SHAKSPEAEE'S DELINEATIONS 
 
 INSANITY, IMBECILITY, AND SUICIDE. 
 
 A. O. KELLOGG, M. D., 
 
 ASSISTANT PHYSICIAN STATE LUNATIC ASYLUM, UTICA, N. T. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTOK, 
 
 459 Broomk Street, 
 
 1866. 
 
< 
 
 
 ,4^^^ 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congreas, in the year 1866, by 
 
 HusD Ain) Houghton, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District Of 
 
 New York. 
 
 MTKESIDE, CAMBBID6B: 
 
 STERBOTTPED AND PRINTED BT 
 
 H. 0. HOUrtHTON AND COMPANT. 
 
TO 
 
 |g THOMAS P. BARTON, Esq., 
 
 OF MONTQOMERT PLACE, ON THE HUDSON, 
 
 IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE KIND INTEREST EXTENDED TO THE 
 
 AUTHOR, WHEN A STRANGER, AND OF THE PLEASURE 
 
 DERIVED FROM HIS SUBSEQUENT 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 State Astlum, Utica, Jan. 1866. 
 
NOTICE. 
 
 These Essays were published in the " American 
 Journal of Insanity," at various intervals between 
 1859 and 1864. 
 
 A better acquaintance with the delicate shades of 
 mental disease as seen in the wards of a large Hos- 
 pital for the Insane, has tended to modify the earlier 
 views of the writer respecting some of Shakspeare's 
 insane characters, and enabled him better to appre- 
 ciate the fidelity of the great dramatist's delineations. 
 No other excuse, therefore, is deemed necessary for 
 the alterations that have been made in the original 
 
 A. o. K. 
 
 State Lunatic Asylum, Utica, April, 1866. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 PART I. 
 
 INSANE. 
 
 Lear. — Macbeth. — Lady Macbeth 1 
 
 Hamlet 29 
 
 Ophelia 68 
 
 Jaques 87 
 
 Cordelia 103 
 
 PART n. 
 
 IMBECILES. 
 
 Bottom. — Dogberry. — Elbow. — Shallow ... 115 
 Malvoho. — Bardolph. — Nym. — Pistol . . . .135 
 
 Launce 153 
 
 Caliban 168 
 
 PART III. 
 
 SUICIDES. 
 
 Othello 181 
 
PAUT I 
 
 SHAKSPEARE'S 
 DELINEATIONS OF INSANITY. 
 
 LEAR. — MACBETH. 
 
 rriHE extent and accuracy of the medical, physi- 
 -^ ological, and psychological knowledge dis- 
 played in the dramas of William Shakspeare, like 
 the knowledge there manifested on all matters 
 upon which the rays of his mighty genius fell, has 
 excited the wonder and astonishment of all men 
 who, since his time, have brought their minds to 
 the investigation of these subjects, upon which so 
 much light has been thrown by the researches of 
 modern science. 
 
 Shakspeare's knowledge extended far beyond 
 the range of ordinary observation, and compre- 
 hended subjects such, as in our day, and we may 
 suppose in his, were regarded as strictly profes- 
 sional and special. This fact has led some intelli- 
 gent investigators and critics to believe that these 
 immortal works were not the offspring of one in- 
 dividual mind, and that, from the very nature of 
 things, the man who wrote " Lear" and "Hamlet" 
 could not have written, unassisted, the " Merchant 
 1 
 
