when they are silent, singin' a gran' solo by himsell, and ha'en nae objections to takin' either the first or the second in a duet with the Thunder. Or haply, sir,—and there the similie hauds gude too, when you're in a chearfu' mood, and weel-timed daffin's the order o' the nicht,-haply, sir, through the disparting mist is heard the laughter o' lads and lasses tedding the rushy meadow hay in the moist hollows among the heather, or the lilting o' some auld traditionary lay; or what say you to the bagpipe, to a gatherin' or a coronach, saft and faint as subterranean music, frae ahint a knowe a' covered wi' rocks, and owershadowed wi' pine-trees like oaks, so majestic is the far sweepin' o' their arm-boughs, and so high their green-diadem'd heads in heaven? NORTH. Hollo! Fancy! Whether art thou flying? SHEPHERD. Indelicate indeed! at that rate wha's delicate in the haill range o' English leeteratur? Is Addison delicate, wha left "no line which dying he would wish to blot?" Let your prim, leerin', city madams read his Spectawtors-beautiful, pure, simple, graceful, elegant, and perfectly innocent as they are, and then daur to blame the Noctes Ambrosianæ. NORTH. Let Pope's Works, truly moral as he is, Poems, Letters and all, go into the fire. SHEPHERD. Let the Castle o' Indolence be inserted in the Index Expurgatorius, on account o' that stanza about the silly maiden "waxing very weakly as she warms" in the arms of the Losel NORTH. Whisht, James, whisht-the very allusion to the most perfect poem in the English language is indelicate. SHEPHERD. What say they to the description o' Adam and Eve in the garden o' Edento Dido and Æneas in the cave-to Tasso and Ariosto, and NORTH. Shakspeare in every other page-to Ophelia, and Cymbeline, and Desdemona. O the cutties! SHEPHERD. NORTH. Why, James, the galleries of the Festal Hall might be crowded with the chariest virgins of the land to listen to our colloquies during our wildest orgies; nor would the most shame-faced of them all ever need once to veil her eyes beneath the white wavings of her ostrich plumes. SHEPHERD. There canna, sir, be a mair fatal symptom o' the decline and corruption o' national morals than what's ca'd squeamishness. Human natur, I fancy, is the same in essentials in high and in low degree-and I ken ae thing for a dead certainty, that there never was a lass yet in a' the Forest that was misfortunate, who had nae aye lookit as if butter would nae hae melted in her mouth; and what was the upshot? A skirlin' babbie at the dead hour o' night, to the astonishment o' her mither and a' her sisters-and you'll fin' the same thing noted in auld ballants by thae great masters o' natur and teachers o' virtue, the Poets. NORTH. Ay, James-the old minstrels saw far, and deep, and clear into all heart-mysteries-and, low-born humble men as they were, their tragic or comic strains strike like electricity. SHEPHERD. Shame came into the warld wi' Sin; and whether by the lowin' ingle-nook, or amang the bonnie bloomin' heather, aneath the moon and stars, she bides na lang wi' Innocence, sittin' or lyin' in the arms o' Love-for Love, though a gentle, is a bold-eyed spirit; and wi' ae smile, that fortifies the tremblin' virgin's heart, scaurs awa' Shame and Fear to the haunts o' the guilty; and if there be a blush on her brow or her bosom, Love kens weel whence came the dear suffusion; and, in a sweet lown voice, asks his ain lassie to lift up her head and look him in the face, that he may kiss the tears frae her cheek, and what seems to be tears-but is only a mist-far within her thoughtful and affectionate een, through which is seen swimmin' the very essence o' her soul ! NORTH. Once adopt the false delicate, and Poetry and Painting are no more. Jephtha's daughter must not bewail her virginity on the mountains-and her breast must not be bared to the sacrificial knife of her father. Iphigenia in Tauris SHEPHERD. If three bonny maidens, sisters perhaps, had been a' droon'd in ane anither's arms, in some shelvin' plum-not only betrothed, but the verra day fixed for their marriages-and were a' there laid out, stiff and stark, on the sunny bank, like three wee bit naked babbies, what wad you think o' that man or that woman, wha, in the middle o' that mortal meesery, when the souls o' a' present were prostrated by the sicht o' sudden and saddest death, should, out o' delicacy, order awa' the weepin', and sobbin', and shriekin' haymakers, that had a' run down dimented to the pool; and some o' them, at the risk o' their ain lives, louped into the deeps, and were now wringin' their hauns, because there was nae hope for either Mary, or Margaret, or Helen Morrison-Useless a' their bridal garments-and for their bonnie breasts nae linen wanted noo-but sufficient for a shroud! NORTH. That self-same sight I saw, James, in a pool on a bank of the Tweed-fifty years ago SHEPHERD. I ken you did and though I've heard you describe't fifty times, I wad rather no hear ony thing mair about it the noo-for I hate to greet-and whatever else you may be deficient in, the greatest coof in Scotland canna deny that you're a matchless master o' the pathetic. NORTH. Yes, James-and of the humorous, too— SHEPHERD. You micht hae left anither to say that for you, sir-but o' a' the vain, prood, self-conceited creters that ever took pen in haun', you are at the head and if ever you chance to be confined in a lunatic madhouse, nae dout you'll continue to