave 
 herself, her heart, her soul, has stooped to the weak- 
 ness and baseness of suspicion ; has doubted her 
 truth, has wronged her love, has sunk in her esteem, 
 and forfeited her confidence. She has been branded 
 with vile names ; her son, her eldest hope, is dead 
 — dead through the false accusation which has stuck 
 infamy on his mother's name ; and her innocent 
 babe, stained with illegitimacy, disowned and re- 
 jected, has been exposed to a cruel death. Can 
 we believe that the mere tardy acknowledgment of 
 her innocence could make amends for wrongs and 
 agonies such as these ? or heal a heart which must 
 have bled inwardly, consumed by that untold grief, 
 " which burns worse than tears drown ? " Keeping 
 in view the peculiar character of Hermione, such 
 as she is delineated, is she one either to forgive 
 hastily or forget quickly ? and though she might, in 
 her solitude, mourn over her repentant husband, 
 would his repentance suffice to restore him at once 
 to his place in her heart : to eiface from her strong 
 and reflecting mind the recollection of his miserable 
 weakness ? or can we fancy this high-souled woman 
 — left childless through the injury which has been 
 inflicted on her, widowed in heart by the unworth- 
 
HERMIONE. 231 
 
 incss of him she loved, a spectacle of grief to all — • 
 to her husband a continual reproach and humilia- 
 tion — walking through the parade of ro}-alty in the 
 court which had witnessed her anguish, her shame, 
 her degradation, and her despair ? Methinks that 
 the want of feehng, nature, delicacy, and consist- 
 ency, would lie in such an exhibition as this. In 
 a mind like Hermione's, where the strength of feel- 
 ing is founded in the power of thought, and where 
 there is little of impulse or imagination, — "the 
 depth, but not the tumult of the soul," * — there are 
 but two influences which predominate over the 
 will, — time and religion. And what then remained, 
 but that, wounded in heart and spirit, she should 
 retire from the world? — not to brood over her 
 wrongs, but to study forgiveness, and wait the ful- 
 filment of the oracle which had promised the ter- 
 mination of her sorrows. Thus a premature rec- 
 onciliation would not only have been painfully 
 inconsistent with the character ; it would also have 
 deprived us of that most beautiful scene, in which 
 Hermione is discovered to her husband as the statue 
 or image of herself. And here we have another 
 instance of that admirable art, with which the 
 
 * The gods approve 
 
 The depth, and not the tumult of the soul. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 " II pouvait y avoir des vagues majestueuses et non de Torage 
 dans son coeur," was finely observed of Madame de Stael in her 
 maturer years ; it would have been true of Hermione at any 
 period of her life. 
 
232 CIIAllACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 dramatic character is fitted to the circumstances in 
 which it is placed : that perfect command over her 
 own feehngs, that complete self-possession neces- 
 sary to this extraordinary situation, is consistent 
 with all that we imagine of Hermione: in any 
 other woman it would be so incredible as to shock 
 all our ideas of probability. 
 
 This scene, then, is not only one of the most 
 picturesque and striking instances of stage effect to 
 be found in the ancient or modern drama, but by 
 the skilful manner in which it is prepared, it has, 
 wonderful as it appears, all the merit of consistency 
 and ti'uth. The grief, the love, the remorse and 
 impatience of Leontes, are finely contrasted -^ith 
 the astonishment and admiration of Perdita, who, 
 gazing on the figure of her mother like one en- 
 tranced, looks as if she were also turned to marble. 
 There is here one little instance of tender remem- 
 brance in Leontes, which adds to the charming 
 impression of Hermione's character. 
 
 Chide me, dear stone ! that I may say indeed 
 Thou art Hermione ; or rather thou art she 
 In thy not chiding, for she was as tender 
 As infancy and grace. 
 
 Thus she stood, 
 Even with siich life of majesty — warm life — 
 As now it coldly stands — when first I woo'd her! 
 
 The effect produced on the different persons of the 
 drama by this living statue — an effect which at the 
 
HERMIONE. 233 
 
 game moment is, and is not illusion — tlie manner 
 in which the feelings of the spectators become 
 entangled between the conviction of death and the 
 impression of life, the idea of a deception and the 
 feeling of a reality ; and the exquisite coloring of 
 poetry and touches of natural feeling with which 
 the whole is wrought up, till wonder, expectation, 
 and intense pleasure, hold our pulse and breath 
 suspended on the event, — are quite inimitable. 
 The expressions used here by Leontes, — 
 
 Thus she stood, 
 Even with such life of majesty — warm life. 
 The fixture of her eye has motion in't. 
 And we are mock'd by art ! 
 
 And by Polixines, — • 
 
 The very life seems warm upon her lip, 
 
 appear strangely applied to a statue, such as we 
 usually imagine it — of the cold colorless marble; 
 but it is evident that in this scene Hermione per- 
 sonates one of those images or effigies, such as we 
 may see in the old gothic cathedrals, in which the 
 stone, or marble, was colored after nature. I 
 remember coming suddenly upon one of these 
 effigies, either at Basle or at Fribourg, which made 
 me start : the figure was large as life ; the drapery 
 of crimson, powdered with stars of gold ; the face 
 and eyes, and hair, tinted after nature, though 
 faded by time : it stood in a gothic niche, over a 
 tomb, as I think, and in a kind of dim uncertain 
 light. It would have been very easy for a living 
 
234 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS^ 
 
 person to represent such an effigy, particularly if 
 it had been painted by that " rare Italian master, 
 Julio Romano,"* who, as we are informed, was 
 the reputed author of this wonderful statue. 
 
 The moment when Hermione descends from her 
 pedestal, to the sound of soft music, and throws 
 herself without speaking into her husband's arms, 
 is one of inexpressible interest. It appears to me 
 that her silence during the whole of this scene 
 (except where she invokes a blessing on her 
 daughter's head) is in the finest taste as a poetical 
 beauty, besides being an admirable trait of char- 
 acter. The misfortunes of Hermione, her long 
 religious seclusion, the wonderful and almost super- 
 natural part she has just enacted, have invested 
 her with such a sacred and awful charm, that any 
 words put into her mouth, must, I think, have 
 injured the solemn and profound pathos of the 
 situation. 
 
 There are several among Shakspeare's char- 
 acters which exercise a far stronger power over 
 our feelings, our fancy, our understanding, than 
 that of Hermione ; but not one, — unless perhaps 
 Cordelia, — constructed upon so high and pure 
 a principle. It is the union of gentleness with 
 power which constitutes the perfection of mental 
 grace. Thus among the ancients, with whom the 
 graces were also the charities, (to show, perhaps, 
 that while form alone may constitute beauty, senti- 
 ment is necessary to grace,) one and the same 
 
 * Winter's Tale, act v. scene ]1. 
 
HERMIONE. 235 
 
 word signified equally strength and virtue. This 
 feeling, earned "into the fine arts, was the secret of 
 the antique grace — the grace of repose. The 
 same eternal nature — the same sense of immutable 
 truth and beauty, which revealed this sublime 
 principle of art to the ancient Greeks, revealed it 
 to the genius of Shakspeare; and the character 
 of Ilermione, in which we have the same largeness 
 of conception and delicacy of execution, — the same 
 effect of suffering without passion, and grandeur 
 without effort, is an instance, I think, that he felt 
 within himself, and by intuition, what we study all 
 our lives in the remains of ancient art. The calm, 
 regular, classical beauty of Hermione's character 
 is the more impressive from the wild and gotliic 
 accompaniments of her story, and the beautiful 
 relief afforded by the pastoral and romantic grace 
 which is thrown around her daughter Perdita. 
 
 The character of Paulina, in the Winter's Tale, 
 though it has obtained but Kttle notice, and no 
 critical remark, (that I have seen,) is yet one of 
 the striking beauties of the play : and it has its 
 moral too. As we see running through the whole 
 universe that principle of contrast which may be 
 called the life of nature, so we behold it every 
 where illustrated in Shakspeare : upon this prin- 
 ciple he has placed Emilia beside Desdemona, the 
 nurse beside Juliet; the clowns and dairy-maids, 
 and the merry peddler thief Autolycus round Flori- 
 zel and Perdita ; — and made Paulina the friend of 
 Hermione. 
 
236 CnARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Paulina does not fill any ostensible office near 
 the person of the queen, but is a lacly of high rank 
 in the court — the wife of the Lord Antigones. She 
 IS a character strongly drawn from real and com- 
 mon hfe — a clever, generous, strong-minded, warm- 
 hearted woman, fearless in asserting the truth, firm 
 in her sense of right, enthusiastic in all her affec- 
 tions ; quick in thought, resolute in word, and ener- 
 getic in action ; but heedless, hot-tempered, impa- 
 tient, loud, bold, voluble, and turbulent of tongue ; 
 regardless of the feelings of those for whom she would 
 sacrifice her life, and injuring from excess of zeal 
 those whom she most wishes to serve. How many 
 such are there in the world ! But Paulina, though 
 a very termagant, is yet a poetical termagant in 
 her way ; and the manner in which all the evil 
 and dangerous tendencies of such a temper are 
 placed before us, even while the individual char- 
 acter preserves the strongest hold upon our respect 
 and admiration, forms an impressive lesson, as well 
 as a natural and delightful portrait. 
 
 In the scene, for instance, where she brings the 
 infant before Leontes, with the hope of softening 
 him to a sense of his injustice — " an office which," 
 as she observes, " becomes a woman best " — her 
 want of self-government, her bitter, inconsiderate 
 reproaches, only add, as we might easily suppose, 
 to his fury. 
 
 PAULINA. 
 
 I say I come 
 From your good queen ! 
 
HERMIONE. 237 
 
 LEONTES. 
 
 Good queen ! 
 
 PAULINA. 
 
 Good queen, my lord, good queen: I say good queen; 
 And would by combat make her good, so were I 
 A man, the worst about you. 
 
 LEONTES. 
 
 Force her hence. 
 
 PAULINA. 
 
 Lot him that makes but trifles of his eyes, 
 
 First hand me: on mine own accord I'll off; 
 
 But first I'll do mine en-and. The good queen 
 
 (For she is good) hath brought you forth a daughter — 
 
 Here 'tis; commends it to your blessing. 
 
 LEONTES. 
 
 Traitors ! 
 Will you not push her out ! Give her the bastard. 
 
 PAULINA. 
 
 Forever 
 Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou 
 Tak'st up the princess by that forced baseness 
 Which he has put upon't! 
 
 He dreads his wife. 
 
 PALT.TNA. 
 
 So, I would you did; then 'twere past all doubt 
 You'd call your children your's. 
 
 LEONTES. 
 
 A callat, 
 Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband, 
 And now baits me ! — this brat is none of mine. 
 
238 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 PAXJLINA. 
 
 It is yours, 
 And miglit we lay the old proverb to your charge, 
 So like you, 'tis the worse. 
 * * * * :W * 
 
 LEONTES. 
 
 A gross hag ! 
 And lozel, thou art worthy to be hang'd, 
 That wilt not stay her tongue. 
 
 ANTIGONES. 
 
 Hang all the husbands 
 That cannot do that feat, you'll leave yourself 
 Hardly one subject. 
 
 LEONTES. 
 
 Once more, take her hence. 
 
 PAULINA. 
 
 A most unworthy and unnatural lord 
 Cau do no more. 
 
 LEONTES. 
 
 I'll have thee burn'd. 
 
 PAULINA. 
 
 I care not: 
 It is an heretic that makes the fire, 
 Not she which burns in't. 
 
 Here, while we honor lier courage and her 
 affection, we cannot help regretting her violence. 
 We see, too, in Paulina, what we so often see in 
 real life, that it is not those who are most suscepti- 
 ble in their own temper and feelings, who are most 
 delicate and forbearing towards the feelings of 
 others. She does not comprehend, or will nol 
 allow for the sensitive weakness of a mind less 
 
HERMIONE. 239 
 
 firmly tempered than her own. There is a reply 
 of Leontes to one of her cutting speeches, which 
 is full of feeling, and a lesson to those, who, with 
 the best intentions in the world, force the painful 
 truth, like a knife, into the already lacerated heart. 
 
 PAULINA. 
 
 If, one by one, you wedded all the world, 
 Or, from the all that are, took something good 
 To make a perfect Avoman, she you kill'd 
 Would be unparallel'd. 
 
 LEONTES. 
 
 I think so. KiU'd ! 
 
 She I kill'd? I did so: but thou strik'st me 
 
 Sorely, to say I did ; it is as bitter 
 
 Upon thy tongue, as in my thought. Now, good now, 
 
 Say so but seldom. 
 
 CLEOMENES. 
 
 Not at all, good lady : 
 
 You might have spoken a thousand things that would 
 Have done the time more benefit, and grac'd 
 Your kindness better. 
 
 We can only excuse Paulina by recollecting that 
 it is a part of her purpose to keep alive in the 
 heart of" Leontes the remembrance of his queen's 
 perfections, and of his own cruel injustice. It is 
 admirable, too, that Hermione and Paulina, while 
 sufliciently approximated to afford all the pleasure 
 of contrast, are never brought too nearly in contact 
 on the scene or in the dialogue ;* for this would 
 
 * Only in the last scene, when, with solemnity befitting the 
 occasion, Paulina inyokes the majestic figure to " descend, and 
 be stone no more," and where she presents her daughter to her, 
 " Turn, good lady I our Perdita is found.' 
 
240 ARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 have been a fault in taste, and have necessarily- 
 weakened the effect of both characters : — either 
 the serene grandeur of Hermione would have sub- 
 dued and overawed the fiery spirit of Paulina, or 
 the impetuous temper of the latter must have dis- 
 turbed in some respect our impression of the calm, 
 majestic, and somewhat melancholy beauty of 
 Hermione. 
 
 DESDEMONA. 
 
 The character of Hermione is addressed more to 
 the imagination ; that of Desdemona to the feel- 
 ings. AU that can render sorrow majestic is 
 gathered round Hermione; all that can render 
 misery heart-breaking is assembled round Desde- 
 mona. The wronged but self-sustained virtue of 
 Hermione commands our veneration ; the injured 
 and defenceless innocence of Desdemona so wrings 
 the soul, " that all for pity we could die." 
 
 Desdemona, as a character, comes nearest to 
 Miranda, both in herself as a Avoman, and in the 
 perfect simplicity and unity of the delineation ; 
 the figures are differently draped — the proportions 
 are the same. There is the same modesty, tender- 
 ness, and grace ; the same artless devotion in the 
 affections, the same predisposition to wonder, to 
 pity, to admire ; the same almost ethereal refine- 
 ment and delicacy ; but all is pure poetic nature 
 within Miranda and around her: Desdemona is 
 
DESDEMONA. 241 
 
 more associated with the palpable realities of every- 
 day existence, and we see the forms and habits of 
 society tinting her language and deportment ; no 
 two beings can be more alike in character — nor 
 more distinct as individuals. 
 
 The love of Desdemona for Othello appears at 
 first such a violation of all probabilities, that her 
 father at onc3 imputes it to magic, " to spells and 
 mixtures powerful o'er the blood." 
 
 She, in spite of nature, 
 Of years, of country, credit, every thing, 
 To fall in love with what she feared to look on! 
 
 And the devilish malignity of lago, whose coarse 
 mind cannot conceive an affection founded purely 
 in sentiment, derives from her love itself a strong 
 argument against her. 
 
 Ay, there's the point, as to be bold with you, 
 Not to affect any proposed matches 
 Of her own clime, complexion, and degree. 
 Whereto, we see, in all things nature tends,* &c. 
 
 Notwithstanding this disparity of age, character, 
 country, complexion, we, who are admitted into the 
 secret, see her love rise naturally and necessarily 
 out of the leading propensities of her nature. 
 
 At the period of the story a spirit of wild ad- 
 venture had seized all Europe. The discovery of 
 both Indies was yet recent ; over the shores of the 
 western hemisphere still fable and mystery hung, 
 
 * Act iii. scene 3. 
 16 
 
242 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 with all their dun enchantments, visionary terrors, 
 and golden promises ! perilous expeditions and 
 distant voyages were every day undertaken from 
 hope of plunder, or mere love of enterprise ; and 
 from these the adventurers returned with tales of 
 " Antres vast and desarts wild — of cannibals that 
 did each other eat — of Anthropophagi, and men 
 whose heads did grow beneath their shoulders." 
 AVith just such stories did Raleigh and Clifford, 
 and their followers return from the New World : 
 and thus by their splendid or fearful exaggerations, 
 which the imperfect knowledge of those times could 
 not refute, was the passion for the romantic and 
 marvellous nourished at home, particularly among 
 the women. A cavalier of those days had no nearer 
 no surer way to his mistress's heart, than by enter- 
 taining her with these wondrous narratives. What 
 was a general feature of his time, Shakspeare seized 
 and adapted to his purpose with the most exquisite 
 felicity of effect. Desdemona, leaving her house- 
 hold cares in haste, to hang breathless on Othello's 
 tales, was doubtless a picture from the life ; and 
 her Inexperience and her quick imagination lend 
 it an added propriety : then her compassionate dis- 
 position is Interested by all the disastrous chances, 
 hair-breadth 'scapes, and moving accidents by 
 flood and field, of which he has to tell ; and her 
 exceeding gentleness and timidity, and her do- 
 mestic turn of mind, render her more easily cap- 
 tivated by the military renown, the valor, and lofty 
 bearInG: of the noble Moor^ — 
 
DESDEMONA. 243 
 
 And to his honors and his valiant parts 
 Does she hex- soul and fortunes consecrate. 
 
 Tlie confession and the excuse for her love is 
 well placed in the mouth of Desdemona, while the 
 history of the rise of that love, and of his course 
 of wooing, is, with the most graceful propriety, as 
 far as she is concerned, spoken by Othello, and in 
 her absence. The last two lines summing up the 
 whole — 
 
 She loved me for the dangers I had passed, 
 And I loved her that she did pity them — 
 
 comprise whole volumes of sentiment and meta- 
 physics. 
 
 Desdemona displays at times a transient energy, 
 arising from the power of affection, but gentle-* 
 ness gives the prevailing tone to the character — 
 gentleness in its excess — gentleness verging on pas- 
 siveness — gentleness, which not only cannot resent, 
 — but cannot resist. 
 
 OTHELLO. 
 
 Then of so gentle a condition ! 
 
 lAGO. 
 
 Ay ! too gentle. 
 
 OTHELLO. 
 
 Nay, that's certain 
 
 Here the exceeding softness of Desdemona's 
 temper is turned against her by lago, so that it 
 suddenly strikes Othello in a new point of view, 
 
244 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 as the inability to resist temptation ; but to us who 
 perceive the character as a whole, this extreme 
 gentleness of nature is yet delineated with such 
 exceeding refinement, that the effect never ap- 
 proaches to feebleness. It is true that once her 
 extreme timidity leads her in a moment of con- 
 fusion and terror to prevaricate about the fatal 
 handkerchief. This handkerchief, in the original 
 story of Cinthio, is merely one of those embroider- 
 ed handkerchiefs which were as fashionable in 
 Shakspeare's time as in our own ; but the minute 
 description of it as " lavorato alia morisco sottilis- 
 simamente," * suggested to the poetical fancy of 
 Shakspeare one of the most exquisite and charac- 
 teristic passages in the whole play. Othello makes 
 poor Desdemona believe that the handkerchief was 
 a talisman. 
 
 There's magic in the web of it. 
 A sibyl, that had numbered in the world 
 The sun to make two hundred compasses, 
 In her prophetic fury sew'd the work: 
 The worms were hallowed that did breed the silk, 
 And it was dyed in mummy, which the skilful 
 Conserv'd of maidens' hearts. 
 
 DESDEBIONA. 
 
 Indeed! is't true? 
 
 OTHELLO. 
 
 Most veritable, therefore look to't well. 
 
 * Which being interpreted into modern English, means, I 
 believe, nothing more than that the pattern was what we now 
 call arabesque. 
 
DESDEMOXA. 245 
 
 DESDEMONA. 
 
 Then would to heaven that I had never seen it ! 
 
 OTHELLO. 
 
 Ha! wherefore! 
 
 DESDEMONA. 
 
 Why do you speak so starthigly and rash ? 
 
 OTHELLO. 
 
 Is't lost, — Is't gone? Speak, is it out of the way? 
 
 DESDEMONA. 
 
 Heavens bless us ! 
 
 OTHELLO. 
 
 Say you? 
 
 DESDEMONA. 
 
 It is not lost — ^but what an' if it were ? 
 
 OTHELLO. 
 
 Ha! 
 
 DESDEMONA. 
 
 I say it is not lost. 
 
 OTHELLO. 
 
 Fetch it, let me see it. 
 
 DESDEMONA. 
 
 Why so I can, sir, but I will not now, &c. 
 
 Desdemona, whose soft credulity, whose turn for 
 the marvellous, whose susceptible imagination had 
 first directed her thoughts and affections to 
 Olhello, is precisely the woman to be frightened 
 out of her senses by such a tale as this, and be- 
 trayed by her fears into a momentary tcrgivorsa- 
 tiou. It is most natural in such a being, and shows 
 
246 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 US that even In the sweetest natures there can be 
 no completeness and consistency without moral 
 energy.* 
 
 With the most perfect artlessness, she has some- 
 thing of the Instinctive, unconscious address of her 
 sex ; as when she appeals to her father — 
 
 So much duty as my mother show'd 
 To you, preferring you before her father, 
 So much I challenge, that I may profess 
 Due to the Moor, my lord. 
 
 And when she is pleading for Cassio — 
 
 What! Michael Cassio! 
 That came a wooing with you ; and many a time, 
 When I have spoken of you disparagingly, 
 Hath ta'en your part? 
 
 In persons who unite great sensibility and lively 
 fancy, I have often observed this particular species 
 of address, which Is always unconscious of Itself, 
 and consists In the power of placing ourselves In 
 
 * There is an incident in the original tale, " H Moro di 
 Venezia," which could not well be transferred to the drama, but 
 ■which is very effective, and adds, I think, to the circumstantial 
 horrors of the story. Desdemona does not accidentally drop the 
 handkerchief ; it is stolen from her by lago's little child, an 
 infant of three years old, whom he trains and bribes to the theft • 
 The love of Desdemona for this child, her little playfellow — the 
 pretty description of her taking it in her arms and caressing it, 
 while it profits by its situation to steal the handkerchief from 
 her bosom, are well imagined, and beautifully told; and the 
 circumstance of lago employing his own innocent child as the 
 instrument of his infernal villany. adds a deeper, and, in truth, 
 an unnecessary touch of the fiend, to his fiendish character. 
 
DESDEMOXA. 247 
 
 the position of anotlier, and imagining, ratlier than 
 perceiving, what is in their hearts. We women 
 have this address (If so it can be called) naturally, 
 but I have seldom met with it in men. It is not 
 inconsistent with extreme simplicity of character, 
 and quite distinct from that kind of art which is 
 the result of natural acuteness and habits of ob- 
 servation — quick to perceive the foibles of others, 
 and as quick to turn them to its own purposes ; 
 which is always conscious of itself, and, if united 
 with strong intellect, seldom perceptible to others. 
 In the mention of her mother, and the appeal to 
 Othello's self-love, Desdemona has no design formed 
 on conclusions previously drawn ; but her intuitive 
 quickness of feeling, added to her imagination, lead 
 her more safely to the same results, and the dis- 
 tinction is as truly as It is delicately drawn. 
 
 Wlien Othello first outrages her in a manner 
 which appears inexplicable, she seeks and finds 
 excuses for him. She is so innocent that not only 
 she canftot believe herself suspected, but she can- 
 not conceive the existence of guilt in others. 
 
 Something, sure, of state. 
 Either from Venice, or some unhatch'd practice 
 Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him, 
 Hath puddled his clear spirit. 
 
 'Tis even so — 
 Nay, we must think, men are not gods, 
 Nor of tlieni look for such observances 
 As tit the bridal. 
 
 And when the direct accusation of crime is flun<y 
 
248 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 on her in tlie vilest terms, it does not anger but 
 stun her, as if it transfixed her Avhole being ; she 
 attempts no reply, no defence ; and reproach or 
 resistance never enters her thought. 
 
 Good friend, go to him — for by this light of heaven 
 I know not how I lost him : here I loieel : — 
 If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love, 
 Either in discourse of thought or actual deed; 
 Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense, 
 Delighted them in any other form; 
 Or that I do not yet, and ever did, 
 And ever will, though he do shake me off 
 To beggarly divorcement, love him dearly. 
 Comfort forswear me ! Unkindness may do much, 
 And his unkindness may defeat my life. 
 But never taint my love. 
 
 And there is one stroke of consummate delicacy, 
 surprising, when we remember the latitude of ex- 
 pression prevailing in Shakspeare's time, and which 
 he allowed to his other women generally : she says, 
 on recovering from her stupefaction — 
 
 Am I that name, lago ? 
 
 lAGO. 
 
 What name, sweet lady? 
 
 DESDEMONA. 
 
 That which she says my lord did say I was. 
 
 So completely did Shakspeare enter into the an- 
 gelic refinement of the character. 
 
 Endued with that temper which is the origin of 
 superstition in love as in religion, — which, in fact. 
 
DESDEMONA. 249 
 
 makes love Itself a religion, — she not only does not 
 utter an upbraiding, but nothing that Othello does 
 or says, no outrage, no injustice, can tear away the 
 charm with which her imagination had invested 
 him, or impair her faith in his honor ; " Would you 
 had never seen him ! " exclaims Emilia. 
 
 DESDEMONA. 
 
 So would not I ! — my love doth so approve him, 
 That even his stubbornness, his checks and frowns 
 Have grace and fiivor in them. 
 
 There is another peculiarity, which, in reading 
 the play of Othello, we rather feel than perceive : 
 through the whole of the dialogue appropriated to 
 Desdemona, there is not one general observation. 
 Words are with her the vehicle of sentiment, and 
 never of reflection ; so that I cannot find through- 
 out a sentence of general application. The same 
 remark applies to Miranda : and to no other female 
 character of any importance or interest ; not even 
 to Opheha. 
 
 The rest of what I wished to say of Desdemona, 
 has been anticipated by an anonymous critic, and 
 so beautifully, so justly, so eloquently expressed, 
 that I with pleasure erase my own page, to make 
 room for his. 
 
 " Othello," observes this writer, " is no love 
 story ; all that is below tragedy in the passion of 
 love, is taken away at once, by the awful character 
 of Othello ; for such he seems to us to be designed 
 to be. He appears never as a lover, but at once 
 as a husband : and the relation of his love made 
 
250 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 dignified, as it is a husband's justification of his 
 marriage, is also dignified, as it is a soldier's rela- 
 tion of his stern and perilous life. His love itself, 
 as long as it is happy, is perfectly calm and serene 
 — the protecting tenderness of a husband. It is not 
 till it is disordered, that it appears as a passion : 
 then is shown a power in contention with itself — 
 a mighty being struck with death, and bringing up 
 from all the depths of life convulsions and agonies. 
 It is no exhibition of the power of the passion of 
 love, but of the passion of life, vitally wounded, and 
 self over-mastering. If Desdemona had been really 
 guilty, the greatness would have been destroyed, 
 because his love would have been unworthy, false. 
 But she is good, and his love is most perfect, just, 
 and good. That a man should place his perfect 
 love on a wretched thing, is miserably debasing, 
 and shocking to thought ; but that loving perfectly 
 and well, he should by hellish human circumven- 
 tion be brought to distrust and dread, and abjure 
 his own perfect love, is most mournful indeed — it 
 is the infirmity of our good nature wrestling in vain 
 with the strong powers of evil. Moreover, he 
 would, had Desdemona been false, have been the 
 mere victim of fate ; whereas he is now in a man- 
 ner his own victim. His happy love was heroic 
 tenderness ; his injured love is terrible passion ; 
 and disordered power, engendered within itself to\ 
 its own destruction, is the height of all tragedy. J 
 
 " The character of Othello is perhaps the most 
 gi'eatly drawn, the most heroic of any of Shaks- 
 
DESDEMONA. 251 
 
 peare's actors ; but it is, perhaps, that one also of 
 which his reader last acquires the intelligence. 
 The intellectual and warlike energy of his mind — 
 his tenderness of affection — his loftiness of spirit — 
 his frank, generous magnanimity — impetuosity like 
 a thunderbolt — and that dark, fierce flood of boil- 
 ing passion, polluting even his imagination, — com- 
 pose a character entirely original, most difficult to 
 delineate, but perfectly delineated." 
 
 Emifia in this play is a perfect portrait from com- 
 mon life, a masterpiece in the Flemish style : and 
 though not necessary as a contrast, it cannot be 
 but that the thorough vulgarity, the loose princi- 
 ples of this plebeian woman, united to a high de- 
 gree of spirit, energetic feeling, strong sense and 
 low cunning, serve to place in brighter relief the 
 exquisite refinement, the moral grace, the unblem- 
 ished truth, and the soft submission of Desdemona. 
 
 On the other perfections of this tragedy, consid- 
 ered as a production of genius — on the wonderful 
 characters of Othello and lago — on the skill with 
 which the plot is conducted, and its simplicity 
 which a word unravels,* and on the overpowering 
 horror of the catastrophe — eloquence and analyt- 
 ical criticism have been exhausted ; I will only add, 
 Ihat the source of the pathos throughout — of that 
 
 * Consequences are so linked together, that the exclamation ol 
 Emilia, 
 
 thou dull Moor! — That handkerchief thou speakest of 
 
 1 found by fortune, and did give my husband ! — 
 
 is sufficient to reveal to Othello the whole history of his ruin. 
 
252 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 pathos which at once softens and deepens the traglft 
 effect — lies in the character of Desdemona. No 
 woman diff"erently constituted could have excited 
 the same intense and painful compassion, without 
 losing something of that exalted charm, which in- 
 vests her from beginning to end, which we are apt 
 to impute to the interest of the situation, and to the 
 poetical coloring, but which lies, in fact, in the very 
 essence of the character. Desdemona, with all her 
 timid flexibility and soft acquiescence, is not weak ; 
 for the negative alone is weak ; and the mere pres- 
 ence of goodness and affection • implies in itself a 
 species of power ; power without consciousness, 
 power without effort, power with repose — that soul 
 of grace ! 
 
 I know a Desdemona in real life, one in whom the 
 absence of intellectual power is never felt as a defi- 
 ciency, noi the absence of energy of will as impair- 
 ing the dignity, nor the most imperturbable serenity, 
 as a want of feeling : one in whom thoughts appear 
 mere instincts, the sentiment of rectitude supplies 
 the principle, and virtue itself seems rather a nec- 
 essary state of being, than an imposed law. No 
 shade of sin or vanity has yet stolen over that 
 bright innocence. No discord within has marred 
 the loveliness without — no strife of the factitious 
 world without has disturbed the harmony within. 
 The comprehension of evil appears forever shut 
 out, as if goodness had converted all things to 
 itself; and all to the pure in heart must necessarily 
 be pure. The impression produced is exactly that 
 
253 
 
 of the cliavacter of Desdcmona ; genius is a rare 
 thing, but abstract goodness is rarer. In Desde- 
 mona, we cannot but feel that the slightest manifes- 
 tation of intellectual power or active will would 
 have injured fhe dramatic effect. She is a victin* 
 consecrated from the first, — " an oflE'ering without 
 blemish," alone worthy of the grand final sacrifice ; 
 all harmony, all grace, all purity, all tenderness, all 
 truth ! But, alas ! to see her fluttering like a 
 cherub in the talons of a fiend ! — to see her — O 
 poor Dcsdemona ! 
 
 IMOGEN. 
 
 We come to Imogen. Others of Shakspeare's 
 characters are, as dramatic and poetical concep- 
 tions, more striking, more brilliant, more powerful ; 
 but of all his women, considered as individuals 
 rather than as heroines, Imogen is the most perfect. 
 Portia and Juliet are pictured to the fancy with 
 more force of contrast, more depth of light and 
 shade ; Viola and Miranda, with more aerial deli- 
 cacy of outline ; but there is no female portrait that 
 can be compared to Imogen as a woman — none in 
 which so great a variety of tints are mingled to- 
 gether into such perfect harmony. In her, we have 
 all the fervor of youthful tenderness, all the ro- 
 mance of youthful fancy, all the enchantment of 
 ideal grace, — the bloom of beauty, the brightness 
 of intellect, and the dignity of rank, taking a pe- 
 
254: CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 culiar hue from tlie conjugal character which is 
 shed over all, like a consecration and a holy charm. 
 In Othello and the Winter's Tale, the interest ex- 
 cited for Desdemona and Hermione is divided with 
 others : but in Cvmbeline, Imogen is the angel of 
 light, whose lovely presence pervades and animates 
 the whole piece. The character altogetber may be 
 pronounced finer, more complex in its elements, 
 and more fully developed in all its parts, than those 
 of Hermione and Desdemona ; but the position in 
 which she is placed is not, I think, so fine — at least, 
 not so effective, as a tragic situation. 
 
 Shakspeare has borrowed the chief circumstances 
 of Imogen's story from one of Boccaccio's tales.* 
 
 A company of Italian merchants who are assem- 
 bled in a tavern at Paris, are represented as con- 
 versing on the subject of their wives : all of them 
 express themselves with levity, or sekpticism, or 
 scorn, on the virtue of women, except a young 
 Genoese merchant named Bernabo, who maintains, 
 that by the especial favor of Heaven he possesses a 
 wife no less chaste than beautiful. Heated by the 
 wine, and excited by the arguments and the coarse 
 raillery of another young merchant, Ambrogiolo, 
 Bernabo proceeds to enumerate the various perfec- 
 tions and accomplishments of his Zinevra. He 
 praises her loveliness, her submission, and her dis- 
 cretion — her skill in embroidery, her graceful ser- 
 vice, in which the best trained page of the court 
 could not exceed her ; and he adds, as rarer ac- 
 * Decamerone. Novella, 9mo. Giornata, 2do. 
 
IMOGEN. 255 
 
 complislimcnts, that she could mount a horse, fly a 
 hawk, write and read, and cast up accounts, as well 
 as any merchant of them all. His enthusiasm only 
 excites the laughter and mockery of his compan- 
 ions, particularly of Ambrogiolo, who, by the most 
 artful mixture of contradiction and argument, 
 rouses the anger of Bernabo, and he at length ex- 
 claims, that he would wilhngly stake his life, his head, 
 on the virtue of his wife. This leads to the wager 
 which forms so important an incident in the drama. 
 Ambrogiolo bets one thousand florins of gold 
 against five thousand, that Zinevra, like the rest of 
 her sex, is accessible to temptation — that in less 
 than three months he will undermine her virtue, 
 and bring her husband the most undeniable proofs 
 of her falsehood. He sets off for Genoa, in oi'der 
 to accomplish his purpose ; but on his arrival, all 
 that he learns, and all that he beholds with his own 
 eyes, of the discreet and noble character of the 
 lady, make him despair of success by fair means ; 
 he therefore has recourse to the basest treachery. 
 By bribing an old woman in the service of Zin- 
 evra, he is conveyed to her sleeping apartment, con- 
 cealed in a trunk, from which he issues in the dead 
 of the night ; he takes note of the furniture of the 
 chamber, makes himself master of her purse, her 
 morning robe, or cymar, and her girdle, and of a 
 certain mark on her person. He repeats these ob- 
 servations for two nights, and, furnished with these 
 evidences of Zinevra's guilt, he returns to Paris, 
 and lays them before the wretched husband. Ber- 
 
256 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 nabo rejects every proof of his wife's infidelity, 
 except that which finally convinces Posthumus. 
 When Ambrogiolo mentions the " mole, cinque- 
 spotted," he stands like one who has received a 
 poniard in his heart ; without further dispute he 
 pays down the forfeit, and filled with rage and 
 despair both at the loss of his money and the false- 
 hood of his wife, he returns towards Genoa ; he 
 retires to his country house, and sends a messenger 
 to the city with letters to Zinevra, desiring that she 
 would come and meet him, but with secret orders 
 to the man to despatch her by the way. The ser- 
 vant prepares to execute his master's command, 
 but overcome by her entreaties for mercy, and his 
 own remorse, he spares her life, on condition that 
 she will fly from the country forever. He then 
 disguises her in his own cloak and cap, and brings 
 back to her husband the assurance that she is 
 killed, and that her body has been devoured by the 
 wolves. In the disguise of a mariner, Zinevra 
 then embarks on board a vessel bound to the Le- 
 vant, and on arriving at- Alexandria, she is taken 
 into the service of the Sultan of Egypt, under the 
 name of Sicurano ; she gains the confidence of her 
 master, who, not suspecting her sex, sends her as 
 captain of the guard which was appointed for the 
 protection of the merchants at the fair of Acre. 
 Here she accidentally meets Ambrogiolo, and sees 
 in his possession the purse and girdle, which she 
 immediately recognizes as her own. In reply to 
 her inquiries, he relates with fiendish exultation 
 
IMOGEN. 257 
 
 the manner in which he had obtained possession of 
 them, and she persuades him to go back with her 
 to Alexandria. She then sends a messenger to 
 Genoa in the name of the Sultan, and induces her 
 husband to come and settle in Alexandria. At a 
 proper opportunity, she summons both to the pres- 
 ence of the Sultan, obliges Ambrogiolo to make a 
 full confession of his treachery, and wrings from 
 her husband the avowal of his supposed murder of 
 herself : then falling at the feet of the Sultan dis- 
 covers her real name and sex, to the great amaze- 
 ment of all. Bernabo is pardoned at the prayer 
 of his wife, and Ambrogiolo is condemned to be 
 fastened to a stak«, smeared with honey, and left 
 to be devoured by the flies and locusts. This hor- 
 rible ^sentence is executed ; while Zinevra, enriched 
 by the presents of the Sultan, and the forfeit wealth 
 of Ambrogiolo, returns with her husband to Genoa, 
 where she lives in great honor and happiness, and 
 maintains her reputation of virtue to the end of 
 her life. 
 
 These are the materials from which Shakspeare 
 has draw the dramatic situation of Imogen. He 
 has also endowed her with several of the qualities 
 which are attributed to Zinevra ; but for the essen- 
 tial truth and beauty of the individual character, 
 for the sweet coloring of pathos, and sentiment, 
 and poetry interfused through the whole, he is in- 
 debted only to nature and himself. 
 
 It would be a waste of words to refute certain 
 
 critics who have accused Shakspeare of a want of 
 17 
 
258 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 judgment In the adoption of the story ; of having 
 transferred the manners of a set of intoxicated 
 merchants and a merchant's wife to heroes and 
 princesses, and of having entirely destroyed the 
 interest of the catastrophe.* The truth is, that 
 Shakspeare has wrought out the materials before 
 him with the most luxuriant fancy and the most 
 wonderful skill. As for the various anachronisms, 
 and the confusion of names, dates, and manners, 
 over which Dr. Johnson exults in no measured 
 terms, the confusion is nowhere but in his own 
 heavy obtuseness of sentiment and perception, and 
 his want of poetical faith. Look into the old Italian 
 poets, whom we read continually with still increas- 
 ing pleasure ; does any one think of sitting down 
 to disprove the existence of Ariodante, king of • 
 Scotland ? or to prove that the mention of Proteus 
 and Pluto, baptism and the Virgin Mary, in a 
 breath, amounts to an anachronism ? Shakspeare, 
 by throwing his story far back into a remote and 
 uncertain age, has blended, by his " own omnipo- 
 tent will," the marvellous, the heroic, the ideal, 
 and the classical, — the extreme of refinement and 
 the extreme of simplicity, — into one of the loveliest 
 fictions of romantic poetry ; and, to use Schlegel's 
 expression, " has made tlie social manners of the 
 latest times harmonize with heroic deeds, and even 
 with the appearances of the gods.f 
 
 But, admirable as is the conduct of the whole 
 
 * Vide Dr. Johnson, and Dunlop's History of Fiction. 
 
 + See Hazlitt and Schlegcl on the catastrophe of Cymbeline. 
 
IMOGEN. 259 
 
 play, rich in variety of character and in pictu- 
 resque incident, its chief beauty and interest is 
 derived from Imogen. 
 