2 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 of Venice." This argument has been maintained 
 with much apparent plausibility. Its fallacy, how- 
 ever, is rendered sufficiently apparent by the fact, 
 that the knowledge displayed was very far in ad- 
 vance of the age in which he lived, and, as we shall 
 have occasion to show, was not possessed by any 
 one in his time, however eminent in any special de- 
 partment of science to which he might be devoting 
 himself; and many facts not known or recognized 
 by men of his age appear to have been grasped 
 by the inspired mind of the poet, to whose acute 
 mental vision, it would seem from his writings, 
 they were as clear and certain as they have been 
 rendered by the positive deductions of modern ex- 
 perimental science. This power of entering into 
 the deep and hidden mysteries of nature and the 
 universe — of lifting the veil, and drawing thence 
 facts not yet manifested to the world, and perhaps 
 not to be made manifest until after centuries of 
 patient scientific investigation and deduction — is 
 a characteristic of what has been termed poetic in- 
 spiration ; a power, we maintain, without fear of 
 contradiction, more evident in the poet we have 
 under consideration, than in any other who has 
 ever written in the English language, and perhaps 
 it would not be unsafe to add, in any other, an- 
 cient or modern. This power consists, without 
 doubt, first, of an extraordinary faculty for close 
 observation, and an acute perception of the nati&'e 
 and relations of all things which come up before 
 the eye and mind; and in the second place, of a 
 
LEAR. — MACBETH. 3 
 
 wonderful faculty, only possessed by a few such 
 persons in varied degrees, of calling up at will 
 from the recesses of the memory with great dis- 
 tinctness, every perception there recorded, and of 
 making such use of it as may seem fit. 
 
 Upon no subjects, perhaps, has this extraordinary 
 faculty of the great dramatist been more curiously 
 manifested than those we propose to consider in 
 this connection, viz., physiology and psychology. 
 In fact we believe a very complete physiological 
 and psychological system could be educed from 
 the writings of Shakspeare, — a system in com- 
 plete accordance, in almost every essential particu- 
 lar, with that which we now possess as the result 
 of the scientific research and experience of the 
 last two centuries. 
 
 In the time of Shakspeare these sciences, like 
 all others, were very imperfectly understood by 
 men who devoted their lives to the investigation 
 of them. Even the great discovery by Harvey 
 of the circulation of the blood, which may be 
 taken as the basis of all our present physiological 
 knowledge, had not been given to the world ; for 
 Shakspeare died in 1616, and the discoveries of 
 Harvey were first published in 1628. Yet many 
 passages from his dramas seem to indicate a pre- 
 existent knowledge, on the part of the writer, of 
 this great physiological fact. FalstafF, speaking 
 of the influence of a good " sherris-sack " upon 
 the blood, says : — 
 
 " The second property of your excellent sherris is, — the 
 
4 SHAKSPEAKE'S INSANE. 
 
 •warming of the blood ; which before cold and settled, left the 
 liver white and pale, which is the badge of pusillanimity and 
 cowardice : but the sherris warms it, and makes it course from 
 the inwards to the parts extreme." 
 
 Let us pursue further the physiological views 
 of the fat knight, as set forth in the same famous 
 encomium upon his favorite beverage, sack, in 
 order to observe how strictly they accord with the 
 universally recognized truths of modern physiology. 
 
 Speaking of Prince John, and contrasting him 
 with his jovial friend Prince Henry, he says : — 
 
 " This same sober-blooded boy doth not love me ; nor a man 
 cannot make him laugh ; — but that 's no marvel, he drinks no 
 wine. There is never any of these demure boys come to any 
 proof; for thin drink doth so overcool their blood, and making 
 many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of male green-sick- 
 ness ; . . . they are generally fools and cowards, which some 
 of us would be too but for inflammation. A good sherris-sack 
 has a twofold operation : it ascends me into the hrain^ dries up 
 all the foolish, and dull, and crudy vapors which environ it ; 
 makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, 
 and delectable shapes ; which delivered o'er to the voice (the 
 tongue) which is the birth, becomes excellent wit." 
 
