William Hazlitt
Characters of Shakespear's Plays (1817)
London: Everyman, 1906.
[1] ROMEO AND JULIET is the only tragedy
which Shakespear has written entirely on a love-story. It is supposed to have been his first
play, and it deserves to stand in that proud rank. There is the buoyant spirit of youth in every line, in the
rapturous intoxication of hope, and in the bitterness of despair. It has been said of ROMEO AND JULIET by
a great critic, that "whatever is most intoxicating in the odour of a
southern spring, languishing in the song of the nightingale, or voluptuous in
the first opening of the rose, is to be found in this poem." The description is true; and yet it
does not answer to our idea of the play.
For if it has the sweetness of the rose, it has its freshness too; if it
has the languor of the nightingale's song, it has also its giddy transport; if
it has the softness of a southern spring, it is as glowing and as bright. There is nothing of a sickly and
sentimental cast. Romeo and Juliet
are in love, but they are not lovesick.
Everything speaks the very soul of pleasure, the high and healthy pulse
of the passions: the heart beats,
the blood circulates and mantles throughout. Their courtship is not an insipid interchange of sentiments
lip-deep, learnt at second-hand from poems and plays, — made up of beauties of
the most shadowy kind, of "fancies wan that hang the pensive head,"
of evanescent smiles, and sighs that breathe not, of delicacy that shrinks from
the touch, and feebleness that scarce supports itself, an elaborate vacuity of
thought, and an artificial dearth of sense, spirit, truth, and nature! It is the reverse of all this. It is Shakespear all over, and
Shakespear when he was young.
[2] We have heard it objected to ROMEO AND JULIET, that it is
founded on an idle passion between a boy and a girl, who have scarcely seen and
can have but little sympathy or rational esteem for one another, who have had
no experience of the good or ills of life, and whose raptures or despair must
be therefore equally groundless and fantastical. Whoever objects to the youth of the parties in this play as
"too unripe and crude" to pluck the sweets of love, and wishes to see
a first-love carried on into a good old age, and the passions taken at the
rebound, when their force is spent, may find all this done in the Stranger and in other German plays, where they do
things by contraries, and transpose nature to inspire sentiment and create
philosophy. Shakespear proceeded
in a more straight-forward, and, we think, effectual way. He did not endeavour to extract beauty
from wrinkles, or the wild throb of passion from the last expiring sigh of
indifference. He did not
"gather grapes of thorns nor figs of thistles." It was not his way. But he has given a picture of human
life, such as it is in the order of nature. He has founded the passion of the two lovers not on the
pleasures they had experienced, but on all the pleasures they had not experienced. All that was to come of life was theirs. At that untried source of promised
happiness they staked their thirst, and the first eager draught made them drunk
with love and joy. They were in
full possession of their senses and their affections. Their hopes were of air, their desires of fire. Youth is the season of love, because
the heart is then first melted in tenderness from the touch of novelty, and
kindled to rapture, for it knows no end of its enjoyments or its wishes. Desire has no limit but itself. Passion, the love and expectation of pleasure,
is infinite, extravagant, inexhaustible, till experience comes to check and
kill it. Juliet exclaims on her
first interview with Romeo—
"My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep."
And why should it not?
What was to hinder the thrilling tide of pleasure, which had just gushed
from her heart, from flowing on without stint or measure, but experience which
she was yet without? What was to
abate the transport of the first sweet sense of pleasure, which her heart and
her senses had just tasted, but indifference which she was yet a stranger
to? What was thereto check the
ardour of hope, of faith, of constancy, just rising in her breast, but
disappointment which she had not yet felt! As are the desires and the hopes of youthful passion, such
is the keenness of its disappointments, and their baleful effect. Such is the transition in this play
from the highest bliss to the lowest despair, from the nuptial couch to an
untimely grave. The only evil that
even in apprehension befalls the two lovers is the loss of the greatest
possible felicity; yet this loss is fatal to both, for they had rather part
with life than bear the thought of surviving all that had made life dear to
them. In all this, Shakespear has
but followed nature, which existed in his time, as well as now. The modern philosophy, which reduces
the whole theory of the mind to habitual impressions, and leaves the natural
impulses of passion and imagination out of the account, had not then been
discovered; or if it had, would have been little calculated for the uses of
poetry.