 When Ferdinand tells Miranda that she was 
 " created of every creature's best," he speaks like 
 a lover, or refers only to her personal charms : the 
 same expression might be applied critically to the 
 character of Imogen ; for, as the portrait of Miranda 
 is produced by resolving the female character into 
 its original elements, so that of Imogen unites the 
 greatest number of those qualities which we imag- 
 ine to constitute excellency in woman. 
 
 Imogen, like Juliet, conveys to our mind the 
 impression of extreme simplicity in the midst of the 
 most wonderful complexity. To conceive her aright, 
 we must take some peculiar tint from many char- 
 acters, and<60 mingle them, that, like the combina- 
 tion of hues in a sunbeam, the effect" shall be as 
 one to the eye. We must imagine something of 
 the romantic enthusiasm of Juliet, of the truth and 
 constancy of Helen, of the dignified purity of 
 Isabel, of the tender sweetness of Viola, of the self- 
 possession and intellect of Portia — combined to- 
 gether so equally and so harmoniously, that we can 
 scarcely say that one quality predominates over 
 the other. But Imogen is less imaginative than 
 Juliet, less spirited and intellectual than Portia, 
 less serious than Helen and Isabel ; her dignity is 
 not so imposing as that of Hermione, it stands more 
 on the defensive ; her submission, though unbounded, 
 is not so passive as that of Desdemona ; and thus, 
 
260 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 while she resembles each of these characters in- 
 dividually, she stands wholly distinct from all. 
 
 It is true, that the conjugal tenderness of Imogen 
 is at once the chief subject of the drama, and the 
 pervading charm of her character ; but it is not 
 true, I think, that she is merely interesting from 
 her tenderness and constancy to her husband. We 
 are so completely let into the essence of Imogen's 
 nature, that we feel as if we had known and loved 
 her before she was married to Posthumus, and 
 that her conjugal virtues are a charm superadded, 
 like the color laid upon a beautiful groundwork. 
 Neither does it appear to me, that Posthumus is 
 unworthy of Imogen, or only interesting on Imogen's 
 account. His character, like those of all the other 
 persons of the drama, is kept subordinate to hers : 
 but this could not be otherwise, for she is the proper 
 subject — the heroine of the poem. Every thing is 
 done to ennoble Posthumus, and justify her love 
 for him ; and though we certainly approve him 
 more for her sake than for his own, we are early 
 prepared to view him with Imogen's eyes ; and not 
 only excuse, but sympathize in her admiration of 
 one 
 
 Who sat 'mongst men like a descended god. 
 
 ***** 
 Who lived in court, which it is rare to do, 
 Most praised, most loved: 
 A sample to the youngest ; to the more mature, 
 A glass that feated them. 
 
 And with what beauty and delicacy is her conjugal 
 
IMOGEN. 261 
 
 and matronly character discriminated ! Her love 
 for her husband is as deep as Juliet's for her lover, 
 but without any of that headlong vehemence, that 
 fluttering amid hope, fear, and transport — that 
 giddy intoxication of heart and sense, which be- 
 longs to the novelty of passion, which we feel once, 
 and but once, in our lives. We see her love for 
 Posthumus acting upon her mind with the force of 
 an habitual feeling, heightened by enthusiastic 
 passion, and hallowed by the sense of duty. She 
 asserts and justifies her affection with energy in- 
 deed, but with a calm and wife-like dignity : — 
 
 CYMBELINE. 
 
 Thou took'st a beggar, would'st have made my throne 
 MseaX for baseness. 
 
 IMOGEN. 
 
 No, I rather added a lustre to it. 
 
 CYMBELINE. 
 
 thou vile one! 
 
 IMOGEN. 
 
 Sir, 
 It is your fault that I have loved Posthuraus ; 
 You bred him as my playfellow, and he is 
 A man worth any woman ; overbuys me, 
 Almost the sum he pays. 
 
 Compare also, as examples of the most delicate 
 discrimination of character and feeling, the parting 
 scene between Imogen and Posthumus, that between 
 Romeo and Juliet, and that between Troilus and 
 
2G2 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Cresslda : compare the confiding matronly tender- 
 ness, the deep but resigned sorrow of Imogen, with 
 the despairing agony of Juliet, and the petulant 
 grief of Cressida. 
 
 When Posthumus is driven into exile, he comes 
 to take a last farewell of his wife : — 
 
 IMOGEN. 
 
 My dearest husband, 
 I something fear my father's wrath, but nothing 
 (Always reserved my holy duty) what 
 His rage can do on me. You must be gone, 
 And I shall here abide the hourly shot 
 Of angry eyes : not comforted to live. 
 But that there is this jewel in the world 
 That I may see again. 
 
 POSTHUMUS. 
 
 My queen ! my mistress ! 
 0, lady, weep no more ! lest I give cause 
 To be suspected of more tenderness 
 Than dotli become a man. I will remain 
 The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth 
 ***** 
 Should we be taking leave 
 As long a term as yet we have to live. 
 The loathness to depart would grow — Adieu ! 
 
 IMOGEN. 
 
 Nay, stay a little : 
 
 Were you but riding forth to air yourself, 
 Such parting wei-e too petty. Look here, love, 
 This diamond was my mother's; take it, heart; 
 But keep it till you woo another Avife, 
 When Imogen is dead ! 
 
IMOGEN. 263 
 
 Imogen, In whose tenderness there is nothlns 
 jealous or fantastic, does not seriously apprehend 
 that her husband will woo another wife when she 
 is dead. It is one of those fond fancies which 
 women are apt to express in moments of feeling, 
 merely for the pleasure of hearing a protestation 
 to the contrary. When Posthumus leaves her, she 
 does not burst forth in eloquent lamentation ; but 
 that silent, stunning, overwhelming sorrow, which 
 renders the mind insensible to all things else, is 
 represented with equal force and simpUcity. 
 
 IMOGEN. 
 
 There cannot be a pinch in death 
 More sharp than this is. 
 
 CYMBELINE. 
 
 disloyal thing, 
 That should'st repair my youth; thou heapest 
 A year's age on me! 
 
 IMOGEN. 
 
 I beseech you, sir. 
 Harm not yourself with your vexation ; I 
 Am senseless of your wi-ath ; a touch more rare * 
 Subdues all pangs, all fears. 
 
 CYMBELINE. 
 
 Past grace ? obedience ? 
 
 IMOGEN. 
 
 Past hope, and in despair — that way past grace. 
 In the same circumstances, the impetuous excited 
 * More rare — i. e. more exquisitely poignant. 
 
264 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIOIs'S. 
 
 feelings of Juliet, and her vivid imagination, lend 
 something far more wildly agitated, more intensely 
 poetical and passionate to her grief. 
 
 JULIET. 
 
 Art thou gone so ? My love, my lord, my friend ! 
 I must hear from thee every day i' the hour, 
 For in a minute there are many days — 
 
 by this count I shall be much in years, 
 Ere I again behold my Romeo ! 
 
 KOMEO. 
 
 Farewell ! I will omit no opportunity 
 
 That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. 
 
 JULIET. 
 
 ! think'st thou we shall ever meet again? 
 
 KOMEO. 
 
 1 doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve 
 For sweet discourses in our time to come. 
 
 JULIET. 
 
 God! I have an ill-divining soul: 
 Methinks I see thee, now thou art below, 
 As one dead in the bottom of a tomb : 
 Either my eye-sight fails, or thou look'st pale, 
 
 We have no sympathy with the pouting dis- 
 appointment of Cressida, which is just like that of 
 a spoilt child which has lost its sugar-plum, without 
 tenderness, passions, or poetry : and, in short, per- 
 fectly characteristic of that vain, fickle, dissolute, 
 heartless woman, — " unstable as water." 
 
IMOGEN. 265 
 
 CEESSIDA. 
 
 And is it true that I must go from Troy ? 
 
 TROILUS. 
 
 A hateful truth. 
 
 CRESSIDA. 
 
 What, and from Troilus too ? 
 
 TROILUS. 
 
 From Troy and Troilus. 
 
 CEESSIDA. 
 
 Is it possible ? 
 
 TBOILUS,' 
 
 And suddenly, 
 
 CRESSIDA. 
 
 I must then to the Greeks ? 
 
 TROILUS. 
 
 No remedy. 
 
 CEESSIDA. 
 
 A woeful Cressid 'mongst the merry Greeks ! 
 When shall we see again ? 
 
 TROILUS. 
 
 Hear me, my love. Be thou but true of heart— 
 
 CRESSIDA. 
 
 I true ! How now ? what wicked deem is tliis ? 
 
 TROILUS. 
 
 Nay, we must use expostulation kindly. 
 For it is parting from us ; 
 I speak not, be thou true, as fearing thee ; 
 For I will throw my glove to Death himself, 
 
266 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 That there's no maculation in thy heart: 
 But be thou ti-ue, say I, to fashion in 
 My sequent pi'otestation. Be thou true, 
 And I will see thee. 
 
 CRESSIDA.t 
 
 heavens ! be true again — 
 heavens ! you love me not. 
 
 TBOILUS. 
 
 Die I a villain, then! 
 In this I do not call your faith in question. 
 So mainly as my merit — 
 
 But be not tempted. 
 
 CRESSIDA. 
 
 Do you think I will? 
 
 ***** 
 
 In the eagerness of Imogen to meet her husband 
 there is all a wife's fondness, mixed up with the 
 breathless hurry arising from a sudden and joyful 
 surprise ; but nothing of the picturesque eloquence, 
 the ardent, exuberant, Italian imagination of Juliet, 
 ■who, to gratify her impatience, would have her 
 heralds thoughts ; — press into her service the nim- 
 ble pinioned doves, and wind-swift Cupids, — change 
 the course of nature, and lash the steeds of Phoebus 
 to the west. Imogen only thinks " one score of 
 miles, 'twixt sun and sun," slow travelling for a 
 lover, and wishes for a horse with wings — 
 
 for a horse with wings ! Hear'st thou, Pisanio? 
 He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me 
 
IMOGEN. 267 
 
 How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs 
 May plod it in a week, why may not I 
 GHde thither in a day ? Then, true Pisanio, 
 (Who long'st like me, to see thy lord — who long'st — 
 
 let me bate, but not like me — yet long'st, 
 But in a fainter kind — not like me. 
 
 For mine's beyond beyond,) say, and speak thick — 
 (Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing 
 To the smothering of the sense) — how far is it 
 To this same blessed Milford ? And by the way, 
 Tell me how Wales was made so happy, as 
 To inherit such a haven. But, first of all, 
 How we may steal from hence ; and for the gap 
 That we shall make in time, from our hence going 
 And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence : 
 Why should excuse be born, or e'er begot? 
 We'll talk of that hereafter. Pr'ythee speak, 
 How many score of miles may we well ride 
 'Twixt hour and hour? 
 
 PISAKIO. 
 
 One score, 'twixt sun and sun, 
 Madam,'3 enough for you ; and too much too. 
 
 IMOGEN. 
 
 Why, one that rode to his execution, man, 
 Could never go so slow ! 
 
 There are two or three other passages bearing 
 on the conjugal tenderness of Imogen, which must 
 be noticed for the extreme intensity of the feeling, 
 and the unadorned elegance of the expression. 
 
 1 would thou grew'st unto the shores o' the haven 
 And question'dst eveiy sail : if he should write. 
 And 1 not have it, 'twere a paper lost 
 
268 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 As offer' d mercy is. What was the last 
 That he spake to thee ? 
 
 PISANIO. 
 
 'Twas, His queen! his queen! 
 
 IMOGEN. 
 
 Then wav'd his hankerchief ? 
 
 PISANIO. 
 
 And kiss'd it, madam. 
 
 IMOGEN. 
 
 Senseless linen ! happier therein than I ! — 
 And that was all ? 
 
 PISANIO. 
 
 No, madam ; for so long 
 As he could make me with this eye or ear 
 Distinguish him from others, he did keep 
 The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief 
 Still waving, as the fits and stirs of his mind 
 Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on, 
 How swift his ship. 
 
 IMOGEN. 
 
 Thou should'st have made him 
 As little as a ci'ow, or less, ere left 
 To after-eye him. 
 
 PISANIO. 
 
 Madam, so I did. 
 
 IMOGEN. 
 
 I would have broke my eye-strings; cracked them, but 
 
 To look upon him ; till the diminution 
 
 Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle ; 
 
 Nay, followed him, till he had melted from 
 
 The smallness of a gnat to air ; and then. 
 
 Have turn'd mine eye, and wept. 
 
IMOGEN. 269 
 
 Two little incidents, which are introduced with 
 the most unobtrusive simplicity, convey the strong- 
 est impression of her tenderness for her husband, 
 and with that pei-fect unconsciousness on her part, 
 which adds to the effect. Thus when she has lost 
 
 her bracelet — 
 
 Go, bid my woman 
 Search for a jewel, that too casually, 
 Hath left my arm. It was thy master's: 'shrew me, 
 If I would lose it for a revenue 
 Of any king in Europe. I do think 
 I saw't this morning; confident I am. 
 Last night 'twas on mine ai*m — 1 kiss'd it. 
 1 hope it has not gone to tell my lord 
 That I kiss aught but he. 
 
 It has been well observed, that our consciousness 
 that the bracelet is really gone to bear false witness 
 against her, adds an inexpressibly touching effect 
 to the simplicity and tenderness of the sentiment. 
 
 And again, when she opens her bosom to meet 
 the death to which her husband has doomed her, 
 she finds his letters preserved next her heart. 
 
 What's here ! 
 The letters of the loyal Leonatus? — 
 Soft, we'll no defence. 
 
 The scene in which Posthumus stakes his ring 
 on th.e virtue of his wife, and gives lachimo per- 
 mission to tempt her, is taken from the story. The 
 baseness and folly of such conduct have been justly 
 censured ; but Shakspeare, feeling that Posthumus 
 needed every excuse, has managed the quarrelling 
 scene between him and lachimo with the most a-d- 
 
270 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 mirable skill. The manner in which his high spirit 
 is gradually worked up by the taunts of this Italian 
 fiend, is contrived with far more probability, and 
 much less coarseness, than in the original tale. In 
 the end he is not the challenger, but the challenged ; 
 and could hardly (except on a moral principle, 
 much too refined for those rude times) have declined 
 the wager without compromising his own courage, 
 and his faith in the honor of Imogen. 
 
 lACHIMO. 
 
 I durst attempt it against any lady in the world. 
 
 POSTHUMUS. 
 
 You are a great deal abused in too bold a persuasion ; 
 and I doubt not you sustain what you're worthy of, by 
 your attempt. 
 
 lACHIMO. 
 
 What's that? 
 
 POSTHUMUS. 
 
 A repulse : though your attempt, as you call it, deserve 
 more — a punishment too. 
 
 PHILAKIO. 
 
 Gentlemen, enough of this. It came in too suddenly; 
 let it die as it was born, and I pray you be better ac- 
 quainted. 
 
 lACHIMO. 
 
 Would I had put my estate and my neighbor's on the 
 approbation of what I have said ! 
 
 POSTHUMUS. 
 
 What lady would you choose to assaU ? 
 
 lACHIMO. 
 
 Yours, whom in constancy you think stands so safe. 
 
IMOGEN. 271 
 
 In the interview betiveen Imogen and lachimo, 
 he does not begin his attack on her virtue by a 
 direct accusation against Posthumus ; but by dark 
 hints and half-uttered insinuations, such as lago 
 uses to madden Othello, he intimates that her hus- 
 band, in his absence from her, has betrayed her love 
 and truth, and forgotten her in the arms of another. 
 All that Imogen says in this scene is comprised in a 
 few lines — a brief question, or a more brief remark. 
 The proud and delicate reserve with which she 
 veils the anguish she suffers, is inimitably beautiful. 
 The strongest expression of reproach he can draw 
 from her, is only, " My lord, I fear, has forgot 
 Britain." When he continues in the same strain, 
 she exclaims in an agony, " Let me hear no more." 
 When he urges her to revenge, she asks, with all 
 the simplicity of virtue, " How should I be re- 
 venged ? " And when he explains to her how she is 
 to be avenged, her sudden burst of indignation, 
 and her immediate perception of his treachery, and 
 the motive for it, are powerfully fine : it is not 
 only the anger of a woman whose delicacy has been 
 shocked, but the spirit of a princess insulted in her 
 court. 
 
 Away ! I do condemn mine ears, that have 
 So long attended thee. If thou wert honorable. 
 Thou would'st have told this tale for virtue, not 
 For such an end thou seek'st, as base as strange. 
 Thou wrong'st a gentleman, who is as far 
 From thy report as thou from honor; and 
 Solicit' st here a lady that disdains 
 Thee and the devil alike. 
 
272 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 It has been remarked, that "her readiness to - 
 pardon lachimo's false imputation, and his designs 
 against herself, is a good lesson to prudes, and may 
 show that where there is a real attachment to virtue, 
 there is no need of an outrageous antipathy to 
 vice." * 
 
 This is true ; but can we fail to perceive that the 
 instant and ready forgiveness of Imogen is ac- 
 counted for, and rendered more graceful and char- 
 acteristic by the very means which lachimo employs 
 to win it ? He pours forth the most enthusiastic 
 praises of her husband, professes that he merely 
 made this trial of her out of his exceeding love for 
 Posthumus, and she is pacified at once ; but, with 
 exceeding delicacy of feeling, she is represented as 
 maintaining her dignified reserve and her brevity 
 of speech to the end of the scene, f ' 
 
 We must also observe how beautifully the char- 
 acter of Imogen is distinguished from those of Des- 
 demona and Hermione. When she is made ac- 
 quainted with her husband's cruel suspicions, we 
 see in her deportment neither the meek submission 
 of the former, nor the calm resolute dignity of the 
 latter. The first eflTect produced on her by her 
 husband's letter is conveyed to the fancy by the 
 exclamation of Pisanio, who is gazing on her as she 
 reads : — 
 
 What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper 
 
 ♦Characters of Shakspeare's Plays, 
 t Vide act i. scene 7. 
 
IMOGEX. 273 
 
 Has cut her tm-oat already ! No, 'tis sLmder, 
 Whose edge is sharper than the sword ! 
 
 And in her first exclamations we trace, besides as- 
 tonisliment and anguish, and the acute sense of the 
 injustice infli(;ted on her, a flash of indignant spirit, 
 ■which we do not find in Desdemona or Hermione. 
 
 False to his bed ! — What is it to be false? 
 
 To lie in watch there, and to think of him? 
 
 To weep 'twixt clock and clock ? If sleep charge nature, 
 
 To break it with a fearful dream of him, 
 
 And cry myself awake ? — that's false to his bed, 
 
 Is it? 
 
 • 
 
 This is followed by that affecting lamentation 
 over the fidsehood and injustice of her husband, in 
 which she betrays no atom of jealousy or wounded 
 self-love, but observes in the extremity of her an- 
 guish, that after his lapse from truth, " all good 
 seeming would be discredited," and she then re- 
 signs herself to his will with the most entire sub- 
 mission. 
 
 In the original story, Zinevra prevails on the 
 servant to spare her, by her exclamations and en- 
 treaties for mercy. " The lady, seeing the poniard, 
 and hearing those words, exclaimed in terror, 
 * Alas ! have pity on me for the love of Heaven ! 
 do not become the slayer of one who never offend- 
 ed thee, only to pleasure another. God, who 
 knows all things, knows that I have never done 
 that which could merit such a reward trom my 
 husband's hand.' " 
 
 18 
 
274 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Now let us turn to Shakspeare. Imogen says, — 
 
 Come, fellow, be thou honest ; 
 Do thou thy master's bidding: when thou seest him, 
 A little witness my obedience. Look 1 
 I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit 
 The innocent mansion of my love, my heart. 
 Fear not; 'tis empty of all things but gi'ief: 
 Thy master is not there, who was, indeed. 
 The riches of it. Do his bidding ; strike ! 
 
 The devoted attachment of Pisanio to his royal 
 mistress, all through the piece, is one of those side 
 touches by which "Shakspeare knew how to give 
 additional effect to his characters. 
 
 Cloten is odious ; * but we must not overlook the 
 peculiar fitness and propriety of his character, in 
 connection with that of Imogen. He is precisely 
 the kind of man who would be most intolerable to 
 such a woman. He is a fool, — so is Slender, and 
 
 * The character of Cloten has been pronounced by some un- 
 natural, by others inconsistent, and by others obsolete. The 
 following passage occurs in one of Miss Seward's letters, vol. iii. 
 p. 246: " It is curious that Shakspeare should, in so singular a 
 character as Cloten, have given the exact prototype of a being 
 whom I once knew. The unmeaning frown of countenance, the 
 fihuflaing gait, the burst of voice, the bustling insignificance, the 
 fever and ague fits of valor, the froward tetchiness, the unprin- 
 cipled malice, and, what is more curious, those occasional gleams 
 of good sense amidst the floating clouds of folly which generally 
 darkened and confused the man's brain, and which, in the char- 
 acter of Cloten, we are apt to impute to a violation of unity in 
 
 character ; but in the some-time Captain C , I saw that the 
 
 portrait of Cloten was not out of nature." 
 
IMOGEN. 275 
 
 Sir Andrew Aguecheek : but tha folly of Cloten is 
 not only ridiculous, but hateful ; it arises not so 
 much from a want of understanding as a total want 
 of heart ; it is the perversion of sentiment, rather 
 than the deficiency of intellect ; he has occasional 
 gleams of sense, but never a touch of feeling. 
 Imogen describes herself not only as " sprighted 
 with a fool," but as " frighted and anger'd worse." 
 No other fool but Cloten — a compound of the boo- 
 by and the villain — could excite in such a mind as 
 Imogen's the same mixture of terror, contempt, 
 and abhorrence. The stupid, obstinate malignity 
 of Cloten, and the wicked machinations of the 
 queen — 
 
 A father cniel, and a step-dame false, 
 A foolish suitor to a wedded lady — 
 
 justify whatever might need excuse in the conduct 
 of Imogen — as her concealed marriage and her 
 flight from her father's court — and serve to call out 
 several of the most beautiful and striking parts 
 of her character : particularly that decision and 
 vivacity of temper, which in her harmonize so 
 beautifully with exceeding delicacy, sweetness, and 
 submission. 
 
 In the scene with her detested suitor, there is at 
 first a careless majesty of disdain, which is admira- 
 ble. 
 
 I am much sorry, sir. 
 You put me to forget a lady's manners. 
 By being so verbal ; * and learn now, for all, 
 
 * i. e.full of ivords. 
 
276 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, 
 
 By the very truth of it, I care not for you, 
 
 And am so near the lack of charity, 
 
 (T' accuse myself,) I hate you; which I had rather 
 
 You felt, than make 't my boast. 
 
 But when he dares to provoke her, by reviling 
 the absent Posthumus, her indignation heightens 
 her scorn, and her scorn sets a keener edge on her 
 indignation. 
 
 CLOTEN. 
 
 For the contract you pretend with that base wretch, 
 One bred of alms, and fostered with cold dishes. 
 With scraps o' the court ; it is no contract, none. 
 
 IMOGEN. 
 
 Profane fellow ! 
 Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more, 
 But what thou art, besides, thou wert too base 
 To be his groom; thou wert dignified enough. 
 Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made_ 
 Comparative for your virtues, to be styl'd 
 The under hangman of his kingdom ; and hated 
 For being preferr'd so well. 
 
 He never can meet moi-e mischance than come 
 To be but nam'd of thee. His meanest garment 
 That ever hath but clipp'd his body, is dearer 
 In my respect, than all the hairs above thee, 
 Were they all made such men. 
 
 One thing more must be particularly remarked, 
 because it serves to individualize the character, 
 from the beginning to the end of the poem. We 
 are constantly sensible that Imogen, besides being 
 
IMOGEN. 277 
 
 a tender and devoted woman, is a princess and a 
 beauty, at the same time that she is ever superior 
 to her position and her external charms. There is, 
 for instance, a certain airy majesty of deportment 
 — a spirit of accustomed command breaking out 
 every now and then — the dignity, without the as- 
 sumption of rank and royal birth, which is appar- 
 ent in the scene with Cloten and elsewhere ; and 
 we have not only a general impression that Imogen, 
 like other heroines, is beautiful, but the peculiar 
 style and character of her beauty is placed before 
 us : we have an image of the most luxuriant love- 
 liness, combined with exceeding delicacy, and even 
 fragility of person : of the most refined elegance, 
 and the most exquisite modesty, set forth in one or 
 two passages of description ; as when lachimo is 
 contemplating her asleep : — 
 
 Cytherea, 
 How bravely thou becom'st thy bed ! fresh lily. 
 And whiter than the sheets. 
 
 'Tis her breathing that 
 Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' the taper 
 Bows toward her; and would underpeep her lids 
 To see the enclos'd lights, now canopied 
 Under those windows, white and azure, lac'd 
 With blue of heaven's own tinct ! 
 
 The preservation of her feminine character 
 under her masculine attire ; her delicacy, her 
 modesty, and her timidity, are managed with the 
 same perfect consistency and unconscious grace as 
 in Viola. And we must not forjzet that her " neat 
 
278 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 cookery," whicli is so prettily eulogized by Guide- 
 rius : — 
 
 He cuts out roots in characters, 
 
 And sauc'd our broths, as Juno had been sick, 
 
 And he her dieter, 
 
 formed part of the education of a princess in those 
 remote times. 
 
 Few reflections of a general nature are put into 
 the mouth of Imogen ; and what she says is more 
 remarkable for sense, truth, and tender feeling, 
 than for wit, or wisdom, or power of imagination. 
 The following little touch of poetry reminds us of 
 Juliet : — 
 
 Ere I could 
 Give him that parting kiss, which I had set 
 Between two changing words, comes in my father; 
 And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north. 
 Shakes all our buds from growing. 
 
 Her exclamation on opening her husband's letter, 
 reminds us of the profound and thoughtful tender- 
 ness of Helen : — 
 
 learned indeed were that astronomer 
 That kneAv the stars, as I his characters ! 
 He'd lay the future open. 
 
 The following are more in the manner of 
 Isabel : — 
 
 Most miserable 
 Is the desire that's glorious: bless'd be those, 
 How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills, 
 That seasons comfort. 
 
IMOGEN. 279 
 
 Against self-slaugliter 
 There is a prohibition so divine 
 That cravens my weak hand. 
 
 Thus may poor fools 
 
 Believe false teachers; though those that arebetray'd 
 
 Do feel the reason sharply, yet the traitor 
 
 Stands in worse case of woe, 
 
 Are Ave not brothers V 
 
 So man and man should be ; 
 But clay and clay differs in dignity, 
 Whose dust is both alike. 
 
 Will poor folks lie 
 That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis 
 A punishment or trial ? Yes : no wonder, 
 When rich ones scarce tell ti'ue : to lapse in fuhiess 
 Is sorer than to lie for need ; and falsehood 
 Is worse in kings than beggars. 
 
 The sentence which folloAvs, and which I believe 
 has become proverbial, has much of the manner of 
 Portia, both in the thought and the exj)ression : — 
 
 Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night, 
 Are they not but in Britain ? I' the world's volume 
 Our Britain seems as of it, but not in it ; 
 In a great pool, a swan's nest; pr'ythee, think 
 There's livers out of Britain. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The catastrophe of this play has been much 
 admired for the peculiar skill with which all the 
 various threads of interest are gathered together 
 at last, and entwined with the destiny of Imogen. 
 It may be added, that one of its chief beauties is 
 
280 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 the manner in which the character of Imogen is 
 not only preserved, but rises upon us to the con- 
 clusion with added grace : her instantaneous for- 
 giveness of her husband before he even asks it, 
 when she flings herself at once into his arms — 
 
 Why did you throw your wedded lady from you ? 
 
 and her magnanimous reply to her father, when he 
 tells her, that by the discovery of her two brothers 
 she has lost a kingdom — 
 
 No — I have gain'd two worlds by it — 
 
 clothing a noble sentiment in a noble image, give 
 the finishing touches of excellence to this most 
 enchanting portrait. 
 
 On the whole, Imogen is a lovely compound of 
 goodness, truth, and affection, with just so much of 
 passion and intellect and poetry, as serve to lend 
 to the picture that power and glowing richness of 
 effect which it would otherwise have wanted ; and 
 of her it might be said, if we could condescend to 
 quote from any other poet with Shakespeare open 
 before us, that "her person was a paradise, and her 
 soul the cherub to guard it." * 
 
 CORDELIA. 
 
 There is in the beauty of Cordelia's character 
 »n effect too sacred for "words, and ahnost too deep 
 
 * Dry den. 
 
CORDELIA. 281 
 
 for tears ; Tvithin her heart is a fathomless well of 
 purest affection, but its waters sleep in silence and 
 obscurity, — never failing in their depth and never 
 overflowing in their fulness. Every thing in her 
 seems to lie beyond our view, and affects us in a 
 manner which we feel rather than perceive. The 
 character appears to have no surface, no salient 
 points upon which the fancy can readily seize : 
 there is little external development of intellect, 
 less of passion, and still less of imagination. It is 
 completely made out in the course of a few scenes, 
 and we are surprised to find that in those few 
 scenes there is matter for a life of reflection, and 
 materials enough for twenty heroines. If I^ear be 
 the grandest of Shakspeare's tragedies, Cordelia 
 in herself, as a human being, governed by the 
 purest and holiest impulses and motives, the most 
 refined from all dross of selfishness and passion, 
 approaches near to perfection ; and in her adapta- 
 tion, as a dramatic personage, to a determinate 
 plan of action, may be pronounced altogether per- 
 fect. The character, to speak of it critically as a 
 poetical conception, is not, however, to be compre- 
 hended at once, or easily ; and in the same manner 
 Cordelia, as a woman, is one whom we must have 
 loved before we could have known her, and known 
 her long before we could have known her truly. 
 
 Most people, I believe, have heard the story 
 of the young German artist Miiller, who, while 
 employed in copying and engraving Raffaelle's 
 Madonna del Sisto, was so penetrated by its celes- 
 
282 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 tial beauty, so distrusted his own power to do 
 justice to it, that between admiration and despair 
 he fell into a sadness ; thence through the usual 
 gradations, into a melancholy, thence into madness ; 
 and died just as he had put the finishing stroke to 
 his own matchless work, which had occupied him 
 for eight years. With some slight tinge of this 
 concentrated kind of enthusiasm I have learned to 
 contemplate the character of Cordelia ; I have 
 looked into it till the revelation of its hidden 
 beauty, and an intense feeling of the wonderful 
 genius which created it, have filled me at once 
 with delight and despair. Like poor Miiller, but 
 with more reason, I do despair of ever conveying, 
 through a difierent and inferior medium, the im- 
 pression made on my own mind to the mind of 
 another. 
 
 Schlegel, the most eloquent of critics, concludes 
 his remarks on King Lear with these words : " Of 
 the heavenly beauty of soul of Cordelia, I will not 
 venture to speak." Now if I attempt what Schlegel 
 and others have left undone, it is because I feel 
 that this general acknowledgment of her excellence 
 can neither satisfy those who have studied the 
 character, nor convey a just conception of it to 
 the mere reader. Amid the awful, the overpower- 
 ing interest of the story, amid the terrible convul- 
 sions of passion and suffering, and pictures of 
 moral and physical wretchedness which harrow up 
 the soul, the tender influence of Cordelia, like 
 
CORDELIA. 283 
 
 without being quite understood. Like a soft star 
 that shines for a moment from behind a stormy 
 cloud and the next is swallowed up in tempest 
 and darkness, the impression it leaves is beautiful 
 and deep, — but vague. Speak of Cordelia to a 
 critic or to a general reader, all agree in the 
 beauty of the portrait, for all must feel it; but 
 when we come to details, I have heard more 
 various and opposite opinions relative to her than 
 any other of Shakspeare's characters — a proof of 
 what I have advanced in the first instance, that 
 from the simplicity with which the character is 
 dramatically treated, and the small space it occu- 
 pies, few are aware of its internal power, or its 
 wonderful depth of purpose. 
 
 It appears to me that the whole character rests 
 upon the two sublimest principles of human action, 
 the love of truth and the sense of duty ; but these, 
 when they stand alone, (as in the Antigone,) are 
 apt to strike us as severe and cold. Shakspeare 
 has, therefore, wreathed them round with the 
 dearest attributes of our feminine nature, the 
 power of feeling and inspiring affection. The 
 first part of the play shows us how Cordelia is 
 loved, the second part how she can love. To 
 her father she is the object of a secret preference ; 
 his agony at her supposed unkindness draws from 
 him the confession, that he had loved her most, 
 and " thought to set his rest on her kind nursery." 
 Till then she had been " his best object, the argu- 
 ment of his praise, balm of his age, most best, most 
 
284 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 dearest ! " The faithful and worthy Kent is ready 
 to brave death and exile in her defence : and 
 afterwards a farther impression of her benign 
 sweetness is conveyed in a simple and beautiful 
 manner, when we are told that " since the lady 
 Cordelia went to France, her father's poor fool 
 had much pined away." We have her sensibility 
 " when patience and sorrow strove which should 
 express her goodliest : " and all her filial tenderness 
 when she commits her poor father to the care of 
 the physician, when she hangs over him as he is 
 sleeping, and kisses him as she contemplates the 
 wreck of grief and majesty. 
 
 my dear father ! restoration hang 
 
 Its medicine on my lips: and let this kiss 
 
 Repair those violent harms that my two sisters 
 
 Have in thy reverence made ! 
 
 Had you not been their father, these white flakes 
 
 Had challenged pity of them ! Was this a face 
 
 To be exposed against the wari'ing winds, 
 
 To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder, 
 
 In the most terrible and nimble stroke 
 
 Of quick cross lightning? to watch, (poor perdu!) 
 
 With thin helm? mine enemy's dog. 
 
 Though he had bit me, should have stood that night 
 
 Against my fire. 
 
 Her mild magnanimity shines out in her farewell 
 to her sisters, of whose real character she is per- 
 fectly aware : — 
 
 Ye jewels of our father ! with washed eyes 
 Cordelia leaves you ! I know ye what ye are, 
 And like a sister, am most loath to call 
 
CORDELIA. 285 
 
 Your faults as they are nam' d. Use well our father, 
 To your professed bosoms I commit him. 
 But yet, alas ! stood I within his grace, 
 I Avould commend him to a better place ; 
 So farewell to you both. 
 
 GONERIL. 
 
 Prescribe not us our duties ! 
 
 The modest pride witli which she replies to the 
 Duke of Burgundy is admirable ; this whole pas- 
 sage is too illustrative of the peculiar character of 
 Cordelia, as well as too exquisite, to be mutilated. 
 
 I yet beseech your majesty, 
 (If, for I want that glib and oily heart, 
 To-speak and purpose not, since what I well intend 
 I'll do't before I speak,) that you make known, 
 It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness, 
 Ko unchaste action, or dishonored step 
 That hath deprived me of your grace and favor ; 
 But even for want of that, for which I am richer; 
 A still soliciting eye, and such a tongue 
 I am glad I have not, tho' not to have it 
 Hath lost me in your liking. 
 
 LEAR. 
 
 Better thou 
 Hadst not been bom, than not to have pleased me better. 
 
 FRANCE. 
 
 Is it but this? a tardiness of nature. 
 That often leaves the history unspoke 
 Which it intends to do ? — My lord of Burgundy, 
 What say you to the lady ? love is not love 
 When it is mingled with respects that stand 
 
286 CHARACTERS OP THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her ? 
 She is herself a dowry. 
 
 BURGUNDY. 
 
 Royal Lear, 
 Give but that portion which yourself px'oposed, 
 And here I take Cordelia by the hand 
 Duchess of Burgundy. 
 
 LEAR. 
 
 Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm. 
 
 BURGUNDY. 
 
 I am sorry, then, you have lost a father 
 That you must lose a husband. 
 
 CORDELIA. 
 
 Peace be with Burgundy! 
 Since that respects of fortune are his love, 
 I shall not be his wife. 
 
 FRANCE. 
 
 Fairest Cordelia ! thou art more rich, being poor, 
 Most choice, forsaken, and most lov'd, despised! 
 Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon. 
 
 She takes up arms, " not for ambition, but a dear 
 father's right." In her speech after her defeat, we 
 have a calm fortitude and elevation of soul, arising 
 from the consciousness of duty, and lifting her 
 above all consideration of self. She observes, — 
 
 We are not the first 
 Who with best meaning have incurred the worst I 
 
 She thinks and fears only for her father. 
 
CORDELIA. 287 
 
 For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down; 
 Jlyself would else out- frown false fortune's frown. 
 
 To complete the picture, her very voice is char- 
 acteristic, " ever soft, gentle, and low ; an excel- 
 lent tiling in woman." 
 
 But it will be said, that the qualities here ex- 
 emplified — as sensibility, gentleness, magnanimity, 
 fortitude, generous affection — are qualities which 
 belong, in their perfection, to others of Shaks- 
 peare's characters — to Imogen, for instance, who 
 unites them all ; and yet Imogen and Cordelia are 
 wholly unlike each other. Even though we should 
 reverse- their situations, and give to Imogen the 
 filial devotion of Cordelia, and to Cordelia the con- 
 jugal virtues of Imogen, still they would remain 
 perfectly distinct as women. What is it, then, 
 which lends to Cordelia that peculiar and indi- 
 vidual truth of character, which distinguishes her 
 from every other human being ? 
 
 It is a natural reserve, a tardiness of disposition, 
 " which often leaves the history un spoke which it 
 intends to do ;" a subdued quietness of deportment 
 and expression, a veiled shyness thrown over all 
 her emotions, her language and her manner; mak- 
 ing the outward demonstration invariably fall short 
 of Avhat we know to be the feehng within. Not 
 only is the portrait singularly beautiful and inter- 
 esting in itself, but the conduct of Cordelia, and 
 the part which she bears in the beginning of the 
 story, is rendered consistent and natural by the 
 wonderful truth and delicacy with which this 
 
288 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 peculiar disposition is sustained throughout the 
 play. 
 
 In early youth, and more particularly if we are 
 gifted with a lively imagination, such a character as 
 that of CordeHa is calculated above every other to 
 impress and captivate us. Any thing like myster}', 
 any thing withheld or withdrawn from our notice, 
 seizes on our fancy by awakening oui^ curiosity. 
 Then we are won more by what we half perceive 
 and half create, than by what is openly expressed 
 and freely bestowed. But this feeling is a part of 
 our young life : when time and years have chilled 
 us, when we can no longer afford to send our souls 
 abroad, nor from our own superfluity of life and 
 sensibility spare "the materials out of which we build 
 a shrine for our Idol — then do we seek, we ask, we 
 thirst for that warmth of frank, confiding tender- 
 ness, which revives in us the withered aifections 
 and feelings, buried but not dead. Then the ex- 
 cess of love is welcomed, not repelled : it is gra- 
 cious to us as the sun and dew to the seared and 
 riven trunk, with Its few green leaves. Lear is old 
 — " fourscore and upward" — but we see what he 
 has been in former days : the ardent passions of 
 youth have turned to rashness and wilfulness : he is 
 long passed that age when we are more blessed in 
 what we bestow than in what we receive. When he 
 says to his daughters, " I gave ye all ! " we feel that 
 he requires all in return, with a jealous, restless, 
 exacting affection which defeats its own wishes. 
 How many such are there In the world ! How many 
 
• CORDELIA. 289 
 
 to sympathize with the fiery, fond old man, when he 
 shrinks as if petrified from Cordelia's quiet calm 
 reply ! 
 
 LEAR. 
 
 Now our joy, 
 Although the last not least — 
 What can you say to draw 
 A third more opulent than your sisters' ? Speak ! 
 
 CORDELIA. 
 
 Nothing, my lord. 
 
 LEAR. 
 
 Nothmg ! 
 
 CORDELIA. 
 
 Nothing. 
 
 LEAR. 
 
 Nothing. can come of nothing: speak again! 
 
 CORDELIA. 
 
 Unhappy that I am ! I cannot heave 
 
 My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty 
 
 According to my bond ; nor more, nor less. 
 
 Now this is perfectly natural. Cordelia has pen- 
 etrated the vile characters of her sisters. Is it 
 not obvious, that, in proportion as her own mind is 
 pure and guileless, she must be disgusted with their 
 gross hypocrisy and exaggeration, their empty 
 protestations, their " plaited cunning ; " and would 
 retire from all competition with what she so dis- 
 dains and abhors, — even into the opposite extreme ? 
 In such a case, as she says herself — 
 
 What should Cordelia do? — love and be silent? 
 