 We would not wish to be held responsible for 
 the morality of all the views held by the worthy 
 knight on his favorite subject of eating and drink- 
 ing, but if this " tun of man " could again " re- 
 visit the glimpses of the moon," like the ghost of 
 murdered Denmark, and once more roll his huge 
 bulk from tavern to tavern in London, and in his 
 nocturnal perambulations, guided by the light of 
 Bardolph's red nose, should, by any accident, 
 
LEAR. — MACBETH. 5 
 
 " roll " into a modern Exeter- Hall temperance- 
 meeting, he would undoubtedly be as much puzzled 
 to know what constituted it, as he was in the days 
 of his earthly pilgrimage, to " remember what the 
 inside of a church was made of" ; and if a modern 
 Gough occupied the platform, he would probably 
 be held up as a most pitiful example of one who 
 had pushed his physiological views to the very 
 extreme of physical endurance. We confess, 
 however, that we would cheerfully give a very 
 respectable admission-fee to hear the worthy knight 
 argue the point at issue with the modern reformer, 
 on pure physiological grounds, and give his reasons 
 !(;%, if'he had a thousand sons, the first earthly 
 principle he would teach them would be to for- 
 swear thin potations, and addict themselves to 
 sack." We assert, at the risk of being considered 
 anti-jftogressionist, or anti-teetotal, that much of the 
 physiology set forth above by the worthy knight, 
 is in strict accordance with the teachings of modern 
 science ; and though from its frequent abuse, as 
 in his case, it may be looked upon as a dangerous 
 admission, its truthfulness cannot be denied. 
 
 In " As You Like It," Shakspeare makes the old 
 man Adam say — 
 
 " Though I am old yet am I strong and lusty ; 
 For in my youth I never did apply 
 Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood." 
 
 By " hot and rebellious liquors " are doubtless 
 meant such drinks as whiskey and bad brandy, 
 used to such a fearful extent in our day ; — not 
 
6 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 the " excellent sherris " which he puts into the 
 mouth of Falstaff, which was a light Spanish 
 wine. Shakspeare was too good a physiologist 
 and moderate temperance man to teach that such 
 " hot and rebellious liquors " are good for the blood 
 of any healthy man. His works, as well as the 
 imperfect history of his life, show that he was one 
 of those moderate men whose physiological views 
 were not pushed to extremes in any direction. 
 Shakspeare contended for truth, not for the estab- 
 lishment of a moral theory ; and modern science 
 has demonstrated, moreover, that he has not gone 
 very far astray in this matter. 
 
 Let us take a cursory view of some of the con- 
 flicting physiological doctrines maintained by 
 eminent physicians, not only in Shakspeare's time, 
 but long after, even down to the present century, 
 when they were overthrown by modern scientific 
 research, and replaced by a system which admits 
 of positive proof, in order to observe whether the 
 physiology of our own times, or that of the sixteenth 
 century, best coincides with the expressed views 
 / ,.of the poet. • From the physiology of his own 
 ly^ times it is quite evident that Shakspeare could 
 have derived no assistance whatever. There was 
 nothing which can now be regarded as approximat- 
 ing a correct scientific system. All that related 
 to physiology or medicine was a confused, chaotic 
 jumble of conflicting dogmas and doctrines, main- 
 tained by the rival sects of medical philosophers 
 who flourished at that time. One sect, the 
 
 \ 
 
LEAR. — MACBETH. 7 
 
 SolidistSj referred all diseases to alterations in the 
 solid parts of the body, and maintained that these 
 alone were endowed with vital properties, and 
 were alone capable of receiving impressions from 
 external agencies. Even the vitality of the blood 
 was denied, and this doctrine has been main- 
 tained and was prevalent until quite recently. 
 The Galenical physicians, the Humoralists, assert- 
 ed, on the contrary, that all diseases arose from 
 a depraved state of the humors of the organized 
 body, — the blood, chyle, lymph, &c. It is scarcely 
 necessary to observe, in this place, that modern 
 investigators have shown clearly that vitality is 
 incident to both solids and fluids, — that the blood 
 is particularly concerned in all vital processes; 
 that all alimentary substances, fluid and solid, are 
 restorative or nutritious by virtue of the supply, 
 after digestion, of certain principles necessary to 
 the healthy vital condition of the blood ; and that 
 m-ost medicinal substances act on the system after 
 finding their way into the blood by absorption. 
 Shakspeare appears to have been well aware of 
 this great physiological fact. 
 
