A Dish of Orts Part 7

3.

There might you see the labouring pioneer Begrimed with sweat, and smeared all with dust; And, from the towers of Troy there would appear The very eyes of men through loopholes thrust, Gazing upon the Greeks with little l.u.s.t: Such sweet observance in this work was had, That one might see those far-off eyes look sad.

4.

In great commanders, grace and majesty You might behold, triumphing in their faces; In youth, quick bearing and dexterity; And here and there the painter interlaces Pale cowards, marching on with trembling paces, Which heartless peasants did so well resemble, That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble.

5.

In Ajax and Ulysses, O what art Of physiognomy might one behold!

The face of either ciphered either's heart; Their face their manners most expressly told: In Ajax' eyes blunt rage and rigour rolled; But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent Showed deep regard, and smiling government.

6.

There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand, As 'twere encouraging the Greeks to fight; Making such sober action with his hand, That it beguiled attention, charmed the sight; In speech, it seemed his beard, all silver-white, Wagged up and down, and from his lips did fly Thin winding breath, which purled up to the sky.

7.

About him were a press of gaping faces, Which seemed to swallow up his sound advice; All jointly listening, but with several graces, As if some mermaid did their ears entice; Some high, some low, the painter was so nice.

The scalps of many, almost hid behind, To jump up higher seemed, to mock the mind.

8.

Here one man's hand leaned on another's head, His nose being shadowed by his neighbour's ear; Here one, being thronged, bears back, all bollen and red; Another, smothered, seems to pelt and swear; And in their rage such signs of rage they bear, As, but for loss of Nestor's golden words, It seemed they would debate with angry swords.

9.

For much imaginary work was there; Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind, That for Achilles' image stood his spear, Griped in an armed hand; himself behind Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind: A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head, Stood for the whole to be imagined.

10.

And, from the walls of strong-besieged Troy, When their brave hope, bold Hector, marched to field, Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield, And to their hope they such odd action yield; That through their light joy seemed to appear, Like bright things stained, a kind of heavy fear.

11.

And from the strond of Dardan, where they fought, To Simois' reedy banks, the red blood ran; Whose waves to imitate the battle sought, With swelling ridges; and their ranks began To break upon the galled sh.o.r.e, and then Retire again, till, meeting greater ranks, They join, and shoot their foam at Simois' banks.

The oftener I read these verses, amongst the very earliest compositions of Shakspere, I am the more impressed with the carefulness with which he represents the _work_ of the picture--"shows the strife of the painter."

The most natural thought to follow in sequence is: How like his own art!

The scope and variety of the whole picture, in which ma.s.s is effected by the acc.u.mulation of individuality; in which, on the one hand, Troy stands as the impersonation of the aim and object of the whole; and on the other, the Simois flows in foaming rivalry of the strife of men,--the pictorial form of that sympathy of nature with human effort and pa.s.sion, which he so often introduces in his plays,--is like nothing else so much as one of the works of his own art. But to take a portion as a more condensed representation of his art in combining all varieties into one harmonious whole: his genius is like the oratory of Nestor as described by its effects in the seventh and eighth stanzas. Every variety of att.i.tude and countenance and action is harmonized by the influence which is at once the occasion of debate, and the charm which restrains by the fear of its own loss: the eloquence and the listening form the one bond of the unruly ma.s.s. So the dramatic genius that harmonizes his play, is visible only in its effects; so ethereal in its own essence that it refuses to be submitted to the a.n.a.lysis of the ruder intellect, it is like the words of Nestor, for which in the picture there stands but "thin winding breath which purled up to the sky." Take, for an instance of this, the reconciling power by which, in the mysterious midnight of the summer-wood, he brings together in one harmony the graceful pa.s.sions of childish elves, and the fierce pa.s.sions of men and women, with the ludicrous reflection of those pa.s.sions in the little convex mirror of the artisan's drama; while the mischievous Puck revels in things that fall out preposterously, and the Elf-Queen is in love with a.s.s-headed Bottom, from the hollows of whose long hairy ears--strange bouquet-holders--bloom and breathe the musk-roses, the characteristic odour-founts of the play; and the philosophy of the unbelieving Theseus, with the candour of Hippolyta, lifts the whole into relation with the realities of human life. Or take, as another instance, the pretended madman Edgar, the court-fool, and the rugged old king going grandly mad, sheltered in one hut, and lapped in the roar of a thunderstorm.

