Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher Part 18

_Ib._ sc. 2. Cornwall's speech:--

... "This is some fellow, Who, having been praised for bluntness, doth affect A saucy roughness," &c.

In thus placing these profound general truths in the mouths of such men as Cornwall, Edmund, Iago, &c., Shakespeare at once gives them utterance, and yet shows how indefinite their application is.

_Ib._ sc. 3. Edgar's a.s.sumed madness serves the great purpose of taking off part of the shock which would otherwise be caused by the true madness of Lear, and further displays the profound difference between the two. In every attempt at representing madness throughout the whole range of dramatic literature, with the single exception of Lear, it is mere lightheadedness, as especially in Otway. In Edgar's ravings Shakespeare all the while lets you see a fixed purpose, a practical end in view;-in Lear's, there is only the brooding of the one anguish, an eddy without progression.

_Ib._ sc. 4. Lear's speech:-

"The king would speak with Cornwall; the dear father Would with his daughter speak, &c.

No, but not yet: may be he is not well," &c.

The strong interest now felt by Lear to try to find excuses for his daughter is most pathetic.

_Ib._ Lear's speech:-

... "Beloved Regan, Thy sister's naught;-O Regan, she hath tied Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here.

I can scarce speak to thee;-thou'lt not believe Of how deprav'd a quality-O Regan!

_Reg._ I pray you, Sir, take patience; I have hope, You less know how to value her desert, Than she to scant her duty.

_Lear._ Say, how is that?"

Nothing is so heart-cutting as a cold unexpected defence or palliation of a cruelty pa.s.sionately complained of, or so expressive of thorough hard-heartedness. And feel the excessive horror of Regan's "O, Sir, you are old!"-and then her drawing from that universal object of reverence and indulgence the very reason for her frightful conclusion-

"Say, you have wrong'd her!"

All Lear's faults increase our pity for him. We refuse to know them otherwise than as means of his sufferings, and aggravations of his daughters' ingrat.i.tude.

_Ib._ Lear's speech:-

"O, reason not the need: our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous," &c.

Observe that the tranquillity which follows the first stunning of the blow permits Lear to reason.

Act iii. sc. 4. O, what a world's convention of agonies is here! All external nature in a storm, all moral nature convulsed,-the real madness of Lear, the feigned madness of Edgar, the babbling of the Fool, the desperate fidelity of Kent-surely such a scene was never conceived before or since! Take it but as a picture for the eye only, it is more terrific than any which a Michael Angelo, inspired by a Dante, could have conceived, and which none but a Michael Angelo could have executed. Or let it have been uttered to the blind, the howlings of nature would seem converted into the voice of conscious humanity. This scene ends with the first symptoms of positive derangement; and the intervention of the fifth scene is particularly judicious,-the interruption allowing an interval for Lear to appear in full madness in the sixth scene.

_Ib._ sc. 7. Gloster's blinding.

What can I say of this scene?-There is my reluctance to think Shakespeare wrong, and yet-

Act iv. sc. 6. Lear's speech:-

"Ha! Goneril!-with a white beard!-They flattered me like a dog; and told me, I had white hairs in my beard, ere the black ones were there. To say _Ay_ and _No_ to every thing I said!-Ay and No too was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me once," &c.

The thunder recurs, but still at a greater distance from our feelings.

_Ib._ sc. 7. Lear's speech:-

"Where have I been? Where am I?-Fair daylight?- I am mightily abused.-I should even die with pity To see another thus," &c.

How beautifully the affecting return of Lear to reason, and the mild pathos of these speeches prepare the mind for the last sad, yet sweet, consolation of the aged sufferer's death!

"Hamlet."

Hamlet was the play, or rather Hamlet himself was the character, in the intuition and exposition of which I first made my turn for philosophical criticism, and especially for insight into the genius of Shakespeare, noticed. This happened first amongst my acquaintances, as Sir George Beaumont will bear witness; and subsequently, long before Schlegel had delivered at Vienna the lectures on Shakespeare, which he afterwards published, I had given on the same subject eighteen lectures substantially the same, proceeding from the very same point of view, and deducing the same conclusions, so far as I either then agreed, or now agree, with him.

I gave these lectures at the Royal Inst.i.tution, before six or seven hundred auditors of rank and eminence, in the spring of the same year, in which Sir Humphrey Davy, a fellow-lecturer, made his great revolutionary discoveries in chemistry. Even in detail the coincidence of Schlegel with my lectures was so extraordinary, that all who at a later period heard the same words, taken by me from my notes of the lectures at the Royal Inst.i.tution, concluded a borrowing on my part from Schlegel. Mr. Hazlitt, whose hatred of me is in such an inverse ratio to my zealous kindness towards him, as to be defended by his warmest admirer, Charles Lamb-(who, G.o.d bless him! besides his characteristic obstinacy of adherence to old friends, as long at least as they are at all down in the world, is linked as by a charm to Hazlitt's conversation)-only as "frantic;"-Mr. Hazlitt, I say, himself replied to an a.s.sertion of my plagiarism from Schlegel in these words;-"That is a lie; for I myself heard the very same character of Hamlet from Coleridge before he went to Germany, and when he had neither read nor could read a page of German!" Now Hazlitt was on a visit to me at my cottage at Nether Stowey, Somerset, in the summer of the year 1798, in the September of which year I first was out of sight of the sh.o.r.es of Great Britain.-Recorded by me, S. T. Coleridge, 7th January, 1819.