 Take the following for example, from King John, 
 Act v.. Scene VII. Prince Henry, in speaking 
 of the poisoning of his father, says : — 
 
 " It is too late ; the life of all his blood 
 Is touched corruptibly ; and his pure brain, 
 Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house, 
 Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, 
 Foretell the ending of mortality." 
 
8 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 The peculiar action of certain poisons upon the 
 blood, and their influence on the organ of the 
 mind, through the medium of the blood, are here 
 distinctly pointed out. 
 
 Again, the Ghost, speaking to Hamlet of the 
 manner of his death from poison, says : — 
 
 " Thy uncle stole 
 With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial, 
 And in the porches of my ears did pour 
 The leprous distillment ; whose effect 
 Holds such an eninity loith blood of man, 
 That, swift as quicksilver, it courses through 
 The natural gates and alleys of the body, 
 And, with a sudden vigor, it doth posset 
 And curd, like aigre-droppings into milk. 
 The thin and wholesome blood : so did it mine ; 
 And a most instant tetter bak'd about. 
 Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust, 
 All my smooth body." 
 
 The fact now demonstrated, that certain medic- 
 inal substances and poisons induce, primarily, a 
 change in the condition of the blood itself, and, in 
 the second place, a leprous condition of the skin, 
 is here pointed out clearly by the poet. The 
 syphilitic poison furnishes a good illustration of 
 this fact. 
 
 Again, Romeo asks the beggarly apothecary for 
 
 1/ " A dram of poison ; such soon-spreading gear 
 As will disperse itself through all the veins" 
 
 It is unnecessary to multiply quotations in illus- 
 tration of the extraordinary amount of physiolog- 
 ical knowledge possessed by Shakspeare. We 
 
LEAR. — MACBETH. 9 
 
 have brought forward enough to show that on this 
 subject he anticipated the scientific discoveries 
 and deductions of nearly two centuries. We now 
 pass to the consideration of Shakspeare as a psy- 
 chologist. 
 
 In relation to psychology, the wonderful pre- 
 vision of the poet is still more astonishing to 
 modern investigators. It was a remark of a late 
 eminent physician to the insane, Dr. Brigham, that 
 Shakspeare was, himself, as great a psychological 
 curiosity as any case of insanity he had ever met ; 
 and he declared that in the AsyRim at Utica he 
 had seen all of Shakspeare's insane characters. 
 To suppose that Shakspeare obtained his knowl- 
 edge of insanity and medical psychology from his 
 contemporaries, or from works on these subjects 
 extant in his day, is simply absurd, for there were 
 none in existence worthy of mention, and all the 
 ideas of his contemporaries were vague and un- 
 digested. Yet, notwithstanding all this, after near 
 two centuries and a half, we have little to add to 
 what Shakspeare appears to have known of these 
 intricate subjects. For his profound understand- 
 ing of these and all other matters to which he 
 alludes, — and there is scarcely a department of 
 scientific knowledge that he has not enriched, — 
 we can only account by supposing that he looked 
 into the volume of nature with a glance, deeper 
 and more comprehensive than that of any other 
 mortal not divinely inspired ; seeming almost to 
 possess the " gift of prophecy," and to " under- 
 
 ^/ 
 
4' 
 
 10 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 stand all mysteries and all knowledge," which he 
 uttered " as with the tongues of men and of 
 angels." 
 
 To illustrate Shakspeare's extraordinary psycho- 
 logical knowledge, let us glance for a moment at 
 the ideas entertained of that intricate disease, in- 
 sanity, by his contemporaries, in order to contrast 
 them with his own, as set forth in his works. In- 
 "sanity was uniformly regarded by the contem- 
 poraries of the poet as an infliction of the Devil. 
 All the unfortunate sufferers from this dreadful 
 malady were sujJposed to be " possessed " by Satan. 
 This was not alone the vulgar opinion, but the 
 opinion of some of the most distinguished medical 
 writers. St. Vitus was sometimes invoked ; spells 
 were resorted to, and amulets worn. Even such 
 profound philosophers as Lord Bacon believed in 
 these. Sir Theodore Mayence, who was physician 
 to three English sovereigns, and is supposed to 
 have been Shakspeare's Dr. Caius, believed in 
 supernatural agency in the cure of this and other 
 diseases. One of the most common of remedial 
 means in the time of Shakspeare was whipping.^ 
 He seems to have been aware of this, as of most 
 other things, for, in " As You Like It," (Act III, 
 Scene II.) he makes Rosalind say to Orlando : — 
 