[3] It is the
inadequacy of the same false system of philosophy to account for the strength
of our earliest attachments, which has led Mr. Wordsworth to indulge in the
mystical visions of Platonism in his ode on the Progress of Life. He has very admirably described the
vividness of our impressions in youth and childhood, and how "they fade by
degrees into the light of common day," and he ascribes the change to the
supposition of a pre-existent state, as if our early thoughts were nearer
heaven, reflections of former trails of glory, shadows of our past being. This is idle. It is not from the knowledge of the past that the first
impressions of things derive their gloss and splendour, but from our ignorance
of the future, which fills the void to come with the warmth of our desires,
with our gayest hopes, and brightest fancies. It is the obscurity spread before it that colours the
prospect of life with hope, as it is the cloud which reflects the rainbow. There is no occasion to resort to any
mystical union and transmission of feeling through different states of being to
account for the romantic enthusiasm of youth; nor to plant the root of hope in
the grave, nor to derive it from the skies. Its root is in the heart of man: it lifts its head above the stars. Desire and imagination are inmates of the human breast. The heaven "that lies about us in
our infancy" is only a new world, of which we know nothing but what we
wish it to be, and believe all that we wish. In youth and boyhood, the world we live in is the world of
desire, and of fancy: it is
experience that brings us down to the world of reality. What is it that in youth sheds a dewy
light round the evening star? That
makes the daisy look so bright? That
perfumes the hyacinth? That
embalms the first kiss of love? It
is the delight of novelty, and the seeing no end to the pleasure that we fondly
believe is still in store for us.
The heart revels in the luxury of its own thoughts, and is unable to sustain
the weight of hope and love that presses upon it. — The effects of the passion
of love alone might have dissipated Mr. Wordsworth's theory, if he means
anything more by it than an ingenious and poetical allegory. That at least is not a link in the chain let
down from other worlds; "the purple light of love" is not a dim
reflection of the smiles of celestial bliss. It does not appear till the middle of life, and then seems
like "another morn risen on mid-day." In this respect the soul comes into the world "in utter
nakedness." Love waits for
the ripening of the youthful blood.
The sense of pleasure precedes the love of pleasure, but with the sense
of pleasure, as soon as it is felt, come thronging infinite desires and hopes
of pleasure, and love is mature as soon as born. It withers and it dies almost as soon!
[4] This play
presents a beautiful coup-d'oeil of the progress of human life. In thought it occupies years, and embraces the circle of the
affections from childhood to old age.
Juliet has become a great girl, a young woman since we first remember
her a little thing in the idle prattle of the nurse. Lady Capulet was about her age when she became a mother, and
old Capulet somewhat impatiently tells his younger visitors,
— "I've seen the day,
That I have worn a visor, and could tell
A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear,
Such as would please:
'tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone."
[5] Thus one period
of life makes way for the following, and one generation pushes another off the
stage. One of the most striking
passages to show the intense feeling of youth in this play is Capulet's
invitation to Paris to visit his entertainment.
"At my poor house, look to behold this night
Earth-treading stars that make dark heav'n light;
Such comfort as do lusty young men feel
When well-apparel'd April on the heel
Of limping winter treads, even such delight
Among fresh female-buds shall you this night
Inherit at my house."
[6] The feelings of
youth and of the spring are here blended together like the breath of opening
flowers. Images of vernal beauty
appear to have floated before the author's mind, in writing this poem, in
profusion. Here is another of
exquisite beauty, brought in more by accident than by necessity. Montague declares of his son smit with
a hopeless passion, which he will not reveal—
"But he, his own affection's counsellor,
Is to himself so secret and so close,
So far from sounding and discovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun."
[7] This casual
description is as full of passionate beauty as when Romeo dwells in frantic
fondness on "the white wonder of his Juliet's hand." The reader may, if he pleases, contrast
the exquisite pastoral simplicity of the above lines with the gorgeous
description of Juliet when Romeo first sees her at her father's house,
surrounded by company and artificial splendour.
"What lady's that which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder knight? O
she doth teach the torches to burn bright;
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night,
Like a rich jewel in an Aethiop's ear."
[8] It would be hard
to say which of the two garden scenes is the finest, that where he first
converses with his love, or takes leave of her the morning after their marriage. Both are like a heaven upon earth; the
blissful bowers of Paradise let down upon this lower world. We will give only one passage of these
well-known scenes to show the perfect refinement and delicacy of Shakespear's
conception of the female character.
It is wonderful how Collins, who was a critic and a poet of great
sensibility, should have encouraged the common error on this subject by saying
— "But stronger Shakespear felt for man alone."
The passage we mean is Juliet's apology for her maiden boldness.
"Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face;
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny
What I have spoke — but farewell compliment:
Dost thou love me? I
know thou wilt say, ay,
And I will take thee at thy word — Yet if thou swear'st,
Thou may'st prove false; at lovers' perjuries
They say Jove laughs.
Oh gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully;
Or if thou think I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo: but
else not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;
And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light;
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess
But that then over-heard'st, ere I was ware,
My true love's passion; therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered."
[9] In this and all
the rest, her heart, fluttering between pleasure, hope, and fear, seems to have
dictated to her tongue, and "calls true love spoken simple
modesty." Of the same sort,
but bolder in virgin innocence, is her soliloquy after her marriage with Romeo.
"Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus' mansion; such a waggoner
As Pha‘ton would whip you to the west,
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night;
That run-aways' eyes may wink; and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalked of, and unseen!—
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties:
or if love be blind,
It best agrees with night — Come, civil night,
Then sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:
Hold my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night; come, Romeo! — come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow on a raven's back.—
Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow'd night,
Give me my Romeo: and
when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine,
That all the world shall be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.—
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess'd it; and though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy'd: so
tedious is this day,
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child, that hath new robes,
And may not wear them."
[10] We the rather
insert this passage here, inasmuch as we have no doubt it has been expunged
from the Family Shakespear. Such
critics do not perceive that the feelings of the heart sanctify, without disguising,
the impulses of nature. Without
refinement themselves, they confound modesty with hypocrisy. Not so the German critic, Schlegel. Speaking of ROMEO AND JULIET, he says,
"It was reserved for Shakespear to unite purity of heart and the glow of imagination,
sweetness and dignity of manners and passionate violence, in one ideal
picture." The character is
indeed one of perfect truth and sweetness. It has nothing forward, nothing coy, nothing affected or
coquettish about it; — it is a pure effusion of nature. It is as frank as it is modest, for it
has no thought that it wishes to conceal.
It reposes in conscious innocence on the strength of its affections. Its delicacy does not consist in
coldness and reserve, but in combining warmth of imagination and tenderness of
heart with the most voluptuous sensibility. Love is a gentle flame that rarefies and expands her whole
being. What an idea of trembling
haste and airy grace, borne upon the thoughts of love, does the Friar's
exclamation give of her, as she approaches his cell to be married—
"Here comes the lady.
Oh, so light of foot
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint:
A lover may bestride the gossamer,
That idles in the wanton summer air,
And yet not fall, so light is vanity."
[11] The tragic part
of this character is of a piece with the rest. It is the heroic founded on tenderness and delicacy. Of this kind are her resolution to
follow the Friar's advice, and the conflict in her bosom between apprehension
and love when she comes to take the sleeping poison. Shakespear is blamed for the mixture of low characters. If this is a deformity, it is the
source of a thousand beauties. One
instance is the contrast between the guileless simplicity of Juliet's
attachment to her first love, and the convenient policy of the nurse in
advising her to marry Paris, which excites such indignation in her
mistress. "Ancient
damnation! oh most wicked
fiend," etc.
[12] Romeo is Hamlet in love. There is the same rich exuberance of passion and sentiment
in the one, that there is of thought and sentiment in the other. Both are absent and self-involved, both
live out of themselves in a world of imagination. Hamlet is abstracted from everything; Romeo is abstracted
from everything but his love, and lost in it. His "frail thoughts dally with faint surmise," and
are fashioned out of the suggestions of hope, "the flatteries of
sleep." He is himself only in
his Juliet; she is his only reality, his heart's true home and idol. The rest of the world is to him a passing
dream. How finely is this
character pourtrayed where he recollects himself on seeing Paris slain at the
tomb of Juliet!—
"What said my man, when my betossed soul
Did not attend him as we rode? I think
He told me Paris should have married Juliet."
And again, just before he hears the sudden tidings of her death—
"If I may trust the flattery of sleep,
My dreams presage some joyful news at hand;
My bosom's lord sits lightly on his throne,
And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit
Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
I dreamt my lady came and found me dead,
(Strange dream that gives a dead man leave to think)
And breath'd such life with kisses on my lips,
That I reviv'd and was an emperour.
Ah me! how sweet is
love itself possess'd,
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy!"