My object, then, in respect to this poem, is to produce, from many instances, a few examples of the metamorphosis of such excellences as he describes in the picture, into the corresponding forms of the drama; in the hope that it will not then be necessary to urge the probability that the presence of those artistic virtues in his own practice, upon which he expatiates in his representation of another man's art, were accompanied by the corresponding consciousness--that, namely, of the artist as differing from that of the critic, its objects being regarded from the concave side of the hammered relief. If this probability be granted, I would, from it, advance to a higher and far more important conclusion--how unlikely it is that if the writer was conscious of such fitnesses, he should be unconscious of those grand embodiments of truth, which are indubitably present in his plays, whether he knew it or not.

This portion of my argument will be strengthened by an instance to show that Shakspere was himself quite at home in the contemplation of such truths.

Let me adduce, then, some of those corresponding embodiments in words instead of in forms; in which colours yield to tones, lines to phrases.

I will begin with the lowest kind, in which the art has to do with matters so small, that it is difficult to believe that _unconscious_ art could have any relation to them. They can hardly have proceeded directly from the great inspiration of the whole. Their very minuteness is an argument for their presence to the poet's consciousness; while belonging, as they do, only to the _construction_ of the play, no such independent existence can be accorded to them, as to _truths_, which, being in themselves realities, _are_ there, whether Shakspere saw them or not. If he did not intend them, the most that can be said for them is, that such is the naturalness of Shakspere's representations, that there is room in his plays, as in life, for those wonderful coincidences which are reducible to no law.

Perhaps every one of the examples I adduce will be found open to dispute. This is a kind in which direct proof can have no share; nor should I have dared thus to combine them in argument, but for the ninth stanza of those quoted above, to which I beg my readers to revert. Its _imaginary work_ means--work hinted at, and then left to the imagination of the reader. Of course, in dramatic representation, such work must exist on a great scale; but the minute particularization of the "conceit deceitful" in the rest of the stanza, will surely justify us in thinking it possible that Shakspere intended many, if not all, of the _little_ fitnesses which a careful reader discovers in his plays. That such are not oftener discovered comes from this: that, like life itself, he so blends into vital beauty, that there are no salient points. To use a homely simile: he is not like the barn-door fowl, that always runs out cackling when she has laid an egg; and often when she has not. In the tone of an ordinary drama, you may know when something is coming; and the tone itself declares--_I have done it_. But Shakspere will not spoil his art to show his art. It is there, and does its part: that is enough.

If you can discover it, good and well; if not, pa.s.s on, and take what you can find. He can afford not to be fathomed for every little pearl that lies at the bottom of his ocean. If I succeed in showing that such art may exist where it is not readily discovered, this may give some additional probability to its existence in places where it is harder to isolate and define.

To produce a few instances, then:

In "Much Ado about Nothing," seeing the very nature of the play is expressed in its name, is it not likely that Shakspere named the two constables, Dogberry (_a poisonous berry_) and Verjuice (_the juice of crab-apples_); those names having absolutely nothing to do with the stupid innocuousness of their characters, and so corresponding to their way of turning things upside down, and saying the very opposite of what they mean?

In the same play we find Margaret objecting to her mistress's wearing a certain rebato (_a large plaited ruff_), on the morning of her wedding: may not this be intended to relate to the fact that Margaret had dressed in her mistress's clothes the night before? She might have rumpled or soiled it, and so feared discovery.

In "King Henry IV.," Part I., we find, in the last scene, that the Prince kills Hotspur. This is not recorded in history: the conqueror of Percy is unknown. Had it been a fact, history would certainly have recorded it; and the silence of history in regard to a deed of such mark, is equivalent to its contradiction. But Shakspere requires, for his play's sake, to identify the slayer of Hotspur with his rival the Prince. Yet Shakspere will not contradict history, even in its silence.

What is he to do? He will account for history _not knowing_ the fact.--Falstaff claiming the honour, the Prince says to him:

"For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, I'll gild it with the happiest terms I have;"

revealing thus the magnificence of his own character, in his readiness, for the sake of his friend, to part with his chief renown. But the Historic Muse could not believe that fat Jack Falstaff had killed Hotspur, and therefore she would not record the claim.