 For the very expressions of Lear — 
 19 
 
290 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 What can you say to draw 
 A third more opulent than your sisters' ? 
 
 are enough to strike dumb forever a generous, del- 
 icate, but shy disposition, such as Cordeha's, by- 
 holding out a bribe for professions. 
 
 If Cordelia were not thus portrayed, this de- 
 liberate coolness would strike us as verging on 
 harshness or obstinacy ; but it is beautifully repre- 
 sented as a certain modification of character, the 
 necessary result of feelings habitually, if not natur- 
 ally, repressed: and through the whole play we 
 trace the same peculiar and individual disposition — 
 the same absence of all display — the same sobriety 
 of speech veiling the most profound affections — the 
 same quiet steadiness of purpose — the same shrink- 
 ing from all exhibition of emotion. 
 
 " Tons les sentlmens naturels ont leur pudeur," 
 was a viva voce observation of Madame de Stael, 
 when disgusted by the sentimental affectation of 
 her imitators. This " pudeur," carried to an ex- 
 cess, appears to me the peculiar characteristic of 
 Cordelia. Thus, in the description of her deport- 
 ment when she receives the letter of the Earl of 
 Kent, informing her of the cruelty of her sisters 
 and the wretched condition of Lear, we seem to 
 have her before us : — 
 
 KEJfT. 
 
 Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of 
 grief? 
 
 GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Ay, sir, she took them, and read them ui my presence ; 
 
CORDELIA. 291 
 
 And now and then an ample tear stole down 
 Her delicate check. It seemed she was a queen 
 Over her passion; who, most rebel-like 
 Sought to be king over her. 
 
 then it moved her ! 
 
 GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Not to a rage. 
 Faith, once or twice she heaved the name of father 
 Pantingly forth, as if it pressed her heart, 
 Cried, Sisters ! sisters ! Shame of ladies ! Sisters ! 
 Wliat, i' the stoivii f i' the night ? 
 Let pity not be believed. Then she shook 
 The holy water from her heavenly eyes ; 
 
 ***** 
 
 Then away she started, 
 To deal with grief alone. 
 
 Here the last line — the imaore brought before us 
 of Cordelia starting away from observation, "to 
 deal with grief alone," is as exquisitely beautiful 
 as it is characteristic. 
 
 But all the passages hitherto quoted must yield 
 in beauty and power to that scene, in which her 
 poor father recognizes her, and in the intervals of 
 distraction asks forgiveness of his wronged child. 
 The subdued pathos and simplicity of Cordelia's 
 character, her quiet but intense feeling, the misery 
 and humiliation of the bewildered old man, are 
 brought before us in so few words, and at the same 
 time sustained with such a deep intuitive knowledge 
 of the innermost workinsrs of the human heart, that 
 
292 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 as there is nothini^ surpassing this scene in Shaks- 
 peare himself, so there is nothing that can be com- 
 pared to it in any other writer. 
 
 CORDELIA. 
 
 How does my royal lord ? How fares your majesty? 
 
 LEAR. 
 
 You do me wrong to take me out of the grave. 
 Thou art a soul in bliss ; but I am bound 
 Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears 
 Do scald like molten lead. 
 
 CORDELIA. 
 
 Sir, do you know me ? 
 
 LEAR. 
 
 You are a spirit, I know : when did you die ? 
 
 CORDELIA. 
 
 Still, still far wide ! 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 He's scarce awake : let him alone awhile. 
 
 LEAK. 
 
 Where have I been ? Where am I ? Fair daylight ! 
 I am mightily abused. 1 should even die with pity 
 To see another thus. I know not what to say. 
 I will not swear these are my hands: Let's see. 
 I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured 
 Of my condition. 
 
 CORDELIA. 
 
 look upon me, sir, 
 And hold your hands in benediction o'er me: — ■ 
 No, sir, you must not kneel. 
 
 LEAR. 
 
 Pray, do not mock me : 
 1 am a very foolish, fond old man, 
 
CORDELIA. 293 
 
 Fourscore and upwards ; and to deal plainly Avith you, 
 I fear I am not in my perfect mind. 
 Methinks I should know you, and know this man, 
 Yet I am doubtful: fori am mainly ignorant 
 What place this is; and all the skiU I have 
 Kemembers not these garments ; nor I know not 
 Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; 
 For as I am a man, I think this lady 
 To be my child Cordelia. 
 
 CORDELIA. 
 
 And so I am, I am. 
 
 LEAR. 
 
 Be your tears wet ? Yes, faith. I pray you weep not. 
 If you have poison for me I wiU drink it. 
 I know you do not love me ; for your sisters 
 Have, as I do remember, done me wrong: 
 You have some cause, they have not. 
 
 CORDELIA. 
 
 No cause, no cause ! 
 
 As we do not estimate Cordelia's aiFection for 
 her father by the coldness of her language, so 
 neither should we measure her indignation against 
 her sisters by the mildness of her expressions. 
 What, in fact, can be more eloquently significant, 
 and at the same time more characteristic of Cordelia, 
 than the single line when she and her father are 
 conveyed to their prison : — 
 
 Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters f 
 
 The irony here is so bitter and intense, and at the 
 same time so quiet, so feminine, so dignified in the 
 expression, that who but Cordelia would have 
 
294 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 uttered it in the same manner, or would have con- 
 densed such ample meaning into so few and simple 
 words ? 
 
 We lose sight of Cordelia during the whole of 
 the second and third, and great part of the fourth 
 act ; but towards the conclusion she reappears. 
 Just as our sense of human misery and wickedness, 
 being carried to its extreme height, becomes nearly- 
 intolerable, " like an engine wrenching our frame 
 of nature from its fixed place," then, like a redeem- 
 ing angel, she descends to mingle in the scene, 
 " loosening the springs of pity in our eyes," and 
 relieving the impressions of pain and terror by 
 those of admiration and a tender pleasure. For 
 the catastrophe, it is indeed terrible ! wondrous ter- 
 rible ! When Lear enters with Cordelia dead in 
 his arms, compassion and awe so seize on all our 
 faculties, that we are left only to silence and to 
 tears. But if I might j udge from my own sensa- 
 tions, the catastrophe of Lear is not so overwhelm- 
 ing as the catastrophe of Othello. We do not turn 
 away with the same feeling of absolute unmitigated 
 despair. Cordelia is a saint ready prepared for 
 heaven — our earth is not good enough for her : and 
 Lear ! — O who, after sufferings and tortures such as 
 his, would wish to see his life prolonged ? What ! 
 replace a sceptre in that shaking hand ? — a crown 
 upon that old gray head, on which the tempest had 
 poured in its wrath ? — on which the deep dread- 
 bolted thunders and the winged lightnings had 
 spent their fury ? O never, never ! 
 
CORDELIA. 295 
 
 Let him pass! he hates hhn 
 
 That would upon the rack of this rough "world 
 
 Stretch him out longer. 
 
 In the story of King Lear and his three daugh- 
 ters, as it is related in the " delectable and 
 mellifluous " romance of Perceforest, and in the 
 Chronicle of Geoffrey of Monmouth, the conclusion 
 is fortunate. Cordelia defeats her sisters, and re- 
 places her father on his throne. Spenser, in his 
 version of the story, has followed these authorities. 
 Shakspeare has preferred the catastrophe of the 
 old ballad, founded apparently on some lost tradi- 
 tion. I suppose it is by way of amending his errors, 
 and bringing back this daring innovator to sober 
 history, that it has been thought fit to alter the play 
 of Lear for the stage, as they have altered Romeo 
 and Juliet : they have converted the seraph-like 
 Cordelia into a puling love heroine, and sent her 
 off victorious at the end of the play — exit with 
 drums and colors flying — to be married to Edgar. 
 Now any thing more absurd, more discordant with 
 all our previous impressions, and with the characters 
 as unfolded to us, can hardly be imagined. " I 
 cannot conceive," says Schlegel, " what ideas of 
 art and dramatic connection those persons have, 
 who suppose we can at pleasure tack a double 
 conclusion to a tragedy — a melancholy one for 
 hard-hearted spectators, and a merry one for those 
 of softer mould." The fierce manners depicted in 
 this play, the extremes of virtue and vice in the 
 
296 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 persons, belong to tlie remote period of the story.* 
 There is no attempt at character in the old nar- 
 ratives ; Regan and Goneril are monsters of in- 
 gratitude, and Cordelia merely distinguished by her 
 filial piety ; whereas, in Shakspeare, this filial piety 
 is an affection quite distinct from the qualities 
 •which serve to individualize the human being; we 
 have a perception of innate character apart from 
 all accidental circumstance: we see that if Cor- 
 delia had never known her father, had never been 
 rejected from his love, had never been a born 
 princess or a crowned queen, she would not have 
 been less Cordelia ; less distinctly herself ; that is, a 
 woman of a steady mind, of calm but deep affections, 
 of inflexible truth, of few words, and of reserved 
 deportment. 
 
 As to Regan and Goneril — " tigers, not daugh- 
 ters" — we might wish to regard them as mere 
 hateful chimeras, impossible as they are detestable ; 
 but fortunately there was once a Tullia. I know 
 not where to look for the prototype of Cordelia : 
 there was a Julia Alpinula, the young priestess of 
 Aventicum, f who, unable to save her father's life 
 by the sacrifice of her own, died with him — '* infelix 
 patris, infelix proles" — but this is all we know of 
 her. There was the Roman daughter, too. I re- 
 
 * King Tjcar may be supposed to have liyed about one thousand 
 years before the Christian era, being the forth or fifth in descent 
 from liing Brut, the great-grandson of iEncas, and the fabulous 
 founder of the kingdom of Britain. 
 
 t She is commemorated by Lord Byron. Vide Childe Harold, 
 Canto iii. 
 
CORDELIA. 297 
 
 member seeing at Genoa, Guido's " Picta Romana," 
 in wliicli the expression of the female bending over 
 the aged parent, who feeds from her bosom, is per- 
 fect, — but it is not a Cordelia : only RafFaelle could 
 have painted Cordelia. 
 
 But the character which at once suggests itself 
 in comparison with Cordelia, as the heroine of filial 
 tenderness and piety, is certainly the Antigone of 
 Sophocles. As poetical conceptions, they rest oa 
 the same basis : they are both pure abstractions of 
 truth, piety, and natural affection ; and in both, 
 love, as a passion, is kept entirely out of sight : for 
 though the womanly character is sustained, by 
 making them the objects of devoted attachment, 
 yet to have portrayed them as influenced by pas- 
 sion, would have destroyed that unity of purpose 
 and feeling which is one source of power ; and, 
 besides, have disturbed that serene purity and 
 grandeur of soul, which equally distinguishes both 
 heroines. The spirit, however, in wliich the two 
 characters are conceived, is as different as possible ; 
 and we must not fail to remark, that Antigone, who 
 plays a principal part in two fine tragedies, and is 
 distinctly and completely made out, is considered 
 as a masterpiece, the very triumph of the ancient 
 classical drama ; whereas, there are many among 
 Shakspeare's characters which are equal to Cordelia 
 as dramatic conceptions, and superior to her in 
 finishing of outline, as well as in the richness of the 
 poetical coloring. 
 
 When (Edipus, pursued by the vengeance of the 
 
298 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS 
 
 gods, deprived of sight by his own mad act, and 
 driven from Thebes by his subjects and his sons, 
 wanders forth, abject and forlorn, he is supported 
 by his daughter Antigone ; who leads him from city 
 to city, begs for him, and pleads for him against the 
 harsh, rude men, who, struck more by his guilt than 
 his misery, would drive him from his last asylum. 
 In the opening of the " (Edipus Coloneus," where 
 the wretched old man appears leaning on his 
 child, and seats himself in the consecrated Grove 
 of the Furies, the picture presented to us is won- 
 derfully solemn and beautiful. The patient, duteous 
 tenderness of Antigone ; the scene in which she 
 pleads for her brother Polynices, and supplicates 
 her father to receive his offending son ; her remon- 
 strance to Polynices, when she entreats him not to 
 carry the threatened war into his native country, 
 are finely and powerfully delineated ; and in her 
 lamentation over Oedipus, when he perishes in the 
 mysterious grove, there is a pathetic beauty, appar- 
 ent even through the stiffness of the translation. 
 
 Alas ! I only wished I might have died 
 
 With my poor ftither; wherefoi-e should I ask 
 
 For longer life ? 
 
 I was fond of misery with him; 
 
 E'en what was most unlovely grew beloved 
 
 When he was with me. my dearest father, 
 
 Beneath the earth now in deep darkness hid. 
 
 Worn as thou wert with age, to me thou still 
 
 Wert dear, and shalt be ever. 
 
 — Even as he wished he died. 
 
 In a strange land — for such was his desire — 
 
CORDELIA. 299 
 
 A shady tiirf covered his lifeless limbs, 
 Kor unlamented fell ! for these eyes, 
 My father, still shall weep for thee, nor time 
 E'er blot thee from my memory. 
 The filial piety of Antigone is the most affecting 
 part of the tragedy of " (Edipus Coloneus : " her 
 sisterly affection, and her heroic self-devotion to a 
 religious duty, form the plot of the tragedy called 
 by her name. When her two brothers, Eteocles 
 and Polynices, had slain each other before the 
 walls of Thebes, Creon issued an edict forbidding 
 the rites of sepulture to Polynices, (as the invader 
 of his country,) and awarding instant death to 
 those who should dare to bury him. We know 
 the importance which the ancients attached to the 
 funeral obsequies, as alone securing their admission 
 into the Elysian fields. Antigone, upon hearing 
 the law of Creon, which thus carried vengeance 
 beyond the grave, enters in the first scene, an- 
 nouncing her fixed resolution to brave the threat- 
 ened punishment : her sister Ismene shrinks from 
 sharing the peril of such an undertaking, and 
 endeavors to dissuade her from it, on which An- 
 tigone replies : — 
 
 Wert thou to proffer what I do not ask— 
 
 Thy poor assistance — I would scorn it now; 
 
 Act as thou wilt, I'll bury him myself: 
 
 Let me perform but that, and death is welcome. 
 
 I'll do the pious deed, and lay me down 
 
 By my dear brother; loving and beloved, 
 
 We'll rest together. 
 
 She proceeds to execute her generous purpose ; 
 
300 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 she covers with earth the mangled corse of Poly- 
 nices, pours over it the accustomed libations, is 
 detected in her pious office, and after nobly defend- 
 ing her conduct, is led to death by command of 
 the tyrant : her sister Ismene, struck with shame 
 and remorse, now comes forward to accuse her- 
 self as a partaker in the offence, and share her 
 sister's punishment; but Antigone sternly and 
 scornfully rejects her; and after pouring forth a 
 beautiful lamentation on the misery of perishing 
 " without the nuptial song — a virgin and a slave," 
 she dies a Vantique — she strangles herself to avoid 
 a lingering death. 
 
 Hemon, the son of Creon, unable to save her 
 life, kills himself upon her grave : but throughout 
 the whole tragedy we are left in doubt whether 
 Antigone does or does not return the affection of 
 this devoted lover. 
 
 Thus it will be seen that in the Antigone there 
 is a great deal of what may be called the effect of 
 situation, as well as a great deal of poetry and 
 character : she says the most beautiful things in 
 the world, performs the most heroic actions, and 
 all her words and actions are so placed before us 
 as to command our admiration. '> According to the 
 classical ideas of virtue and heroism, the character 
 is sublime, and in the delineation there is a severe 
 simplicity mingled with its Grecian grace, a unity, 
 a grandeur, an elegance, which appeal to our taste 
 and our understanding, while they fill and exalt 
 the imagination : but in Cordelia it is not the 
 
CORDELIA. 30i. 
 
 external coloring or form, it is not what she says or 
 does, but "what she is in herself, what she feels, 
 thinks, and suffers, which continually awaken 
 our sympathy and interest. The heroism of Cor- 
 delia is more passive and tender — it melts into our 
 heart ; and in the veiled loveliness and unostenta- 
 tious delicacy of her character, there is an effect 
 more profound and artless, if it be less striking and 
 less elaborate than in the Grecian heroine. To 
 Antigone we give our admiration, to Cordelia our 
 tears. Antigone stands before us in her austere 
 and statue-like beauty, like one of the marbles of 
 the Parthenon. If Cordelia reminds us of any 
 thing on earth, it is of one of the Madonnas in the 
 old Italian pictures, " with downcast eyes beneath 
 th' almighty dove ? " and as that heavenly form is 
 connected with our human sympathies only by the 
 expression of maternal tenderness or maternal 
 sorrow, even so Cordelia would be almost too 
 angelic, were she not linked to our earthly feelings, 
 bound to our very hearts, by her filial love, her 
 wrongs, her sufferings, and her tears. 
 
HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 CLEOPATRA 
 
 I CANNOT agree with one of the most philo- 
 sophical of Shakspeare's critics, who has asserted 
 " that the actual truth of particular events, in pro- 
 portion as we are conscious of it, is a drawback 
 on the pleasure as well as the dignity of 
 tragedy." If this observation applies at all, it is 
 equally just with regard to characters : and in 
 either case can we admit it ? The reverence and 
 the simpleness of heart with which Shakspeare 
 has treated the received and admitted truths of 
 history — I mean according to the imperfect knowl- 
 edge of his time — is admirable ; his inaccuracies 
 are few : his general accuracy, allowing for the 
 distinction between the narrative and the dramatic 
 form, is acknowledged to be wonderful. He did 
 not steal the precious material from the treasury of 
 history, to debase its purity, — new-stamp it arbi- 
 trarily with effigies and legends of his own devising, 
 and then attempt to pass it current, like Dryden, 
 Racine, and the rest of those poetical coiners : he 
 only rubbed off the rust, purified and brightened 
 it, so that history herself has been known to 
 receive it back as sterling. 
 
CLEOPATRA. 303 
 
 Truth, wherever manifested, should be sacred : 
 so Shakspeare deemed, and laid no profane hand 
 upon her altars. But tragedy — majestic tragedy, 
 is worthy to stand before the sanctuary of 
 Truth, and to be the priestess of her oracles. 
 " Whatever in religion is holy and sublime, in 
 virtue amiable or grave, whatsoever hath passion 
 or admiration in all the changes of that which is 
 called fortune from without, or the wily subtleties 
 and refluxes of man's thought from within ; " * — 
 whatever is pitiful in the weakness, sublime in the 
 strength, or terrible in the perversion of human 
 intellect, these are the domain of Tragedy. Sibyl 
 and Muse at once, she holds aloft the book of 
 human fate, and is the interpreter of its mysteries. 
 It is not, then, making a mock of the serious 
 sorrows of real life, nor of those human beings 
 who lived, suffered and acted upon this earth, to 
 array them in her rich and stately robes, and pre- 
 sent them before us as powers evoked from dust 
 and darkness, to awaken the generous sympathies, 
 the terror or the pity of mankind. It does not add 
 to the pain, as far as tragedy is a source of emotion, 
 that the wrongs and sufferings represented, the 
 guilt of Lady Macbeth, the despair of Constance, 
 the arts of Cleopatra, and the distresses of Kath- 
 crine, had a real existence; but it adds infinitely to 
 the moral effl'ct, as a subject of contemplation and 
 a lesson of conduct, f 
 
 ♦Milton. 
 
 t '' That the treachery of King John, the death of Arthur, and 
 
304 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 I shall be able to illustrate these observations 
 more fully in the course of this section, in which 
 we will consider those characters which are drawn 
 from history ; and first, Cleopatra. 
 
 Of all Shakspeare's female characters, Miranda 
 and Cleopatra appear to me the most wonderful. 
 The first, unequalled as a poetic conception ; the 
 latter, miraculous as a work of art. If we could 
 make a regular classification of his characters, 
 these would form the two extremes of simplicity 
 and complexity ; and all his other characters would 
 be found to fill up some shade or gradation be- 
 tween these two. 
 
 Great crimes, springing from high passions, 
 grafted on high qualities, are the legitimate source 
 of tragic poetry. But to make the extreme of 
 littleness produce an efiect like grandeur — to make 
 the excess of frailty produce an efiect like power — 
 to heap up together all that is most unsubstantial, 
 frivolous, vain, contemptible, and variable, till the 
 worthlessness be lost in the magnitude, and a sense 
 of the sublime spring from the very elements of 
 littleness, — to do this, belonged only to Shakspeare 
 that worker of miracles. Cleopatra is a brilliant 
 antithesis, a compound of contradictions, of all that 
 
 the grief of Constance, had a real truth hi history, sharpens the 
 sense of pain, while it hangs a leaden weight on the heart and 
 the imagination. Something whispers us that we have no right 
 to make a mock of calamities like these, or to turn tlie truth of 
 things into the puppet and plaj'thing of our fancies."— See 
 Characters of Shakspeare's Plays.— To consider thus is not to 
 consider too deeply, but not deeply enough. 
 
CLEOPATRA. 305 
 
 we most hate, with what we most admire. The 
 whole character is the triumph of the external over 
 the innate ; and yet like one of her country's 
 hieroglyphics, though she present at first view a 
 splendid and perplexing anomaly, there is deep 
 meaning and wondrous skill in the apparent 
 enigma, when we come to analyze and decipher it. 
 But how are we to arrive at the solution of this 
 glorious riddle, whose dazzling complexity continu- 
 ally mocks and eludes us ? What is most astonish- 
 ing in the character of Cleopatra is its antithetical 
 construction — its consistent inconsistency , if I may 
 use such an expression — which renders it quite- 
 impossible to reduce it to any elementary prin- 
 ciples. It will, perhaps, be found on the whole, 
 that vanity and the love of power predominate ; 
 but I dare not say it is so, for these qualities and a 
 hundred others mingle into each other, and shift 
 and change, and glance away, like the colors in a 
 peacock's train. 
 
 In some others of Shakspeare's female char- 
 acters, also remarkable for their complexity, 
 (Portia and Juliet, for instance,) we are struck 
 with the delightful sense of harmony in the midst 
 of contrast, so that the idea of unity and simplicity 
 of effect is produced in the midst of variety ; but 
 in Cleopatra it is the absence of unity and sim- 
 plicity which strikes us ; the impression is that of 
 perpetual and irreconcilable contrast. The con- 
 tinual approximation of whatever is most opposite 
 in character, in situation, in sentiment, would be 
 20 
 
306 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 fatiguing, were it not so perfectly natural: the 
 woman herself would be distracting, if she were 
 not so enchanting. 
 
 I have not the slightest doubt that Shakspeare's 
 Cleopatra is the real historical Cleopatra — the 
 " Rare Egyptian " — individualized and placed be- 
 fore us. Her mental accomplishments, her une- 
 qualled grace, her woman's wit and woman's wiles, 
 her irresistible allurements, her starts of irregular 
 grandeur, her bursts of ungovernable temper, her 
 vivacity of ima.gination, her petulant caprice, her 
 fickleness and her falsehood, her tenderness and 
 her truth, her childish susceptibility to flattery, her 
 magnificent spirit, her royal pride, the gorgeous 
 eastern coloring of the character ; all these con- 
 tradictory elements has Shakspeare seized, mingled 
 them in their extremes, and fused them into one 
 brilliant impersonation of classical elegance, Orien- 
 tal voluptuousness, and gipsy sorcery. 
 
 What better proof can we have of the individual 
 truth of the character than the admission that 
 Shakspeare's Cleopatra produces exactly the same 
 effect on us that is recorded of the real Cleopatra ? 
 She dazzles our faculties, perplexes our judgment, 
 bewilders and bewitches our fancy ; from the be- 
 ginning to the end of the drama, we are conscious 
 of a kind of fascination against which our moral 
 sense rebels, but from which there is no escape. 
 The epithets applied to her perpetually by Antony 
 and others confirm this impression : " enchanting 
 queen ! " — " witch " — " spell " — " great fairy " — 
 
CLEOPATRA. 307 
 
 " cockatrice " — " serpent of old Nile " — " thou grave 
 charm ! " * are only a few of them ; and who does 
 not know by heart the famous quotations in which 
 tliis Egyptian Circe is described with all her infi- 
 nite seductions ? 
 
 Fie ! wrangling queen ! 
 Whom every thing becomes — to chide, to laugh, 
 To weep ; whose every passion fully strives 
 To make itself, in thee, fair and admired. 
 
 Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale 
 Her infinite variety : — 
 
 For vilest things 
 Become themselves in her. 
 
 And the pungent irony of Enobarbus has well ex- 
 posed her feminine arts, when he says, on the occa- 
 sion of Antony's intended departure, — 
 
 Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies in- 
 stantly : I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer 
 moment. 
 
 ANTONY. 
 
 She is cunning past man's thought. 
 
 ENOBARBUS. 
 
 Alack, sir, no ! her passions are made of nothing but 
 the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds 
 and waters, sighs and tears ; they are greater storms and 
 tempests than almanacs can report ; this cannot be cun- 
 
 * Grave, in the sense of mighty or potent. 
 
308 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 ning in her ; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well 
 as Jove. 
 
 The whole secret of her absolute dominion over 
 the facile Antony may be found in one little 
 speech : — 
 
 See where he is — who's with him — what he does — 
 (1 did not send you,) If you find him sad, 
 Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report 
 That I am sudden sick ! Quick ! and return. 
 
 CHAKMIAN. 
 
 Madam, methinks if you did love him dearly, 
 You do not hold the method to enforce 
 The hke from him. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 What should I do, I do not? 
 
 CHARMIAN. 
 
 In each thing give him way ; cross him in nothing. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Thou teachest like a fool: the way to lose him. 
 
 CHARMIAN. 
 
 Tempt him not too far. 
 
 But Cleopatra is a mistress of her art, and knows 
 better : and what a picture of her triumphant pet- 
 ulance, her imperious and imperial coquetry, is 
 given in her own words ! 
 
 That time— times ! 
 I laugh'dhim out of patience; and that night 
 
CLEOPATRA. 309 
 
 I laughed him into patience : and next mom, 
 Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed ; 
 Then put my tires and mantles on, whilst 
 I wore his sword, Philippan. 
 
 When Antony enters full of some serious pur- 
 pose which he is about to impart, the woman's per- 
 verseness, and the tyrannical waywardness with 
 which she taunts him and plays upon his temper, 
 arc admirably depicted. 
 
 I know, by that same eye, there's some good news. 
 What says the married woman ? * You may go; 
 Would she had never given you leave to come ! 
 Let her not say, 'tis I that keep you here ; 
 1 have no power upon you ; hers you are. 
 
 ANTONY. 
 
 The gods best know 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 0, never was there queen 
 So mightily betray' d ! Yet at the first, 
 I saw the treasons planted. 
 
 ANTONY. 
 
 Cleopatra ! 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Why should I think you can be mine, and true. 
 Though you in swearing shake the throned gods, 
 Who have been false to Fulvia ? Riotous madness, 
 To be entangled with those mouth-made vows. 
 Which break themselves in swearing ! 
 
 * Fulvia, the first vrife of Antony. 
 
310 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 ANTONY. 
 
 Most sweet queen ! ' 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Nay, pray you, seek no color for your going, 
 But bid farewell, and go. 
 
 She recovers lier dignity for a moment at the 
 news of Fulvia's death, as if roused by a blow : — 
 
 Though age from folly could not give me freedom, 
 It does from childishness. Can Fulvia die ? 
 
 And then follows the artful mockery with which 
 she tempts and provokes him, in order to discover 
 whether he regrets his wife. 
 
 most false love ! 
 Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill 
 With sorrowful water ? Now I see, I see 
 In Fulvia's death, how mine receiv'd shall be. 
 
 ANTONY. 
 
 Quarrel no more; but be prepared to know 
 The purposes I bear: which are, or cease. 
 As you shall give th' advice. Now, by the fire 
 That quickens Nilus' shrine, I go from hence 
 Thy soldier, servant, making peace or war, 
 As thou aflfectest. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Cut my lace, Charmian, come — 
 But let it be. I am quickly ill, and well, 
 So Antony loves. 
 
CLEOPATRA. 311 
 
 AKTONY. 
 
 My precious queen, forbear : 
 And give true evidence to his love which stands 
 An honorable trial. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 So Fulvia told me. 
 I pr'ythee turn aside, and weep for her: 
 Then bid adieu to me, and say, the tears 
 Belong to Egypt. Good now, play one scene 
 Of excellent dissembling; and let it look 
 Like perfect honor. 
 
 ANTONY. 
 
 You'll "heat my blood — no more ! 
 
 CLEOPATItA. 
 
 You can do better yet ; but this is meetly. 
 
 ANTONY. 
 
 Now, by my sword — 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 And target — still he mends : 
 But this is not the best. Look, pr'}i:hee, Charraian, 
 How this Herculean Roman does become 
 The carriage of his chafe ! 
 
 This is, indeed, most " excellent dissembling ; " 
 but when she has fooled and chafed the Herculean 
 Roman to the verge of danger, then comes that 
 return of tenderness which secures the power she 
 has tried to the utmost, and we have all the elegant, 
 the poetical Cleopatra in her beautiful farewell. 
 
 Forgive me ! 
 Since my becomings kill me when they do not 
 
312 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 Eye well to you. Yotir honor calls you hence, 
 
 Thei-efo-e be deaf to my unpitied folly, 
 
 And all the gods go with you ! Upon your sword 
 
 Sit laurell'd victory; and smooth success 
 
 Be strew'd before your feet! 
 
 Finer still are the workiiifrs of her variable mind 
 and lively imagination, after Antony's departure ; 
 her fond repining at his absence, her violent spirit, 
 her right royal wilfulness and impatience, as if it 
 were a wrong to her majesty, an insult to her 
 sceptre, that there should exist in her despite such 
 things as space and time ; and high treason to her 
 sovereign power, to dare to remember what she 
 chooses to forget. 
 
 Give me to drink mandragora, 
 
 That I might sleep out this great gap of time 
 
 My Antony is away. 
 
 Charmian! 
 Where think'st thou he is now ? Stands he, or sits he, 
 Or does he walk ? or is he on his horse V 
 happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony ! 
 Do bravely, horse ! for wot'st thou whom thou raov'st? 
 The demi- Atlas of this earth — the arm 
 And burgonet of men. He's speaking now. 
 Or murmuiing, Where's my serpent of old Nile? 
 For so he calls me. 
 
 Met'st thou my posts ? 
 
 ALEXAS. 
 
 Ay, madam, twenty several messengers : 
 Why do you send so thick ? 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Who's born that day 
 
CLEOPATKA. 313 
 
 When I forget to send to Antony, 
 Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian. 
 Welcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian, 
 Ever love Cassar so ? 
 
 CHARMIAN. 
 
 that brave Caesar! 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Be chok'd with such another emphasis ! 
 Say, the brave Antony. 
 
 CHARMIAN. 
 
 The valiant Coesar ! ; 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth, 
 If thou with Caesar paragon again 
 My man of men ! 
 
 CHARMIAN. 
 
 By your most gracious pardon, 
 I sing but after you. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 My salad days. 
 When I was green in judgment, cold in blood. 
 To say as I said then. But, come away — 
 Get me some ink and paper: he shall have every day 
 A several greeting, or I'll unpeople Egypt. 
 
 We learn from Plutarch, that it was a favorite 
 amusement with Antony and Cleopatra to ramble 
 through the streets at night, and bandy ribald 
 jests with the populace of Alexandria. From the 
 same authority, we know that they were accustomed 
 to live on the most familiar te^ms with their attend- 
 
314 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 ants and the companions of their revels. To these 
 traits we must add, that with all her violence, per- 
 vcrseness, egotism, and caprice, Cleopatra mingled 
 a capability for warm afFe(?tions and kindly feeling, 
 or rather what we should call in these days, a con- 
 stitutional good-nature ; and was lavishly generous 
 to her favorites and dependents. These charac- 
 teristics we find scattered through the play ; they 
 are not only faithfully rendered by Shakspeare, 
 but he has made the finest use of them in his de- 
 lineation of manners. Hence the occasional free- 
 dom of her women and her attendants, in the 
 midst of their fears and flatteries, becomes most 
 natural and consistent : hence, too, their devoted 
 attachment and fidelity, proved even in death. 
 But as illustrative of Cleopatra's disposition, per- 
 haps the finest and most characteristic scene in the 
 whole play, is that in which the messenger arrives 
 from Rome with the tidings of Antony's marriage 
 with Octavia. She perceives at once with quick- 
 ness that all is not well, and she hastens to antici- 
 pate the worst, that she may have the pleasure of 
 being disappointed. Pier impatience to knoAv what 
 she fears to learn, the vivacity with which she 
 gradually works herself up into a state of excite- 
 ment, and at length into fury, is wrought out with 
 a force of truth which makes us recoil. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Antony's dead! 
 If thou say so, villam, thou kill'st thy mistress. 
 
CLEOPATRA. 315 
 
 But well and free, 
 
 If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here 
 My bluest veins to kiss; a hand that kings 
 Have lipp'd, and trembled kissing. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 First, madam, he is well. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Why, there's more gold. But, sirrah, mark! we use 
 To say, the dead are well : bring it to that, 
 The gold I give thee wQl I melt, and pour 
 Down thy ill-uttering throat. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 Good madam, hear me. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Well, go to, I will. 
 But there's no goodness in thy face. If Antony 
 Be free and healthful, why so tart a favor 
 To trumpet such good tidings ? If not well, 
 Thou should'st come like a fury crown'd with snakes. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 Wil't please you hear me ? 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak'st; 
 Yet if thou say Antony lives, is well, 
 Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him, 
 I'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail 
 Rich pearls upon thee. 
 
 MESSENGER. • 
 
 Madam, he's well. 
 
316 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 WeU said. 
 
 , MESSENGKR. 
 
 And friends with Caesar. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Thou art an honest man. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 Ceesar and he are gi-eater friends than ever. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Make thee a fortune from me. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 But yet, madam — 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 I do not like hut yet — it does allay 
 
 The good preoedence. Fie upon but yet : 
 
 But yet is as a gaoler to bring forth 
 
 Some monstrous malefactor. Pr'ythee, friend, 
 
 Pour out thy pack of matter to mine ear, 
 
 The good and bad together. He's friends with Cjssar 
 
 In state of health, thou say'st; and thou say'st free. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 Free, madam ! No : 1 made no such report, 
 He's bound unto Octavia. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. , 
 
 For what good turn V 
 
 • MESSENGER. 
 
 Madamj he's married to Octavia. 
 
CLEOPATRA. 317 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 The most infectious pestilence upon thee ! 
 
 [Strikes him dovm. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 Good madam, patience. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 What say you? [Strikes Mm again. 
 
 Hence horrible villain ! or I'll spurn thine eyes 
 Like balls before me — I'll unhair thine head — 
 Thou shalt be whipp'd with wire, and stewed in brine, 
 Smarting in ling'ring pickle. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 Gracious madam ! 
 I, that do bring the news, made not the match. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Say 'tis not so, a province I will give thee. 
 
 And make thy fortunes proud : the blow thou hadst 
 
 Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage ; 
 
 And I will boot thee with what gift beside 
 
 Thy modesty can beg. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 He's married, madam. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Rogue, thou hast lived too long. [Draws a dagger. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 Nay then I'll run. 
 
 What mean you, madam? I have made no fault. 
 
 [Exit, 
 
 CIIARMTAN. 
 
 Good madam, keep yourself within yourself; 
 The man is mnocent, 
 
318 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt. 
 Melt Egypt into Nile ! and kindly creatures 
 Turn all to serpents ! Call the slave again; 
 Though I am mad, I will not bite him — Call ! 
 
 CHARMIAN. 
 
 He is afraid to come. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 I will not hurt him. 
 These hands do lack nobility, that they strike 
 A meaner than myself. 
 
 ***** 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 In praising Antony I have dispraised Csesar. 
 
 CHARMIAN. 
 
 Many times, madam. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 I am paid for't now — 
 Lead me from hence. 
 
 I faint. Iras, Charmian — 'tis no matter: 
 Go to the fellow, good Alexas ; bid him 
 Report the features of Octavia, her years. 
 Her inclination — let him not leave out 
 The color of her hair. Bring me word quickly. 
 
 [Exit Alex. 
 Let him forever go — let him not — Charmian, 
 Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon, 
 T'other way he's a Mars. Bid you Alexas 
 
 [7b Mardian. 
 Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmian, 
 But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber. 
 
CLEOPATRA. 319 
 
 I have given this scene entire because I know 
 nothing comparable to it. The pride and arro- 
 gance of the Egyptian queen, the blandishment of 
 the woman, the unexpected but natural transitions 
 of temper and feeling, the contest of various pas- 
 sions, and at length — when the wild hurricane has 
 spent its fury — the melting into tears, faintness, 
 and languishment, are portrayed with the most 
 astonishing power, and truth, and skill in feminine 
 nature. More wonderful still is the splendor and 
 force of coloring which is shed over this extraor- 
 dinary scene. The mere idea of an angry woman 
 beating her menial, presents something ridiculous 
 or disgusting to the mind ; in a queen or a tragedy 
 heroine it is still more indecorous ; * yet this scene 
 is as far as possible from the vulgar or the comic. 
 Cleopatra seems privileged to " touch the brink of 
 all we hate " with impunity. This imperial terma- 
 gant, this " wrangling queen, whom every thing 
 becomes," becomes even her fury. We know not 
 by what strange power it is, that in the midst of all 
 these unruly passions and childish caprices, the 
 poetry of the character, and the fanciful and spark- 
 ling grace of the delineation are sustained and still 
 rule in the imagination ; but we feel that it is so. 
 
 I need hardly observe, that we have historical 
 authority for the excessive violence of Cleopatra's 
 
 * The \rell-known violence and coarseness of Queen Elizabeth's 
 manners, in which she was imitated by the women about her, 
 ni;iy in Shakspcare-s time have rendered the image of a royal 
 virago less offensive and less extraordinary. 
 
- 320 HISTORICAL CHAlRACTERS. 
 
 temper. Witness the story of her boxing the ears 
 of her treasurer, in presence of Octavius, as related 
 by Plutarch. Shakspeare has made a fine use of 
 this anecdote also towards the conclusion of the 
 drama, but it is not equal in power to this scene 
 "with the messenger. 
 
 The man is afterwards brought back, almost by- 
 force, to satisfy Cleopatra's jealous anxiety, by a 
 description of Octavia : — but this time, made wise 
 by experience, he takes care to adapt his informa- 
 tion to the humors of his imperious mistress, and 
 gives her a satirical picture of her rival. The 
 scene which follows, in which Cleopatra — artful, 
 acute, and penetrating as she is — becomes the 
 dupe of her feminine spite and jealousy, nay, 
 assists in duping herself; and after having cuffed 
 the messenger for telling her truths which are 
 offensive, rewards him for the falsehood which flat- 
 ters her weakness — is not only an admirable exhi- 
 bition of character, but a fine moral lesson. 
 
 She concludes, after dismissing the messenger 
 with gold and thanks, 
 
 I repent me much 
 That I so harry' d him. Why, me thinks by him 
 This creature' s no such thing ? 
 
 CHARMIAN. 
 
 nothing, madam. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 The man hath seen some majesty, and should know ! 
 Do we not fancy Cleopatra drawing herself up 
 
CLEOPATRA. 821 
 
 with all the vain consciousness of rank and beauty 
 as she pronounces this last line ? and is not this the 
 very woman who celebrated her own apotheosis, — 
 who arrayed herself in the robe and diadem of the 
 goddess Isis, and could find no titles magnificent 
 enough for her children but those of the Sun and 
 the Moon ? 
 
 The despotism and insolence of her temper are 
 touched in some other places most admirably. 
 Thus, when she is told that the Romans Ubel and 
 abuse her, she exclaims, — 
 
 Sink Eome, and their tongues rot 
 That speak against us ! 
 
 And when one of her attendants observes, that 
 " Herod of Jewry dared not look upon her but 
 when she were well pleased," she immediately re- 
 plies, " That Herod's head I'll have." * 
 
 When Proculeius surprises her in her monu- 
 ment, and snatches her poniard from her, terror, 
 and fury, pride, passion, and disdain, swell in her 
 haughty soul, and seem to shake her very being. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Where art thou, death ? 
 Come hither, come! come, come and take a queen 
 Worth many babes and beggars ! 
 