The seeming inconsistencies in the conduct and character of Hamlet have long exercised the conjectural ingenuity of critics; and, as we are always loth to suppose that the cause of defective apprehension is in ourselves, the mystery has been too commonly explained by the very easy process of setting it down as in fact inexplicable, and by resolving the phenomenon into a misgrowth or _lusus_ of the capricious and irregular genius of Shakespeare. The shallow and stupid arrogance of these vulgar and indolent decisions I would fain do my best to expose. I believe the character of Hamlet may be traced to Shakespeare's deep and accurate science in mental philosophy. Indeed, that this character must have some connection with the common fundamental laws of our nature may be a.s.sumed from the fact, that Hamlet has been the darling of every country in which the literature of England has been fostered. In order to understand him, it is essential that we should reflect on the const.i.tution of our own minds. Man is distinguished from the brute animals in proportion as thought prevails over sense: but in the healthy processes of the mind, a balance is constantly maintained between the impressions from outward objects and the inward operations of the intellect;-for if there be an overbalance in the contemplative faculty, man thereby becomes the creature of mere meditation, and loses his natural power of action. Now one of Shakespeare's modes of creating characters is, to conceive any one intellectual or moral faculty in morbid excess, and then to place himself, Shakespeare, thus mutilated or diseased, under given circ.u.mstances. In Hamlet he seems to have wished to exemplify the moral necessity of a due balance between our attention to the objects of our senses, and our meditation on the workings of our minds,-an _equilibrium_ between the real and the imaginary worlds. In Hamlet this balance is disturbed: his thoughts, and the images of his fancy, are far more vivid than his actual perceptions, and his very perceptions, instantly pa.s.sing through the _medium_ of his contemplations, acquire, as they pa.s.s, a form and a colour not naturally their own. Hence we see a great, an almost enormous, intellectual activity, and a proportionate aversion to real action, consequent upon it, with all its symptoms and accompanying qualities. This character Shakespeare places in circ.u.mstances, under which it is obliged to act on the spur of the moment:-Hamlet is brave and careless of death; but he vacillates from sensibility, and procrastinates from thought, and loses the power of action in the energy of resolve. Thus it is that this tragedy presents a direct contrast to that of _Macbeth_; the one proceeds with the utmost slowness, the other with a crowded and breathless rapidity.

The effect of this overbalance of the imaginative power is beautifully ill.u.s.trated in the everlasting broodings and superfluous activities of Hamlet's mind, which, unseated from its healthy relation, is constantly occupied with the world within, and abstracted from the world without,-giving substance to shadows, and throwing a mist over all commonplace actualities. It is the nature of thought to be indefinite;-definiteness belongs to external imagery alone. Hence it is that the sense of sublimity arises, not from the sight of an outward object, but from the beholder's reflection upon it;-not from the sensuous impression, but from the imaginative reflex. Few have seen a celebrated waterfall without feeling something akin to disappointment: it is only subsequently that the image comes back full into the mind, and brings with it a train of grand or beautiful a.s.sociations. Hamlet feels this; his senses are in a state of trance, and he looks upon external things as hieroglyphics. His soliloquy-

"O! that this too too solid flesh would melt," &c.-

springs from that craving after the indefinite-for that which is not-which most easily besets men of genius; and the self-delusion common to this temper of mind is finely exemplified in the character which Hamlet gives of himself;-

... "It cannot be But I am pigeon-liver'd, and lack gall To make oppression bitter."

He mistakes the seeing his chains for the breaking them, delays action till action is of no use, and dies the victim of mere circ.u.mstance and accident.

There is a great significancy in the names of Shakespeare's plays. In the _Twelfth Night_, _Midsummer __ Night's Dream_, _As You Like It_, and _Winter's Tale_, the total effect is produced by a co-ordination of the characters as in a wreath of flowers. But in _Coriola.n.u.s_, _Lear_, _Romeo and Juliet_, _Hamlet_, _Oth.e.l.lo_, &c., the effect arises from the subordination of all to one, either as the prominent person, or the princ.i.p.al object. _Cymbeline_ is the only exception; and even that has its advantages in preparing the audience for the chaos of time, place, and costume, by throwing the date back into a fabulous king's reign.