believe that you're still the Editor of Blackwood's Magazine, and 'll no alloo naebody but yoursell to write the leading article. And of the sublime. NORTH. SHEPHERD. What! you conceit yourself to be a prose Milton? I think naething o' your grand style. Saw ye ever an auld man totterin' wi' stilts ower a ford that a shepherd micht skip amaist without being wat-shod? And the beautiful NORTH. SHEPHERD. And the mean, low, base, coorse, clatty— NORTH. Come, James, keep a good tongue in your head. See, here are Retzsch's Illustrations of Hamlet. SHEPHERD. Stop till I dicht the table wi' the rubber. Noo unfauld, and let's hear till another lectur. Play awa' the first fiddle. You like to shine, even afore the Shepherd alane-and oh! but auld age is garrulous, garrulous, and loes dearly the soun' o' his ain tremblin' vice! NORTH. Here is the apotheosis of Shakspeare. SHEPHERD. I hate apotheoses's, for they're no in natur, or hardly sae-but is there a pictur o' the murder ? NORTH. Here it is. The adulterous brother is pouring the "leperous distilment" into the ear of the sleeping monarch. What a model of a coward assassin ! He seems as if he trod on a viper. He must needs have recourse to poison, for he dare not touch a dagger. Every nerve in his body is on the rack of fear, and yet no quiver of remorse can reach his dastard soul. The passage from sleep to death-how finely marked on the features of his victim! `Life has departed without taking leave, and death has not yet stamped him with its loathsome impress. But the deed is done, and the "extravagant and erring spirit," with all its imperfections on its head, is already in Purgatory. What a placid beauty in the reclining attitude of the corpse! A graceful ease, which finely contrasts with the crouching curve of the villain. It is a posture which a lady on a sofa might study with advantage-yet manly, royal-in sleep in death, he is every inch a king." SHEPHERD. And the artist o' that is a German? I can hardly credit it. NORTH. The antique garniture of the Arbour-the Gothic fret-work-the grotesque imagery-the grim figure of Justice with her sword and scale-all seem to sympathize with the horrid act—and bear a charmed life, a reflection of sad mortality. SHEPHERD. Oh! sir! but Claudius is an ugly heathen. NORTH. Is he not, James-not indeed too bad a villain-but too low a scoundrel? He could not be the brother of a king-he could seduce no woman who was not degraded below all degradation-and the mother of Hamlet is still a queen. He is downright physically disgusting. Retzsch has embodied the grossest issues of Hamlet's hatred. He has combined in a human form the various deformities of a satyr, a drunkard, a paddock, a bat, a gib, a slave-and, altogether, has produced a true semblance of one of those hoary miscreants who are brought up to Bow-street or Marlborough Office for assaults upon female infants. His vile low forehead, whalley eyes, pendulous cheeks, and filthy he-goatish beard-foh-the nobles of Denmark would never have compounded felony with such "a cutpurse of the empire." SHEPHERD. But you'll find, sir, that Shakspeare's Claudius is really such a monster. No matter what Hamlet says. Hamlet utters his own sentiments, not Shakspeare's-and hatred is twentyfold blinder than love. Now, I really think, that sensualist, adulterer, fratricide, and usurper as he is, Claudius has royal blood in his veins, and, for an usurper, plays the King's part rarely. Even the Ghost ascribes to him "witchcraft of wit;" and accordingly he is a fine talker, a florid rhetorical speaker, not unfurnished with common-places of morality, and thoroughly capable of sustaining his assumed dignity. His reproof of Hamlet's perseverent woe would have done credit to a better man. to persever In obstinate condolement, is a course Of impious stubbornness: 'tis unmanly grief, A heart unfortified, or mind impatient: SHEPHERD. That's orthodox divinity, sure aneuch! VOL. XXIV. 4 Q NORTH. Nay, when his conscience will let him, he lacks not courage when assailed by Laertes he behaves like a prince, and speaks like a Tory. Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person. That treason can but peep at what it would, SHEPHERD. He may speak like a Tory-but he acts like a Whig. NORTH. Forget party for a night, James. Shakspeare, in short, was aware, and here Retzsch seems to have forgotten, that great moral guilt may coexist with much personal or official dignity, and even with acute intellectual perceptions of right and wrong. SHEPHERD. Turn ower to the Ghost, sir-gin ye please. "By Heaven, I'll make a Ghost of him that lets me." NORTH. Lo! Young Hamlet, beckoned away by the Ghost, who stands in the distance, dim and shadowy, ghostly indeed and king-like too, is bursting from his friends, whose admonitory, dissuasive countenances interpret their fears. There is nothing of rage or violence, you see, James, in his deportment-nothing but the self-transcending energy of one, whose fate cries out. Never did art produce a finer sample of manly beauty in its vernal summer. We can see that his downy cheek is smooth and blooming as a virgin's; and yet he is the man complete the soldier, scholar, courtier-the beloved of Ophelia-" the beautiful, the brave." Perhaps he is even too beautiful-not that he is effeminatebut the moody, moon-struck Hamlet must needs have had a darker and a heavier brow. That. Horatio, here and throughout, is a sensible, gentlemanlike