 PROCULEIUS. 
 
 temperance, lady? 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Sir, I will eat no meat ; I'll not drink, sir : 
 
 • She was as good as her word. See the life of Antony in Plu- 
 tarch. 
 
 21 
 
822 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 If iclle talk will once be necessary. 
 
 I'll not sleep neither ; this mortal house I'll ruin, 
 
 Do Csesar what he can ! Know, sir, that I 
 
 Will not wait pinion'd at your mastei-'s court, 
 
 Nor once be chastis'd with the sober eye 
 
 Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up, 
 
 And show me to the shouting vai-letry 
 
 Of censuring Rome ? Rather a ditch in Egypt 
 
 Be gentle grave to me ! Rather on Nilus' mud 
 
 Lay me stark naked, and k . the water-flies 
 
 Blow me into abhorring! Rather make 
 
 My country's high pp-amids my gibbet, 
 
 And hang me up in chains ! 
 
 In the same spirit of royal bravado, but finer 
 still, and worked up with a truly Oriental exuber- 
 ance of fancy and imagery, is her famous descrip- 
 tion of Antony, addressed to Dolabella : — 
 
 Most noble empress you have heard of me ? 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 I cannot tell. 
 
 DOLABELLA. 
 
 Assuredly, you know me. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 No matter, sir, what I have heard or known. 
 
 You laugh when boys, or women, tell their dreams; 
 
 Is 't not your trick V 
 
 DOLABELLA. 
 
 I understand not, madam. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 I dream' d there was an emperor Antony; 
 such another sleep, that I might see 
 But such another man ! 
 
CLEOPATRA. 323 
 
 DOLABELLA. 
 
 If it might please you 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 His face was as the heavens ; and therein stuck 
 
 A sun and moon ; which kept their course, and lighted 
 
 The little 0, the earth. 
 
 DOLABELLA. 
 
 Most sovereign creature 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 His legs bestrid the ocean: his reared arm 
 
 Crested the world ; his voice was propertied 
 
 As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends ; 
 
 But when he meant to quail or shake the orb 
 
 He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty, 
 
 There was no winter in't; an autumn 'twas. 
 
 That grew the more by reaping. His delights 
 
 Were dolphin like; they show'd his back above 
 
 The element they liv'd in. In his livery * 
 
 Walk'd crowns and coronets; realms and islands were 
 
 As plates f di'opp'd from his pocket. 
 
 DOLABELLA 
 
 Cleopatra ! 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Think you there was, or might be, such a man 
 As this I dream'd of? 
 
 DOLABELLA. 
 
 Gentle madam, no. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 You lie, — up to the hearing of the gods ! 
 
 There was no room left in this amazing picture 
 * i. e. retinue. t i- e. silver coins, from the Spanish jiZafa. 
 
824 HISTORI(?AL CHARACTERS. 
 
 for the display of that passionate maternal tender- 
 ness, which was a strong and redeeming feature in 
 Cleopatra's historical character ; but it is not left 
 untouched ; for when she is imprecating mischiefs 
 on herself, she wishes, as the last and worst of pos- 
 sible evils, that " thunder may smite Caesarion ! " 
 
 In representing the mutual passion of Antony 
 and Cleopatra as real and fervent, Shakspeare has 
 adhered to the truth of history as well as to gen- 
 eral nature. On Antony's side it is a species of 
 infatuation, a single and engrossing feeling : it is, 
 in short, the love of a man declined in years for a 
 woman very much younger than himself, and who 
 has subjected him to every species of female en- 
 chantment. In Cleopatra the passion is of a mixed \ 
 nature, made up of real attachment, combined with ) 
 the love of pleasure, the love of power, and the 
 love of self. Not only is the character most com- 
 plicated, but no one sentiment could have existed 
 pure and unvarying in such a mind as hers ; her 
 passion in itself is true, fixed to one centre ; but 
 like the pennon streaming from the mast, it flutters 
 and veers with every breath of her variable tem- 
 per : yet in the midst of all her caprices, follies, 
 and even vices, womanly feeling is still predomi- 
 nant in Cleopatra : and the change which takes 
 place in her deportment towards Antony, when 
 their evil fortune darkens round them, is as beauti- 
 ful and interesting in itself as it is striking and 
 natural. Instead of the airy caprice and provok- 
 ing petulance she displays in the first scenes, we 
 
CLEOPATRA. 825 
 
 have a mixture of tenderness, and artifice, and 
 fear, and submissive blandishment. Her behavior, 
 for instance, after the battle of Actium, when she 
 quails before the noble and tender rebuke of her 
 lover, is partly female subtlety and partly natural 
 feeling. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 my lord, my lord, 
 Forgive my fearful sails ! I little thought 
 You would have follow' d. 
 
 ANTOXY. 
 
 Egypt, thou know'st too weU 
 My heart was to the rudder tied by the strings, 
 And thou should'st tow me after. O'er my spirit 
 Thy full supremacy thou know'st; and that 
 Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods 
 Command me. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 0, my pardon ? 
 
 ANTONY. 
 
 Now I must 
 To the young man send humble treaties, dodge 
 And palter in the shifts of lowness ; who 
 With half the bulk o' the world play'd as I pleas'd, 
 ^Making and man-ing fortunes. You did know 
 How much you were my conqueror ; and that 
 My sword, made weak by my affection, would 
 Obey it ou all cause. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 pardon, pardon! 
 
 ANTONY. 
 
 Fall not a tear, I say ; one of them rates 
 All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss ; 
 Even this repays me. 
 
826 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 It Is perfectly in keeping with the individual 
 character, that Cleopatra, alike destitute of moral 
 strength and physical courage, should cower terri- 
 fied and subdued before the masculine spirit of her 
 lover, when once she has fairly roused it. Thus 
 Tasso's Armida, half siren, half sorceress, in the 
 moment of strong feeling, forgets her incantations, 
 and has recourse to persuasion, to prayers, and to 
 
 tears. 
 
 Lascia gl' incanti, e vnol provar se vaga 
 E supplice belta sia miglior maga. 
 
 Though the poet afterwards gives us to under- 
 stand that even in this relinquishment of art there 
 was a more refined artifice. 
 
 Nella doglia amara 
 Gia tutte non oblia 1' arti e le frodi. 
 
 And something like this inspires the conduct of 
 Cleopatra towards Antony in his fallen fortunes. 
 The reader should refer to that fine scene, where 
 Antony surprises Thyreus kissing her hand, " that 
 kingly seal and plighter of high hearts," and rages 
 like a thousand hurricanes. 
 
 The character of Mark Antony, as delineated by 
 Shakspeare, reminds me of the Farnese Hercules. 
 There is an ostentatious display of power, an ex- 
 aggerated grandeur, a colossal effect in the whole 
 conception, sustained throughout in the pomp of 
 the language, which seems, as it floAvs along, to re- 
 sound with the clang of arms and the music of the 
 revel. The coarseness and violence of the historic 
 portrait are a little kept down; but Qverj word 
 
CLEOPATRA, 327 
 
 which Antony utters is characteristic of the arro- 
 gant but magnanimous Roman, who " with half the 
 bulk o' the world played as he pleased," and was 
 himself the sport of a host of mad (and bad) pas- 
 sions, and the slave of a woman. 
 
 History is followed closely in all the details of 
 the catastrophe, and there is something wonderfully 
 grand in the hurried march of events towards the 
 conclusion. As disasters hem her round, Cleopatra 
 gathers up her faculties to meet them, not with the 
 calm fortitude of a great soul, but the haughty, 
 tameless spirit of a wilful woman, unused to reverse 
 or contradiction. 
 
 Her speech, after Antony has expired in her 
 arms, I have always regarded as one of the most 
 wonderful in Shakspeare. Cleopatra is not a wo- 
 man to grieve silently. The contrast between the 
 violence of her passions and the weakness of her 
 sex, between her regal grandeur and her excess of 
 misery, her impetuous, unavailing struggles with 
 the fearful destiny which has compassed her, and 
 the mixture of wild impatience and pathos in her 
 agony, are really magnificent. She faints on the 
 body of Antony, and is recalled to life by the 
 cries of her women : — 
 
 IRAS. 
 
 Royal Egypt — empress ! 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Nc more, but e'en a woman! * and commanded 
 
 Cleopatra replies to the first word she hears on recovering her 
 senses, " No more an empress, but a mere woman ! " 
 
328 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 By such poor passion as the maid that milks, 
 
 And does the meanest chares. — It were for me 
 
 To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods : 
 
 To tell them that our world did equal theirs 
 
 Till they had stolen our jewel. All's but naught; 
 
 Patience is sottish, and impatience does 
 
 Become a dog that's mad. Then is it sin 
 
 To rush into the secret house of death 
 
 Ere death dare come to us ? How do you, women ? 
 
 What, what ? good cheer ! why how now, Charmian ? 
 
 My noble girls ! — ah, women, women ! look 
 
 Our lamp is spent, is out. 
 
 We'll bury him, and then what's brave, what's noble, 
 
 Let's do it after the high Roman fashion, 
 
 And make death proud to take us. 
 
 But although Cleopatra talks of dying " after the 
 high Roman fashion," she fears what she most de- 
 sires, and cannot perform with simplicity what 
 costs her such an effort. That extreme physical 
 cowardice, which was so strong a trait in her his- 
 torical character, which led to the defeat of Ac- 
 tium, which made her delay the execution of a 
 fatal resolve, till she had " tried conclusions infinite 
 of easy ways to die," Shakspeare has rendered 
 with the finest possible effect, and in a manner 
 which heightens instead of diminishing our respect 
 and interest. Timid by nature, she is courageous 
 by the mere force of will, and she lashes herself up 
 with high-sounding words into a kind of false dar- 
 ing. Her lively imagination suggests every incen- 
 tive which can spur her on to the deed she has 
 resolved, yet trembles to contemplate. She pic- 
 tures to herself all the degradations which must 
 
CLEOPATRA. 329 
 
 attend her captivity ; and let it be observed, that 
 those which she anticipates are precisely such as a 
 vain, luxurious, and haughty woman would espec- 
 ially dread, and which only true virtue and mag- 
 nanimity could despise. Cleopatra could have 
 endured the loss of freedom ; but to be led in tri- 
 umph through the streets of Rome is insufferable. 
 She could stoop to Cffisar with dissembling courtesy, 
 and meet duplicity with superior art ; but " to be 
 chastised " by the scornful or upbraiding glance of 
 the injured Octavia — " rather a ditch in Egypt!'* 
 
 If knife, drugs, serpents, have 
 Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe. 
 Your wife, Octavia, with her modest eyes. 
 And still conclusion,* shall acquu'e no honor 
 Demurring upon me.' 
 
 Now Iras, what think'st thou ? 
 Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shall be shown 
 In Rome as well as I. Mechanic slaves, 
 AVith greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall 
 Uplift us to the view. In their thick breaths, 
 Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded, 
 And forc'd to drink their vapor. 
 
 IRAS. 
 
 The gods forbid ! 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Nay, 'tis most certain, Iras. Saucy lictors 
 Will catch at us like stioimpets ; and scald rhymers 
 Ballad us out o' tune. The quick comedians 
 Extemporally will stage us, and present 
 
 • i. e. sedate determination. — Johnson. 
 
330 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 Our Alexandrian revels. Antony 
 
 Shall be brought drunken forth ; and I shall see 
 
 Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness. 
 
 She then calls for her diadem, her robes of state, 
 and attires herself as if " again for Cydnus, to 
 meet Mark Antony." Coquette to the last, she 
 must make Death proud to take her, and die, 
 " phoenix like," as she liad lived, with all the pomp 
 of preparation — ^luxurious in her despair. 
 
 The death of Lucretia, of Portia, of Arria, and 
 others who died " after the high Roman fashion," 
 is sublime according to the Pagan ideas of virtue, 
 and yet none of them so powerfully affect the im- 
 agination as the catastrophe of Cleopatra. The 
 idea of this frail, timid, wayward woman, dying 
 with heroism from the mere force of passion and 
 will, takes us by surprise. The Attic elegance of 
 her mind, her poetical imagination, the pride of 
 beauty and royalty predominating to the last, and 
 the sumptuous and picturesque accompaniments 
 with which she surrounds herself in death, carry to 
 its extreme height that effect of contrast which 
 prevails through her life and character. No arts, 
 no invention could add to the real circumstances 
 of Cleopatra's closing scene. Shakspeare has 
 shown profound judgment and feeling in adhering 
 closely to the classical authorities ; and to say that 
 the language and sentiments worthily fill up the 
 outline, is the most magnificent praise that can be 
 given. The magical play of fancy and the over- 
 powering fascination of the character are kept up 
 
CLEOPATRA. 331 
 
 to the last : and when Cleopatra, on applying the 
 asp, silences the lamentations of her women : — 
 
 Peace! peace! 
 Dost thou not see my baby at my breast, 
 That sucks the nurse to sleep ? — 
 
 These few words — the contrast between the tender 
 beauty of the image and the horror of the situa- 
 tion — produce an effect more intensely mournful 
 than all the ranting in the world. The generous 
 devotion of her women adds the moral charm 
 wliich alone was wanting: and when Octavius 
 hurries in too late to save his victim, and exclaims, 
 when gazing on her — 
 
 She looks like sleep — 
 As she woiald catch another Antony 
 In her strong toil of gi-ace, 
 
 the image of her beauty and her irresistible arts, 
 triumphant even in death, is at once brought 
 before us, and one masterly and comprehensive 
 stroke consummates this most wonderful, most daz- 
 zling delineation. 
 
 I am not here the apologist of Cleopatra's histor- 
 ical character, nor of such women as resemble her : 
 I am considering her merely as a dramatic portrait 
 of astonishing beauty, spirit, and originality. She 
 has furnished the subject of two Latin, sixteen 
 French, six English, and at least four Italian trag- 
 edies ; * yet Shakspeare alone has availed himself 
 
 * The Cleopatra of Jodelle was the first regular French trag- 
 edy : the last French tragedy on the same subject was the Cleo- 
 
832 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 of all the interest of the story, without falsifying 
 the character. He alone has dared to exhibit the 
 'Egyptian queen with all her greatness and all her 
 littleness — all her frailties of temper — all her 
 paltry arts and dissolute passions — yet preserved 
 the dramatic propriety and poetical coloring of the 
 character, and awakened our pity for fallen gran- 
 deur, without once beguiling us into sympathy with 
 guilt and error. Corneille has represented Cleo- 
 patra as a model of chaste propriety, magnanimity, 
 constancy, and every female virtue ; and the effect 
 is almost ludicrous. In our own language, we have 
 two very fine tragedies on the story of Cleopatra : 
 in that of Dryden, which is in truth a noble poem, 
 and which he himself considered his masterpiece, 
 Cleopatra is a mere commonplace " all-for-love " 
 heroine, full of constancy and fine sentiments. 
 For instance : — 
 
 My love's so true, 
 That I can neither hide it where it is, 
 Nor show it where it is npt. Nature meant me 
 A wife — a silly, harmless, household dove. 
 Fond without art, and kind without deceit. 
 But fortune, that has made a mistress of me. 
 Has thrust me out to the wild world, unfurnished 
 Of falsehood to be happy. 
 
 patre of Marmontel. For the representation of this tragedy, 
 Vaucanson, the celebrated French mechanist, invented an au- 
 tomaton asp, which crawled and hissed to the life, — to the great 
 delight of the Parisians. But it appears that neither Vatican- 
 sou's asp, nor Clairon, could save Cleopatre from a deserved fate. 
 Of the English tragedies, one was written by the Countess of 
 Pembroke, the sister of Sir Philip Sydney; and is, I believe, the 
 first instance in our language of original dramatic writing, by a 
 female. 
 
CLEOPATRA. 833 
 
 Is this Antony's Cleopatra — the Circe of the 
 Nile — the 'Venus of the Cydnus? She never 
 uttered any thing half so mawkish in her life. 
 
 In Fletcher's " False One," Cleopatra is repre- 
 sented at an earlier pez'iod of her histoiy : and to 
 give an idea of the aspect under which the charac- 
 ter is exhibited, (and it does not vary throughout 
 the play,) I shall give one scene ; if it be consid- 
 ered out of place, its extreme beauty wUl form its 
 best apology. 
 
 Ptolemy and his council having exhibited to 
 Ceesar all the royal treasures in Egypt, he is so 
 astonished and dazzled at the view of the accumu- 
 lated wealth, that he forgets the presence of Cleo- 
 patra, and treats her with negligence. The follow- 
 ing scene between her and her sister Arsinoe occurs 
 immediately afterwards. 
 
 AESINOE. 
 
 You're so impatient ! 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Have I not cause ? 
 Women of common beauties and low births, 
 Wlien they are slighted, are allowed their angers — 
 Why should not I, a princess, make him know 
 The baseness of his usage ? 
 
 AKSIXOE. 
 
 Yes, 'tis fit: 
 But then again you know what man 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 He's no man! 
 
334 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 The shadow of a greatness hangs upon him, 
 
 And not the virtue ; he is no conqueror, 
 
 Has suffered under the base dross of nature ; 
 
 Poorly deliver' d up his power to wealth. 
 
 The god of bed-rid men taught his eyes treason: 
 
 Against the truth of love he has rais'd rebellion — 
 
 Defied his holy flames. 
 
 EROS. 
 
 He will fall back again, 
 And satisfy your grace. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Had I been old. 
 Or blasted in my bud, he might have show'd 
 Some shadow of dislike : but to prefer 
 The lustre of a little trash, Arsinoe, 
 And the poor glow-worm light of some faint jewels 
 Before the light of love, and soul of beauty — 
 how it vexes me ! He is no soldier: 
 All honorable soldiers are Love's servants. 
 He is a merchant, a mere wandering merchant, 
 Servile to gain ; he trades for poor commodities, 
 And makes his conquests thefts ! Some fortunate cap- 
 tains 
 That quarter with him, and are truly valiant. 
 Have flung the name of " Happy Caesar " on him; 
 Himself ne'er won it. He's so base and covetous, 
 He'll sell his sword for gold. 
 
 ARSINOE. 
 
 This is too bitter. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 0, 1 could curse myself, that was so foolish. 
 
 So fondly childish, to believe his tongue — 
 
 His promising tongue — ere I could catch his temper. 
 
CLEOPATRA. 835 
 
 I'd trash enough to have cloyed his eyes withal, 
 
 (His covetous eye'',) such as I scorn to tread on, 
 
 Richer than e'er he saw yet, and moi-e tempting; 
 
 Had I known he'd stoop'd at that, I'd saved mine honor— 
 
 1 had been happy still ! But let him take it. 
 
 And let him brag how poorly I'm rewarded; 
 
 Let him go conquer still weak wretched ladies ; 
 
 Love has his angry quiver too, his deadly. 
 
 And when he finds scorn, ai-med at the strongest — 
 
 I am a fool to fret thus for a fool, — 
 
 An old blind fool too I I lose my health; I will not, 
 
 I wiU not cry ; I will not honor him 
 
 With tears diviner than the gods he worships ; 
 
 I wiU not take the pains to curse a poor thing. 
 
 EROS. 
 
 Do not ; you shall not need. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Would I were prisoner 
 To one I hate, that I might anger him ! 
 I will love any man to break the heart of him ! 
 Any that has the heart and will to kill him ! 
 
 ARStNOE. 
 
 Take some fair truce. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 I will go study mischief, 
 And put a look on, arm'd with all my cunnings. 
 ShaU meet him like a basilisk, and strike him. 
 Love ! put destroying flame into mine eyes. 
 Into my smiles deceits, that I may torture him — 
 That I may make him love to death, and laugh at hiral 
 Enter Apollodorus. 
 
 APOLLODORUS. 
 
 Caesar commends his service to your grace. 
 
836 HISTOEICAL CHARACTElla. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 His service ? What's his service '? 
 
 EROS. 
 
 Pray you be patient; 
 The noble Caesar loves still. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 What's his wiU? 
 
 APOLLODORUS. 
 
 He craves access unto your highness. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 No;— 
 Say no; I will have none to trouble me. 
 
 ARSINOE. 
 
 Good sister ! — 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 None, I say. 1 will be private. 
 Would thou hadst flung me into Nilus, keeper, 
 When first thou gav'st consent to bring my body 
 To this unthankful Caesar ! 
 
 APOLLODORUS. 
 
 'Twas your will, madam. 
 Nay more, your charge upon me, as I honor' d you. 
 You know what danger I endur'd. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Take this, (giving a Jewel,) 
 And carry it to that lordly Cresar sent thee ; 
 Therms a new love, a handsome one, a rich one, — 
 One that will hug his mind: bid him make love to it: 
 
 Tell the ambitious broker this will sufier 
 
 Enter Caesar. 
 
CLEOPATRA. 337 
 
 APOLLODORUS. 
 
 He enters. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 How! 
 
 CESAR. 
 
 I do not use to wait, lady ; 
 Where I am, all the doors are free and open. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 I guess so by your rudeness. 
 
 C^SAR. 
 
 You're not angry? 
 Things of your tender mould should be most gentle. 
 Why should you frown ? Good gods, what a set anger 
 Have you forc'd into your face ! Come, I must temper 
 
 you. 
 What a coy smile was there, and a disdainful ! 
 How like an ominous flash it broke out from you! 
 Defend me, love! Sweet, who has anger'd you? 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Show him a glass! That false face has betray' d me — 
 That base heart wrong' d me! 
 
 C^SAR. 
 
 Be more sweetly angry. 
 I wrong'd you, fair? 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Away with your foul flatteries ; 
 They are too gross ! But that I dare be angry, 
 And with aa great a god as Caesar is. 
 To show how poorly I respect his memory, 
 I would not speak to you. 
 22 
 
338 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 C^SAR. 
 Pray you, undo this riddle, 
 And tell me how I've vexed you. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Let me think first, 
 Whether I may put on patience 
 That will with honor siiffer me. Know I hate you ! 
 Let that begin the story. Now I'll tell you. 
 
 C^.SAR. 
 
 But do it mildly : in a noble lady, 
 Softness of spirit, and a sober nature, 
 That moves like summer winds, cool, and blows sweet- 
 ness, 
 Shows blessed, like herself. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 And that great blessedness. 
 You first reap'd of me; till you taught my nature, 
 Like a rude storm, to talk aloud and thunder. 
 Sleep was not gentler than my soul, and stiller. 
 You had the spring of my affections, 
 And my fair fruits I gave you leave to taste of; 
 You must expect the winter of mine anger. 
 You flung me off — before the court disgraced me — 
 When in the pride I appear' d of aU my beauty — 
 Appear'd your mistress; took unto your eyes 
 The common strumpet, love of hated lucre, — 
 Courted with covetous heart the slave of nature, — 
 Gave all your thoughts to gold, that men of glory, 
 And minds adorned with noble love, would kick at ! 
 Soldiers of royal mark scorn such base purchase ; 
 Beauty and honor are the marks they shoot at. 
 I spake to you then, I courted you, and woo'd you, 
 Called you dear Caesar, hung about you tenderly, 
 Was proud to appear your friend — 
 
CLEOPATRA. 339 
 
 CESAR. 
 
 You have mistaken me. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 But neither eye, nor favor, not a smile 
 
 Was I blessed back withal, but shook off rudely; 
 
 And as you had been sold to sordid infamy, 
 
 You fell before the images of treasui'e, 
 
 And in your soul you worship'd. I stood slighted, 
 
 Forgotten, and contemned ; my soft embraces, 
 
 And those sweet kisses which you called Elysium, 
 
 As letters writ in sand, no moi'e remember'd; 
 
 The name and glory of your Cleopatra 
 
 Laugh' d at, and made a story to your captains I 
 
 Shall I endure ? 
 
 CESAR. 
 
 You are deceived in all this ; 
 Upon my life you are; 'tis your much tenderness. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 No, no; I love not that way; you are cozen' d; 
 I love with as much ambition as a conqueror, 
 And where I love will triumph ! 
 
 CiESAR. 
 
 So you shall : 
 My heart shall be the chariot that shall bear you : 
 All I have won shall wait upon you. By the gods, 
 The bravery of this woman's mind has fir*d me! 
 Dear mistress, shall I but this once 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 How! Caesar! 
 Have I let slip a second vanity 
 That gives thee hope ? 
 
340 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 CiESAR. 
 
 You shall be absolute, 
 And reign alone as queen; you shall be any thing. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 ***** 
 Farewell, unthankful ! 
 
 CAESAR. 
 
 Stay! 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 I will not. 
 
 CAESAR. 
 
 I command. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Command, and go without, sir, 
 
 I do command thee be ray slave forever, 
 
 And vex, while I laugh at thee ! 
 
 C^SAR. 
 
 Thus low, beauty [lie hneels. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 It is too late ; when I have found thee absolute, 
 
 The man that fame reports thee, and to me. 
 
 May be I shall think better. Farewell, conqueror ! 
 
 (Exii.) 
 
 Now this is magnificent poetry, but this is not 
 Cleopatra, this is not " the gipsey queen." The sen- 
 timent here is too profound, the majesty too real, and 
 too lofty. Cleopatra could be great by fits and starts, 
 but never sustained her dignity upon so high a tone 
 for ten minutes together. The Cleopatra of Fletcher 
 reminds us of the antique colossal statue of her in 
 
OCTAVIA. 341 
 
 the Vatican, all grandeur and grace. Cleopatra In 
 Dry den's tragedy is like Guide's dying Cleopatra 
 in the Pitti Palace, tenderly beautiful. Shaks- 
 peare's Cleopatra is like one of those graceful and 
 fantastic pieces of antique Arabesque, in which all 
 anomalous shapes and impossible and wild com- 
 binations of form are woven together in regular 
 confusion and most harmonious discord : and such, 
 we have reason to believe, was the living woman 
 herself, when she existed upon this earth. 
 
 OCTAVIA. 
 
 I DO not understand the observation of a late 
 critic, that in this play " Octavia is only a dull foil 
 to Cleopatra." Cleopatra requires no foil, and 
 Octavia is not dull, though in a moment of jealous 
 spleen, her accomplished rival gives her that epi- 
 thet.* It is possible that her beautiful character, if 
 brought more forward and colored up to the his- 
 toric portrait, woulQ still be eclipsed by the dazzling 
 splendor of Cleopatra's ; for so I have seen a flight 
 of fireworks blot out for a while the silver moon 
 and ever-burning stars. But here the subject of 
 the drama being the love of Antony and Cleo- 
 
 * " The sober eye of dull Octavia."— Act v. scene 2. 
 
342 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 patra, Octavia is very properly kept in the back- 
 ground, and far from any competition with her 
 rival : the interest would otherwise have been 
 unpleasantly divided, or rather Cleopatra herself 
 must have served but as a foil to the tender, vir- 
 tuous, dignified, and generous Octavia, the very 
 beau ideal of a noble Roman lady : — 
 
 Admired Octavia, whose beauty claims 
 No worse a husband than the best of men; 
 Whose virtues and whose general graces speak 
 That which none else can utter. 
 
 Dryden has committed a great mistake in bring- 
 ing Octavia and her children on the scene, and in 
 immediate contact with Cleopatra. To have thus 
 violated the truth of history * might have been 
 excusable, but to sacrifice the truth of nature and 
 dramatic propriety, to produce a mere stage effect, 
 was unpardonable. In order to preserve the unity 
 of interest, he has falsified the character of Octavia 
 as well as that of Cleopatra : f he has presented us 
 
 * Octavia was never in Egypt. 
 
 t " The Octavia of Dryden is a much more important person- 
 age than in the Antony and Cleopatra of Shakspeare. She^ is, 
 however, more cold and unamiable, for in the very short scenes 
 in which the Octavia of Shakspeare is introduced, she is placed 
 in rather an interesting point of view. But Dryden has himself 
 informed us that he was apprehensive that the justice of a wife's 
 claim would draw the audience to her side, and lessen their 
 interest in the lover and the mistress. He seems accordingly to 
 have studiously lowered the character of the injured Octavia, 
 who, in her conduct to her husband, shows much duty and 
 little love." Sir W. Scott (in the same fine piece of criticism 
 prefixed to Dryden's All for Love) gives the preference to Shaks- 
 pcare's Cleopatra 
 
OCTAVIA. 343 
 
 with a regular scolding-match between the rivals, 
 in which they come sweeping up to each other 
 from opposite sides of the stage, with their respec- 
 tive trains, like two pea-hens in a passion. Shak- 
 speare would no more have brought his captivating, 
 brilliant, but meretricious Cleopatra into immediate 
 comparison with the noble and chaste simplicity of 
 Octavia, than a connoisseur in art would have 
 placed Canova's Dansatrice, beautiful as it is, 
 beside the Athenian Melpomene, or the Vestal of 
 the Capitol. 
 
 The character of Octavia is merely indicated In 
 a few touches, but every stroke tells. We see her 
 with " downcast eyes sedate and sweet, and looks 
 demure," — with her modest tenderness and digni- 
 fied submission — the very antipodes of her rival! 
 Nor should we forget that she has furnished one of 
 the most graceful similes in the whole compass of 
 poetiy, where her soft equanimity in the midst of 
 grief is compared to 
 
 The swan's down feather 
 That stands upon the swell at flood of tide. 
 And neither way inclines. 
 
 The fear which seems to haunt the mind of 
 Cleopatra, lest she should be "chastised by the 
 sober eye" of Octavia, is exceedingly characteristic 
 of the two women : it betrays the jealous pride of 
 her, who was conscious that she. had forfeited all 
 real claim to respect ; and it places Octavia before us 
 in all the majesty of that virtue which could strike a 
 
344 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 kind of envying and remorseful awe even into tho 
 bosom of Cleopatra. What would she have thought 
 and felt, had some soothsayer foretold to her th© 
 fate of her own children, whom she so tenderly 
 loved ? Captives, and exposed to the rage of the 
 Roman populace, they owed their existence to the 
 generous, admirable Octavia, in whose mind there 
 entered no particle of littleness. She received 
 into her house the children of Antony and Cleo- 
 patra, educated them with her own, treated them 
 with truly maternal tenderness, and married them 
 nobly. 
 
 Lastly, to complete the contrast, the death of 
 Octavia should be put in comparison with that of 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 After spending several years in dignified retire- 
 ment, respected as the sister of Augustus, but more 
 for her own virtues, Octavia lost her eldest son 
 Marcellus, who was expressively called the " Hope 
 of Rome." Her fortitude gave way under this 
 blow, and she fell into a deep melancholy, which 
 gradually wasted her health. While she was thus 
 declining into death, occurred that beautiful scene, 
 which has never yet, I believe, been made the 
 subject of a picture, but should certainly be added 
 to my gallery, (if I had one,) and I would hang it 
 opposite to the dying Cleopatra. Virgil was com- 
 manded by Augustus to read aloud to his sister, 
 that book of the Eneid in which he had commemo- 
 rated the virtues and early death of the young 
 Marcellus. When he came to the lines — 
 
VOLUMNIA. 345 
 
 This youth, the blissful vision of a day, 
 
 Shall just be shown on earth, then snatch' d away, &c. 
 
 the mother covered her face, and burst into tears. 
 But when Virgil mentioned her son by name, 
 (" Tu Marcellus eris,") which he had artfully de- 
 ferred till the concluding lines, Octavia, unable to 
 control her agitation, fainted away. She afterwards, 
 with a magnificent spirit, ordered the poet a gra- 
 tuity of ten thousand sesterces for each line of the 
 panegyric* It is probable that the agitation she 
 suffered on this occasion hastened the effects of her 
 disorder; for she died soon after, (of grief, says 
 the historian,) having survived Antony about 
 twenty years. 
 
 YOLUMNIA. 
 
 Octavia, however, is only a beautiful sketch, 
 while in Volumnia, Shakspeare has given us the 
 portrait of a Roman matron, conceived in the true 
 antique spirit, and finished in every part. Although 
 Coriolanus is the hero of the play, yet much of the 
 interest of the action and the final catastrophe 
 turn upon the character of his mother, Volumnia, 
 and the power she exercised over his mind, by 
 which, according to the story, "she saved Rome 
 
 * In all, about two thousand pounds. 
 
346 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 and lost her son." Her lofty patriotism, her patri- 
 cian haughtiness, her maternal pride, her eloquence, 
 and her towering spirit, are exhibited with the 
 utmost power of effect ; yet the truth of female 
 nature is beautifully preserved, and the portrait, 
 with all its vigor, is without harshness. 
 
 I shall begin by illustrating the relative position 
 and feelings of the mother and son ; as these are 
 of the greatest importance in the action of the 
 drama, and consequently most prominent in the 
 characters. Though Volumnia is a Roman matron, 
 and though her country owes its salvation to her, 
 it is clear that her maternal pride and affection are 
 stronger even than her patriotism. Thus when 
 her son is exiled, she burst into an imprecation 
 against Rome and its citizens : — 
 
 Now the red pestilence strikes all trades in Eome, 
 And occupations perish ! 
 
 Here we have the impulses of individual and 
 feminine nature, overpowering all national and 
 habitual influences. Volumnia would never have 
 exclaimed hke the Spartan mother, of her dead 
 son, " Sparta has many others as brave as he ; " 
 but in a far different spirit she says to the Romans, — 
 
 Ere you go, hear this ; 
 As far as doth the Capitol exceed 
 The meanest house in Rome, so far my son. 
 Whom you have banished, does exceed you all. 
 
 In the very first scene, and before the intro- 
 duction of the principal personages, one citizen 
 
VOLUMNIA. 347 
 
 observes to another that the military exploits of 
 Marcius were performed, not so much for his 
 country's sake " as to please his mother." By this 
 admirable stroke of art, introduced with such sim- 
 plicity of effect, our attention is aroused, and we 
 are prepared in the very outset of the piece for 
 the important part assigned to Yolumnia, and for 
 her share in producing the catastrophe. 
 
 In the first act we have a very graceful scene, 
 in which the two Roman ladies, the wife and mother 
 of Coriolanus, are discovered at their needle-work, 
 conversing on his absence and danger, and are 
 visited by Valeria : — 
 
 The noble sisters of Publicola, 
 The moon of Eome ; chaste as the icicle. 
 That's curded by the frost from purest snow, 
 And hangs on Dian's temple! 
 
 Over this little scene Shakspeare, without any 
 display of learning, has breathed the very spirit 
 of classical antiquity. The haughty temper of 
 Volumnia, her admiration of the valor and high 
 bearing of her son, and her proud but unselfish 
 love for him, are finely contrasted with the modest 
 sweetness, he conjugal tenderness, and the fond 
 solicitude of his wife Virgilia. 
 
 VOLUMNIA. 
 
 When yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son 
 of my womb ; when youth with comeliness pkick'd all 
 gaze his way; when, for a day of king's entreaties, a 
 mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding; 
 I, — considering how honor would become such a person ; 
 
348 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 that it was no better than picture-like to hang by the 
 wall, if renown made it not stir, — was pleased to let him 
 seek danger where he was like to find fame. To a cruel 
 war I sent him, from whence he returned, his brows bound 
 with oak. 1 tell thee, daughter — 1 sprang not more in joy 
 at first hearing he was a man-child, than now in first see- 
 ing he had proved himself a man. 
 
 YIRGILIA. 
 
 But had he died in the business, madam? how then? 
 
 VOLUMNIA. 
 
 Then his good report should have been my son ; I therein 
 would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely : had 
 I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear 
 than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather eleven dio 
 nobly for their country, than one voluptuously surfeit out 
 of action. 
 
 Enter a Gentlewojian. 
 
 Madam, the lady Valeria is come to visit you. 
 
 VIRGILIA. 
 
 Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself. 
 
 VOLUMNIA. 
 
 Indeed you shall not. 
 
 Methinks I hear hither your husband's drum: 
 
 See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair : 
 
 As children from a bear, the Voices shunning him; 
 
 Methinks I see him stamp thus, and caU thus — 
 
 " Come on, you cowards ! you were got in fear, 
 
 Though you wei-e born in Kome." His bloody brow 
 
 With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes; 
 
 Like to a harvest-man, that's task'd to mow 
 
 Or all, or lose his hire. 
 
 VIRGILIA. 
 
 His bloody brow ! Jupiter, no blood I 
 
VOLUMNIA. 349 
 
 VOLUMNIA. 
 
 Away, you fool ! it more becomes a man 
 
 Than gilt his trophy. The breast of Hecuba, 
 
 When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier 
 
 Than Hector's forehead, when it spit forth blood 
 
 At Grecian swords contending. Tell Valeria 
 
 We are fit to bid her welcome. [£xit Gent. 
 
 VIRGILTA. 
 
 Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius ! 
 
 VOLUMNIA. 
 
 He'U beat Aufidius's head below his knee. 
 And tread upon his neck. 
 
 This distinction between the two females is as 
 interesting and beautiful as it is well sustained. 
 Thus when the victory of Coriolanus is proclaimed, 
 Menenius asks, " Is he wounded ? " 
 
 VIRGILIA. 
 
 no, no, no ! 
 
 VOLUMNIA. 
 
 Yes, he is wounded — I thank the gods for it ! 
 
 And when lie returns victorious from the wars, liis 
 high-spirited mother receives him with blessings 
 and applause — his gentle wife with " gracious 
 silence " and with tears. 
 
 The resemblance of temper in the mother and 
 the son, modified as it is by the difference of sex, 
 and by her greater age and experience, is exhibited 
 with admirable truth. Volumnia, with all her pride 
 and spirit, has some prudence and self-command ; 
 in her language and deportment all is matured and 
 
350 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 matronly. The dignified tone of authority she 
 assumes towards her son, when checking his head- 
 long impetuosity, her respect and admiration for 
 his noble qualities, and her strong sympathy even 
 with the feelings she combats, are all displayed in 
 the scene in which she prevails on him to soothe 
 the incensed plebeians. 
 
 VOLUMNIA. 
 
 Pray be counsell'd: 
 I have a heart as little apt as yours. 
 But yet a brain that leads my use of anger 
 To better vantage. 
 
 MENENIUS. 
 
 Well said, noble woman : 
 Before he should thus stoop to the herd, but that 
 The violent fit o' the time craves it as physic 
 For the whole state, I would put mine armour on, 
 Which I can scarcely bear. 
 
 COEIOLANUS. 
 
 What must I do? 
 
 MENENIUS. 
 
 Keturn to the tribunes. 
 
 COEIOLANUS. 
 
 WeU. 
 What then? what then? 
 
 MENENIUS. 
 
 Repent what you have spoke. 
 
 CORIOLANUS. 
 
 For them ? I cannot do it to the gods : 
 Must I then do't to them? 
 
VOLUMNIA. 351 
 
 VOLUMNIA. 
 
 You are too absolute; 
 Though therein you can never be too noble, 
 But when extremities speak. 
 
 I pr'ythee now, my son, 
 Go to them with this bonnet in thy hand ; 
 And thus far having stretch'd it, (here be Avith them,) 
 Thy knee bussing the stones, (for in such business 
 Action is eloquent, and the eyes of the ignorant 
 More leai-ned than the ears,) waving thy head, 
 Which often, thus, correcting thy stout heart. 
 Now humble, as the ripest mulberry, 
 That will not hold the handling. Or, say to them, 
 Thou art their soldier, and being bred in broils 
 Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess, 
 Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim. 
 In asking their good loves ; but thou wilt frame 
 Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far 
 As thou hast power and person. 
 
 MEXEXIUS. 
 
 This but done. 
 Even as she speaks, why all their hearts were yours ; 
 For they have pardons, being asked, as free 
 As words to little purpose. 
 
 VOLUMNIA. 
 
 Pr'ythee now. 
 Go, and be rul'd: although I know thou hadst rather 
 Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf 
 Than flatter him in a bower. 
 
 MENENIUS. 
 
 Only fair speech. 
 
 COMINIUS. 
 
 I think 'twill serve, if he 
 Can thereto frame his spirit. 
 
352 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 VOLUMKIA. 
 
 He must, and will : 
 Pr'ythee, now say you will, and go about it. 
 
 CORIOLANUS. 
 