In the second part of the same play, act i. scene 2, we find Falstaff toweringly indignant with Mr. Dombledon, the silk mercer, that he will stand upon security with a gentleman for a short cloak and slops of satin. In the first scene of the second act, the hostess mentions that Sir John is going to dine with Master Smooth, the silkman. Foiled with Mr. Dombledon, he has already made himself so agreeable to Master Smooth, that he is "indited to dinner" with him. This is, by the bye, as to the action of the play; but as to the character of Sir John, is it not

"Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind"--_kinned--natural_?

The _conceit deceitful_ in the painting, is the imagination that means more than its says. So the words of the speakers in the play, stand for more than the speakers mean. They are _Shakspere's_ in their relation to his whole. To Achilles, his spear is but his spear: to the painter and his company, the spear of Achilles stands for Achilles himself.

Coleridge remarks upon _James Gurney_, in "King John:" "How individual and comical he is with the four words allowed to his dramatic life!"

These words are those with which he answers the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's request to leave the room. He has been lingering with all the inquisitiveness and privilege of an old servant; when Faulconbridge says: "James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave a while?" with strained politeness. With marked condescension to the request of the second son, whom he has known and served from infancy, James Gurney replies: "Good leave, good Philip;"

giving occasion to Faulconbridge to show his ambition, and scorn of his present standing, in the contempt with which he treats even the Christian name he is so soon to exchange with his surname for _Sir Richard_ and _Plantagenet; Philip_ being the name for a sparrow in those days, when ladies made pets of them. Surely in these words of the serving-man, we have an outcome of the same art by which

"A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head, Stood for the whole to be imagined."

In the "Winter's Tale," act iv. scene 3, Perdita, dressed with unwonted gaiety at the festival of the sheep-shearing, is astonished at finding herself talking in full strains of poetic verse. She says, half-ashamed:

"Methinks I play as I have seen them do In Whitsun pastorals: sure, this robe of mine Does change my disposition!"

She does not mean this seriously. But the robe has more to do with it than she thinks. Her pa.s.sion for Florizel is the warmth that sets the springs of her thoughts free, and they flow with the grace belonging to a princess-nature; but it is the robe that opens the door of her speech, and, by elevating her consciousness of herself, betrays her into what is only natural to her, but seems to her, on reflection, inconsistent with her low birth and poor education. This instance, however, involves far higher elements than any of the examples I have given before, and naturally leads to a much more important cla.s.s of ill.u.s.trations.

In "Macbeth," act ii. scene 4, why is the old man, who has nothing to do with the conduct of the play, introduced?--That, in conversation with Rosse, he may, as an old man, bear testimony to the exceptionally terrific nature of that storm, which, we find--from the words of Banquo:

"There's husbandry in heaven: Their candles are all out,"--

had begun to gather, before supper was over in the castle. This storm is the sympathetic horror of Nature at the breaking open of the Lord's anointed temple--horror in which the animal creation partakes, for the horses of Duncan, "the minions of their race," and therefore the most sensitive of their sensitive race, tear each other to pieces in the wildness of their horror. Consider along with this a foregoing portion of the second scene in the same act. Macbeth, having joined his wife after the murder, says:

"Who lies i' the second chamber?

"_Lady M._ Donalbain.

"There are two lodged together."

These two, Macbeth says, woke each other--the one laughing, the other crying _murder_. Then they said their prayers and went to sleep again.--I used to think that the natural companion of Donalbain would be Malcolm, his brother; and that the two brothers woke in horror from the proximity of their father's murderer who was just pa.s.sing the door. A friend objected to this, that, had they been together, Malcolm, being the elder, would have been mentioned rather than Donalbain. Accept this objection, and we find a yet more delicate significance: the _presence_ operated differently on the two, one bursting out in a laugh, the other crying _murder_; but both were in terror when they awoke, and dared not sleep till they had said their prayers. His sons, his horses, the elements themselves, are shaken by one unconscious sympathy with the murdered king.

a.s.sociate with this the end of the third scene of the fourth act of "Julius Caesar;" where we find that the attendants of Brutus all cry out in their sleep, as the ghost of Caesar leaves their master's tent. This outcry is not given in Plutarch.