young man-and Marcellus a fair militia officer. SHEPHERD. Eh!. here's the soliloquy! NORTH. To say that it is a picture of Hamlet uttering that soliloquy, would be to attribute to the pencil a skill which it does not possess. But it is evidently the picture of a man speaking-reasoning to himself-a rare advantage over the generality of theatrical portraits, which generally stare out of the canvas or paper, just as if they were spouting to the pit, or familiarly eyeing the gallery. Hamlet stands in the centre-his body firm and erect, his head downcast, hands slightly raised. He is manifestly in a state of inward conflict, and strong mental exertion-not in a passive day-dream, or brown study. On the one side, Ophelia sits sewing-her hands suspended, her countenance marked with affectionate anxiety. On the other, the King and Polonius, watching, one with malicious, the other with curious intentness. Retzsch has admirably represented the popular idea of Polonius ;-but when he visits England, he may perhaps find, among our venerable Nobles, a more adequate representative of the Polonius of Shakspeare. SHEPHERD. Was ye speakin' the noo, sir, for I didna hear your vice? NORTH. Beauty, Innocence, and Sorrow, each in their loveliest dress, unite in the simple figure. Most wonderful and excellent is the art, that with a few strokes of the pencil, can produce a being whom at once we know, and love, and pity. Hamlet, seated at her feet, his eye fixed like a Basilisk on the King, with uplifted finger, expounds "the Mouse Trap."-" He poisons him in the garden for his estate. You shall see anon, how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago's wife." The King, with averted face, draws back his chair, as in the act of rising.The Queen, a royal matron, still noble and beautiful-though. guilt, and care, and years, have set their several marks upon her,—holds up her hands in astonishment-but shews no fear.-She evidently was not privy to the murder. The rest of the audience are merely amazed, or it may be, chagrined at the interruption of their entertainment. Ophelia, pensive and heart-broken, yet thinking no evil, scarce perceives what is passing. Puir creter! SHEPHERD. NORTH. But, look here, my dear Shepherd-look here. The King is praying-no, pray he cannot-the picture tells it. We compassionate, even this miscreant, under the severest of all Heaven's judgments.-Not so does Hamlet. "Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid bent," is clearly blazoned in his own act and visage. That was one of the speeches which Shakspeare, had he lived in these days, would not have written-nor would he, in the golden days of Queen Bess, or King Jamie, have put it into the mouth of Hamlet, had he meant to represent him as a sane and exemplary youth. Yet I know not whether the notion of retributive vengeance as a propitiation to the departed, will not justify even this horrid scruple. The speech, whatever it were meant for, certainly is a tremendous satire on revenge. It gars me grue and greet. SHEPHERD. NORTH. After the last confirmation of the king's guilt, Hamlet, fooled to the top of his bent by successive intruders, and screwing up his spirits for the interview with his mother, not only is, but confesses himself maddened. Now could I drink hot blood, And do such business as the bitter day He even contemplates, while he deprecates, the possibility of his " heart losing its nature." Just then, "at the very witching time of night," "when hell itself breathes out contagion to this world," he crosses the chamber where the king is kneeling. The opportunity strikes him, but his natural disinclination to action intervenes, with somewhat of a secret consciousness, that the moment of repentance is not the time of vengeance. Still, soutterly are his feelings envenomed against the poor culprit, and so strangely his moral sense perplexed by "supernatural soliciting," that even remorse itself is turned to cruelty, and he vindicates the adjournment of the blow by arguments, which certainly "have no relish of salvation in them,” but which, perhaps, sounded less impious in an age, when every stanch Protestant, no less than his Catholic cousin, thought himself bound to believe in the eternal perdition of their dissentient neighbours. SHEPHERD. I can look at it nae langer; turn ower, sir, turn ower to Ophelia ! NORTH. Here it is, the madness of Ophelia! She is still lovely-still the same Ophelia-but how changed! Her aspect tells of fierce conflicting woes-but they are passed. Surely that bereavement of reason, which to man appears so cruel, is a dispensation of mercy! She scatters her flowers-rue, for remembrance, and pansies for thoughts-and warbles snatches of old songs-such as she may have overheard in her childhood, without knowing what the words imply, only that they tell of love and death-of faithless love and death untimely ! SHEPHERD. Can yon be the cauld roun' that I see on the side-board through a sort o' mist afore my een? If sae, let us baith hae a shave, wi' moostard and vinegar-for it's a gae while syne sooper, and you look yawp, sir. (The SHEPHERD cuts dexterously a plateful of beef, with much taste interlarding the lean with the fat.) NORTH. After a hot and heavy supper, James, it is dangerous to go to bed, without a trifle of something light and cold-and no well-regulated private or public house should ever be without a Round. Thank you, James, thank you. |