 Must I go show tliem my unbarb'd sconce ? Must I 
 With my base tongue give to my noble heart 
 A lie, that it must bear? Well, I will do't; 
 Yet were there but this single plot to lose, 
 This mould of Marcius, they to dust should gi-ind it, 
 And throw it against the wind. To the market-place ! 
 You have put me now to such a part, which never 
 I shall discharge to the life. 
 
 VOLUMNIA. 
 
 I pr'ythee now, sweet son, as thou hast said, 
 My praises made thee first a soldier, so 
 To have my praise for this, perform a part 
 Thou hast not done before. 
 
 CORIOLAXUS. 
 
 Well, I must do't: 
 Away, my disposition, and possess me 
 Some harlot's spirit! 
 
 ***** 
 I will not do't: 
 Lest I surcease to honor mine own truth, 
 And by my body's action, teach my mind 
 A most inherent baseness. 
 
 VOLUM^^A. 
 
 At thy choice, then: 
 To beg of thee, it is my more dishonor. 
 Than thou of them. Come all to ruin: let 
 Thy mother rather feel thy pride, than fear 
 Thy dangerous stoutness : for I mock at death 
 With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list — 
 
VOLUMNIA. 353 
 
 Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me; 
 But owe tby pride thyself. 
 
 CORIOLANUS. 
 
 Pray be content ; 
 I^Iothcr, I am going to the mai'ket place — 
 Chide me no more. 
 
 When the spirit of the mother and the son are 
 brought into immediate collision, he yields before 
 her; the Avarrior who stemmed alone the whole 
 city of Corioli, who was ready to face " the steep 
 Tarpeian death, or at wild horses' heels, — vagabond 
 exile — flaying," rather than abate one jot of his 
 proud will — shrinks at her rebuke. The haughty, 
 fiery, overbearing temperament of Coriolanus, is 
 drawn in such forcible and striking colors, that 
 not! ling can more impress us with the real grandeui 
 and power of Volumnla's character, tlian his bound- 
 less submission to her will — his more than filial 
 tenderness and respect. 
 
 You gods ! I prate, 
 And the most noble mother of the world 
 Leave unsaluted. Sink my knee i' the earth — 
 Of thy deep duty more impression show 
 Than that of common sous ! 
 
 When his mother appears before him as a sup- 
 pliant, he exclaims, — 
 
 My mother bows ; 
 
 As if Olympus to a molehill should 
 
 In supplication nod. 
 
 23 
 
854 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 Here the expression of reverence, and tlie magnif- 
 icent image in which it is clothed, are equally 
 characteristic both of the mother and the son. 
 
 Her aristocratic haughtiness is a strong trait in 
 Yolumnia's manner and character, and her supreme 
 contempt for the plebeians, whether they are to be 
 defied or cajoled, is very like what I have heard 
 expressed by some high-born and high-bred women 
 of our own day. 
 
 I muse my mother 
 Does not approve me further, who was wont 
 To call them woollen vassals ; things created 
 To buy aud sell with gi'oats ; to show bare heads 
 In congregations ; to yawn, be still, and wonder 
 When one but of my ordinance stood up 
 To speak of peace or war. 
 
 And Volumnia reproaching the tribunes, — 
 
 'Twas you incensed the rabble — 
 Cats, that can judge as fitly of his worth, 
 As I can of those mysteries which Heaven 
 Will not have earth to know. 
 
 There is all the Roman spirit in her exultation 
 when the trumpets sound the return of Coriolanus. 
 
 Hark ! the trumpets ! 
 These are the ushers of Marcius : before him 
 He carries noise, aud behind him he leaves tears. 
 
 And in her speech to the gentle Virgilia, who is 
 weeping her husband's banishment — 
 
 Leave this faint puling ! and lament as I do, 
 In anger — Juno-like ! 
 
VOLUMJflA. 855 
 
 But the triumph of Volumnia's character, the full 
 display of all her grandeur of soul, her patriotism, 
 her strong affections, and her sublime eloquence, 
 are reserved for her last scene, in which she pleads 
 for the safety of Rome, and wins from her angry 
 son that peace which all the swords of Italy and 
 her confederate arms could not have purchased. 
 The strict and even literal adherence to the truth 
 of history is an additional beauty. 
 
 Her famous speech, beginning " Should we be 
 silent and not speak," is nearly word for word from 
 Plutarch, with some additional graces of expression, 
 and the charm of metre superadded. I shall give 
 the last lines of this address, as illustrating that 
 noble and irresistible eloquence which was the 
 crowning ornament of the character. One ex- 
 quisite touch of nature, which is distinguished by 
 italics, was beyond the rhetorician and historian, 
 and belongs only to the poet. 
 
 Speak to me, son ; 
 Thou hast affected the fine strains of honor, 
 To imitate the graces of the gods ; 
 To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' the air. 
 And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt 
 That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak ? 
 Think' st thou it honorable for a nobleman 
 Still to remember wrongs? Daughtei", speak you: 
 He cares not for yoxu* weeping. Speak thou, boy; 
 Perhaps thy childishness may move him move 
 Than can our reasons. There is no man in the Avorld 
 Llore bound to his mother; yet here he lets me prate 
 Like one i' the stocks. Thou hast never in thy life 
 Show'd thy dear mother any courtesy; 
 
356 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 WJien she, (poor hen .') fond of no second brood, 
 Has duch^d thee to Oie tvars, and safely home, 
 Laden with honor. Say my request's unjust, 
 And spurn me back: but, if it be not so, 
 Thou art not honest, and the gods will plague thee 
 That thou restrain'st from me the duty which 
 To a mother's part belongs. He turns away: 
 Down, ladies : let us shame him with our knees. 
 To his surname Coriolanus 'longs more pride, 
 Than pity to our prayers ; down, and end ; 
 This is the last ; so will we home to Eome, 
 And die among our neighbors. Nay, behold us ; 
 This boy, that cannot tell what he would have, 
 But kneels, and holds iip hands, for fellowship, 
 Does reason our petition with more strength 
 Than thou hast to deny't.* 
 
 * The corresponding passage in the old English Plutarch runs 
 thus: "My son, why dost thou not answer me? Dost thou 
 think it good altogether to give place unto thy choler and re- 
 venge, and thihkest thou it not honesty for thee to grant thy 
 mother's request in so weighty a cause? Dost thou take it 
 honorable for a nobleman to remember the wrongs and injuries 
 done him, and dost not in like case think it an honest noble- 
 man's part to be thankful for the goodness that parents do show 
 to their children, acknowledging the duty and reverence they 
 ought to bear unto them? No man living is more bound to 
 show himself thankful in all parts and respects than thyself, who 
 so universally showest all ingratitude. Moreover, my son, thou 
 hast sorely taken of thy country, exacting grievous payments 
 upon them in revenge of the injuries offered thee; besides, thou 
 hast not hitherto showed thy poor mother any courtesy. And, 
 therefore, it is not only honest, but due unto me, that without 
 compulsion I should obtain my so just and reasonable request 
 of thee. But since by reason I cannot persuade ye to it, to what 
 purpose do I defer my last hope? " And with theee words, her- 
 self, his wife, and childi-en, feU down upon their knees before 
 him. 
 
CONSTANCE. 857 
 
 It is an instance of Shakspcare's fine judgment, 
 that after this magnificent and touching piece of 
 eloquence, which saved Rome, Vohunuia should 
 speak no more, for she could say nothing that 
 would not deteriorate from the effect thus left on 
 the imagination. She is at last dismissed from our 
 admiring gaze amid the thunder of grateful accla- 
 mations — 
 
 Behold, our patroness, — the life of Rome. 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 We have seen that in the mother of Coriolanus, 
 the principal qualities are exceeding pride, self- 
 will, strong maternal affection, great power of 
 imagination, and energy of temper. Precisely the 
 same qualities enter into the mind of Constance of 
 Bretagne : but in her these qualities are so dif- 
 ferently modified by circumstances and education, 
 that not even in fancy do we think of instituting a 
 comparison between the Gothic grandeur of Con- 
 stance, and the more severe and classical dignity 
 of the Roman matron. 
 
 The scenes and circumstances with which Shak- 
 speare has surrounded Constance, are strictly faith- 
 ful to the old chronicles, and are as vividly as they 
 are accurately represented. On the other hand, 
 the hints on which the character has been con- 
 
858 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 structed, are few and vague ; but the portrait 
 harmonizes so wonderfully with its historic back- 
 ground, and with all that later researches have dis- 
 covered relative to the personal adventures of 
 Constance, that I have not the slightest doubt of 
 its individual truth. The result of a life of strange 
 vicissitude ; the picture of a tameless will, and high 
 passions, forever struggling in vain against a supe- 
 rior power : and the real situation of women in 
 those chivalrous times, are placed before us in a 
 few noble scenes. The manner in which Shak- 
 speare has applied the scattered hints of history to 
 the formation of the character, reminds us of that 
 magician who collected the mangled hmbs which 
 had been dispersed up and down, reunited them 
 into the human form, and reanimated them with 
 the breathing and conscious spirit of life. 
 
 Constance of Bretagne was the only daughter 
 and heiress of Conan IV., Duke of Bretagne ; her 
 mother was Margaret of Scotland, the eldest 
 daughter of Malcolm IV. : but little mention is 
 made of this princess in the old histories ; but she 
 appears to have inherited some portion of the talent 
 and spirit of her father, and to have transmitted 
 them to her daughter. The misfortunes of Con- 
 stance may be said to have commenced before her 
 birth, and took their rise in the misconduct of one 
 of her female ancestors. Her great-grandmother 
 Matilda, the wife of Conan III., was distinguished 
 by her beauty and imperious temper, and not less 
 by her gallantries. Her husband, not thinking 
 
CONSTANCE. 359 
 
 proper to repudiate her during his lifetime, con- 
 tented himself with disinheriting her son Hoel, 
 whom he declared illegitimate ; and bequeathed his 
 dukedom to his daughter Bertha, and her husband 
 Allan the Black, Earl of Richmond, who were pro- 
 claimed and acknowledged Duke and Duchess of 
 Bretagne. 
 
 Prince Hoel, so far from acquiescing in his 
 father's will, immediately levied an army to main- 
 tain his rights, and a civil war ensued between the 
 brother and sister, which lasted for twelve or four- 
 teen years. Bertha, whose reputation was not 
 much fairer than that of her mother Matilda, was 
 succeeded by her son Conan IV. ; he was young, 
 and of a feeble, vacillating temper, and after strug- 
 gling for a few years against the increasing power 
 of his uncle Hoel, and his own rebellious barons, 
 he called in the aid of that politic and ambitious 
 monarch, Henry II. of England. This fatal step 
 decided the fate of his crown and his posterity ; 
 from the moment the English set foot in Bretagne, 
 that misei'able country became a scene of horrors 
 and crimes — oppression and perfidy on the one 
 hand, unavailing struggles on the other. Ten 
 years of civil discord ensued, during which the 
 greatest part of Bretagne was desolated, and nearly 
 a third of the population carried off by famine and 
 pestilence. In the end, Conan was secured in the 
 possession of his throne by the assistance of the 
 English king, who, equally subtle and ambitious, 
 contrived in the course of this warfare to strip 
 
860 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 Conan of most of his provinces by successive 
 treaties; alienate the Breton nobles from their 
 lawful sovereign, and at length render the Duke 
 himself the mere vassal of his power. 
 
 In the midst of these scenes of turbulence and 
 bloodshed was Constance born, in the year 1164. 
 The English king consummated his perfidious 
 scheme of policy, by seizing on the person of the 
 infant princess, before she was three years old, as 
 a hostage for her father. Afterwards, by contract- 
 ing- her in marriage to his third son, Geoffrey 
 Plantagenet, he ensured, as he thought, the posses- 
 sion of the duchy of Bretagne to his own posterity. 
 
 From this time we hear no more of the weak, 
 unhappy Conan, who, retiring from a fruitless con- 
 test, hid himself in some obscure retreat : even the 
 date of his death is unknown. Meanwhile Henry 
 openly claimed the duchy in behalf of his son 
 GeoiTrey and the Lady Constance ; and their 
 claims not being immediately acknowledged, he 
 invaded Bretagne with a large army, laid waste 
 the country, bribed or forced some of the barons 
 into submission, murdered or imprisoned others, 
 and, by the most treacherous and barbarous policy, 
 contrived to keep possession of the country he had 
 thus seized. However, in order to satisfy the 
 Bretons, who were attached to the race of their 
 ancient sovereigns, and to give some color to his 
 usurpation, he caused Geoffrey and Constance to 
 be solemnly crowned at Rennes, as Duke and 
 Duchess of Bretagne. This was in the year 1169, 
 
CONSTANCE. 861 
 
 ■when Constance was five, and Prince Geoffrey 
 about eight, years old. His father, Henry, con- 
 tinued to rule, or rather to ravage and oppress, the 
 country in their name for about fourteen years, 
 during which period we do not hear of Constance. 
 She appears to have been kept in a species of con- 
 straint as a hostage rather than a sovereign ; while 
 her husband Geoffrey, as he grew up to manhood, 
 was too much engaged in keeping the Bretons in 
 order, and disputing his rights with his father, to 
 think about the completion of his union with Con- 
 stance, although his sole title to the dukedom was 
 properly and legally in right of his wife. At 
 length, in 1182, the nuptials were formally cele- 
 brated, Constance being then in her nineteenth 
 year. At the same time, she was recognized as 
 Duchess of Bretagne de son clief^ (that is, in her 
 own right,) by two acts of legislation, which are 
 still preserved among the records of Bretagne, and 
 bear her own seal and signature. 
 
 Those domestic feuds which embittered the 
 whole life of Henry H., and at length broke his 
 heart, are well known. Of all his sons, who were 
 in continual rebellion against him, Geoffrey was 
 the most undutiful, and the most formidable : he 
 had all the pride of the Plantagenets, — all the war- 
 like accomplishments of his two elder brothers, 
 Henry and Richard ; and was the only one who 
 could compete with his father in talent, eloquence, 
 and dissimulation. No sooner was he the husband 
 of Constance, and in possession of the throne of 
 
862 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 Bretagne, than he openly opposed his father ; in 
 other words, he maintained the honor and interests 
 of his wife and her unhappy country against the 
 cruelties and oppression of the English plunderers.* 
 About three years after his maiTiage, he was in- 
 vited to Paris for the purpose of concluding a 
 league, offensive and defensive, with the French 
 king : in this journey he was accompanied by the 
 Duchess Constance, and they were received and 
 entertained with royal magnificence. Geoffrey, 
 who excelled in all chivalrous accomplishments, 
 distinguished himself in the tournaments which 
 were celebrated on the occasion ; but unfortunately, 
 after an encounter with a French knight, cele- 
 brated for his prowess, he was accidentally flung 
 from his horse, and trampled to death in the lists 
 before he could be extricated. 
 
 Constance, being now left a widow, returned to 
 Bretagne, where her barons rallied round her, and 
 acknowledged her as their sovereign. The Salique 
 law did not prevail in Bretagne, and it appears that 
 in those times the power of a female to possess and 
 transmit the rights of sovereignty had been recog- 
 nized in several instances ; but Constance is the 
 first woman who exercised those rights in her own 
 person. She had one daughter, Elinor, born in 
 the second year of her marriage, and a few months 
 after her husband's death she gave birth to a son. 
 The States of Bretagne were filled with exultation ; 
 they required that the infant prince should not bear 
 * Vide Daru, Histoire de Bretagne. 
 
CONSTAXCE. 863 
 
 the name of his father, — a name which Constance, 
 in fond remembrance of her husband, would have 
 bestowed on him — still less that of his grandfather 
 Henry ; but that of Arthur, the redoubted hero of 
 their country, whose memory was worshipped by 
 the populace. Though the Arthur of romantic 
 and fairy legends — the Arthur of the round table, 
 had been dead for six centuries, they still looked 
 for his second appearance among them, according 
 to the prophecy of Merlin ; and now, with fond 
 and short-sighted enthusiasm, fixed their hopes on 
 the young Arthur as one destined to redeem the 
 glory and independence of their oppressed and 
 miserable country. But in the very midst of the 
 rejoicings which succeeded the birth of the prince, 
 his grandfather, Henry II., demanded to have the 
 possession and guardianship of his person ; and on 
 the spirited refusal of Constance to yield her son 
 into his power, he invaded Bretagne with a large 
 army, plundering, burning, devastating the country 
 as he advanced. He seized Rennes, the capital, and 
 having by the basest treachery obtained possession 
 of the persons both of the young duchess and her 
 children, he married Constance forcibly to one of 
 his own favorite adherents, Randal de Blondeville, 
 Earl of Chester, and conferred on him the duchy 
 of Bretagne, to be held as a fief of the English 
 crown. 
 
 The Earl of Chester, though a brave knight, 
 and one of the greatest barons of England, had no 
 pretensions to so high an alliance ; nor did he pos- 
 
864 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 sess any qualities or personal accomplisLments 
 ■which might have reconciled Constance to him as 
 a husband. He was a man of diminutive stature 
 and mean appearance, but of haughty and fero- 
 cious manners, and unbounded ambition.* In a 
 conference between this Earl of Chester and the 
 Earl of Perche, in Lincoln cathedral, the latter 
 taunted Randal with his insignificant person, and 
 called him contemptuously '•'■Dwarf" " Sayst thou 
 so ! " replied Randal ; " I vow to God and our 
 Lady, whose church this is, that ere long I will 
 seem to thee high as that steeple ! " He was as 
 good as his word, when, on ascending the throne 
 of Brittany, the Earl of Perche became his vassal. 
 We cannot know what measures were used to 
 force this degradation on the reluctant and high- 
 spirited Constance ; it is only certain that she never 
 considered her marriage in the light of a sacred ob- 
 ligation, and that she took the first opportunity of 
 legally breaking from a chain which could scarcely 
 be considered as legally binding. For about a year 
 she was obliged to allow this detested husband the 
 title of Duke of Bretagne, and he administered the 
 government without the slightest reference to her 
 will, even inform, till 1189, when Henry H. died, 
 execrating himself and his undutiful children. 
 Whatever great and good qualities this monarch 
 may have possessed, his conduct in Bretagne was 
 uniformly detestable. Even the unfilial behavior 
 of his sons may be extenuated ; for while he spent 
 * Vide Sir Peter Leycester's Antiquities of Chester. 
 
CONSTANCE. 365 
 
 his life, and sacrificed his peace, and violated every 
 principle of honor and humanity to compass their 
 political aggrandizement, he was guilty of atrocious 
 injustice towards them, and set them a bad exam- 
 ple in his own person. 
 
 The tidings of Henry's death had no sooner 
 reached Bretagne than the barons of that country 
 rose with one accord against his government, ban- 
 ished or massacred his officers, and, sanctioned by 
 the Duchess Constance, drove Randal de Blonde- 
 ville and his followers from Bretagne ; he retired 
 to his earldom of Chester, there to brood over his 
 injuries, and meditate vengeance. 
 
 In the mean time, Richard I. ascended the Eng- 
 lish throne. Soon afterwards he embarked on his 
 celebrated expedition to the Holy Land, having 
 previously declared Prince Arthur, the only son of 
 Constance, heir to all his dominions.* 
 
 His absence, and that of many of her own tur- 
 bulent barons and encroaching neighbors, left to 
 Constance and her harassed dominions a short 
 interval of profound peace. The historians of that 
 period, occupied by the warlike exploits of the 
 French and English kings in Palestine, make but 
 little mention of the domestic events of Europe dur- 
 ing their absence ; but it is no slight encomium on 
 the character of Constance, that Bretagne flour- 
 ished under her government, and began to recover 
 from the effects of twenty years of desolating war. 
 The seven years during which she ruled as au 
 * By tho treaty of Messina, 1190. 
 
366 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 independent sovereign, were not marked by any 
 events of importance; but in the year 1196 she 
 caused her son Arthur, then nine years of age, to 
 be acknowledged Duke of Bretagne by the States, 
 and associated him with herself in all the acts of 
 government. 
 
 There was more of maternal fondness than policy 
 in this measure, and it cost her dear. Richard, 
 that royal firebrand, had now returned to England : 
 by the intrigues and representations of Earl Ran- 
 dal, his attention was turned to Bretagne. He 
 expressed extreme indignation that Constance 
 should have proclaimed her son Duke of Bretagne, 
 and her partner in power, without his consent, he 
 being the feudal lord and natural guardian of the 
 young prince. After some excuses and represent- 
 ations on the part of Constance, he affected to be 
 pacified, and a friendly interview was appointed at 
 Pontorson, on the frontiers of Normandy. 
 
 We can hardly reconcile the cruel and perfidious 
 scenes which follow with those romantic and chiv- 
 alrous associations which illustrate the memory of 
 Coeur-de-Lion — the friend of Blondel, and the an- 
 tagonist of Saladln. Constance, perfectly unsus- 
 picious of the meditated treason, accepted the 
 invitation of her brother-in-law, and set out from 
 Rennes with a small but magnificent retinue to join 
 him at Pontorson. On the road, and within sight 
 of the town, the Earl of Chester was posted with a 
 troop of Richard's soldiery, and while the Duchess 
 prepared to enter the gates, where she expected to 
 
CONSTANCE. 367 
 
 be received with honor and welcome, he suddenly 
 rushed from his ambuscade, fell upon her and her 
 suite, put the latter to flight, and carried off Con- 
 stance to the strong- Castle of St. Jaques de Beuv- 
 ron, Avhere he detained her a prisoner for eighteen 
 months. The chronicle does not tell us how Kan- 
 dal treated his unfortunate wife during this long 
 imprisonment. She was absolutely in his power ; 
 none of her own people were suffered to approach 
 her, and -whatever might have been his behavior 
 towards her, one thing alone is certain, that so far 
 from softening her feelings towards him^ it seems to 
 have added tenfold bitterness to her abhorrence 
 and her scorn. 
 
 The barons of Bretagne sent the Bishop of 
 Rennes to complain of this violation of faith and 
 justice,, and to demand the restitution of the 
 Duchess. Richard meanly evaded and tempor- 
 ized : he engaged to restore Constance to liberty 
 on certain conditions; but this was merely to gain 
 time. "When the stipulated terms were complied 
 with, and the hostages delivered, the Bretons sent 
 a herald to the English king, to require him to 
 fulfil his part of the treaty, and restore their be- 
 loved Constance. Richard replied with insolent 
 defiance, refused to deliver up either the hostages 
 or Constance, and marched his army into the heart 
 of the country. 
 
 All that Bretagne had suffered previously was as 
 nothing compared to this terrible invasion ; and all 
 that the humane and peaceful government of Con- 
 
868 HISTOKICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 stance had effected during seven years was at once 
 annihilated. The English barons and their savage 
 and mercenary followers spread themselves through 
 the country, which they wasted with fire and 
 sword. The castles of those who ventured to de- 
 fend themselves were razed to the ground ; the 
 towns and villages plundered and burnt, and the 
 wretched inhabitants fled to the caves and forests ; 
 but not even there could they find an asylum ; by 
 the orders, and in the presence of Richard, the 
 woods were set on fire, and hundreds either per- 
 ished in the flames, or were suffocated in the 
 smoke. 
 
 Constance, meanwhile, could only weep in her 
 captivity over the miseries of her country, and 
 tremble with all a mother's fears for the safety of 
 her son. She had placed Arthur under the care 
 of William Desroches, the seneschal of her palace, 
 a man of mature age, of approved valor, and devot- 
 edly attached to her family. This faithful servant 
 threw himself, with his young charge, into the for- 
 tress of Brest, where he for some time defied the 
 power of the English king. 
 
 But notwithstanding the brave resistance of the 
 nobles and people of Bretagne, they were obliged 
 to submit to the conditions imposed by Richard. 
 By a treaty concluded in 1198, of which the terms 
 are not exactly known, Constance was delivered 
 from her captivity, though not from her husband ; 
 but in the following year, when the death of Rich- 
 ard had restored her to some degree of indepen- 
 
 I 
 
CONSTANCE. 369 
 
 dencc, tlic first use she made of it was to divorce 
 herself from Randal. She took this step with her 
 usual precipitancy, not waiting for the sanction of 
 the Pope, as was the custom in those days ; and 
 soon afterwards she gave her hand to Guy, Count 
 de Thouars, a man of courage and integrity, who 
 for some time maintained the cause of his wife and 
 her son against the power of England. Arthur 
 was now fourteen, and the legitimate heir of all 
 the dominions of his uncle Kichard. Constance 
 placed him under the guardianship of the king of 
 France, who knighted the young prince with his 
 own hand, and solemnly swore to defend his rights 
 against his usurping uncle John. 
 
 It is at this moment that the play of King John 
 opens ; and history is followed as closely as the 
 dramatic form would allow, to the death of John. 
 The real fate of poor Arthur, after he had been 
 abandoned by the French, and had fallen into the 
 hands of his uncle, is now ascertained ; but accord- 
 ing to the chronicle from which Shakspeare drew 
 his materials, he was killed in attempting to escape 
 from the castle of Falaise. Constance did not live 
 to witness this consummation of her calamities ; 
 within a few months after Arthur was taken pris- 
 oner, in 1201, she died suddenly, before she had 
 attained her thirty-ninth year; but the cause of her 
 death is not specified. 
 
 Her eldest daughter Elinor, the legitimate heiress 
 of England, N"ormandy, and Bretagnc, died in 
 captivity ; having been kept a prisoner in Bristol 
 24 
 
870 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 Castle from the age of fifteen. She was at that 
 time so beautiful, that she was called proverbially, 
 " La belle Bretonne," and by the English the 
 " Fair Maid of Brittany." She, hke her brother 
 Arthur, was sacrificed to the ambition of her uncles. 
 
 Of the two daughters of Constance by Guy de 
 Thouars, the eldest, Alice, became Duchess of 
 Bretagne, and married the Count de Dreux, of the 
 royal blood of France. The sovereignty of Bre- 
 tagne was transmitted through her descendants in 
 an uninterrupted line, till, by the marriage of the 
 celebrated Anne de Bretagne with Charles VIII. 
 of France, her dominions were forever united with 
 the French monarchy. 
 
 In considering the real history of Constance, 
 three things must strike us as chiefly remarkable. 
 
 First, that she is not accused of any vice, or any 
 act of injustice or violence ; and this praise, though 
 poor and negative, should have its due weight, con- 
 sidering the scanty records that remain of her 
 troubled life, and the period at which she lived — 
 a period in which crimes of the darkest dye were 
 familiar occurrences. Her father, Conan, was con- 
 sidered as a gentle and amiable prince — " gentle 
 even to feebleness ; " yet we are told that on one 
 c^casion he acted over again the tragedy of Ugo- 
 lino and Buggiero, when he shut up the Count de 
 Dol, with his two sons and his nephew, in a dungeon, 
 and deliberately starved them to death ; an event 
 recorded without any particular comment by the 
 old chroniclers of Bretagne. It also appears that, 
 
CONSTANCE. 371 
 
 during those intervals when Constance administered 
 the government of her states with some degree of 
 independence, the country prospered under her 
 sway, and that she possessed at all times the love 
 of her people and the respect of her nobles. 
 
 Secondly, no imputation whatever has been cast 
 on the honor of Constance as a wife and as a woman. 
 The old historians, who have treated in a very un- 
 ceremonious style the levities of her great-grand- 
 mother Matilda, her grandmother Bertha, her god- 
 mother Constance, and her mother-in-law Elinor, 
 treat the name and memory of our Lady Constance 
 with uniform respect. 
 
 Her third marriage, with Guy de Thouars, has 
 been censured as impolitic, but has also been de- 
 fended ; it can hardly, considering her age, and 
 the circumstances in which she was placed, be a 
 just subject of reproach. During her hated union 
 with Randal de Blondeville, and the years passed 
 in a species of widowhood, she conducted herself 
 with propriety : at least I can find no reason to 
 judge otherwise. 
 
 Lastly, we are struck by the fearless, determined 
 spirit, amounting at times to rashness, which Con- 
 stance displayed on several occasions, when left to 
 the free exercise of her own power and will ; yet 
 we see how frequently, with all this resolution and 
 pride of temper, she became a mere instrument in 
 tBe hands of others, and a victim to the superior 
 craft or power of her enemies. The inference is 
 unavoidable ; there must have existed in the mind 
 
872 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 of Constance, -with all her noble and amiable qual- 
 ities, a deficiency somewhei'e, a want of firmness, 
 a want of judgment or wariness, and a total want 
 of self-control. 
 
 ***** 
 
 In the play of King John, the three principal 
 characters are the King, Falconbridge, and Lady 
 Constance. The first is drawn forcibly and accu- 
 rately from history : it reminds us of Titian's por- 
 trait of Caesar Borgia, in which the hatefulness of 
 the subject is redeemed by the masterly skill of the 
 artist, — the truth, and power, and wonderful beauty 
 of the execution. Falconbridge is the spirited 
 creation of the poet. * Constance is certainly an 
 historical personage ; but the form which, when 
 we meet it on the record of history, appears like a 
 pale indistinct shadow, half melted into its obscure 
 background, starts before us into a strange relief 
 and palpable breathing reality upon the page of 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Whenever we think of Constance, it is in her 
 maternal character. All the interest which she 
 excites in the drama turns upon her situation as 
 the mother of Arthur. Every circumstance in 
 
 * Malone says, that " iu expanding the character of the bas- 
 tard, Shakspeare seems to have proceeded on the following slight 
 hint in an old play on the story of King John : — 
 
 Next them a bastard of the king's deceased — 
 A hardy wild-head, rough and venturous." 
 
 It is easy to say this ; yet who but Shakspeare could have ex- 
 panded the last line into a Falconbridge ? 
 
CO]S^STANCE. 873 
 
 wliich she is placed, every sentiment slie utters, has 
 a reference to him ; and she is represented through 
 the whole of the scenes in which she is engaged, as 
 alternately pleading for the rights, and trembling 
 for the existence of her son. 
 
 The same may be said of the Merope. In the 
 four tragedies of which her story forms the subject,* 
 we see her but in one point of view, namely, as a 
 mere impersonation of the maternal feeling. The 
 poetry of the situation is every thing, the character 
 nothing. Interesting as she is, take Merope out 
 of the circumstances in which she is placed, — take 
 away her son, for whom she trembles from the first 
 scene to the last, and Merope in herself is nothing ; 
 she melts away into a name, to which we can fix 
 no other characteristic by which to distinguish her. 
 We recognize her no longer. Her position is that 
 of an agonized mother ; and we can no more fancy 
 her under a difierent aspect, than we can imagine 
 the statue of Kiobe in a different attitude. 
 
 But while we contemplate the character of Con- 
 stance, she assumes before us an individuality per- 
 fectly distinct from the circumstances around her. 
 The action calls forth her maternal feelings, and 
 places them in the most prominent point of view : 
 but with Constance, as with a real human being, 
 
 * The Greek Merope, which was esteemed one of the finest of 
 the tragedies of Euripides, is UHhappily lost; those of Maflfei, Al- 
 fieri, and Voltaire, are well known. There is another Merope in 
 Italian, which I have not seen : the English Merope is merely a 
 bad translation from Voltaire. 
 
874 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 the maternal affections are a powerful instinct, mod- 
 ified by other faculties, sentiments, and impulses, 
 making up the individual character. We think of 
 her as a mother, because, as a mother distracted 
 for the loss of her son, she is immediately presented 
 before us, and calls forth our sympathy and our 
 tears ; but we infer the rest of her character from 
 what we see, as certainly and as completely as if 
 we had known her whole course of life. "^ 
 
 That which strikes us as the principal attribute 
 of Constance is power — power of imagination, of . 
 will, of passion, of affection, of pride : the moral 
 energy, that faculty which is principally exercised 
 in self-control, and gives consistency to the rest, is 
 deficient ; or rather, to speak more correctly, the 
 extraordinary development of sensibility and imag- 
 ination, which lends to the character its rich poetical 
 coloring, leaves the other qualities comparatively 
 subordinate. Hence it is that the whole complexion 
 of the character, notwithstanding its amazing gran- 
 deur, is so exquisitely feminine. The weakness of 
 the woman, who by the very consciousness of that 
 weakness is worked up to desperation and defiance, 
 the fluctuations of temper and the bursts of sublime 
 passion, the terrors, the impatience, and the tears, 
 are all most true to feminine nature. The energy 
 of Constance not being barfed upon strength of 
 character, rises and falls with the tide of passion. 
 Her haughty spirit swells against resistance, and is 
 excited into frenzy by sorrow and disappointment ; 
 while neither from her towering pride, nor her 
 
CONSTANCE. 375 
 
 strength of intellect, can she borrow patience to 
 submit, or fortitude to endure. It is, therefore, -with 
 perfect truth of nature, that Constance is first intro- 
 duced as pleading for peace. 
 
 Stay for an answer to your embassy, 
 Lest unadvised you stain your swords with blood: 
 My Lord Chatillon may from England bring 
 That right in peace, which here we urge in war; 
 And then we shall repent each drop of blood, 
 That hot, rash haste so indirectly shed. 
 
 And that the same woman, when all her passions 
 are roused by the sense of injury, should afterwards 
 exclaim. 
 
 War, war ! No peace ! peace is to me a war ! 
 
 That she should be ambitious for her son, proud of 
 his high birth and royal rights, and violent in de- 
 fending them, is most natural ; but I cannot agree 
 with those who think that in the mind of Constance, 
 amhition — that is, the love of dominion for its own 
 sake — is either a strong motive or a strong feeling : 
 it could hardly be so where the natural impulses 
 and the ideal power predominate in so high a 
 degree. The vehemence with which she asserts 
 the just and legal rights of her son is that of a fond 
 mother and a proud-spirited woman, stung with the 
 sense of injury, and herself a reigning sovereign, 
 — by birth and inght, if not in fact : yet when be- 
 reaved of her son, grief not only " fills the room up 
 of her absent child," but seems to absorb every 
 other faculty and feeling — even pride and anger. 
 
876 HISTORICAL CHARACTEIiS. 
 
 It is true that she exults over hhn as one whom 
 nature and fortune had destined to be great^ but 
 in her distraction for his loss, she thinks of him 
 only as her " Pretty Arthur." 
 
 lord ! my boy, my Ai'tlmr, my fair son ! 
 My life, my joy, my food, my all the Avorld ! 
 My widow-comfort, aud my sorrow's cm^e! 
 
 No other feeling can be traced through the whole 
 of her frantic scene : it is grief only, a mother's 
 heart-rending, soul-absorbing grief, and nothing 
 else. Not even indignation, or the desire of re- 
 venge, interfere with its soleness and intensity. 
 An ambitious woman would hardly have thus ad- 
 dressed the cold, wily Cardinal : — 
 
 And, Father Cardinal, I have heard you say. 
 
 That we shall see and know our friends in heaven : 
 
 If that be true, I shall see my boy again : 
 
 For since the birth of Cain, the first male child, 
 
 To him that did but yesterday suspire, 
 
 There was not such a gi-acious creature born. 
 
 But now will canker eat my bud, 
 
 And chase the native beauty from his cheek, 
 
 And he will look as hollow as a ghost ; 
 
 As dim and merge as an ague's fit; 
 
 And so he'll die; and rising so again. 
 
 When I shall meet him in the court of heaven 
 
 I shall not know him : therefore never, never, 
 
 Must I behold my pretty Arthiir more I 
 
 The bewildered pathos and poetry of this address 
 could be natural in no woman, who did not unite, 
 like Constance, the most passionate sensibility with 
 the most vivid imagination. 
 
 I 
 
CONSTANCE. 877 
 
 It is true that Queen Elinor calls her on one oc- , 
 casion, " ambitious Constance ; " but the epithet is* 
 rather the natural expression of Elinor's own fear 
 and hatred than really applicable.* Elinor, in 
 whom age had subdued all passions but ambition, 
 dreaded the mother of Arthur as her rival in 
 power, and for that reason only opposed the claims 
 of the son : but I conceive, that in a woman yet in 
 the prime of life, and endued with the peculiar 
 disposition of Constance, the mere love of power 
 would be too much modified by fancy and feeling 
 to be called a passion. 
 
 In fact, it is not pride, nor temper, nor ambition, 
 nor even maternal afiection, which in Constance 
 gives the prevailing tone to the whole character : 
 it is the predominance of imagination. I do not 
 mean in the conception of the dramatic portrait, 
 but in the temperament of the woman hei-self. In 
 the poetical, fanciful, excitable cast of her mind, in 
 the excess of the ideal power, tinging all her aflec- 
 tions, exalting all her sentiments and thoughts, and 
 animating the expression of both, Constance can 
 only be compared to Juliet. \ 
 
 In the first place, it is through the power of 
 imagination that when under the influence of 
 excited temper, Constance is not a mere incensed 
 woman ; nor does she, in the style of Volumnia, 
 
 * '• Queen Elinor saw that if he were king, how his mother 
 Constance would look to bear the most rule in the realm of Eng- 
 land, till her son should come of a lawful age to govern of him- 
 
 Helf . "— HOUN SHED . 
 
378 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 "lament in anger, Juno-like," but rather like a 
 sibyl in a fury. Her sarcasms come down like 
 thunderbolts. In her famous address to Austria — 
 
 Lymoges ! Austria ! tliou dost sliame 
 That bloody spoil! thou slave! thou wretch! thou 
 coward! &c. 
 
 it is as if she had concentrated the burning spirit 
 of scorn, and dashed it in his face : every word 
 seems to blister where it falls. In the scolding 
 scene between her and Queen Elinor, the laconic 
 insolence of the latter is completely overborne by 
 the torrent of bitter contumely which bursts from 
 the lips of Constance, clothed in the most energetic, 
 and often in the most figurative expressions. 
 
 "* * ELIKOR. 
 
 Who is it thou dost call usurper, France ? 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Let me make answer ; Thy usurping son. 
 
 ELINOR. 
 
 Out insolent ! thy bastax-d sliall be king, 
 
 That thou may'st be a queen, and check the world ! 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 My bed was ever to thy sou as true, 
 
 As thine was to thy husband; and this boy 
 
 Liker in feature to his father Geffrey, 
 
 Than thou and John in manners : being as like 
 
 As rain to water, or devil to his dam. 
 
 My boy a bastard ! By my soul, I think 
 
 N, 
 
CONSTANCE. 379 
 
 His father never was so true begot ; 
 
 It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother. 
 
 KLINOR. 
 
 There's a good mother, boy, that blots thy father. 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 There's a good gi-andam, boy, that would blot thee. 
 
 ELINOR. 
 
 Come to thy grandam, child. 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Do child; go to its grandam, child: 
 Give gi'andam kingdom, and its grandam will 
 Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig: 
 There's a good gi-audam. 
 
 ARTHUR. 
 
 Good my mother, peace ! 
 I would that I wei'e low laid in my grave ; 
 I am not worth this coil that's made for me. 
 
 ELINOR. 
 
 His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps. 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Now shame upon you, whe'r she does or no ! 
 
 His grandam's wi-ongs, and not his mother's shame, 
 
 Draw those heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes, 
 
 Which heaven shall take in nature of a fee : 
 
 Ay, Avith tliese crystal beads heav'n shall be bribed 
 
 To do him justice, and revenge on you. 
 
380 UISTOllICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 ELINOR. 
 
 Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth ! 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth! 
 Call me not slanderer; thou and thine usurp 
 The dominations, royalties, and rights 
 Of this oi^pressed boy. This is thy eldest son's son 
 lufortunate in nothing but in thee. 
 
 ***** 
 
 ELINOR. 
 
 Thou unadvised scold, I can produce 
 A will that bars the title of thy son. 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Ay, who doubts that? A will! a wicked will — 
 A woman's will — a canker'd grandam's will! 
 
 KING PHILIP. 
 
 Peace, lady: pause, or be more moderate. 
 
 And in a very opposite mood, when struggling 
 "with the consciousness of her own lielplcss situa- 
 tion, the same susceptible and excitable fancy still 
 predominates : — 
 
 Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me ; 
 
 For I am sick, and capable of fears; 
 
 Oppressed with wrongs, and therefore full of fears; 
 
 A widow, husbandless, subject to fears ; 
 
 A woman, naturally born to fears ; 
 
 And though thou now confess thou didst but jest 
 
 With my vexed spirits, I cannot take a truce. 
 