But as of more importance, so more striking, is the judgment displayed by our truly dramatic poet, as well as poet of the drama, in the management of his first scenes. With the single exception of _Cymbeline_, they either place before us at one glance both the past and the future in some effect, which implies the continuance and full agency of its cause, as in the feuds and party-spirit of the servants of the two houses in the first scene of _Romeo and Juliet_; or in the degrading pa.s.sion for shows and public spectacles, and the overwhelming attachment for the newest successful war-chief in the Roman people, already become a populace, contrasted with the jealousy of the n.o.bles in _Julius Caesar_;-or they at once commence the action so as to excite a curiosity for the explanation in the following scenes, as in the storm of wind and waves, and the boatswain in the _Tempest_, instead of antic.i.p.ating our curiosity, as in most other first scenes, and in too many other first acts;-or they act, by contrast of diction suited to the characters, at once to heighten the effect, and yet to give a naturalness to the language and rhythm of the princ.i.p.al personages, either as that of Prospero and Miranda by the appropriate lowness of the style, or as in _King John_, by the equally appropriate stateliness of official harangues or narratives, so that the after blank verse seems to belong to the rank and quality of the speakers, and not to the poet;-or they strike at once the key-note, and give the predominant spirit of the play, as in the _Twelfth Night_ and in _Macbeth_;-or finally, the first scene comprises all these advantages at once, as in _Hamlet_.

Compare the easy language of common life, in which this drama commences, with the direful music and wild wayward rhythm and abrupt lyrics of the opening of _Macbeth_. The tone is quite familiar;-there is no poetic description of night, no elaborate information conveyed by one speaker to another of what both had immediately before their senses-(such as the first distich in Addison's _Cato_, which is a translation into poetry of "Past four o'clock and a dark morning!");-and yet nothing bordering on the comic on the one hand, nor any striving of the intellect on the other. It is precisely the language of sensation among men who feared no charge of effeminacy for feeling what they had no want of resolution to bear. Yet the armour, the dead silence, the watchfulness that first interrupts it, the welcome relief of the guard, the cold, the broken expressions of compelled attention to bodily feelings still under control-all excellently accord with, and prepare for, the after gradual rise into tragedy;-but, above all, into a tragedy, the interest of which is as eminently _ad et apud intra_, as that of _Macbeth_ is directly _ad extra_.

In all the best attested stories of ghosts and visions, as in that of Brutus, of Archbishop Cranmer, that of Benvenuto Cellini recorded by himself, and the vision of Galileo communicated by him to his favourite pupil Torricelli, the ghost-seers were in a state of cold or chilling damp from without, and of anxiety inwardly. It has been with all of them as with Francisco on his guard,-alone, in the depth and silence of the night; "'twas bitter cold, and they were sick at heart, and _not a mouse stirring_." The attention to minute sounds,-naturally a.s.sociated with the recollection of minute objects, and the more familiar and trifling, the more impressive from the unusualness of their producing any impression at all-gives a philosophic pertinency to this last image; but it has likewise its dramatic use and purpose. For its commonness in ordinary conversation tends to produce the sense of reality, and at once hides the poet, and yet approximates the reader or spectator to that state in which the highest poetry will appear, and in its component parts, though not in the whole composition, really is, the language of nature. If I should not speak it, I feel that I should be thinking it;-the voice only is the poet's,-the words are my own. That Shakespeare meant to put an effect in the actor's power in the very first words-"Who's there?"-is evident from the impatience expressed by the startled Francisco in the words that follow-"Nay, answer me: stand and unfold yourself." A brave man is never so peremptory, as when he fears that he is afraid. Observe the gradual transition from the silence and the still recent habit of listening in Francisco's-"I think I hear them"-to the more cheerful call out, which a good actor would observe, in the-"Stand ho! Who is there?" Bernardo's inquiry after Horatio, and the repet.i.tion of his name and in his own presence indicate a respect or an eagerness that implies him as one of the persons who are in the foreground; and the scepticism attributed to him,-

"Horatio says, 'tis but our fantasy; And will not let belief take hold of him,"-

prepares us for Hamlet's after eulogy on him as one whose blood and judgment were happily commingled. The actor should also be careful to distinguish the expectation and gladness of Bernardo's "Welcome, Horatio!"

from the mere courtesy of his "Welcome, good Marcellus!"

Now observe the admirable indefiniteness of the first opening out of the occasion of all this anxiety. The preparation informative of the audience is just as much as was precisely necessary, and no more;-it begins with the uncertainty appertaining to a question:-

"_Mar._ What, has _this thing_ appear'd again to-night?"-

Even the word "again" has its _credibilising_ effect. Then Horatio, the representative of the ignorance of the audience, not himself, but by Marcellus to Bernardo, antic.i.p.ates the common solution-"'tis but our fantasy!" upon which Marcellus rises into-

"This dreaded sight, twice seen of us"-