[13] Romeo's passion for Juliet is not a first love: it succeeds and drives out his passion
for another mistress, Rosaline, as the sun hides the stars. This is perhaps an artifice (not
absolutely necessary) to give us a higher opinion of the lady, while the first
absolute surrender of her heart to him enhances the richness of the prize. The commencement, progress, and ending
of his second passion are however complete in themselves, not injured if they
are not bettered by the first. The
outline of the play is taken from an Italian novel; but the dramatic
arrangement of the different scenes between the lovers, the more than dramatic
interest in the progress of the story, the development of the characters with
time and circumstances, just according to the degree and kind of interest
excited, are not inferior to the expression of passion and nature. It has been ingeniously remarked among
other proofs of skill in the contrivance of the fable, that the improbability
of the main incident in the piece, the administering of the sleeping-potion, is
softened and obviated from the beginning by the introduction of the Friar on
his first appearance culling simples and descanting on their virtues. Of the passionate scenes in this tragedy,
that between the Friar and Romeo when he is told of his sentence of banishment,
that between Juliet and the Nurse when she hears of it, and of the death of her
cousin Tybalt (which bear no proportion in her mind, when passion after the
first shock of surprise throws its weight into the scale of her affections) and
the last scene at the tomb, are among the most natural and overpowering. In all of these it is not merely the
force of any one passion that is given, but the slightest and most unlooked-for
transitions from one to another, the mingling currents of every different
feeling rising up and prevailing in turn, swayed by the master-mind of the
poet, as the waves undulate beneath the gliding storm. Thus when Juliet has by her complaints
encouraged the Nurse to say, "Shame come to Romeo," she instantly
repels the wish, which she had herself occasioned, by answering—
"Blister'd be thy tongue
For such a wish! He
was not born to shame.
Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit,
For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd
Sole monarch of the universal earth!
O, what a beast was I to chide him so?
Nurse. Will you speak well of him that kill'd
your cousin?
Juliet. Shall I speak ill of him that is my
husband?
Ah my poor Lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,
When I, thy three-hours' wife, have mangled it?"
And then follows on the neck of her remorse and returning
fondness, that wish treading almost on the brink of impiety, but still held
back by the strength of her devotion to her lord, that "father, mother,
nay, or both were dead," rather than Romeo banished. If she requires any other excuse, it is
in the manner in which Romeo echoes her frantic grief and disappointment in the
next scene at being banished from her. — Perhaps one of the finest pieces of
acting that ever was witnessed on the stage, is Mr. Kean's manner of doing this
scene and his repetition of the word, Banished. He
treads close indeed upon the genius of his author.
[14] A passage which
this celebrated actor and able commentator on Shakespear (actors are the best
commentators on the poets) did not give with equal truth or force of feeling
was the one which Romeo makes at the tomb of Juliet, before he drinks the
poison.
— "Let me peruse this face—
Mercutio's kinsman!
noble county Paris!
What said my man, when my betossed soul
Did not attend him as we rode? I think
He told me Paris should have married Juliet:
Said he not so? or
did I dream it so?
Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,
To think it was so? — O, give me thy hand,
One writ with me in our misfortune's book!
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave—
For here lies Juliet....
— O, my love! my
wife!
Death that bath suck'd the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:
Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips, and in thy cheeks,
And Death's pale flag is not advanced there.—
Tybalt, ly'st thou there in thy bloody sheet?
O, what more favour can I do to thee,
Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain,
To sunder his that was thine enemy?
Forgive me, cousin!
Ah, dear Juliet,
Why art thou yet so fair!
Shall I believe
That unsubstantial death is amorous;
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
Thee here in dark to be his paramour!
For fear of that, I will stay still with thee;
And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again here, here will I remain
With worms that are thy chamber-maids; O, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest;
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh. — Eyes, look your last!
Arms, take your last embrace! and lips, O you,
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death!—
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks my sea-sick weary bark!
Here's to my love! — [Drinks.] O, true apothecary!
Thy drugs are quick. — Thus with a kiss I die."
[15] The lines in
this speech, describing the loveliness of Juliet, who is supposed to be dead,
have been compared to those in which it is said of Cleopatra after her death,
that she looked "as she would take another Antony in her strong toil of
grace"; and a question has been started which is the finest, that we do
not pretend to decide. We can more
easily decide between Shakespear and any other author, than between him and
himself. — Shall we quote any more passages to shew his genius or the beauty of
ROMEO AND JULIET? At that rate, we
might quote the whole. The late
Mr. Sheridan, on being shewn a volume of the Beauties of Shakespear, very
properly asked — "But where are the other eleven?" The character of
Mercutio in this play is one of the most mercurial and spirited of the
productions of Shakespear's comic muse.