 But they will quake and tremble all this day. 
 
CONSTANCE. 381 
 
 What dost tliou mean b 3- shaking of thy head ? 
 Why dost thou look so sadly on my son ? 
 What means that hand upon that breast of thine? 
 Wliy holds thine eye that lamentable rheum, 
 Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds ? 
 Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words ? 
 
 ***** 
 Fellow, begone ! I cannot brook thy sight — 
 This news hath made thee a most ugly man ! 
 
 It is the power of imagination which gives so 
 peculiar a tinge to the maternal tenderness of Con- 
 stance ; she not only loves her son with the fond 
 instinct of a mother's affection, but she loves him 
 with her poetical imagination, exults in his beauty 
 and his royal birth, hangs over him with idolatry, 
 and sees his infant brow already encircled with the 
 diadem. Her proud spirit, her ardent enthusiastic 
 fancy, and her energetic self-will, all combine with 
 her maternal love to give it that tone and character 
 which belongs to her only : hence that most beauti- 
 ful address to her son, which coming from the 
 lips of Constance, is as full of nature and truth as 
 of pathos and poetry, and which we could hardly 
 sympathize with in any other : — 
 
 ARTHUR. 
 
 I do beseech you, madam, be content. 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 If thou, that bid'st me be content, wert grim. 
 Ugly, and slanderous to thy mother's womb, 
 Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains, 
 Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious, ^>XcL 
 
 r 3^ , 
 
382 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 Patched with foul moles and eye-offending marks, 
 I would not care — I then would be content ; 
 For then I should not love thee ; no, nor thou 
 Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown. 
 But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy I 
 Nature and Fortune join'd to mak-- thee great: 
 Of Nature's gifts thou mayest a' ai lilies boast, 
 And with the half-blown rose : but Fortune, ! 
 She is corrupted, chang'd, and won from thee; 
 She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John ; 
 And with her golden hand hath pluck' d on France 
 To tread down fair respect of sovereignty. 
 
 It is this exceeding vivacity of imagination 
 which in the end turns sorrow to frenzy. Constance 
 is not only a bereaved and doating mother, but a 
 generous woman, betrayed by her own rash confi- 
 dence ; in whose mind the sense of injury mingling 
 with the sense of grief, and her impetuous temper 
 conflicting with her pride, combine to overset her 
 reason ; yet she is not mad : and how admirably, 
 how forcibly she herself draws the distinction be- 
 tween the frantic violence of uncontrolled feeling 
 and actual madness ! — 
 
 Thou art not holy to belie me so ; 
 
 I am not mad : this hair I tear is mine ; 
 
 My name is Constance ; I was Geffrey's wife ; 
 
 Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost: 
 
 I am not mad ; I would to Heaven I were ! 
 
 For then, 'tis like I should forget myself: 
 
 0, if I could, what grief should I forget ! 
 
 Not only has Constance words at will, and fast 
 
CONSTANCE. 383 
 
 as the passionate feelings rise in her mind they are 
 poured forth with vivid, overpowering eloquence ; 
 but, like Juliet, she may be said to speak in pic- 
 tures. For instance : — 
 
 "Wliy holds tliiu. ^^e that lamentable rheum? 
 Like a proud river peering o'er its bounds. 
 
 And throughout the whole dialogue there is the 
 same overflow of eloquence, the same splendor of 
 diction, the same luxuriance of imagery ; yet with 
 an added grandeur, arising from habits of com- 
 mand, from the age, the rank, and the matronly 
 character of Constance. Thus Juliet pours forth 
 her love like a muse in a rapture : Constance raves 
 in her sorrow like a Pythoness possessed with the 
 spirit of pain. The love of Juliet is deep and in- 
 finite as the boundless sea : and the grief of Con- 
 stance is so great, that nothing but the round world 
 itself is able to sustain it. 
 
 I win instruct my soitows to be proud ; 
 
 For grief is proud and makes his owner stout. 
 
 To me, and to the state of my gi*eat grief 
 
 Let kings assemble, for my grief's so great. 
 
 That no supporter but the huge finn earth 
 
 Can hold it up. Here I and Sorrow sit; 
 
 Here is my throne, — bid kings come bow to it ! 
 
 An image more majestic, more wonderfully sub- 
 lime, was never presented to the fancy ; yet almost 
 equal as a flight of poetry is her apostrophe to the 
 heavens ; — 
 
384 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 Arm, arm, ye heavens, against these perjured kings, 
 A widow calls ! — be husband to me, heavens ! 
 
 And again — 
 
 that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth, 
 Then with a passion would I shake the world! 
 
 Not only do her thoughts start into images, but her 
 feelings become persons : grief haunts her as a 
 living presence : 
 
 Grief fills the room up of my absent child ; 
 Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me ; 
 Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, 
 Remembers me of all his gi-acious parts. 
 Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; 
 Then have I reason to be fond of grief. 
 
 And death is welcomed as a bridegroom ; she 
 sees the visionary monster as Juliet saia " the 
 bloody Tybalt festering in his shroud," and heaps 
 one ghastly image upon another with all the wild 
 luxuriance of a distempered fancy : — 
 
 amiable, lovely death ! 
 Thou odoriferous stench ! sound rottenness ! 
 Arise forth from the couch of lasting night. 
 Thou hate and terror to prosperity, 
 And I will kiss thy detestable bones; 
 And put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows ; 
 And ring these fingers with thy household worms; 
 And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust; 
 And be a carrion monster like thyself: 
 
CONSTANCE. 385 
 
 Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil'st, 
 And buss thee as thy wife ! Misery's love, 
 come to me ! 
 
 Constance, who is a majestic being, is majestic in ■ 
 her very frenzy. Majesty is also the characteristic 
 of Hermione : but what a difference between her 
 silent, lofty, uncomplaining despair, and the elo- 
 quent grief of Constance, whose wild lamentations, 
 which come bursting forth clothed in the grandest, . 
 the most poetical imagery, not only melt, but abso- 
 lutely electrify us ! 
 
 On the whole, it may be said that pride and ma- /; 
 ternal affection form the basis of the character of ! 
 Constance, as it is exhibited to us ; but that these 
 passions, in an equal degree common to many 
 human beings, assume their peculiar and individual 
 tinge from an extraordinary development of intel- 
 lect and fancy. It is the energy of passion which 
 lends the character its concentrated power, as it is 
 the prevalence of imagination throughout which 
 dilates it into magnificence. 
 
 Some of the most splendid poetry to be met 
 with In Shakspeare, may be found in the parts of 
 Juliet and Constance ; the most splendid, perhaps, 
 excepting only the parts of Lear and Othello ; and 
 for the same reason, — that Lear and Othello as 
 men, and Juliet and Constance as women, are dis- 
 tinguished by the predominance of the same facul- 
 ties, — passion and imagination. ♦ 
 
 The sole deviation from history which may be 
 considered as essentially interfering with the truth 
 25 
 
886 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 of the situation, is the entire omission of the char- 
 acter of Guy de Thouars, so that Constance is 
 incorrectly represented as in a state of widowhood, 
 at a period when, in point of fact, she was married. 
 It may be observed, that her marriage took place 
 just at the period of the opening of the drama; 
 that Guy de Thouars played no conspicuous part 
 in the affairs of Bretagne till after the death of 
 Constance, and that the mere presence of this per- 
 sonage, altogether superfluous in the action, would 
 have completely destroyed the dramatic interest of 
 the situation ; — and what a situation ! One more 
 magnificent was never placed before the mind's 
 eye than that of Constance, when, deserted and 
 betrayed, she stands alone in her despair, amid her 
 false friends and her ruthless enemies!* The 
 image of the mother-eagle, wounded and bleeding 
 to death, yet stretched over her young in an atti- 
 tude of defiance, while all the baser birds of prey 
 are clamoring around her eyry, gives but a faint 
 idea of the moral sublimity of this scene. Con- 
 sidered merely as a poetical or dramatic picture, 
 the grouping is wonderfully fine ; on one side, the 
 vulture ambition of that mean-souled tyrant, John ; 
 on the other, the selfish, calculating policy of 
 Philip : between them, balancing their passions in 
 his hand, the cold, subtle, heartless Legate : the 
 fiery, reckless Falconbridge ; the princely Louis ; 
 the still unconquered spirit of that wrangling 
 queen, old Elinor ; the bridal loveliness and mod- 
 
 * King John, Act iii. Scene 1. 
 
QUEEN ELIXOR. 387 
 
 esty of Blanche ; the boyish grace and innocence 
 of young Arthur ; and Constance in the midst of 
 them, in all the state of her great grief, a grand 
 impersonation of pride and passion, helpless at 
 once and desperate, — form an assemblage of fig- 
 ures, each perfect in its kind, and, taken all to- 
 gether, not surpassed for the variety, force, and 
 splendor of the dramatic and picturesque effect. 
 
 QUEEN ELINOR. 
 
 Elinor of Guienne, and Blanche of Castile, who 
 form part of the group around Constance, are 
 sketches merely, but they are strictly historical 
 portraits, and full of truth and spirit. 
 
 At the period when Shakspeare has brought 
 these three women on the scene together, Elinor 
 of Guienne (the daughter of the last Duke of 
 Guienne and Aquitaine, and like Constance, the 
 heiress of a sovereign duchy) was near the close 
 of her long, various, and uncjuiet life — she i was 
 nearly seventy : and, as in early youth, her violent 
 passions had overborne both principle and policy, 
 so in her old age we see the same character, only 
 modified by time ; her strong intellect and love of 
 power, unbridled by conscience or principle, sur- 
 viving when other passions were extinguished, 
 
S^8 HISTORICAL CnARACTERS. 
 
 and rendered more dangerous by a degree of \ 
 subtlety and self-command to which her youth had 1 
 been a stranger. Her personal and avowed hatred ; 
 for Constance, together with its motives, are men- 
 tioned by the old historians. Holinshed expressly 
 says, that Queen Elinor was mightily set against 
 her grandson Arthur, rather moved thereto by envy 
 conceived against his mother, than by any fault ofj 
 the young prince, for that she knew and dreaded 
 the high spirit of the Lady Constance. 
 
 Shakspeare has rendered this with equal spirit 
 and fidelity. \ 
 
 QUEEN ELINOR. 
 
 What now, my son ! have I not ever said, 
 
 How that ambitious Constance would not cease, 
 
 Till she had kindled France and all the world 
 
 Upon the right and party of her son ? 
 
 This might have been prevented and made whole 
 
 With very easy arguments of love ; 
 
 Which now the manage of two kingdoms must 
 
 With fearful bloody issue arbitrate. 
 
 KING JOHN. 
 
 Our strong possession and our right for us ! 
 
 QUEEN ELINOR. / 
 
 Your strong possession much more than your right; / 
 Or else it must go wrong with you and me. ' 
 
 So much my conscience whispers in your ear — 
 Which none but Heaven, and you, and I shall hear. 
 
 Queen Elinor preserved to the end of her life 
 her influence over her children, and appears to \ 
 have merited their respect. While intrusted with 
 
BLANCHE. 389 
 
 the government, during the absence of Richard I., 
 she ruled with a steady hand, and made herself 
 exceedingly popular ; and as long as she lived to 
 direct the counsels of her son John, his affairs 
 prospered. For Ithat intemperate jealousy which 
 converted her into a domestic firebrand, there was 
 at least much cause, though little excuse. Elinor 
 had hated and wronged the husband of her youth,* 
 and she had afterwards to endure the negligence 
 and innumerable infidelities of the husband whom 
 she passionately loved : f — " and so the whirligig 
 of time brought in his revenges." Elinor died in 
 1203, a -few months after Constance, and before 
 the murder of Arthur — a crime which, had she lived, 
 would probably never have been consummated; 
 for the nature of Elinor, though violent, had no 
 tincture of the baseness and cruelty of her son. 
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 Blanche of Castile was the daughter of Al- 
 phonso IX. of Castile, and the grand-daughter of 
 
 * Louis VII. of France, ■whom she was accustomed to call, in 
 contempt, the monk. Elinor's adventures in Syria, whither she 
 accompanied Louis on the second Crusade, would form a 
 romance. 
 
 t Ilenrj' II. of England. It is scarcely necessary to observe 
 that the story of Fair Rosamond, as far as Elinor is concerned, 
 is a mere invention of some ballad-maker of later times. 
 
390 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 Elinor. At the time that she is introduced into 
 the drama, she was about fifteen, and her marriage 
 ■with Louis VIIL, then Dauphin, took place in the 
 abrupt manner here represented. It is not often 
 that political marriages have the same happy- 
 result. We are told by the historians of that 
 time, that from the moment Louis and Blanche 
 met, they were inspired by a mutual passion, and 
 that during a union of more than twenty-six years 
 they were never known to differ, nor even spent 
 more than a single day asunder * 
 
 In her exceeding beauty and blameless reputa- 
 tion ; her love for her husband, and strong domes- 
 tic affections ; her pride of biilh and rank ; her 
 feminine gentleness of deportment ; her firmness 
 of temper ; her religious bigotry ; her love of abso- 
 lute power, and her upright and conscientious 
 administration of it, Blanche greatly resembled 
 Maria Theresa of Austria. She was, however, of 
 a more cold and calculating nature ; and in pro- 
 portion as she was less amiable as a woman, did 
 she rule more happily for herself and others. 
 There cannot be a greater contrast than between 
 the acute understanding, the steady temper, and 
 the cool intriguing policy of Blanche, by which 
 she succeeded in disuniting and defeating the 
 powers arrayed against her and her infant son, 
 and the rash confiding temper and susceptible im- 
 agination of Constance, which rendered herself 
 
 * Vide Mezerai. 
 
LADY PERCY. 391 
 
 and her son easy victims to the fraud or ambition 
 of others. Blanche, during forty years, held in her 
 hands the destinies of the greater pai't of Europe, 
 and is one of the most celebrated names recorded 
 in history — but in what does she survive to us ex- 
 cept in a name ? Nor history, nor fame, though 
 " trumpet-tongued," could do for her what Shak- 
 speare and poetry have done for Constance. The 
 earthly reign of Blanche is over, her sceptre 
 broken, and her power departed. When will 
 the reign of Constance cease V when will her 
 power depart ? Not while this world is a world, 
 and there exists in it human souls to kindle at the 
 touch of genius, and human hearts to throb with 
 
 human sympathies ! 
 
 ***** 
 
 There is no female character of any interest in 
 the play of Richard II. The Queen (Isabelle of 
 France) enacts the same passive part in the drama 
 that she does in history. 
 
 The same remark applies to Henry IV. In this 
 admirable play there is no female character of any 
 importance ; but Lady Percy, the wife of Hotspur, 
 is a very lively and beautiful sketch : she is 
 sprightly, feminine, and fond; but without any 
 thing energetic or profound, in mind or in feeling. 
 Her gaycty and spirit in the first scenes, are the 
 result of youth and happiness, and nothing can be 
 more natural than the utter dejection and broken- 
 ness of heart which follow her husband's death: 
 she is no heroine for war or tragedy ; she has no 
 
392 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 thought of revenging her loss ; and even her grief 
 has something soft and quiet in its pathos. Her 
 speech to her father-in-law, Northumberland, in 
 •which she entreats him " not to go to the wars, 
 and at the same time pronounces the most beauti- 
 ful eulogium on her heroic husband, is a perfect 
 piece of feminine eloquence, both in the feeling 
 and in the expression. 
 
 Almost every one knows by heart Lady Percy's 
 celebrated address to her husband, beginning, 
 
 Oj my good lord, why are you thus alone V 
 
 and that of Portia to Brutus, in Julius Caesar, 
 
 You've ungently, Brutus, 
 Stol'n from my bed. 
 
 The situation is exactly similar, the topics of 
 remonstrance are nearly the same ; the sentiments 
 and the style as opposite as are the characters of 
 the two women. Lady Percy is evidently accus- 
 tomed to win more from her fiery lord by caresses 
 than by reason : he loves her in his rough way, 
 " as Harry Percy's wife," but she has no real influ- 
 ence over him : he has no confidence in her. 
 
 LADY PERCY. 
 
 In faith, 
 I'U know your business, HaiTy, that I will; 
 I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir 
 About this title, and hath sent for you 
 To line his enterprise, but if jou go — 
 
PORTIA. 393 
 
 HOTSPUR. 
 
 So far afoot, I shall be weary, love ! 
 
 The whole scene is admirable, but unnecessary 
 here, because it Illustrates no point of character in 
 her. Lady Percy has no cliaracter, properly so 
 called ; whereas, that of Portia is very distinctly 
 and faithfully drawn from the outline furnished by 
 Plutarch. Lady Percy's fond upbraidlngs, and 
 her half playful, half pouting entreaties, scarcely 
 gain her husband's attention. Portia, with true 
 matronly dignity and tenderness, pleads her right 
 to share her husband's thoughts, and proves it too. 
 
 I grant I am a woman, but withal, 
 A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife ; 
 I grant I am a woman, but withal, 
 A woman well reputed — Cato's daughter. 
 Think you, I am no stronger than my sex 
 Being so father'd and so husbanded? 
 * * * * 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 You are my true and honorable wife : 
 As dear to me, as are the ruddy drops 
 That visit my sad heart ! 
 
 Portia, as Shakspcare has truly felt and repre- 
 sented the character, is but a softened reflection of 
 that of her husband Brutus : in him we see an 
 excess of natural sensibility, an almost womanish 
 tenderness of heart, repressed by the tenets of his 
 austere philosophy: a stoic by profession, and in 
 reality the reverse — acting deeds against his nature 
 
394 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 by the strong ibrce of principle and will. In 
 Portia there is the same profound and passionate 
 feeling, and all her sex's softness and timidity, held 
 in check by that self-discipline, that stately dignity, 
 which she thought became a woman " so flithered 
 and so husbanded." The fact of her inflicting on 
 herself a voluntary wound to try her own fortitude, 
 is perhaps the strongest proof of this disposition. 
 Plutarch relates, that on the day on which Csesar 
 was assassinated, Portia appeared overcome with 
 terror, and even swooned away, but did not in her 
 emotion utter a word which could affect the con- 
 spirators. Shakspeare has rendered this circum- 
 stance literally. 
 
 PORTIA. 
 
 I pr'ythee, boy, run to the senate house, ■ 
 Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone. 
 Why dost thou stay ? 
 
 LUCIUS. 
 
 To know my errand, madam. 
 
 PORTIA. 
 
 I would have had thee there and hei*e again, 
 Ere I can tell thee what thou should'st do there. 
 constancy! be strong upon my side: 
 Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue! 
 
 ; I have a man's mind, but a woman's might. 
 Ah me ! how weak a thing 
 
 . The heart of woman is ! 1 grow faint, &c. 
 
 There is another beautiful incident related by 
 Plutarch, which could not well be dramatized. 
 When Brutus and Portia parted for the last time 
 
PORTIA. 395 
 
 in the island of Nisida, she restrained all expression 
 of grief that she might not shake his fortitude ; but 
 afterwards, in passing through a chamber in which 
 there hung a picture of Hector and Andromache., 
 she stopped, gazed upon it for a time with a settled 
 sorrow, and at length burst into a passion of 
 tears* 
 
 If Portia had been a Christian, and lived in later 
 times, she might have been another Lady Russel ; 
 but she made a poor stoic. No factitious or exter- 
 nal control was sufficient to restrain such an exu- 
 berance of sensibility and fi\ncy : and those who 
 praise the philosophj of Portia and the heroism of 
 her death, certainly mistook the character alto- 
 gether. It is evident, from the manner of her 
 death, that it was not deliberate self-destruction, 
 " after the high Roman fashion," but took place in 
 a paroxysm of madness, caused by overwrought 
 and suppressed feeling, grief, terror, and suspense. 
 Shakspeare has thus represented it : — 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Cassius ! I am sick of many griefs ! 
 
 CASSIUS. 
 
 /Of your philosophy you make no use, 
 If you give place to accidental evils. 
 
 * When at Naples, I have often stood upon the rock at the ex- 
 treme point of Posilippo, and looked down" upon the little Island 
 of Nisida, and thought of this scene till I forgot the Lazaretto 
 •which now deforms it : deforms it, liowever, to the fancy only, 
 for the building itself, as it rise^ from amid the vines, the cypress- 
 es, and fig-trees which embosom it, looks beautiful at a iistance. 
 
896 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 No man bears soitow better; Portia's dead. 
 
 CASSIUS. 
 
 Ha!— Portia? 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 She is. dead. 
 
 CASSIUS. 
 
 How 'scap'd I killing when I cross'd you so? 
 insupportable and touching loss — 
 Upon what sickness ? 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Impatient of ray absence, 
 And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony 
 Had made themselves so strong — (for with her death 
 These tidings came) — with Hiis she fell distract^ 
 And, her attendants absent, swallowed fir'e. 
 
 So much for woman's philosophy 1 
 
 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 
 
 Malone has written an essay, to prove from 
 external and internal evidence, that the three 
 parts of King Henry VI. were not originally writ- 
 ten by Shakspeare, but altered by him from two 
 old plays,* with considerable improvements and 
 additions of his own. Burke, Porson, Dr. Warbur- 
 
 * " The contention of the two Houses of York and Lanca.ster," 
 in two parts, supposed by Malone to have been written about 
 1590. 
 
JVIARGARET OF ANJOU. 397 
 
 ton, and Dr. Farmer, pronounced this piece of 
 criticism convincing and unanswerable; but Dr. 
 Johnson and Steevens would not be convinced, 
 and, moreover, have contrived to answer the un- 
 answerable. " Who shall decide when doctors dis- 
 agree ? " The only arbiter in such a case is one's 
 own individual taste and judgment. To me it ap- 
 pears that the three parts of Henry VI. have less 
 of poetry and passion, and more of unnecessary 
 verbosity and inflated language, than the rest of 
 Shakspeare's works ; that the continual exhibition 
 of treachery, bloodshed, and violence, is revolting, 
 and the want of unity of action, and of a pervading 
 interest, oppressive and fatiguing; but also that 
 there are splendid passages in the Second and 
 Third Parts, such as Shakspeare alone could have 
 written : and this is not denied by the most skep- 
 tical. * 
 
 * I abstain from making any remarks on the character of Joan 
 of Arc, as. delineated in the First part of Henry VI. ; first, be- 
 cause I do not in my conscience attribute it to Shakspeare, and 
 secondly, because in representing her according to the Tulgar 
 English traditions, as half sorceress, half enthusiast, and in the 
 end, corrupted by pleasure and ambition, the truth of history, 
 and the truth of nature, justice, and common sense, are equally 
 violated. Schiller has treated the character nobly : but in mak- 
 ing Joan the slave of passion, and the victim of love, instead of 
 the victim of patriotism, has committed, I think, a serious error 
 in judgment and feeling ; and I cannot sympathize with Madame 
 de Stael's defence of him on this particular point. There was no 
 occasion for this deviation from the truth of things, and from 
 the dignity and spotless purity of the character. This young 
 enthusiast, with her religious reveries, her simplicity, her hero- 
 ism, her melancholy, her sensibility, her fortitude, her perfectly 
 
398 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 Among the arguments against the authenticity 
 of these plays, the character of Margaret of Anjou 
 has not been adduced, and yet to those who have 
 studied Shakspeare in his own spirit, it will appear 
 the most conclusive .Qf_a]Jx When we compare her 
 with his other female characters, we are struck at 
 once by the want of family likeness ; Shakspeare 
 was not always equal, but he had not two manners, 
 as they say of painters. I discern his hand in par- 
 ticular parts, but I cannot recognize his spirit in 
 the conception of the whole : he may have laid on 
 some of the colors, but the original design has a 
 certain hardness and heaviness, very unlike his 
 usual style. Margaret of Anjou, as exhibited in 
 these tragedies, is a dramatic portrait of consider- 
 able truth, and vigor, and consistency — but she is 
 not one of Shakspeare's women. He who knew so 
 well in what true greatness of spirit consisted — 
 who could excite our respect and sympathy even 
 for a Lady Macbeth, would never have given us a 
 heroine without a touch of heroism ; he would not 
 have portrayed a high-hearted woman, struggling 
 unsubdued against the strangest vicissitudes of for- 
 tune, meeting reverses and disasters, such as would 
 
 feminine bearing in all her exploits, (for though she so often led 
 the van of battle unshriukiug, while death was all around her, 
 she never struck a blow, nor stained her consecrated sword with 
 blood, — another point in which Schiller has wronged her,) this 
 heroine and martyr, over whose last moments we shed burning, 
 tears of pity and indignation, remains yet to be treated as a 
 dramatic character, and I know but one person capable of doing 
 this. 
 
MARGARET OF ANJOU. 399 
 
 have broken the most masculine spirit, with un- 
 shaken constancy, yet left her without a single 
 pei'sonal quality which would excite our interest in 
 her bravely-endured misfoi'tunes ; and this too in 
 the very face of history. He would not have given 
 us, in Ueu of the magnanimous queen, the subtle 
 and accomplished French woman, a mere " Ama- 
 zonian trull," with every coarser feature of deprav- 
 ity and ferocity; he would have redeemed her 
 from unmingled detestation ; he would have breathed 
 into her some of his own sweet spirit — he would 
 have given the woman a soul. 
 
 The old chronicler Hall informs us, that Queen 
 Margaret " excelled all other as well in beauty and 
 favor, as in wit and policy, and was in stomach and 
 courage more like to a man than to a woman." He 
 adds, that after the espousals of Henry and JNIar- 
 garet, " the king's friends fell from him ; the lords 
 of the realm fell in division among themselves ; the 
 Commons rebelled against their natural prince ; 
 fields were foughten ;' many thousands slain ; and, 
 finally, the king Avas deposed, and his son slain, 
 and his queen sent home again with as much misery 
 and sorrow as she was received with pomp and 
 triumph." 
 
 This passage seems to have furnished the ground- 
 work of the character as it is developed in these 
 plays with no great depth or skill. Margaret is 
 portrayed with all the exterior graces of her sex ; 
 as bold and artful, with spirit to dare, resolution to 
 act, and fortitude to endure ; but treacherous, 
 
400 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 haughty, dissembling, vindictive, and fierce. The 
 bloody struggle for power in which she was en- 
 gaged, and the companionship of the ruthless iron 
 men around her, seem to have left her nothing of 
 womanhood but the heart of a mother — that last 
 stronghold of our feminine nature ! So far the 
 character is consistently drawn : it has something 
 of the power, but none of the flowing ease of Shak- 
 speare's manner. There are fine materials not 
 well applied ; there is poetry in some of the scenes 
 and speeches ; the situations are often exceedingly 
 poetical ; but in the character of Margaret herself, 
 there is not an atom of poetry. In her artificial 
 dignity, her plausible wit, and her endless volubil- 
 ity, she would remind us of some of the most ad- 
 mired heroines of French tragedy, but for that 
 unlucky box on the ear which she gives the 
 Duchess of Gloster, — a violation of tragic decorum, 
 which of course destroys all parallel. 
 
 Having said thus much, I shall point out some 
 of the finest and most characteristic scenes in 
 which Margaret appears. The speech in which 
 she expresses her scorn of her meek husband, and 
 her impatience of the power exercised by those 
 fierce overbearing barons, York, Salisbury, War- 
 wick, Buckingham, is very fine, and conveys as 
 faithful an idea of those feudal times as of the 
 woman who speaks. The burst of female spite 
 with which she concludes, is admirable — 
 
 Not all these lords do vex me half so much 
 As that proud dame, the Lord Protector's wife. 
 
MARGARET OF AXJOU. 401 
 
 She sweeps it through the court with troops of ladies, i 
 More Hke an empress than Duke Humphrey's wife. | 
 /Strangers in court do take her for the queen: | 
 
 She bears a duke's revenues on her back, ' 
 
 And in her heart she scorns our poverty. , 
 
 Shall I not live to be avenged on herV 
 Contemptuous base-born callet as she is ! 
 She vaunted 'moiigst her minions t'other day, 
 The very train of her worst wearing gown 
 Was better worth than all my father's lands, 
 Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter. 
 
 Her intriguing spirit, the facility with which she 
 enters into the murderous confederacy against the 
 good Duke HumjDhrey, the artful plausibility with 
 which she endeavours to turn suspicion from her- 
 self — confounding her gentle consort by mere dint 
 of words — are exceedingly characteristic, but not 
 the less revolting. 
 
 Her criminal love for Suffolk (which Is a dra- 
 matic incident, not an liistoric fact) gives rise to 
 the beautiful parting scene in the third act; a 
 scene which it is impossible to read without a thrill 
 of emotion, hurried away by that power and pathos 
 which forces us to sympathize with the eloquence 
 of grief, yet excites not a momentary interest either 
 for Margaret or her lover. The ungoverncd fury 
 of Margaret in the first instance, the manner in 
 which she calls on Suffolk to curse his enemies, 
 and then shrinks back overcome by the violence of 
 the spirit she had herself evoked, and terrified by 
 the vehemence of his imprecations ; the transition 
 in her mind from the extremity of rage to tears 
 26 
 
402 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 and melting fondness, have been pronounced, and 
 justly, to be in Shakspe are's own manner. 
 
 Go, speak not to me — even now begone. 
 O go not yet! Even thus two friends condemn'd 
 Embrace, and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves, ^ 
 Loather a hundred times to pai-t than die : ' ^ 
 
 Yet now farewell ; and farewell life with thee ! 
 
 which is followed by that beautiful and intense 
 burst of passion from Suffolk — 
 
 'Tis not the hand I care for, wert thou hence; 
 /. vvilderness is populous enough, 
 :':• Suffolk had thy heavenly company: 
 ("or where thou art, there is the world itself, 
 vVith every several pleasure in the world; 
 And Avhere thou art not, desolation ! 
 
 In the third part of Henry the Sixth, Margaret, 
 engaged in the terrible struggle for her husband's 
 throne, appears to rather more advantage. The 
 indignation against Henry, who had pitifully yielded 
 his son's birthright for the privilege of reigning 
 unmolested during his own life^ is worthy of her, 
 and gives rise to a beautiful speech. We are here 
 inclined to sympathize with her ; but soon after 
 follows the murder of the Duke of York ; and the 
 base revengeful spirit and atrocious cruelty with 
 which she insults over him, unanned and a prisoner, 
 — the bitterness of her mockery, and the un- 
 womanly malignity with which she presents him 
 with the napkin stained with the blood of his 
 
 I 
 
QUEEN MARGARET. 403 
 
 youngest son, and " bids tlie father wipe his eyes \ 
 
 withal," turn all our sympathy into aversion and j 
 
 horror. York replies in the celebrated speech, \ 
 beginning — 
 
 She-wolf of France, and worse than wolves of France, 
 Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth — 
 
 and taunts her with the poverty of her father, the 
 most irritating topic he could have chosen. 
 
 Hath that poor monarch taught thee to msult ? 
 It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen. 
 Unless the adage must be verified. 
 That beggars, mounted, ride their horse to death, 
 'lis beauty, that doth oft make women proud; 
 But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small. 
 'Tis virtue that doth make them most admired; 
 The contrary doth make thee wondered at. 
 'Tis government that makes them seem divine, 
 The want thereof makes thee abominable. 
 
 * * * * ^ 
 
 tiger's heart, wrapped in a woman's hide! 
 How could'st thou drain the life-blood of the child 
 To bid the f\ither wipe his face Avithal, 
 And yet be seen to bear a woman's face? 
 Women are soft, mild, pitiful and flexible. 
 Thou stern, obdurate, fiiiaty, rough, remorseless ! 
 
 By such a woman as Margaret is here depicted 
 such a speech could be answered only in one way— 
 with her dagger's point — and thus she answers it. 
 
 It is some comfort to reflect that this trait of 
 ferocity is not historical : the body of the Duke 
 
404 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 of York was found, after the battle, among the 
 heaps of slain, and his head struck off: but even 
 this was not done by the command of Margaret. 
 
 In another passage, the truth and consistency of 
 the character of Margaret are sacrificed to the march 
 of the dramatic action, with a very ill effect. When 
 her fortunes were at the very lowest ebb, and she 
 had sought refuge in the court of the French king, 
 Warwick, her most formidable enemy, upon some 
 disgust he had taken against Edward the Fourth, 
 offered to espouse her cause ; and proposed a 
 match between the prince her son and his daughter 
 Anne of Warwick — the "gentle Lady Anne," 
 who figures in Richard the Third. In the play, 
 Margaret embraces the offer without a moment's 
 hesitation : * we are disgusted by her versatile 
 •policy, and a meanness of spirit in no way allied 
 to the magnanimous forgiveness of her terrible ad- 
 versary. The Margaret of history sternly resisted 
 this degrading expedient. She could not, she said, 
 pardon from her heart the man who had been the 
 primary cause of all her misfortunes. She mistrusted 
 Warwick, despised him for the motives of his revolt 
 from Edward, and considered that to match her son 
 into the family of her enemy from mere policy, 
 was a species of degradation. It took Louis the 
 
 * See Ileury VI. Part in. Act. iii. sc. 3— 
 
 QUEEX MARGARET. 
 
 Warwick, these words have turned my hate to love.— 
 
 And I forgive and quite forget old faults, 
 
 And joy, that thoa becom'st King Henry's friend. 
 
QUEEN MAKGARET. 405 
 
 Eleventh, with all his art and eloquence, fifteen 
 days to wring a reluctant consent, accompanied Avith 
 tears, from this high-hearted woman. 
 
 The speech of Margaret to her council of gener- 
 als before the battle of Tewksbury, (Act v. scene 
 5,) is as remarkable a specimen of false rhetoric, 
 as her address to the soldiers, on the eve of the 
 fight, is of true and passionate eloquence. 
 
 She witnesses the final defeat of her army, the 
 massacre of her adherents, and the murder of her 
 son ; and though the savage Richard would willingly 
 have put an end to her misery, and exclaims very 
 pertinently-r- 
 
 Why should she live to fill the world with words? 
 
 she is dragged forth unharmed, a woful spectacle 
 of extremest wretchedness, to which death would 
 have been an undeserved relief. If we compare 
 the clamorous and loud exclaims of Margaret after 
 the slaughter of her son, to the ravings of Con- 
 stance, we shall perceive where Shakspeare's 
 genius did not preside, and where it did. Margaret, 
 in bold defiance of history, but with fine dramatic 
 effect, is introduced again in the gorgeous and 
 polluted court of Edward the Fourth. There she 
 stalks around the seat of her former greatness, like 
 a terrible phantom of departed majesty, uncrowned, 
 unsceptered, desolate, powerless — or like a vampire 
 thirsting for blood — or like a grim prophetess of 
 evil, imprecating that ruin on the head of her 
 enemies, which she lived to see realized. The 
 
406 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 scene following the murder of the princes in the 
 Tower, in which Queen EHzabeth and the Duchess 
 of York sit down on the ground bewailing their 
 desolation, and Margaret suddenly appears from 
 behind them, like the very personification of woe, 
 and seats herself beside them revelling in their 
 despair, is, in the general conception and effect, 
 grand and appalling. 
 -^ _ ^ 
 
 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 0, Harry's wife, triumph not in my woes; 
 God witness with me, I have wept for thine ! 
 
 QUEEN MARGARET. 
 
 Bear with me, I am hungry for revenge, 
 
 And now I cloy me with beliolding it. 
 
 Thy Edward he is dead, that kill'd my Edward; 
 
 Thy other Edward dead, to quit my Edward : 
 
 Young York he is but boot, because both they 
 
 Match not the high perfection of my loss. 
 
 Thy Clarence he is dead, that stabb'd my Edward; 
 
 And the beholders of this tragic play. 
 
 The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey, 
 
 Untimely smother' d in their dusky graves. 
 
 Richard yet lives, hell's black intelligencer, 
 
 Only reserv'd their factor, to buy souls 
 
 And send them thither. But at hand, at hand. 
 
 Ensues his piteous and unpitied end; 
 
 Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar for him : saints pray 
 
 To have him suddenly convey'd from hence. 
 
 Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I px*ay. 
 
 That I may live to say. The dog is dead. * 
 
 * Horace Walpole observes, that "it is evident from the con- 
 duct of Shakspeare, that the house of Tudor retained all their 
 
KATHERIXE OF ARRAGOX. 407 
 
 She should have stopped here ; but the efTect 
 thus powerfully excited is marred and weakened 
 by so much superfluous rhetoric, that ^Ye are 
 tempted to exclaim with the old Duchess of York — 
 
 Why should calamity be full of words ? 
 
 ^QUEEN KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 
 
 To have a just idea of the accuracy and beauty 
 of this liistorical portrait, we ought to bring 
 immediately before us those circumstances of 
 Katherine's Hfe and times, and those parts of her 
 character, which belong to a period previous to the 
 opening of the play. We shall then be better able 
 to appreciate the skill with which Shakspeare has 
 applied the materials before him. 
 
 Katherine of Arragon, the fourth and youngest 
 daughter of Ferdinand, King of Arragon, and 
 Isabella of Castile, was born at Alcala, whither her 
 mother had retired to winter after one of the most 
 terrible campaigns of the Moorish war — that of 
 1485. 
 
 Katherine had derived from nature no dazzling 
 
 Lancasterian prejudices eTcn in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. 
 In his play of Richard the Third, he seems to deduce the woes 
 of the house of York from the curses which Queen Margaret had 
 vented against them ; and he could not give that weight to her 
 curses, without supposing a right in her to utter them." 
 
408 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 qualities of mind, and no striking advantages of 
 person. She inherited a tincture of Queen Isabella's 
 haughtiness and obstinacy of temper, but neither 
 her beauty nor her splendid talents. Her education 
 under the direction of that extraordinary mother, 
 had implanted in her mind the most austere prin- 
 ciples of virtue, the highest ideas of female decorum, 
 the most narrow and bigoted attachment to the 
 forms of religion, and that excessive pride of birth 
 and rank, which distinguished so jjarticularly her 
 family and her nation. In other respects, her Un- 
 derstanding was strong, and her judgment clear. 
 The natural turn of her mind was simple, serious, 
 and domestic, and all the impulses of her heart 
 kindly and benevolent. Such was Katherlne ; such, 
 at least, she appears on a reference to the chron- 
 icles of her times, and particularly from her own 
 letters, and the papers written or dictated by her- 
 self which relate to her divorce ; all of which are 
 distinguished by the same artless simplicity of style, 
 the same quiet good sense, the same resolute, yet 
 gentle spirit and fervent piety. 
 
 When five years old, Katherine was solemnly 
 affianced to Arthur, Prince of Wales, the eldest son 
 of Henry Vll. ; and in the year 1501, she landed 
 in England, after narrowly escaping shipwreck on 
 the southern coast, from which every advei"se wind 
 conspired to drive her. She was received in London 
 with great honor, and immediately on her arrival 
 united to the young prince. He was then fifteen, 
 and Katherine in her seventeenth year. 
 
KATHERINE OF* AERAGON. 409 
 
 Arthur, a3 itis well known, survived bis marriage 
 only five months ; and the reluctance of Henry 
 VII. to refund the splendid dowry of the Infanta, 
 and forego the advantages of an alliance with the 
 most powerfid prince of Europe, suggested the idea 
 of uniting Katherine to his second son Henry; 
 after some hesitation, a dispensation was procured 
 from the Pope, and she was betrothed to Henry in 
 her eighteenth year. The prince, who was then only 
 twelve years old, resisted as far as he was able to 
 do so, and appears to have really felt a degree of 
 fiorror at the idea of marrying his brother's widow. 
 Nor was the mind of King Henry at rest ; as his 
 health declined, his conscience reproached him with 
 the equivocal nature, of the union into which he 
 had forced his son ; and the vile motives of avarice 
 and expediency which had governed him on this 
 occasion. A short time previous to his death, he 
 dissolved the engagement, and even caused Henry 
 to sign a paper in which he solemnly renounced 
 all idea of a future union with the Infanta. It is 
 observable, that Henry signed this paper with re- 
 luctance, and that Katherine, instead of being sent 
 back to her own country, still remained in England. 
 