 " Love is a mere madness ; and, I tell you, deserves as well 
 a dark house and a whip as madmen do : and the reason why 
 they are not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is so 
 ordinary that the whippers are in love too." 
 
 In opposition to these views of insanity so uni- 
 
LEAR. — MACBETH. 11 
 
 versally entertained by his contemporaries, Shak- 
 speare, as his works conclusively show, believed, 
 with enlightened modern physicians, that insanity 
 was a disease of the brain, and could be cured by 
 medical means, aided by judicious care and man- 
 agement : all which he points out as clearly as it 
 could be done by a modern expert. 
 
 FalstafF, when outwitted by the Merry Wives, 
 says : — 
 
 " Have I laid my brain in the sun, and dried it, that it lacks 
 matter to prevent such gross o'erreaching as this ? " 
 
 And again, when he had been induced by these 
 same women, in order that he might be safely con- 
 veyed from the house when in danger of a broken 
 head, to conceal himself in a basket of foul linen, 
 under pretence of being carried to the laundress, he 
 is, by their direction, taken and thrown into the 
 Thames, he thus soliloquizes : — 
 
 " Have I lived to be carried in a basket, like a barrow of 
 butcher's offal, and to be thrown into the Thames ? Well, if I 
 be served another such trick, I will have my brains taken out, 
 and buttered and given to a dog for a new-year's gift." 
 
 Laertes, on seeing Ophelia deranged, exclaims : 
 " O heat, dry up my brains ! " 
 
 Othello, when racked by jealousy, and goaded 
 by the insinuations of lago, was supposed to be 
 insane. Hence Lodovico asks : " Are his wits safe ; 
 is he not light of brain ? " 
 
 Jacques, in " As You Like It," (Act II., Scene 
 VII.) speaks of the brain of a fool, as being " dry 
 as the remainder-biscuit after a voyage." 
 
12 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 In Macbeth, Shakspeare has given us in the 
 dagger scene (Act II.) one of the most admirable 
 illustrations of hallucination to be found. Previous 
 to the incident described in this scene, the mind of 
 Macbeth had been wrought up to the highest pitch 
 of excitement, short of actual mania, by the im- 
 portunities of Lady Macbeth, and the contempla- 
 tion of the bloody deed he was about to undertake, 
 and its consequences. Finally, after goading him 
 to the verge of distraction, and having, as she says, 
 " screwed up his courage to the sticking point," he 
 
 exclaims : — 
 
 " I am settled, and bend up 
 Each corporeal agent to this terrible feat ! " 
 
 Although his purpose was determined, his mind 
 was evidently far from being " settled." He had 
 dwelt so long on the act, and the means by which 
 it was to be accomplished, that his thoughts were 
 taking a material shape, and the creations of his 
 excited imagination had become to him embodied 
 realities, and stood out before his eyes as clearly 
 and palpably defined as real bodily existences. 
 
 This condition of the mind, to which much 
 attention has been given by modern psychologists, 
 is most admirably set forth and illustrated in the 
 famous dagger scene. On first perceiving the 
 image of the dagger, his reason, yet intact, leaves 
 him to doubt the evidence of his eyes, and he seeks 
 to confirm the visual impression by the more ac- 
 curate and trustworthy sense of touch ; and what 
 follows is most profoundly interesting and truthful 
 
LEAR. — MACBETH. 13 
 
 in a psychological point of view, and illustrates the 
 true theory of apparitions now, after two centuries, 
 just beginning to be understood by scientific men. 
 
