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1

•

OF

SH.t\l(ESPEAR'S PLAYS.

BY WILLIAM HAZ LITT.

LONDON:

PriftUtl ir C. H. Rqrwll, 21, PicetMlil9,

fOR R. HUNTER, SUCCESSOR Tp MR. JOHNSON, II' IT, PAUL'I CBOilCil-YARDJ

AND C. AND J. OLLIER, "BI.IIJICit-11'1&&1', CAYBNDIIH•IQU:lU .•

-.1817.

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TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT

YOU WILL.

THIS is justly considered as one of the most delightful of Shakespear's comedies. It is full of sweetness and pleasantry. It is perhaps too good-natured for comedy. It has little satire, and no spleen. It aims at the ludicrous rather than the ridiculous. It makes us laugh at the follies of mankind, not despise them, and still less bear any ill-will towards them. Shake­spear's comic genius resembles the bee r-ather in its power of extracting sweets from weeds .or poisons, than in leaving a sting behind it. He gives the most amusing exaggeration of the pre­vailing foibles of his characters, but in a way that they themselves, instead of being offended· at, would almost join in to humour; he rather contrives opportunities for them to shew them­selves off in the happiest lights, tban renders

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i56 TWELFTH NIGHT; OR,

them contemptible in the perverse construction of the wit or malice of others.-There is a cer­tain stage of society in which people become cons~ious of their peculiarities and absurdities, affect to disguise what they are, and set up pre-: tensions to what they are- not. This gives. rise to a corresponding style of comedy, the object of which is, to detect the disguises of self-love, and to make reprisals on these preposterous as­sumptions of vanity, by marking the contrast between the real and the affected character as severely as possible, and denying to those, who would impose on us for what they are not, even the merit which they have. This.is the comedy of artificial life, of wit and satire, such as we see it in Congreve, Wycherley, Vanbrugh, &c. To this succeeds a state of society from which the same sort of affectation and pretence are banished by a greater knowledge of the world or by their successful exposure on the stage; and which by neutral ising the materials of comic character, both natural and artificial, leaves no comedy at all-but the sentimental. Such is our modern comedy. There is a period in the progress of manners anterior to both these, in which the foibles and follies of individuals are of nature's planting, not the growth of art or stu'dy; in which they are therefore unconscious of them themselves, or care not who knows

· them, if they can but have their whim out; and

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WHAT YOU WILL.

in which, as there is no attempt· at hnpcisition, the spectators rather receive· pleasure f~om bu. mouring the inclinatious of the persons they laugh at, than wish to give them pain by expos­ing their absurdity. This may be called the eomedy of nature, and it is ·the comedy which we generally find in Shakespear.-Whether the analysis here given be just or not, the spint of his comedies is ,evidently quite distinct from that of the authors above mentioned, as .it is in its ,essence the same with that of Ce"antes; and also very frequently of Moliere, though he ·was more systematic in his extravagance than Shake- , spear. Shakespear's comedy is of a pastoral and poetical cast. Folly is indige~ous to the soil, and shoots out with native, happy, un­checked luxuriance. Absurdity has every en­couragement aiforded it; and nOn1lense bas room to B.ourish in. Nothing is stunted by the chu·rl­ish, icy hand of indifference ot 1everity. The poet runs riot in a conceit," and idolise& a quib­ble. His whole object is t0 . tum the meanest· or mdest objects to a pleasurable account. The relish which he bas of a pun, or of the quaint hu­mour of a low character, does not interfere with the delight with which he describes a beautiful image, or the most refined love. The clown's forced jests do not spoil the sweetness of the: character of Viola; the same house is big enough to hold Malvolio, the Countess, Maria, Sir Toby,

s

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~58 TWELFTH NIGHT; OR,

and Sir Andrew Ague•cheek. For .instance, nothing can fall much lower than this last cha­racter in intelleet or morals: yet how are his weaknesses nursed and dandled by Sir Toby into something " high fantastical," when on Sir Andrew's commendation of himself for dancing and fencing, Sir Toby answers--" Wherefore are these tbings hid? Wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? Are they like to take dust like mistress Moll's picture ? Why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig t I would n~t so much as make water but in a cinque-pace. What dost thou mean ? ~s