 It appears that Henry, who was now about sev- 
 enteen, had become interested for Katherine, who 
 was gentle and amiable. The difference of years 
 was rather a circumstance in her favor ; for Henry 
 was just at tliat age, when a youth is most likely to 
 be captivated by a woman older than himself: and 
 no sooner was he required to renounce her, than 
 
410 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 the interest she had gradually gained in his affec- 
 tions, became, by opposition, a strong passion. 
 Immediately after his father's death, he declared 
 his resolution to take for his wife the Lady Kathe- 
 rine of Spain, and none other; and when the 
 matter was discussed in council, it was urged that, 
 besides the many advantages of the match in a 
 political point of view, she had given so " much 
 proof of virtue, and sweetness of condition, as they 
 knew not where to parallel her." About six weeks 
 after his accession, June 3, 1509, the marriage was 
 celebrated with truly royal splendor, Henry being 
 ^ then eighteen, and Katherine in her twenty-fourth 
 year. 
 
 It has been said with truth, that if Henry had 
 died while Katherine was yet his wife, and Wolsey 
 his minister, he would have left behind him the 
 character of a magnificent, popular, and accom- 
 plished prince, instead of that of the most hateful 
 ruffian and tyrant who ever swayed these realms. 
 Notwithstanding his occasional infidelities, and his 
 impatience at her midnight vigils, her long prayers, 
 and her religious austei'ities, Katherine and Henry 
 lived in harmony together. He was fond of openly 
 displaying his respect and love for her ; and she 
 exercised a strong and salutary influence over his 
 turbulent and despotic spirit. When Henry set 
 out on his expedition to France, in 1513, he left 
 Katherine regent of the kingdom during his absence, 
 with full powers to carry on the war against the 
 Scots ; and the Earl of Surrey at the head of the 
 
KATHEKIXE OF AKKAGON. 411 
 
 army, as her lieutenant-general. It is curious to 
 find Katherine — the pacific, domestic, and unpre- 
 tending Katherine — describing herself as having 
 " her heart set to war," and " horrible busy " "with 
 making " standards, banners, badges, scarfs, and 
 the like." * Nor was this mere silken preparation 
 — mere dalliance with the pomp and circumstance 
 of war ; for within a few weeks afterwards, her 
 general defeated the Scots in the famous battle of 
 Floddenfield, where James IV. and most of his 
 nobility were slain, f 
 
 Katherine's letter to Henry, announcing this 
 event, so strikingly displays the piety and tender- 
 ness, the quiet simplicity, and real magnanimity 
 of her character, that there cannot be a more apt 
 and beautiful illustration of the exquisite truth and 
 keeping of Shakspeare's portrait. 
 
 Sir, 
 My Lord Howard hath sent me a letter, open to 
 your Grace, within one of mine, by the which ye 
 shall see at length the great victory that our Lord 
 hath sent your subjects in your absence : and for 
 this cause, it is no need herein to trouble your 
 Grace with long wridng ; but to my thinking this 
 battle hath been to your Grace, and all your realm, 
 the greatest honor that could be, and more than ye 
 should win all the crown of France, thanked be 
 God for it! And I am sure your Grace forgetteth 
 
 * See her letters in Ellis's Collection. 
 
 t Undei- similar circumstancos. one of Katherine's predecessors, 
 Philippa of Hainault, had gained in her husbr^d's absence tho 
 battle of Neville Cross, in which David Lruce was taken prisoner. 
 
412 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 not to do this, which shall be cause to send you 
 many more such great victories, as I trust he shall 
 do. My husband, for haste, with Rougecross, I 
 could not send your Grace the piece of the king 
 of Scots' coat, which John Glyn now bringeth. 
 In this your Grace shall see how I can keep my 
 promise, sending you for your banners a king's 
 coat. I thought to send himself unto you, but our 
 Englishmen's hearts would not suffer it. It should 
 have been better for him to have been in peace 
 than have this reward, but all that God sendeth is 
 for the best. My Lord of Surrey, my Henry, would 
 fain know your pleasure" in the burying of the king 
 of Scots' body, for he hath written to me so. With 
 the next messenger, your Grace's pleasure may be 
 herein known. And with this I make an end, pray- 
 ing God to send you home shortly ; for without 
 this, no joy here can be accomplished— and for the 
 same I pray.. And now go to our Lady at Wal- 
 syngham, that I promised so long ago to see. 
 
 At Woburn, the 16th day of September, (1513.) 
 I send your Grace herein a bill, found in a Scot- 
 tishman's purse, of such things as the French king 
 sent to the said king of Scots, to make war against 
 you, beseeching you to send Mathew hither as soon 
 as this messenger cometh with tidings of your 
 Grace. 
 
 Your humble wife and true servant, 
 Katherine.* 
 
 * Ellis's Collection. "We must keep in mind that Kathcrine 
 was a foreigner, and till after she was seventeen, never spoke oi 
 wrote a word of English. 
 
KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 413 
 
 The legality of the king's marriage -with Kathe- 
 rine remained undisputed till 1527. In the course 
 of that year, Anna Bullen first appeared at court, 
 and was appointed maid of honor to the queen ; 
 and then, and not till then, did Henry's union with 
 his brother's wife " creep too near his conscience." 
 In the following year, he sent special messengers 
 to Kome, with secret instructions : they were re- 
 quired to discover (among other " hard questions ") 
 whether, if the queen entered a religious life, the 
 king might have the Pope's dispensation to marry 
 again ; and whether if the king (for the better 
 inducing the queen thereto) would enter himself 
 into a religious life, the Pope would dispense with 
 the king's vow, and leave her there ? 
 
 Poor Kathenne ! we are not surprised to read 
 that when she understood what was intended 
 against her, " she labored with all those passions 
 which jealousy of the king's affection, sense of her 
 own honor, and the legitimation of her daughter, 
 could produce, laying in conclusion the whole fault 
 on the Cardinal." It is elsewhere said, that "Wol- 
 sey bore the queen ill-will, in consequence of her 
 reflecting with some severity on his haughty tem- 
 per, and very unclerical life. 
 
 The proceedings were pending for nearly six 
 years, and one of the causes of this long delay, in 
 spite of Henry's impatient and despotic character, 
 is worth noting. The old Chronicle tells us, that 
 tiiough the men generally, and more particularly 
 the priests and the nobles, sided with Henry in this 
 
414 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 matter, yet all tlie ladies of England were against 
 it. They justly felt that the honor and welfare of 
 no woman was secure if, after twenty years of 
 union, she might be thus deprived of all her rights 
 as a wife ; the clamor became so loud and general, 
 that the king was obliged to yield to it for a time, 
 to stop the proceedings, and to banish Anna Bullen 
 from the court. 
 
 Cardinal Campeggio, called by Shakspeare Cam- 
 peius, arrived in England in October, 1528. He 
 at first endeavored to p(?.rsuade Katherine to avoid 
 the disgrace and danger of contesting her marriage, 
 by entering a religious house ; but she rejected his 
 advice with strong expi-essions of disdain. "I 
 am," said she, " the king's true wife, and to him 
 married ; and if all doctors were dead, or law or 
 learning far out of men's minds at the time of our 
 marriage, yet 1 cannot think that the court of 
 Rome, and the whole church of England, would 
 have consented to a thing unlawful and detestable 
 as you call it. Still I say I am his wife, and for 
 him Avill I pray." 
 
 About two years afterwards, Wolsey died, (in 
 November, 1530 ;) — the king and queen met for 
 the last time on the 14th of July, 1531. Until 
 that period, some outward show of respect and 
 kindness had been maintained between them ; but 
 the king then ordered her to repair to a private 
 residence, and no longer to consider herself as his 
 lawful wife. " To which the virtuous and mourn- 
 ing queen replied no more than this, that to what- 
 
KATHERIXE OF ARRAGON. 415 
 
 ever place she removed, notliing could remoA^e lier 
 from being the king's wife. And so they bid each 
 other farewell ; and from this time the king never 
 saw her more."* He married Anna Bullen in 
 1532, while the decision relating to his former 
 marriage was still pending. The sentence of 
 divorce to which Katherine never would submit, 
 was finally pronounced by Cranmer in 1533 ; and 
 the unhappy queen, whose health had been grad- 
 ually declining through these troubles of heart, 
 died January 29, 1536, in the fiftieth year of her 
 age. 
 
 Thus the action of the play of Henry VHI. 
 includes events which occurred from the impeach- 
 ment of the Duke of Buckingham in 1521, to the 
 death of Katherine in 1536. In making the death 
 of Katherine precede the birth of Queen Elizabeth, 
 Shakspeare has committed an anachronism, not 
 only pardonable, but necessary. We must remem- 
 ber that the construction of the play required a 
 happy termination ; and that the birth of Eliza- 
 beth, before or after the death of Katherine, in- 
 volved the question of her legitimacy. By this 
 slight deviation from the real course of events, 
 Shakspeare has not perverted historic facts, but 
 merely sacrificed them to a higher principle ; and 
 in doing so has not only preserved dramatic pro- 
 priety, and heightened the poetical interest, but 
 has given a strong proof both of his delicacy and 
 his judgment. 
 
 * Hall's Chronicle. 
 
416 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 If we also call to mind that in this play Kath- 
 erine is properly the heroine, and exhibited from 
 first to last as the very " queen of earthly queens ; " 
 that the Avhole interest is thrown round her and 
 "VVolsey — the one the injured rival, the other the 
 enemy of Anna Bullen — and that it was written 
 in the reign and for the court of Elizabeth, we 
 shall yet farther appreciate the moral greatness of 
 the poet's mind, which disdained to sacrifice justice 
 and the truth of nature to any time-serving expe- 
 diency. 
 
 Schlegel observes somewhere, that in the literal 
 accuracy and apparent artlessness with which 
 Shakspeare has adapted some of the events and 
 characters of history to his dramatic purposes, he 
 has shown equally his genius and his wisdom. 
 This, like most of Schlegel's remarks, is profound 
 and true ; and in this respect Katherine of Arra- 
 gon may rank as the triumph of Shakspeai'e's 
 genius and his wisdom. There is nothing in the 
 whole range of poetical fiction in any respect re- 
 sembling or approaching her ; there is nothing 
 comparable, I suppose, but Katherine's own por- 
 trait by Holbein, which, equally true to the life, 
 is yet as far inferior as Katherine's person was in- 
 ferior to her mind. Not only has Shakspeare 
 given us here a delineation as faithful as it is beau- 
 tiful, of a peculiar modification of character ; but he 
 has bequeathed us a precious moral lesson in this 
 proof that virtue alone, — (by which I mean here the 
 union of truth or conscience with benevolent aifec- 
 
KATHERIXE OF ARRAGON. 417 
 
 tion — the one the highest law, the other the purest 
 impulse of the soul,) — that such virtue is a suffi- 
 cient source of the deepest pathos and power with- 
 out any mixture of foreign or external ornament : 
 for who but ShakspeareKvould have brought before 
 us a queen and a heroine of tragedy, stripped her 
 of all pomp of place and circumstance, dispensed 
 with all the usual sources of poetical interest, as 
 youth, beauty, grace, fancy, commanding intellect ; 
 and without any appeal to our imagination, with- 
 out any violation of historical truth, or any sacri- 
 fices of the other dramatic personages for the sake 
 of effect, could depend on the moral principle 
 alone, to touch the very springs of feeling in our 
 bosoms, and melt and elevate our hearts through 
 the purest and holiest impulses of our nature ! 
 
 The character, when analyzed, is, in the first 
 place, distinguished by truth. I do not only mean 
 its truth to nature, or its relative truth arising from 
 its historic fidelity and dramatic consistency, but 
 truth as a quality of the soul; this is the basis of 
 the character^ We often hear it remarked that 
 those who are themselves perfectly true and art- 
 less, are in this world the more easily and fre- 
 quently deceived — a common-place fallacy : for we 
 shall ever find that truth is as undeceived as it is 
 undeceiving, and that those who are true to them- 
 selves and others, may now and then be mistaken, 
 or in particular instances duped by the intervention 
 of some other affection or quality of the mind ; but 
 they are generally free from illusion, and they are 
 27 
 
418 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 seldom imposed upon in the long run by the shows 
 
 of things and superfices of characters. It is by this I 
 integrity of heart and clearness of understanding, ' 
 this light of truth within her own soul, and not I 
 through any acuteness of intellect, that Katherine I 
 detects and exposes the real character of Wolsey, ! 
 though unable either to unravel his designs, or de- 
 feat them. 
 
 My lord, my lord, 
 
 I am a simple woman, much too weak 
 
 T' oppose your cunning. 
 
 She rather intuitively feels than knows his 
 duplicity, and in the dignity of her simplicity she 
 towers above his arrogance as much as she scorns 
 his crooked policy. With this essential truth are j 
 combined many other qualities, natural or acquired, ! 
 all made out with the same uncompromising breadth 
 of execution and fidelity of pencil, united with the 
 utmost delicacy of feehng. For instance, the ap- 
 parent contradiction arising from the contrast be- 
 tween Katherine's natural disposition and the 
 situation in which she is placed ; her lofty Castilian 
 pride and her extreme simplicity of language and 
 deportment; the inflexible resolution with which 
 she asserts her right, and her soft resignation to 
 unkindness and wrong; her warmth of temper'. 
 breaking through the meekness oft a spirit subdued | 
 by a deep sense of religion ; and a degree of \ 
 austerity tinging her real benevolence ; — all these 
 qualities, opposed yet harmonizing, has Shakspeare 
 placed before us in a few admirable scenes. j 
 
KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 419 
 
 Kathenne is at first introduced as pleading 
 before the king in behalf of the commonalty, -who 
 had been driven by the extortions of Wolsey into 
 some illegal excesses. In this scene, which is true 
 to history, we have her upright reasoning mind, 
 her steadiness of purpose, her piety and benevo- 
 lence, placed in a strong light. The unshrinking 
 dignity with which she opposes without descending 
 to brave the Cardinal, the stern rebuke addressed 
 to the Duke of Buckingham's surveyor, are finely 
 characteristic ; and by thus exhibiting Katherine 
 as invested with all her conjugal rights and influ- 
 ence, and royal state, the subsequent situations are 
 rendered more impressive. She is placed in the 
 first instance on such a height in our esteem and 
 reverence, that in the midst of her abandonment 
 and degradation, and the profound pity she after- 
 wards inspires, the first efi*ect remains unimpaired, 
 and she never falls beneath it. 
 
 In the beginning of the second act we are pre- 
 pared for the proceedings of the divorce, and our 
 respect for Katherine heightened by the general 
 sympathy for " the good queen," as she is expres- 
 sively entitled, and by the following beautiful 
 eulogium on her character uttered by the Duke of 
 Norfolk :— 
 
 He (Wolsey) counsels a divorce — a loss of her 
 That like a jewel hath hnng twenty years 
 About his neck, yet never lost her lustre. 
 Of her that loves him with that excellence 
 That angels love good men with : even of her. 
 
420 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls, I 
 "Will bless the King! I 
 
 The scene in which Anna Bullen is introduced 
 as expressing her grief and sympathy for her royal 
 mistress, is exquisitely graceful. 
 
 Here's the pang that pinches: 
 His highness having liv'd so long with her, and she 
 So good a lady, that no tongue could ever 
 Pronounce dishonor of her, — by my life 
 She never knew harm-doing. now, after 
 So many courses of the sun enthron'd, 
 Still growing in a majesty and pomp, — the which 
 To leave is a thousand-fold more bitter, than 
 'Tis sweet at first to acquire, — after this process, 
 To give her the avaunt ! it is a pity 
 "Would move a monster. 
 
 OLD LADY. 
 
 Hearts of most hard temper 
 Melt and lament for her. 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 0, God's will ! much better 
 She ne'er had known pomp: though it be temporal, 
 Yet if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce 
 It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance, panging 
 As soul and body's severing. 
 
 OLD LADY. 
 
 Alas, poor lady ! 
 She's a stranger now again. 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 So much the more 
 Must pity drop upon her. "Verily, 
 I swear 'tis better to be lowly born. 
 
KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 421 
 
 And range with liumble livers in content, 
 Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, 
 And wear a golden soitow. 
 
 How completely, in the few passages appropri- 
 ated to Anna Bullen, is her character portrayed ! 
 with what a deHcate and yet luxuriant grace is she 
 sketched off, with her gayety and her beauty, her 
 levity, her extreme mobility, her sweetness of dis- 
 position, her tenderness of heart, and, in short, all 
 her femalities ! How nobly has Shakspeare done 
 justice to the two women, and heightened our 
 interest in both, by placing the praises of Katherine 
 in the mouth of Anna Bullen ! and how charac- 
 teristic of the latter, that she should first express 
 unbounded pity for her mistress, insisting chiefly 
 on her fall from her regal state and worldly pomp, 
 thus betraying her own disposition : — 
 
 For she that had all the fair parts of woman, 
 Had, too, a woman's heart, which ever yet 
 Affected eminence, wealth, and sovereignty. 
 
 That she should call the loss of temporal pomp, 
 once enjoyed, " a sufferance equal to soul and 
 body's severing;" that she should immediately 
 protest that she would not herself be a queen — 
 " No, good troth ! not for all the riches under 
 heaven ! " — and not long afterwards ascend without 
 reluctance that throne and bed from which her 
 royal mistress had been so cruelly divorced !— how 
 natural ! The portrait is not less true and mas- 
 terly than that of Katherine ; but the character is 
 
422 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 overborne by the superior moral firmness and in- 
 trinsic excellence of the latter. That we may be 
 more fully sensible of this contrast, the beautiful 
 scene just alluded to immediately precedes Kathe- 
 rine's trial at Blackfriars, and the description of 
 Anna Bullen's triumphant beauty at her corona« 
 tion, is placed immediately before the dying scene 
 of Katherme ; yet with equal good taste and good 
 feeling Shakspeare has constantly avoided all per- 
 sonal collision between the two characters; nor 
 does Anna BuUen ever appear as queen except in 
 the pageant of the procession, which in reading the 
 play is scarcely noticed. 
 
 To return to Katherine. The whole of the trial 
 scene is given nearly verbatim from the old chron- 
 icles and records ; but the dryness and harshness 
 of the laAv proceedings is tempered at once and 
 elevated by the genius and the wisdom of the poet. 
 It appears, on referring to the historical authorities, 
 that when the affair was first agitated in council, 
 Katherine replied to the long expositions and theo- 
 logical sophistries of her opponents with resolute 
 simplicity and composure : " I am a woman, and 
 lack wit and learning to answer these opinions; 
 but I am sure that neither the king's father nor my 
 father would have condescended to our marriage, 
 if it had been judged unlawful. As to your saying 
 that I should put the cause to eight persons of this 
 realm, for quietness of the king's conscience, I 
 pray Heaven to send his Grace a quiet conscience : 
 and this shall be your answer, that I say I am his 
 
KATHERIXE OF ARRAGON. 423 
 
 lawful wife, and to hira lawfully married, though 
 not worthy of it ; and in this point I will abide, till 
 the court of Rome, which was privy to the begin- 
 ning, have made a final ending of it." * 
 
 Katherine's appearance in the court at Black- 
 friars, attended by a noble troop of ladies and 
 prelates of her counsel, and her refusal to answer 
 the citation, are historical.f Her speech to the 
 king- 
 Sir, I beseech you do me right and justice, 
 And to bestow your pity on me, &c. &c. 
 
 is taken word for word (as nearly as the change 
 from prose to blank verse would allow) from the 
 old record in Hall. It would have been easy for 
 Shakspeare to have exalted his own skill, by throw- 
 ing a coloring of poetry and eloquence into this 
 speech, without altering the sense or sentiment; 
 but by adhering to the calm argumentative sim- 
 plicity of manner and diction natural to the woman, 
 he has preserved the truth of character without 
 lessening the pathos of the situation. Her chal- 
 lenging Wolsey as a " foe to truth," and her very 
 
 * HaU's Chronicle, p. 781. 
 
 t The court at Blackfriars sat on the 28th of May, 1529. " The 
 queen being called, accompanied by the four bishops and others 
 of her counsel, and a great company of ladies and gentlewomen 
 following her; and after her obeisance, sadly and with great 
 gravity, she appealed from them to the court of Rome." — See 
 Hall and Cavendish's Life of Wolsey. 
 
 The account wliich Hume gires of this scene is very elegant; 
 but after the affecting naivete of the old chroniclers, it is very 
 cold and unsatisfactory. 
 
424 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 expressions, " I utterly refuse, — yea, from my soul 
 abhor you for my judge," are taken from fact. The 
 sudden burst of indignant passion towards the close 
 of this scene, 
 
 In. one who ever yet 
 Had stood to charity, and displayed the effects 
 Of disposition gentle, and of wisdom 
 O'ertopping woman's power; 
 
 is taken from nature, though it occurred on a dif- 
 ferent occasion.* 
 
 Lastly, the circumstance of her being called 
 back after she had appealed from the court, and 
 angrily refusing to return, is from the life. Master 
 Griffith, on whose arm she leaned, observed that 
 she was called : " On, on," quoth she ; " it maketh 
 no matter, for it is no indifferent court for me, 
 therefore I will not tarry. Go on your ways." f 
 
 King Henry's own assertion, " I dare to say, my 
 lords, that for her womanhood, wisdom, nobility, 
 and gentleness, never prince had such another 
 wife, and therefore if I would willingly change her 
 I were not wise," is thus beautifully paraphrased 
 by Shakspeare: — 
 
 I That man i' the world, who shall report he has 
 A better wife, let him in nought be trusted, 
 For speaking false in that ! Thou art, alone, 
 
 * " The queen answered the Duke of SufiFolk very highly and 
 obstinately, -vnih. many high words : and suddenly, in a fury, 
 ehe departed from him into her privy chamber." — Vide HalPs 
 
 Chronicle. 
 t Vide Cavendish's Life of Wolsey. 
 
KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 425 
 
 If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness, 
 
 (Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government, 
 
 Obeying in commanding; and thy parts, 
 
 Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out,) 
 
 The queen of earthly queens. She is noble bom, 
 
 And, like her true nobility, she has 
 
 Carried herself towards me. 
 
 The annotators on Shakspeare have all observed 
 the close resemblance between this fine passage — 
 
 Sir, 
 I am about to weep ; but, thinking that 
 We are a qiieen, or long have dreamed so, certain 
 The daughter of a king — my drops of tears 
 I'll turn to sparks of fire. 
 
 and the speech of Hermlone — 
 
 I am not prone to weeping as our sex 
 Commonly are, the want of which vain dew 
 Perchance shall dry your pities : but I have 
 That honorable ginef lodged here, which bums 
 Worse than tears drown. 
 
 But these verbal gentlemen do not seem to have 
 felt that the resemblance is merely on the surface, 
 and that the two passages could not possibly change 
 places, without a manifest violation of the truth of 
 character. In Hermione it is pride of sex merely : 
 in Katherine it is pride of place and pride of birth. 
 Hermione, though so superbly majestic, is perfectly 
 independent of her regal state : Katherine, though 
 so meekly pious, will neither forget hers, nor allow 
 it to be forgotten by others for a moment. Her- 
 
426 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 mione, when deprived of that " crown and comfort 
 of her life," her husband's love, regards all things 
 else with despair and inditference-except her femi- 
 nine honor : Katherine, divorced and abandoned, 
 still with true Spanish pride stands upon respect, 
 and will not bate one atom of her accustomed state 
 
 Though unqueened, yet like a queen, 
 And daughter to a kmg, inter me ! 
 
 The passage — 
 
 A fellow of the royal bed, that owns 
 
 A moiety of the throne — a great king's daughter, 
 
 here standing 
 
 To prate and talk for life and honor 'fore 
 Who please to come to hear,* 
 
 would apply nearly to both queens, yet a single 
 sentiment — nay, a single sentence — could not pos- 
 sibly be transferred from one character to the 
 other. The magnanimity, the noble simplicity, the 
 purity of heart, the resignation in each — how per- 
 fectly equal in degree ! how diametrically opposite 
 in kind ! f 
 
 * Winter's Tale, act iii. scene 2. 
 
 t I have constantly abstained from considering any of these 
 characters with a reference to the theatre ; yet I cannot help re- 
 marking, that if Mrs. Siddons, who excelled equally in Ilermione 
 and Katherine, and threw such majesty of demeanor, such 
 power, such picturesque effect, into both, could likewise feel and 
 convey the infinite contrast between the ideal grace, the classical 
 repose and imaginative charm thrown round Hermioue, and the 
 mattor-of-fact, artless, prosaic nature of Katherine; between the 
 
KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 427 
 
 Once more to return to Katherine. 
 
 We are told by Cavendish, that when Wolsey 
 and Campeggio visited the queen by the king's 
 order she was found at work among her women, 
 and came forth tx) meet the cardinals with a skein 
 of white thread hanging about her neck; that 
 when Wolsey addressed her in Latin, she inter- 
 rupted him, saying, " Nay, good my lord, speak to 
 me in English, I beseech you ; although I under- 
 stand Latin." " Forsooth then," quoth my lord, 
 " madam, if it please your grace, we come both to 
 know your mind, how ye be disposed to do in this 
 matter between the king and you, and also to 
 declare secretly our opinions and our counsel unto 
 you, which we have intended of very zeal and 
 obedience that we bear to your grace." " My 
 lords, I thank you then," quoth she, " of your good 
 wills ; but to make answer to your request I cannot, 
 so suddenly, for I was set among my maidens at 
 work, thinking full little of any such matter; 
 wherein there needeth a longer deliberation, and 
 a better head than mine to make answer to so 
 noble wise men as ye be. I had need of good 
 counsel in this case, which toucheth me so near ; 
 and for any counsel or friendship that I can find 
 in England, they are nothing to my purpose or 
 profit. Think you, I pray you, my lords, will any 
 Englishmen counsel, or be friendly unto me, 
 
 poetical grandeur of the former, and the moral dignity of the 
 latter, — then she certainly exceeded all that I could have imag- 
 ined possible, eyen to her wonderful powers. 
 
428 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 against the king's pleasure, they being his subjects? 
 Nay, forsooth, my lords ! and for my counsel, in 
 •whom I do intend to put my trust, they be not 
 here ; they be in Spain, in my native country.* 
 Alas ! my lords, I am a poor woman lacking both 
 •wit and understanding sufficiently to answer such 
 approved wise men as ye be both, in so weighty a 
 matter. I pray you to extend your good and in- 
 different minds in your authority unto me, for I 
 am a sunple woman, destitute and bai-ren of friend- 
 ship and counsel, here in a foreign region ; and as 
 for your counsel, I will not refuse, but be glad to 
 hear." 
 
 It appears, also, that when the Archbishop of 
 York and Bishop Tunstall waited on her at her 
 house near Huntingdon, with the sentence of the 
 divorce, signed by Henry, and confirmed by act of 
 .parliament, she refused to admit its validity, she 
 being Henry's wife, and not his subject. The bishop 
 describes her conduct in his letter : " She being 
 therewith in great choler and agony, and always 
 interrupting our words, declared that she would 
 never leave the name of queen, but would persist 
 in accounting herself the king's wife till death." 
 
 * This affecting passage is thus rendered by Shakspeare : — 
 
 Nay, forsooth, my friends, 
 They that must weigh out my aflSictions — 
 They that my trust must grow to, live not here — 
 They are, as all my other comforts, far hence, 
 In mine own country, lords. 
 
 Henry ym. act iii. sc. 1. 
 
KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 429 
 
 When the official letter containing minutes of their 
 conference, was shown to her, she seized a pen, and 
 dashed it angrily across every sentence in which 
 she was styled Princess-doivager. 
 
 If now we turn to that inimitable scene between 
 Katherine and the two cardinals, (act iii. scene 1,) 
 we shall observe how finely Shakspeare has con- 
 densed these incidents, and unfolded to us all the 
 workings of Katherine's proud yet feminine nature. 
 She is discovered at work with some of her women 
 — she calls for music " to soothe her soul grown 
 sad with troubles " — then follows the little song, of 
 which the sentiment is so well adapted to the oc- 
 casion, while its quaint yet classic elegance breathes 
 the very spirit of those times, when Surrey loved 
 and sung. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Orpheus with his lute-made trees, 
 And the mountain-tops that freeze. 
 
 Bow themselves when he did sing 
 To his music, plants and flowers 
 Ever sprung, as sun and showers 
 
 There had made a lasting spring. 
 
 Every thing that heard him play, 
 Even the billows of the sea. 
 
 Hung their heads and then lay by 
 In sweet music is such art, 
 Killing care, and grief of heart, 
 
 Fall asleep, on hearing, die. 
 
 They are interrupted by the arrival of the two 
 
430 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 cardinals. Katlierine's perception of their subtlety 
 — her suspicion of their purpose — her sense of her 
 own weakness and inability to contend with them, 
 and her mild subdued dignity, are beautifully rep- 
 resented ; as also the guarded self-command with 
 which she eludes giving a definitive answer ; but 
 •when they counsel her to that which she, who 
 knows Henry, feels must end in her ruin, then the 
 native temper is roused at once, or, to use Tunstall's 
 expression, " the choler and the agony," burst forth 
 in words. 
 
 Is this your christian counsel ? Out upon ye ! 
 Heaven is above all yet ; there sits a Judge 
 That no kuig can corrupt. 
 
 WOLSEY. 
 
 • Your rage mistakes us. 
 
 QUEEN KATHERINE. 
 
 The more shame for ye ! Holy men I thought ye, 
 Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues; 
 But cardinal sins, and hollow hearts, I fear ye : 
 Mend them, for shame, my lords: is this your comfort, 
 The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady ? * 
 
 With the same force of language, and impetuous 
 yet dignified feeling, she asserts her own conjugal 
 truth and merit, and insists upon her rights. 
 
 Have I liv'd thus long, (let me speak myself. 
 Since virtue finds no friends,) a wife, a true one, 
 A woman, (I dare say, without vain-glory,) 
 Never yet branded with suspicion ? 
 Have I, with all my full affections, 
 
KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. $1^ 
 
 Still met the king — lov'd him next heaven, obey'd him! 
 
 Been out of fondness superstitious to him — 
 
 Almost forgot my prayers to content him, 
 
 And am I thus rewarded? 'tis not well, lords, &.C. 
 
 My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty, 
 To give up willingly that noble title 
 Your master Aved me to: nothing but death 
 Shall e'er divorce my dignities. 
 
 And this burst of unwonted passion Is immediately 
 followed by the natural reaction ; it subsides into 
 tears, dejection, and a mournful self-compassion. 
 
 Would T had never trod this English ground, 
 
 Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it. 
 
 What will become of me now, wretched lady? 
 
 I am the most unhappy woman living. 
 
 Alas ! poor Avenches ! where are now your fortunes ? 
 
 [ To her women. 
 Shipwrecked upon a kingdom, where no pity. 
 No friends, no hope, no kindred weep for me ! 
 Almost no gi-ave allowed me ! Like the lily that once 
 Was mistress of the field, and flourish'd, 
 I'll hang my head and perish. 
 
 Dr. Johnson observes on this scene, that all Kathe- 
 rine's distresses could not save her from a quibble 
 on the word cardinal. 
 
 Holy men I thought ye. 
 Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues ; 
 But cardinal sins, and hollow hearts, I fear ye ! 
 
 When we read this passacje in connection with the 
 situation and sentiment, the scornful play upon the 
 
42S)i HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 words Is not only appropriate and natural, it seems 
 inevitable. Katherine, assuredly, is neither an 
 imaginative nor a witty personage ; but we all ac- 
 knowledge the truism, that anger inspires wit, and 
 whenever there is passion there is poetry. In the 
 instance just alluded to, the sarcasm springs natu- 
 rally out from the bitter indignation of the moment. 
 In her grand rebuke of Wolsey, in the trial scene, 
 how just and beautiful is the gradual elevation of 
 her language, till it rises into that magnificent 
 image — 
 
 You have by fortune and his highness' favors, 
 Gone slightly o'er low steps, and now are mounted, 
 Where powers are your retainers, &c. 
 
 In the depth of her affliction, the pathos as nat- 
 urally clothes itself in poetry. 
 
 Like the lily, 
 That was mistress of the field, and flourish'd, 
 I'll hang my head and perish. 
 
 But these, I believe, are the only instances of im- 
 agery throughout ; for, in general, her language is 
 plain and energetic. It has the strength and sim- 
 plicity of her character, with very little metaphor 
 and less wit. 
 
 In approaching the last scene of Katherine's life, 
 I feel as if about to tread within a sanctuary, where 
 nothing befits us but silence and tears ; veneration 
 so strives with compassion, tenderness with awe.* 
 
 * Dr. Johnson is of opinion, that this scene " is above any 
 other part of Shakspeare's tragedies, and perhaps above any 
 
KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 4iJo 
 
 We must suppose a long interval to have elapsed 
 since Katherine's interview with the two cardinals. 
 Wolsey was disgraced, and poor Anna Bullen at 
 the height of her short-lived prosperity. It was 
 Wolsey's fate to be detested by both queens. In 
 the pursuance of his own selfish and ambitious de- 
 signs, he had treated both with perfidy ; and one 
 •was the remote, the other the immediate, cause of 
 his ruin.* 
 
 The ruffian king, of whom one hates to think, 
 
 Bcene of any other poet, tender and pathetic ; without gods, or 
 furies, or poisons, or precipices ; -without the help of romantic 
 circumstances; without improbable sallies of poetical lamenta- 
 tion, and %vithout any throes of tumultuous misery." 
 
 I have already obserred, that in judging of Shakspeare's char- 
 acters as of persons we meet in real life, we are swayed uncon- 
 sciously by our own habits and feelings, and our preference gov- 
 erned, more or less, by our individual prejudices or sympathies. 
 Thus, Dr. Johnson, who has not a word to bestow on Imogen, 
 and who has treated poor Juliet as if she had been in truth " the 
 very beadle to an amorous sigh," docs full justice to the char- 
 acter of Katherine, Ijecause the logical turn of his mind, his 
 vigorous intellect, and his austere integrity, enabled him to ap- 
 preciate its peculiar beauties : and, accordingly, we find that he 
 gives it, not only unqiialified, but almost exclusive admiration : 
 he goes so far as to assert, that in this play the genius of Shak- 
 epeare comes in and goes out with Katherine. 
 
 * It will be remembered, that in early youth Anna Bullen was 
 betrothed to Lord Henry Percy, who was passionately in love 
 with her. Wolsey, to serve the king's purposes, broke off this 
 match, and forced Percy into an unwilling marriage with Lady 
 Mary Talbot. "The stout Earl of Northumberland," who ar- 
 rested Wolsey at York, was this very Percy : he was chosen for 
 his mission by the interference of Anna Bullen — a piece of 
 ■ vengeance truly feminine in its mixture of sentiment and spite- 
 falness ; and everj' way characteristic of the individual woman. 
 28 
 
ili 
 
 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 was bent on forcing Katherine to concede her 
 rights, and illegltimize her daughter, in favor of the 
 offspring of Anna Bullen : she steadily refused, was 
 declared contumacious, and the sentence of divorce 
 pronounced in 1533. Such of her attendants as 
 persisted in paying her the honors due to a queen 
 were driven from her household ; those who con- 
 sented to serve her as princess-dowager, she refused 
 to admit into her presence ; so that she remained 
 unattended, except by a few women, and her 
 gentleman usher, Griffith. During the last eighteen 
 months of her life, she resided at Kimbolton. Her 
 nephew, Charles V., had offered her an asylum 
 and princely treatment ; but Katherine, broken in 
 heart, and declining in health, was unwilling to 
 drag the spectacle of her misery and degradation 
 into a strange country : she pined in her loneliness, 
 deprived of her daughter, receiving no consolation 
 from the pope, and no redress from the emperor. 
 Wounded pride, wronged affection, and a canker- 
 ing jealousy of the woman preferred to her, (which 
 though it never broke out into unseemly words, is 
 enumerated as one of the causes of her death,) at 
 length wore out a feeble frame. " Thus," says the 
 chronicle, " Queen Katherine fell into her last sick- 
 ness; and though the king sent to comfort her 
 through Chapuys, the emperor's ambassador, she 
 grew worse and worse ; and finding death now 
 coming, she caused a maid attending on her to 
 write to the king to this effect ; — 
 
KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 435 
 
 " My most dear Lord, King, and Husband ; 
 
 " The hour of my death now approaching, I can- 
 not choose but, out of the love I bear you, advise 
 you of your soul's health, which you ought to pre- 
 fer before all considerations of the world or flesh 
 whatsoever ; for which yet you have cast me into 
 many calamities, and yourself into many troubles : 
 but I forgive you all, and pray God to do so hke- 
 wise ; for the rest, I commend unto you Mary our 
 daughter, beseeching you to be a good father to 
 her, as I have heretofore desired. I must intreat 
 you also to respect my maids, and give them in 
 marriage, which is not much, they being but three, 
 and all my other servants a year's pay besides their 
 due, lest otherwise they be unprovided for : lastly, 
 I make this vow, that mine eyes desire you above 
 all things. — Farewell ! " * 
 
 She also wrote another letter to the ambassador, 
 desiring that he would remind the king of her dying 
 request, and urge him to do her this last right. 
 
 What the historian relates, Shakspeare realizes. 
 On the wonderful beauty of Katherine's closing 
 scene we need not dwell ; for that requires no il- 
 lustration. In transferring the sentiments of her 
 letter to her lips, Shakspeare has given them added 
 grace, and pathos, and tenderness, without injuring 
 their truth and simplicity : the feelings, and almost 
 
 * The king is said to haye vrept on reading this letter, and her 
 body being interred at Peterbro', in the monastery, for honor of 
 her memory it was preserved at the dissolution, and erected into 
 a bishop's see. — Herbert- i Life of Henry VHI. 
 
4^ 
 
 436 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 the manner of expression, are Katherine's own. 
 The severe justice with which she draws the 
 character of Wolsey is extremely characteristic! 
 the benign candor with which she Hstens to the 
 praise of him " whom living she most hated," is not 
 less so. How beautiful her religious enthusiasm-! — 
 the slumber which visits her pillow, as she hstens 
 to that sad music she called her knell ; her awaken- 
 ing from the vision of celestial joy to find herself 
 still on earth — 
 
 .Spirits of peace! where are ye? are ye gone, 
 And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye ? 
 
 how unspeakably beautiful ! And to consummate 
 all in one final touch of truth and nature, we see 
 that consciousness of her own worth and integrity 
 which had sustained her through all her trials of 
 heart, and that pride of station for which she had 
 contended through long years, — which had become 
 more dear by opposition, and by the perseverance 
 with which she had asserted it, — remaining the last 
 strong feeling upon her mind, to the very last hour 
 of existence. 
 
 When I am dead, good wench, 
 Let me be used with honor: strew me over 
 With maiden flowers, that all the world may know 
 I was a chaste wife to my grave; embalm me. 
 Then lay me forth: although unqueen'd, yet like 
 A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me. 
 I can no more. 
 
LADY MACBETH. 
 
 4b19 
 
 In the epilogue to this play,* it is recommended — 
 
 To the merciful construction of good women, 
 For s«c7i a one we show'd them :. 
 
 alluding to the character of Queen Katherine. ; 
 Shakspeare has, in fact, placed before us a queen I 
 and a heroine, who in the first place, and above all, \ 
 is a good woman ; and I repeat, that in doing so, \ 
 and in trusting for all his effect to truth and virtue, 1 
 he has given a sublime proof of his genius and his | 
 wisdom ; — for which, among many other obligations, / 
 •aptf women remain his debtors. 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 I DOUBT whether the epithet historical can prop- 
 erly apply to the character of Lady Macbeth ; for 
 though the subject of the play be taken from history, 
 we never think of her with any reference to histor- ■ 
 ical associations, as we do with regard to Con- 
 stance, Volumnia, Katherine of Arragon, and others. 
 I remember reading some critique, in which Lady 
 Macbeth was styled the " Scottish queen ; " and 
 methought the title, as applied to her, sounded like 
 a vulgarism. It appears that the real wife of Mac- 
 beth, — she who lives only in the obscure record of 
 
 * Written, (as the commentators suppose,) not by Shakspeare, 
 but by Ben .Tonson. 
 