this a world to hide virtues in ? I did think by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was framed under the star of a galliard ["-How Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and the Clown afterwards chirp over their cups, how they " rouse the nig}It .. owl in a catch, able to draw three souls out of one weaver~" What can be better than Sir Toby's unanswerable answer to Malvolio, "Doit thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no mo~e cakes and ale ?"--In a word, the best ~urn is given to every thing, instead of the worst. There is a constant infusion of the romantic and enthusiastic, in .proportion as the characters are natural and sincere : whereas, in the more arti­ficial style of comedy, every thing gives way to ridicule and indifference, there being notl~ing left

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WHAT YO.U .WILL. . !i1&9

but affectation on. one side, and incredulity on the. other . .-.Much as we like Shakespear's co .. medies, we cannot agree with Dr. Johnson that they are better than his t~gedies; n~>r do we. like them half so well. If his inclination. to. comedy sometimes led him to tri:8e with the seriousness of tragedy, the poetical and imp~· sioned passages are the best parts of his come .. dies. The great and secret charm of TwELFTH NIGHT is the character of Viola. Much _as we like catche& and cakes and ale~ there is some-

1 thing that ·we like better. We have a friend­. ship for Sir Toby; we patronise Sir Andrew; we have an unde~tanding with the Clown, a sneaking kindness for Maria and her rogueries;­we feel a regard for Malvoli<>, and sympathise with his gravity, his smiles, hts cross gaa:ters,. his yellow stockingt~, and imp~isonment in the stocks. But there is something that excites in us a stronger feeling than all this-it is Viola'-s confession of her love.

« Duke. What's her history? Yw~. A blank, mY _lord, ~he never told her love:

She let concealment, like a :W:Ol'Dl ~· th' bud, Prey on her damask cheek, she pin' d _in tilought, And with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not _this love ~ndeed?

We men may say more, swear more, but indeed, Our shews are more than will ; for still we prove Much in.our wws, but little in ~r love.

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i.60 TW.BLI'TH NIGBT ;_ OR,

Duke. But diecJ t,Jly sja,Ur of he' love, my 00,? Viola. I am all ~he daughters of PlY fathel;''s house,

And all the brothers too;-and ~et I know not."-

Shakespear ~lone could' describe the effect of his own poetry.

" Oh, it came o'er the ear Uke the sweet south That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stea1ing and giving odour.''

What we so much admire here is- not the iiDJge of Pati~nce on a monument, which has been generally quoted, but .the Jines before and after it; " They. give a ·very echo· to the. seat where Jove is throned." How long ago it is since we first leprnt t() repeat· them;. and stiU, still they vibrate on the heart, like the sounds which the passing wind draws from the trembling strings of a harp left -on some desert shore ! There are other passages of not less. impas$ioned sweetness. Such is Olivia's address to Sebas· tian whom she supposes to have already de­,ceived her in a promise of marri11ge.

''Blame not this hast-e of miile: if· you Plean well, Now go with me and with this holy man Into tbe·chantry by: there before him, And underneath that consecrated roof, Plight me the full as8utarice of your fattb, That my most jealoy.s and; too dO!fbtjid soul May lifle at peace."·

We have already said something of Shake-

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WHA:T tyOU WILL.

spear's songs. One of the I~WSt beautiful of them occurs in this play, with a preface of his own to it.

tt Duke. 0 fullow, come; the song we had last night. Mark it, Cesario, it is old. and plain;·

·The spiosters.andthe knitters in. the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chaunt it : it ~ silly aooth, And dallies with the iDDOCenCe of love, Like the old age.

SONG.

Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid ;

Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

0 prepare it; ·

My part of death no one so true Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coftiO let there be strewn;_

Not ~ friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown;

A thousand thousand sighS to save,· Lay me, 0! where

Sad true-love never find my grave,

To weep there.:•

Who after this will say that Shakespear's g~­. nius was only fitted for co~edy? Yet after

reading other parts of this play, and particular1y the garden-scene where Malvolio p~cks up the

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·~6~ TWELFT·H NIGH'T; OR,

'letter; if we were to say that his genius for comedy was leas than hi& genius for tragedy, it would perhaps only prove that our own taste in iJUch ma~ters is more saturnine than mercurial.

" Eriter MAIUA·

Sir Toby. Here comes 'the little villain :;_How now, my nettle of India ?

Maria. Get ye all three into the box-tree : · Malvolio's coming down this · walk :· he has been yonder. i' the sun, practising behaviour to his own shadow thiii b8If hour : ob­serve him, for the love of JPQCkery r for I know this letter will make a conteq1p~tive idiot of him. Close, in the name pf jesting! Lie t~ou there; for here come's the trout that mU$t be caught with tickling.

[They hide themlelvu. Maria throws dOwn a letter, and

[.&it.

Enter MALvox.Jo. Malvolio. 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once

told me, she did affect me; and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my com­plexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect than any one el,se that fQllows her. What should I think on'tl

~ir Toby. Here's an over-weening rogue! Fabian. 0, peace! Contempla.tion makes a rare turkey-

cock of him; bow be jets under his advanced plumes! Sir 4nprew. 'Slight, I could so ~t the rogue :­Sir Toby. Peace, I say . . Maloolio. 'fo be count Malvolio ;­Sir Toby. Ah, rogue! Sir Andrew . . Pistol him, pistol him .

. Sir Toby. Peace, peace! Maltwlio. There is example for't ; the lady of the Stracby

married· the: yeoman of the wardrObe.

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WHAT YOU WILL. 263

Sir 4iult'etD. Fie on him, Jezebel! Fabian. 0, peace! now he's deeply in-; look, bOw imagi-

nation blows him. • Malllolio. HaviDg been three months manied to her,

sitting in m_y chair of state,--· Sir Toby. 0 for a stone bow, to hit him in the eye! Malt10lio. Calling my officer& about me, Ut. my branch'd

velvet gown; having corlle from a day-bed, where l have left Olivia 11l~ping •

. Sir T~ .. Fire IUld briuutone! FtJbjtm. 0 peace, peace! J/al"olio. And then to have the. humour of state: and

after a demure travel of regard,--telHng them, I koow 'my place, as I would they should dQ theirs,-:-to ask for . niy kinsman Toby.--S~ Toby. Bolts and shackles! Fabian. 0, peace, peace, peace! now, now. Malvolio. Seven of my people, with an obedient start,

make out for him· I frown the while; .and, perchance, wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby app~hes; curtsies there to me:

Sir Toby. Shall this fellow live? Fabian. Though our silence be dra'Ml from us with care~,

yet peace. Malvolio. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my

familiar smile with an austere regard of controul : Sir Toby. And does not Toby take you a blow o'the lips

then? Mal"olio. Saying-Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast

me on your niece, give me this prerogative of !ipeeeh;­Sir Toby. What, what? Mal"olio. You must amend your drunkenness. Fabian. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot. Mal.,olio. Besides, you waste the ~ure of your time

\\'ith a foolish knight-

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'lWS"LPTH NlGHT.

Sir JlttdnfD; That' a me, I 'WIIITIUlt yoa. · .MIIll1olW. ODe Sir Andrew-Sir JlndreuJ. 1 knew, 'twas I; for many do call me :fool •• MaJrJoliD. What emploplent ha'fe we here?· ,

[Talrilrf up the ldUr ...

The letter *nd his comments .on it are equally good. If. poor Malvolio's treatment afterwards is a little hard, poetical justice is done in the uneasiness which Olivia suffers on account of her mistaken attachment to Cesario, as her in­~osihility to the violence of the Duke's passion: is atoned for by the discovery of Viola's con­cealed love of him.

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