-188 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 an obscure age, bore the very unmusical appella- 
 tion of Graoch, and was instigated to tbe murder of 
 Duncan, not only by ambition, but by motives of 
 vengeance. She was the grand-daughter of Ken- 
 neth the Fourth, killed in 1003, fighting against 
 Malcolm the Second, the Father of Duncan. Mac- 
 beth reigned over Scotland from the year 1039 to 
 1056 — but what is all this to the purpose ? The 
 sternly magnificent creation of the poet stands be- 
 fore us independent of all these aids of fancy : she 
 is Lady Macbeth ; as such she lives, she reigns, 
 and is immortal in the world to imagination. What 
 earthly title could add to her grandeur? what 
 human record or attestation strengthen our impres- 
 sion of her reality ? 
 
 Characters in history move before us like a pro- 
 cession of figures in basso relievo : we see one side 
 only, that which the artist chose to exhibit to us ; 
 the rest is sunk in the block : the same characters 
 in Shakspeare are like the statues cut out of the 
 block, fashioned, finished, tangible in every part : 
 we may consider them under every aspect, we may 
 examine them on every side. As the classical 
 times, when the garb did not make the man, were 
 peculiarly favorable to the development and delin- 
 eation of the human form, and have handed down 
 to us the purest models of strength and grace — so 
 the times in which Shakspeare lived were favorable 
 to the vigorous delineation of natural character. 
 Society was not then one vast conventional mas- 
 querade of manners. In his revelations, the acci- 
 
LADY MACBETH. 439 
 
 dental circumstances are to the Individual character, 
 what the drapery of the antique statue Is to the 
 statue Itself; it Is evident, that, though adapted to 
 each other, and studied relatively, they were also 
 studied separately. We trace through the folds the 
 fine and true proportions of the figure beneath : 
 they seem and are independent of each other to 
 the practised eye, though carved together from the 
 same enduring substance ; at once perfectly dis- 
 tinct and eternally inseparable. In history we can 
 but study character in relation to events, to situa- 
 tion and circumstances, which disguise and encum- 
 ber it : we are left to Imagine, to Infer, what certain 
 people must have been, from the manner in which 
 they have acted or suffered. Shakspeare and na- 
 ture bring us back to the true order of things ; and 
 showing us what the human being is, enable us to 
 judge of the possible as well as the positive result 
 in acting and suffering. Here, instead of judging 
 the individual by his actions, we are enabled to 
 judge of actions by a reference to the individual. 
 When we can carry this power into the experience 
 of real life, we shall perhaps be more just to one 
 another, and not consider ourselves aggrieved, be- 
 cause we cannot gather figs from thistles and grapes 
 from thorns. 
 
 In the play or poem of Macbeth, the interest of 
 the story is so engrossing, the events so rapid and 
 so appalling, the accessories so sublimely conceived 
 and so skilfully combined, that It is difficult to de- 
 tach Lady Macbeth from- the dramatic situation, or 
 
440 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 consider her apart from the terrible associations of 
 our first and earliest impressions. As the vulgar 
 idea of a Juliet — that all-beautiful and heaven- 
 gifted child of the south — is merely a love-sick girl 
 in white satin, so the common-place idea of Lady 
 Macbeth, though endowed with the rarest powers, 
 the loftiest energies, and the profoundest afiections, 
 is nothing "but a fierce, cruel woman, brandishing a 
 couple of daggers, and inciting her husband to 
 butcher a poor old king. 
 
 Even those who reflect more deeply are apt to 
 consider rather the mode in which a certain char- 
 acter is manifested, than the combination of abstract 
 qualities making up that individual human being ; 
 so what should be last, is first ; effects are mistaken 
 for causes, qualities are confounded with their re- 
 sults, and the perversion of what is essentially 
 good, with the operation of positive evil. Hence 
 it is, that those who can feel and estimate the mag- 
 nificent conception and poetical development of the 
 character, have overlooked the grand moral lesson 
 it conveys ; they forget that the crime of Lady 
 Macbeth terrifies us in proportion as we sympathize 
 with her ; and that this sympathy is in proportion 
 to the degree of pride, passion, and intellect, we 
 may ourselves possess. It is good to behold and to 
 tremble at the possible result of the noblest facul- 
 ties uncontrolled or perverted. True it is, that the 
 ambitious women of these civilized times do not 
 murder sleeping kings: but are there, therefore, no 
 Lady Macbeths in the world ? no women who, un- 
 
LADY MACBETH. 44t 
 
 der the influence of a diseased or excited appetite 
 for power or distinction, would sacrifice the happi- 
 ness of a daughter, the fortunes of a husband, the 
 principles of a son, and peril their own souls ? 
 ***** 
 
 The character of Macbeth is considered as one 
 of the most complex in the whole range of Shak- 
 speare's dramatic creations. He is represented in 
 the course of the action under such a variety of 
 aspects; the good and evil qualities of his mind are 
 so poised and blended, and instead of being gradu- 
 ally and successively developed, evolve themselves 
 so like shifting lights and shadows playing over the 
 " unstable waters," that his character has afforded 
 a continual and interesting subject of analysis and 
 contemplation. None of Shakspeare's personages 
 have been treated of more at large ; none have 
 been more minutely criticized and profoundly ex- 
 amined. A single feature in his character — the 
 question, for instance, as to whether his courage be 
 personal or constitutional, or excited by mere des- 
 peration — has been canvassed, asserted, and refuted, 
 in two masterly essays. 
 
 On the other hand, the character of Lady Mac- 
 beth resolves itself into few and simple elements. 
 The grand features of her character are so distinctly 
 and prominently marked, that, though acknowl- 
 edged to be one of the poet's most sublime crea- 
 tions, she has been passed over with comparatively 
 few words : generally speaking, the commentators 
 Beem to have considered Lady Macbeth rather with 
 
442 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 reference to her husband, and as influencing the 
 action of the drama, than as an individual concep- 
 tion of amazing power, poetry, and beauty : or if 
 they do individualize her, it is ever with those asso- 
 ciations of scenic representation which Mrs. Sid- 
 dons has identified with the character. Those who 
 have been accustomed to see it arrayed in the form 
 and lineaments of that magnificent woman, and 
 developed with her wonder-working powers, seem 
 satisfied to leave it there, as if nothing more could 
 be said or added.* 
 
 But the generation which beheld Mrs. Siddons in 
 her glory is passing away, and we are again left to 
 our own unassisted feelings, or to all the satisfaction 
 to be derived from the sagacity of critics and the 
 reflections of commentators. Let us turn to them 
 for a moment. 
 
 Dr. Johnson, who seems to have regarded her as 
 nothing better than a kind of ogress, tells us, in so 
 many words, that " Lady Macbeth is merely de- 
 tested." Schlegel dismisses her in haste, as a spe- 
 cies of female fury. In the two essays on Macbeth 
 already mentioned, she is passed over with one or 
 
 * Mrs. Siddons left among her papers an analysis of the char- 
 acter of Lady Macbeth, which I haye never seen : but I haye 
 heard her say, that after playing the part for thirty years, she 
 never read it without discovering in it something new. She had 
 an idea that Lady Macbeth must fi-om her Celtic origin have been 
 a small, fair, blue-eyed woman. Bonduca, Fredegonde, Brune- 
 hault, and other Amazons of the gothic ages were of this com- 
 plexion ; yet I cannot help fancying Lady Macbeth dark, like 
 Black Agnes of Douglas— a sort of Lady Macbeth in her way. 
 
LADY MACBETH. 443 
 
 two slight allusions. The only justice that has yet 
 been done to her is by Ilazlitt, in the " Characters 
 of Shakspeare's Plays." Nothing can be finer than 
 his remarks as far as they go, but his plan did not 
 allow him sufficient space to work out his own con- 
 ception of the character, with the minuteness it 
 requires. All that he says is just in sentiment, and 
 most eloquent in the expression ; but in leaving 
 some of the finest points altogether untouched, he 
 has also left us in doubt whether he even felt or 
 perceived them ; and this masterly criticism stops 
 short of the icJiole truth — it is a little superficial, 
 and a little too harsh. 
 
 In the mind of Lady Macbeth, ambition is rep- 
 resented as the ruling motive, an intense over- 
 mastering passion, which is gratified at the expense 
 of every just and generous principle, and every 
 feminine feeling. In the pursuit of her object, she 
 is cruel, treacherous, and daring. She is doubly, 
 trebly dyed in guilt and blood ; for the murder she 
 instigates is rendered more frightful by disloyalty 
 and ingratitude, and by the violation of all the 
 most sacred claims of kindred and hospitality. 
 When her husband's more kindly nature shrinks 
 from the perpetration of the deed of horror, she, 
 like an evil genius, whispers him on to his damna- 
 tion. The full measure of her wickedness is never 
 disguised, the magnitude and atrocity of her crime 
 is never extenuated, forgotten, or forgiven, in the 
 •whole course of the play. Our judgment is not 
 bewildered, nor our moral feeling insulted, by the 
 
444 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 sentimental jumble of great crimes and dazzling 
 virtues, after the fashion of the German school, 
 and of some admirable writers of our own time. 
 Lady Macbeth's amazing power of Intellect, her 
 inexorable determination of purpose, her super- 
 human strength of nerve, render her as fearful in 
 herself as her deeds are hateful ; yet she is not a 
 mere monster of depravity, with whom we have 
 nothing in common, nor a meteor whose destroying 
 path we watch in ignorant affright and amaze. She 
 is a terrible impersonation of evil passions and 
 mighty powers, never so far removed from our own 
 nature as to be cast beyond the pale of our sympa- 
 thies ; for the woman herself remains a woman to 
 the last — still linked with her sex and with hu- 
 manity. 
 
 This impression is produced partly by the essen- 
 tial truth in the conception of the character, and 
 partly by the manner in which it is evolved ; by a 
 combination of minute and delicate touches, in 
 some instances by speech, in others by silence : at 
 one time by what is revealed, at another by what 
 we are left to infer. As in real life, we perceive 
 distinctions in character we cannot always explain, 
 and receive impressions for which we cannot always 
 account, without going back to the beginning of an 
 acquaintance, and recalling many and trifling cir- 
 cumstances — looks, and tones, and words : thus, to 
 explain that hold which Lady Macbeth, in the midst 
 of all her atrocities, still keeps upon our feelings, it 
 is necessary to trace minutely the action of the 
 
LADY MACBETH. 445 
 
 play, as far as slie is concerned in it, from its very 
 commencement to its close. 
 
 We must bear in mind, that the first idea of mur- 
 dering Duncan is not suggested by Lady Macbeth 
 to her husband : it springs within his mind, and is 
 revealed to us, before his first interview with his 
 wife, — before she is introduced or even alluded to. 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 This supernatural soliciting 
 Cannot be ill ; cannot be good. If ill, 
 Why hath it given me earnest of success. 
 Commencing in a tinith? I am thane of Cawdor — 
 If good, why do I yield to that suggestion, 
 Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, 
 And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, 
 Against the use of natm-e ? 
 
 It will be said, that the same " horrid sugges- 
 tion " presents itself spontaneously to her, on the 
 reception of his letter ; or rather, that the letter 
 itself acts upon her mind as the prophecy of the 
 Weird Sisters on the mind of her husband, kind- 
 ling the latent passion for empire into a quench- 
 less flame. We are prepared to see the train of 
 evil, first lighted by hellish agency, extend itself to 
 Jier through the medium of her husband ; but we 
 are spared the more revolting idea that it originated 
 with her. The guilt is thus more equally divided 
 than we should suppose, when we hear people pity- 
 ing " the noble nature of Macbeth," bewildered 
 and goaded on to crime, solely or chiefly by the in- 
 Btigation of his wife. 
 
446 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 It is true that she afterwards appears the more 
 active agent of the two ; but it is less through her 
 preeminence in wickedness than through her supe- 
 riority of intellect. The eloquence — the fierce, 
 fervid eloquence with which she bears down the 
 relenting and reluctant spirit of her husband, the 
 dexterous sophistry with which she wards off his 
 objections, her artful and affected doubts of his 
 courage — the sarcastic manner in which she lets 
 fall tlie word coward — a word which no man can 
 endure from another, still less from a woman, and 
 least of all from a woman he loves — and the bold 
 address with which she removes all obstacles, si- 
 lences all arguments, overpowers all scruples, and 
 marshals the way before him, absolutely make us 
 shrink before the commanding intellect of the 
 woman, with a terror in which interest and admi- 
 ration are strangely mingled. 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 He has almost supp'd: why have you left the chamber? 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 Hath he ask'd for me? 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 Know you not, he has ? 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 We will proceed no further in this business : 
 He hath honored me of late, and I have bought 
 Golden opinions from all sorts of people. 
 Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, 
 Not cast aside so soon. 
 
LADY MACBETH. 447 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 Was the hope drunk, 
 Wherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since, 
 And wakes it now, to look so green and pale 
 At what it did so freely ? From this time, 
 Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard 
 To be the same in thine own act and valor, 
 As thou art in desire? Would'st thou have that 
 Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, 
 And live a coward in thine own esteem ; 
 Letting I dare not wait upon I would, 
 Like the poor cat i' the adage ? 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 Pr'ythee, peace: 
 I dare do all that may become a man ; 
 Who dares do more, is none. 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 What beast was it then, 
 That made you break this enterprise to me ? 
 When you durst do it, then you were a man ; 
 And, to be more than what you were, you would 
 Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place, 
 Did then adhere, and yet you would make both; 
 They have made themselves, and that their fitness now 
 Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know 
 How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me : 
 I would, while it were smiling in my face. 
 Have pluck' d my nipple from his boneless gums. 
 And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn, as you 
 Have done to this. 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 If we should fail. 
 
448 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 We fail.* 
 But screw your courage to the sticking-place, 
 And we'll not fall. 
 
 Again, in the murdering scene, the obdurate in- 
 flexibility of purpose with which she drives on 
 Macbeth to the execution of their project, and her 
 masculine indifference to blood and death, would 
 inspire unmitigated disgust and horror, but for the 
 involuntary consciousness that it is produced rather 
 by the exertion of a strong power over herself, 
 than by absolute depravity of disposition and feroc- 
 ity of temper. This impression of her character 
 is brought home at once to our very hearts with 
 the most profound knowledge of the springs of 
 nature within us, the most subtle mastery over their 
 various operations, and a feeling of dramatic effect 
 not less wonderful. The very passages in which 
 Lady Macbeth displays the most savage and re- 
 lentless determination, are so worded as to fill the 
 mind with the idea of sex, and place the woman 
 
 * In her impersonation of the part of Lady Macbeth, Mrs. 
 Siddons adopted successively three different intonations in giving 
 the words we fail. At first a quick contemptuous interrogation 
 — " we fail? " Afterwards with the note of admiration — we fail! 
 and an accent of indignant astonishment, laying the principal 
 emphasis on the word loe — we fail I Lastly, she fixed on what I 
 am convinced is the true reading — we fail, with the simple period, 
 modulating her voice to a deep, low, resolute tone, which settled 
 the issue at once — as though she had said, " if wo fiiil, why then 
 we fail, and all is over.'' This is consistent with the dark fatalism 
 of the character and the sense of the line following, and the 
 effect was sublime, almost awful. 
 
LADY MACBETH. 449 
 
 before ns in all her dearest attributes, at once soften- 
 ing and refining the horror, and rendering it more 
 intense- Thus, when she reproaches her husband 
 for his weakness — 
 
 From this time, 
 Such I account thy love ! 
 
 Again, 
 
 Come to my woman's breasts, 
 And take my milk for gall, ye murdering ministers, 
 That no compunctious visitings of nature 
 Shake my fell pui-pose, &c. 
 
 I have given suck, and know how tender 'tis 
 To love the babe that milks me, &c. 
 
 And lastly, in the moment of extremest horror 
 comes that unexpected touch of feeling, so startling, 
 yet so wonderfully true to nature — 
 
 Had he not resembled my father as he slept, 
 I had done it ! 
 
 Thus in one of Weber's or Beethoven's grand 
 symphonies, some unexpected soft minor chord or 
 passage will steal on the ear, heard amid the magni- 
 ficent crash of harmony, making the blood pause, 
 and filling the eye with unbidden tears. 
 
 It is particularly observable, that in Lady Mac- 
 beth's concentrated, strong-nerved ambition, the 
 ruling passion of her mind, there is yet a touch of 
 ■womanhood : she is ambitious less for herself than 
 
450 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 we have no reason to draw any other inference 
 either from her words or actions. In her famous 
 soliloquy, after reading her husband's letter, she 
 does not once refer to herself. It is of him she 
 thinks: she wishes to see her husband on the 
 throne, and to place the sceptre within Jiis grasp. 
 The strength of her affections adds strength to her 
 ambition. Although in the old story of Boethius 
 we are told that the wife of Macbeth " burned with 
 unquenchable desire to bear the name of queen," 
 yet in the aspect under which Shakspeare has rep- 
 resented the character to us, the selfish part of 
 this ambition is kept out of sight. We must re- 
 mark also, that in Lady Macbeth's reflections on 
 her husband's character, and on that mllkiness 
 of nature, which she fears " may impede him from 
 the golden round," there is no indication of female 
 scorn : there is exceeding pride, but no egotism in 
 the sentiment or the expression ; — no want of 
 wifely and womanly respect and love for Jiiin, but 
 on the contrary, a sort of unconsciousness of her 
 own mental superiority, which she betrays rather 
 than asserts, as interesting in itself as it is most ad- 
 mirably conceived and delineated. 
 
 Glamis thou art, and Cawdor ; and shalt be 
 
 What thou art promised : — Yet do I fear thy nature ; 
 
 It is too full o' the milk of human kindness, 
 
 To catch the nearest way. Thou would'st be gi-eat; 
 
 Art not without ambition; but without 
 
 The illness should attend it. What thou would'st highly, 
 
 That would'st thou holily; would'st not play false, 
 
LADY MACBETH. 461 
 
 And yet woiild'st wrongly win: thou'dst have, great 
 
 Glamis, 
 That whicli ci'ies, TJuis thou must do^ if thou have it; 
 And that which rather thou dost fear' to do, 
 Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither, 
 Tliat I may pour my spirits in thine ear; 
 And chastise Avith the valor of my tongue 
 All that impedes thee from the golden round. 
 Which fate and metaphysical* aid doth seem 
 To have thee crowned withal. 
 
 Nor is there any thinfj vulgar in her ambition : 
 as the strength of her affections lends to it some- 
 thing profound and concentrated, so her splendid 
 imagination invests the object of her desire with its 
 own radiance. We cannot trace in her grand and 
 capacious mind that it is the mere baubles and trap- 
 pings of royalty which dazzle and allure her : hers 
 is the sin of the " star-bright apostate," and she 
 plunges with her husband into the abyss of guilt, 
 to procure for " all their days and nights sole sov- 
 ereign sway and masterdom." She revels, she luxu- 
 riates in her dream of power. She reaches at the 
 golden diadem, which is to sear her brain ; she 
 perils life and soul for its attainment, with an en- 
 thusiasm as perfect, a faith as settled, as that of the 
 mart)T, who sees at the stake, heaven and its 
 crowns of glory opening upon him. 
 
 Great Glamis ! woi'thy Cawdor ! 
 Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter 1 
 
 * Metaphysical is here used in the sense of spiritual or preter- 
 natural. 
 
452 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 Thy letters have transported me beyond 
 This ignorant present, and I feel now 
 The future in the instant \ 
 
 This is surely the very rapture of ambition ! and 
 those who have heard Mrs. Siddons pronounce the 
 word hereafter, cannot forget the look, the tone, 
 which seemed to give her auditors a glimpse of that 
 awful futurej which she, in her prophetic fury, be- 
 holds upon the instant. 
 
 But to return to the text before us : Lady Mac- 
 beth having proposed the object to herself, and 
 arrayed it with an ideal glory, fixes her eye stead- 
 ily upon it, soars far above all womanish feelings 
 and scruples to attain it, and stoops upon her victim 
 with the strength and velocity of a vulture ; but 
 having committed unflinchingly the crime neces- 
 sary for the attainment of her purpose, she stops 
 there. After the murder of Duncan, we see Lady 
 Macbeth, during the rest of the play, occupied in 
 supporting the nervous weakness and sustaining 
 the fortitude of her husband ; for instance, Macbeth 
 is at one time on the verge of frenzy, between fear 
 and horror, and it is clear that if she loses her self- 
 command, both must perish : — 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 One cried, Ood bless us! and, Amm ! the other; 
 As they had seen me, Avith these hangman's hands. 
 Listening their fear, I could not say. Amen! 
 When they did say, God bless us ! 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 Consider it not so deeply ! 
 
LADY MACBETH. 453 
 
 MACBETH. 
 But wherefore could not I pronounce, amen? 
 I had most need of blessmg, and amen 
 Stuck m my throat. 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 These deeds must not be thought 
 After these ways : so, it will make us mad. 
 
 MA.CBETH. 
 
 Methought I heard a voice cry, 
 " Sleep no more," &c. &c. 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 What do you mean ? who was it that thus cried ? 
 
 Why, worthy Thane, 
 You do unbend your noble strength, to think 
 So brainsickly of things. — Go, get some water, &c. &c. 
 
 Afterwards, in act iii., she is represented as mutter- 
 ing to herself, 
 
 Nought's had, all's spent, 
 When our desire is got without content; 
 
 yet immediately addresses her moody and con- 
 science-stricken husband — 
 
 How now, my lord? why do you keep alone, 
 Of sorriest fancies your companions making? 
 Using those thoughts, which should indeed have died 
 With them they think on? Things without remedy, 
 Should be without regard; what's done, is done. 
 
 But she is nowhere represented as urging him on 
 to new crimes ; so far from it, that when Macbeth 
 
454 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 darkly hints his purposed assassination of Banquo, 
 and she inquires his meaning, he replies, 
 
 Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, 
 Till thou approve the deed. 
 
 The same may be said of the destruction of Mac- 
 duff's family. Every one must perceive how our 
 detestation of the woman had been increased, if 
 she had been placed before us as suggesting and 
 abetting those additional cruelties into which Mac- 
 beth is hurried by his mental cowardice. 
 
 If my feeling of Lady Macbeth's character be 
 just to the conception of the poet, then she is one 
 who could steel herself to the commission of a 
 crime from necessity and expediency, and be dar- 
 ingly wicked for a great end, but not likely to per- 
 petrate gratuitous murders from any vague or 
 selfish fears. I do not mean to say that the perfect 
 confidence existing between herself and Macbeth 
 could possibly leave her in ignorance of his actions 
 or designs : that heart-broken and shuddering allu- 
 sion to the murder of Lady MacdulF (in the sleep- 
 ing scene) proves the contrary : — 
 
 The thane of Fife had a wife ; where is she now ? 
 
 But she is nowhere brought before us in immediate 
 connection with these horrors, and we are spared 
 any flagrant proof of her participation in them. 
 This may not strike us at first, but most undoubt- 
 edly has an effect on the general bearing of the 
 character, considered as a whole. 
 
LADY MACBETH. 455 
 
 Anotlier more obvious and pervading source of 
 interest arises from that bond of entire affection 
 and confidence which, through the whole of this 
 dreadful tissue of crime and its consequences, unites 
 Macbeth and his wife ; claiming from us an invol- 
 untary respect and sympathy, and shedding a soft- 
 ening influence over the whole tragedy. Macbeth 
 leans upon her strength, trusts in her fidelity, and 
 throws himself on her tenderness. 
 
 full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife ! 
 
 She sustains him, calms him, soothes him — 
 
 Come on; 
 Gentle my lord, sleek o'er yom* rugged looks; 
 Be bright and jovial 'mong your guests to-night. 
 
 The endearing epithets, the terms of fondness in 
 which he addresses her, and the tone of respect she 
 invariably maintains towards him, even when most 
 exasperated by his vacillation of mind and his 
 brain-sick terrors, have, by the very force of con- 
 ti-ast, a powerful effect on the fancy. 
 
 By these tender redeeming touches we are im- 
 pressed with a feeling that Lady Macbeth's influ- 
 ence over the affections of her husband, as a wife 
 and a woman, is at least equal to her power over 
 him as a superior mind. Another thing has always 
 struck me. During the supper scene, in which 
 Macbeth is haunted by the spectre of the murdered 
 Banquo, and his reason appears unsettled by the 
 exti-emity of his horror and dismay, her indignant 
 
456 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 rebuke, her low whispered remonstrance, the sar- 
 castic emphasis with which she combats his sick 
 fancies, and endeavors to recall him to himself, 
 have an intenseness, a severity, a bitterness, which 
 makes the blood creep. 
 
 LADY MACBKTH. 
 
 Ai*e you a man? 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that 
 Which might appall the devil. 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 proper stuff! 
 This is the veiy painting of your fear: 
 This is the air-drawn dagger, wliich, you said, 
 Led you to Duncan. 0, these flaws and starts 
 (Impostors to true fear) would Avell become 
 A woman's story, at a winter's fire, 
 Authoriz'd by her grandam ! Shame itself! 
 Why do you make such faces ? When all's done 
 You look but on a stool. 
 
 What! quite unmann'd in folly? 
 
 Yet when the guests are dismissed, and they are 
 left alone, she says no more, and not a syllable of 
 reproach or scorn escapes her : a few words in sub- 
 missive reply to his questions, and an entreaty to 
 seek repose, are all she permits herself to utter. 
 There is a touch of pathos and of tenderness in this 
 silence which has always affected me beyond ex- 
 pression : it is one of the most masterly and most 
 beautiful traits of character in the whole play. 
 
LADY MACBETH. 457 
 
 Lastly, it is clear tliat in a mind constituted like 
 that of Lady Macbeth, and not utterly depraved 
 and hardened by the habit of crime, conscience 
 ni'ist wake some time or other, and bring with it 
 remorse closed by despair, and despair by death. 
 This great moral retribution was to be displayed to 
 us — but how ? Lady Macbeth is not a woman to 
 start at shadows ; she mocks at air-drawn daggers ; 
 she sees no imagined spectres rise from the tomb to 
 appall or accuse her.* The towering bravery of 
 her mind disdains the visionary terrors which haunt 
 her weaker husband. We know, or rather we feel, 
 that she who could give a voice to the most direful 
 intent, and call on the spirits that wait on mortal 
 thoughts to " unsex her," and " stop up all access 
 and passage of remorse" — to that remorse would 
 have given nor tongue nor sound ; and that rather 
 than have uttered a complaint, she would have held 
 her breath and died. To have given her a confi- 
 dant, though in the partner of her guilt, would 
 have been a degrading resource, and have disap- 
 pointed and enfeebled all our previous impressions 
 of her character ; yet justice is to be done, and we 
 are to be made acquainted with that which the 
 woman herself would have suffered a thousand 
 deaths of torture rather than have betrayed. In 
 
 * Mrs. Siddons, I believe, had an idea that Lady Macbeth be- 
 held the spectre of Banquo in the supper scene, and that her 
 self-control and presence of mind enabled her to surmount her 
 consciousness of the ghastly presence. This ^vould be superhu- 
 man, and I do not see that either the character or the text bear 
 out this supposition. 
 
458 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 tho sleeping scene we have a glimpse into the 
 depths of that inward hell : the seared brain and 
 broken heart are laid bare before us in the help- 
 lessness of slumber. By a judgment the most sub- 
 lime ever imagined, yet the most unforced, natural, 
 and inevitable, the sleep of her who murdered 
 sleep is no longer repose, but a condensation of 
 resistless horrors which the prostrate intellect and 
 powerless will can neither baffle nor repel. We 
 shudder and are satisfied ; yet our human sympa- 
 thies are again touched : we rather sigh over the 
 ruin than exult in it ; and after watching her 
 through this wonderful scene with a sort of fascina- 
 tion, we dismiss the unconscious, helpless, despair- 
 stricken murderess, with a feeling which Lady 
 Macbeth, in her waking strength, with all her 
 awe-commanding powers about her, could never 
 have excited. 
 
 It is here especially we perceive that sweetness 
 of nature which in Shakspeare went hand in hand 
 with his astonishing powers. He never confounds 
 that line of demarcation which eternally separates 
 good from evil, yet he never places evil before us 
 without exciting in some way a consciousness of 
 the opposite good which shall balance and relieve 
 it. 
 
 I do deny that he has represented in Lady Mac- 
 beth a woman " naturally cruel" * " invariably 
 savage" f or endued with " pure demoniac firm- 
 ness" X If ever there could have existed a woman 
 
 * Cumberland, t Professor Richardson. % Foster's Essays. 
 
LADY MACBETH. 459 
 
 to "vvliom such plirases could apply — a woman with- 
 out touch of modesty, pity or fear, — Shakspeare 
 knew that a thing so monstrous was unfit for all 
 the purposes.of poetry. If Lady Macbeth had been 
 naluraUi/ cruel, she needed not so solemnly to have 
 abjured all pity, and called on the spirits that wait 
 on mortal thoughts to unsex her ; nor would she 
 have been loved to excess by a man of Macbeth's 
 character ; for it is the sense of intellectual energy 
 and strength of will overpowering her feminine 
 nature, which draws from him that burst of intense 
 admiration — 
 
 Brhig foi'th men children only, 
 
 For thy undaunted metal should compose 
 
 Nothing but males. 
 
 If she had been invariaUy savage, her love would 
 not have comforted and sustained her husband in 
 his despair, nor would her uphfted dagger have 
 been arrested by a dear and venerable image ris- 
 ing between her soul and its fell purpose. If en- 
 dued with pure demoniac firmness^ her woman's 
 nature would not, by the reaction, have been so 
 horribly avenged, she would not have died of 
 remorse and despair. 
 
 ***** 
 
 We cannot but observe that through the whole 
 of the dialogue appropriated to Lady Macbeth, there 
 is something very peculiar and characteristic in the 
 turn of expression: her compliments, when she is 
 playing the hostess or the queen, are elaborately 
 elegant and verbose : but, when in earnest, she 
 
460 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 speaks in short energetic sentences — sometimes 
 abrupt, but always full of meaning ; her thoughts 
 are rapid and clear, her expressions forcible, and 
 the imagery like sudden flashes of lightning : all 
 the foregoing extracts exhibit this, but I will 
 venture one more, as an immediate illustration. 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 My dearest love, 
 Duncan comes here to-night. 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 Aud when goes hence ? 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 To-morrow, — as he purposes. 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 never 
 Shall sun that moiTow see ! 
 Thy face, my thane, is as a book, -where men 
 May read strange matters ; — to beguile the time, 
 Look like the time ; bear welcome in your eye, 
 Your tongue, your hand ; look like the innocent flower, 
 But be the serpent under it. 
 
 What would not the firmness, the self-command, 
 the enthusiasm, the intellect, the ardent affections 
 of this woman have performed, if properly directed ? 
 but the object being unworthy of the effort, the 
 end is disappointment, despair, and death. 
 
 The power of religion could alone have con- 
 trolled such a mind ; but it is the misery of a very 
 proud, strong, and gifted spirit, without sense of 
 religion, that instead of looking upward to find a 
 
LADY MACBETH. 461 
 
 superior, looks round and sees all things as subject 
 to itself. Lady Macbeth is placed in a dark, igno- 
 rant, iron age ; her powerful intellect is slightly 
 tinged with its credulity and superstition, but she 
 has no religious feeling to restrain the force of 
 will. She is a stern fatalist in principle and action 
 — " what is done, is done," and would be done over 
 again under the same circumstances; her remorse 
 is without repentance, or any reference to an of- 
 fended Deity ; it arises from the pang of a wounded 
 conscience, the recoil of the violated feelings of 
 nature : it is the horror of the past, not the terror 
 of the future ; the torture of self-condemnation, 
 not the fear of judgment ; it is strong as her soul, 
 deep as her guilt, fatal as her resolve, and terrible 
 as her crime. 
 
 If it should be objected to this view of Lady 
 Macbeth's character, that it engages our sympathies 
 in behalf of a perverted being — and that to leave 
 her so strong a power upon our feelings in the midst 
 of such supreme wickedness, involves a moral 
 wrong, I can only reply in the words of Dr. Chan- 
 ning, that " in this and the hke cases our interest 
 fostens on what is not evil in the character — that 
 there is something kindling and ennobling in the 
 consciousness, however awakened, of the energy 
 which resides in mind ; and many a virtuous man 
 has borrowed new strength from the force, con- 
 stancy, and dauntless courage of evil agents." * 
 
 * Sec Dr. Channing's remarlcs on Satan, in his essay " On the 
 Chai-a«ter and Writings of Milton."- Works, p. 131. 
 
462 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 This is true ; and might lie not have added, that 
 many a powerful and gifted spirit has learnt humil- 
 ity and self-government, from beholding how far 
 the energy which resides in mind may be degraded 
 and perverted ? 
 
 ***** 
 
 In general, when a woman is introduced into a 
 tragedy to be the presiding genius of evil in herself, 
 or the cause of evil to others, she is either too 
 feebly or too darkly portrayed ; either crime is 
 heaped on crime, and horror on horror, till our 
 sympathy is lost in incredulity, or the stimulus is 
 sought in unnatural or impossible situations, or in 
 situations that ought to be . impossible, (as in the 
 Myrrha or the Cenci,) or the character is enfeebled 
 by a mixture of degrading propensities and sexual 
 weakness, as in Vittoria Corombona. But Lady 
 Macbeth, though so supremely wicked, and so con- 
 sistently feminine, is still kept aloof from all base 
 alloy. When Shakspeare created a female char- 
 acter purely detestable, he made her an accessary, 
 never a principal. Thus Regan and Goneril are 
 two powerful sketches of selfishness, cruelty, and 
 ingratitude ; we abhor them whenever we see or 
 think of them, but we think very little about them, 
 except as necessary to the action of the drama. 
 They are to cause the madness of Lear, and to call 
 forth the filial devotion of Cordelia, and their de- 
 pravity is forgotten in its effects. A comparison 
 has been made between Lady Macbeth and the 
 Greek Clytemnestra in the Agamemnon of Eschy- 
 
LADY MACBETH. 463 
 
 lus. The Clytemnestra of Sophocles is something 
 more in Shakspeare's spirit, for she is something 
 less impudently atrocious ; but, considered as a 
 woman and an individual, would any one compare 
 this shameless adulteress, cruel murderess, and 
 unnatural mother, with Lady Macbeth ? Lady 
 Macbeth herself would certainly shrink from the 
 approximation.* 
 
 The Electra of Sophocles comes nearer to Lady 
 Macbeth as a poetical conception, with this strong 
 distinction, that she commands more respect and 
 esteem, and less sympathy. The murder in which 
 she participates is ordained by the oracle — is an 
 act of justice, and therefore less a murder than 
 a sacrifice. Electra is drawn with magnificent 
 simplicity and intensity of feeling and purpose, 
 but there is a want of light, and shade, and relief. 
 Thus the scene in which Orestes stabs his mother 
 within her chamber, and she is heard pleading for 
 
 * The vision of Clytemnestra the night before she is murdered, 
 in which she dreams that she has given birth to a dragon, and 
 that, in la3'ing it to her bosom, it draws blood instead of milk, 
 has been greatly admired ; but I suppose that those who most 
 admire it would not place it in comparison with Lady Macbeth's 
 sleeping scene. Lady Ashton, in the Bride of Lammermoor, is 
 a domestic Lady Macbeth; but the development being in the 
 narrative, not the dramatic form, it follows hence that we have 
 a masterly portrait, not a complete individual : and the relief of 
 poetry and sympathy being wanting, the detestation she inspires 
 is so unmixed as to be ahnost intolerable: consequently the 
 character, cousidei-ed in relation to the other personages of the 
 story, is perfect ; but abstractedly, it is imperfect ; a basso relievo 
 — not a statue. 
 
464 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 mercy;, while Electra stands forward listening ex- 
 ultingly to her mother's cries, and urging her 
 brother to strike again, " another blow ! another ! '* 
 &c. is terribly fine, but the horror is too shocking, too 
 physical — if I may use such an expression : it will 
 not surely bear a comparison with the murdering 
 scene in Macbeth, where the exhibition of various 
 passions — the irresolution of Macbeth, the bold de- 
 termination of his wife, the deep suspense, the rage 
 of the elements without, the horrid stillness within, 
 and the secret feeling of that infernal agency which 
 is ever present to the fancy, even when not visible 
 on the scene — throw a rich coloring of poetry over 
 the whole, which does not take from " the present 
 horror of the time," and yet relieves it. Shak- 
 peare's blackest shadows are like those of Rem- 
 brandt ; so intense, that the gloom which brooded 
 over Egypt in her day of wrath was pale in com- 
 parison — yet so transparent that we seem to see 
 the light of heaven through their depth. 
 
 In the whole compass of dramatic poetry, there 
 is but one female character which can be placed 
 near that of Lady Macbeth ; the Medea. Not 
 the vulgar, voluble fury of the Latin tragedy,* 
 nor the Medea in a hoop petticoat of Corneille, 
 but the genuine Greek Medea — the Medea of 
 Euripides, f 
 
 * Attributed to Seneca. 
 
 + A comparisou has already been made in an article in the 
 " llcflector." It will be seen on a reference to that very masterly 
 Essay, that I differ from the author in his conception of Lady 
 Maebeth's character. 
 
LADY MACBETH. 465 
 
 There is something in the Medea which seizes 
 irresistibly oil the imagination. Her passionate 
 devotion to Jason, for whom she had left her parents 
 and country — to whom she had given all, and 
 
 Would have drawn the spirit from her breast 
 Had he but asked it, sighiiig forth her soul 
 Into his bosom ; * 
 
 the wrongs and insults which drive her to despera- 
 tion — the horrid refinement of cruelty with which 
 she plans and executes her revenge upon her 
 faithless husband — the gush of fondness with which 
 she weeps over her children, whom in the next 
 moment she devotes to destruction in a paroxysm 
 of insane fury, carry the terror and pathos of tragic 
 situation to their extreme height. But if we may 
 be allowed to judge through the medium of a trans- 
 lation, there is a certain hardness in the manner of 
 treating the character, which in some degree de- 
 feats the effect. Medea talks too much : her human 
 feelings and superhuman power are not sufficiently 
 blended. Taking into consideration the different 
 impulses which actuate Medea and Lady Macbeth, 
 as love, jealousy, and revenge on the one side, and 
 ambition on the other, we expect to find more of 
 female nature in the first than in the last : and yet 
 the contrary is the fact : at least, my own impression 
 as far as a woman may judge of a woman, is, that 
 although the passions of Medea are more feminine, 
 
 * AppoUouius Ilhodius.— Ft</(? Eltou's Specimens of the Classic 
 Poets. 
 
 3U 
 
466 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 the character is less so ; we seem to require more 
 feeling in her fierceness, more passion in her 
 frenzy ; something less of poetical abstraction, — 
 less art, fewer words : her delirious vengeance we 
 might forgive, but her calmness and subtlety are 
 rather revolting. 
 
 These two admirable characters, placed in 
 contrast to each other, afford a fine illustration of 
 Schlcgel's distinction between the ancient or Greek 
 drama, which he compares to sculpture, and the 
 modern or romantic drama, which he compares to 
 painting. The gothic grandeur, the rich chiaro- 
 scuro, and deep-toned colors of Lady Macbeth, 
 stand thus opposed to the classical elegance and 
 mythological splendor, the delicate yet inflexible 
 outline of the Medea. If I might be permitted to 
 carry this illustration still further, I would add, that 
 there exists the same distinction between the Lady 
 Macbeth and the Medea, as between the Medusa 
 of Leonardo da Vinci and the Medusa of the Greek 
 gems and bas reliefs. In the painting, the horror 
 of the subject is at once exalted and softened by 
 the most vivid coloring, and the most magical con- 
 trast of light and shade. We gaze — until, from the 
 murky depths of the background, the serpent hair 
 seems to stir and glitter as if instinct with life, and 
 the head itself, in all its gliastliness and brightness, 
 appears to rise from the canvass with the glare 
 of reality. In the Medusa of sculpture, how dif- 
 ferent is the effect on the imagination I We have 
 here the snakes convolving; round the winged and 
 
LADY MACBETH. 467 
 
 graceful head: the brows contracted with horror 
 and pain ; but every feature is chiselled into the 
 most regular and faultless perfection ; and amid the 
 gorgon terrors, there rests a marbly, fixed, super- 
 natural grace, which, without reminding us for a 
 moment of common life or nature, stands before us 
 a presence, a power, and an enchantment ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
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