 " Is this a dagger wliich I see before me, 
 The handle towards my hand ? 
 Come, let me clutch thee : 
 I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 
 Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 
 To feeling as to sight? or art thou but 
 A dagger of the mind, a false creation, 
 Proceeding from a heat-oppressed brain ? " 
 
 Looking again intently at the vision, and striving 
 to comprehend it by the help of reason, now be- 
 ginning to stagger from prolonged and excessive 
 mental excitement, he exclaims : — 
 
 " I see thee yet, in form as palpable 
 As this which now I draw. 
 
 Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, 
 Or else worth all the rest." 
 
 Finally, after a struggle, reason succeeds in cor- 
 recting the evidence of the visual sense, and he 
 
 exclaims : — 
 
 " There 's no such thing. 
 It is the bloody business which informs 
 Thus to mine eyes ! " 
 
 After the accomplishment of the bloody deed, 
 Lady Macbeth seems to have a presentiment of 
 the consequences to her own mind and that of her 
 husband, from the prolonged excitement, and from 
 dwelling upon the awful circumstances their guilt 
 has brought upon them. And here follows that 
 
14 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 beautiful apostrophe to sleep, the great preventive 
 and restorative remedy in mental disease. She 
 says to Macbeth : — 
 
 " Consider it not so deeply. 
 
 These deeds must not be thought 
 
 After these ways ; so, it will make us mad." 
 
 Macbeth, in reply, alludes to another hallucina- 
 tion, that of the sense of hearing, and says : — 
 
 " Methought I heard a voice cry, ' Sleep no more ! 
 Macbeth doth murder sleep ; the innocent sleep ; 
 Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care. 
 The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath. 
 Balm of hurt minds^ great nature's second course, 
 Chief nourisher in life's feast.' 
 
 Still it cried, ' Sleep no more ! to all the house. 
 Glamis hath murdered sleep : and therefore Cawdor 
 Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more ! ' " 
 
 So great was Shakspeare's intuitive psychologi- 
 jal knowledge, that everything in his characters is 
 'in perfect keeping. If he wishes to draw insane 
 characters, he first exhibits them as surrounded by 
 the predisposing and exciting causes of the disease, 
 and insanity follows as the natural result of what 
 has preceded it. 
 
 Neither Macbeth nor Lady Macbeth appear to 
 have had the predisposition to insanity as strongly 
 marked as we observe it in Lear or Hamlet, and 
 though the exciting causes were brought to operate 
 powerfully upon both, still they were not sufficient 
 to bring it about completely. 
 
LEAR. — MACBETH. 15 
 
 Neither could be called at any time insane, 
 though Macbeth suffered hallucinations of sight 
 and hearing, and Lady Macbeth was a somnam- 
 bulist, and talked in her sleep of the murder, and 
 strove to cleanse her hands of the imaginary blood- 
 stains ; yet she was rational enough when awake. 
 Each, however, feared the occurrence of the disease 
 in the other. 
 
 In Act v.. Scene III., Macbeth appears to think 
 Lady Macbeth deranged, and in reply to the phy- 
 sician's remark that she is 
 
 " Troubled with thick coming fancies, 
 That keep her from her rest," 
 says — 
 
 " Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased ; 
 Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow ; 
 Raze out the written troubles of the brain f " 
 
 Nothing could be more true to nature than the 
 mental disquietude and remorse of conscience in- 
 cident to guilt, depicted by the dramatist in Act 
 v., Scene I., where Lady Macbeth is first intro- 
 duced to us as a somnambulist. 
 
 In this state of imperfect sleep, she gives vent to 
 the thoughts which agitate her mind so powerfully 
 during her waking moments : — thoughts she would 
 fain conceal in the deepest recesses of her spirit. 
 
 She walks about with lighted taper, her eyes 
 open, but they convey to her mind no impression 
 of external things ; but to the inward sense, the 
 " mind's eye," the scenes and circumstances con- 
 nected with the murder are painfully vivid. With 
 
16 > SHAKSPE ARE'S INSANE. 
 
 this inward sense she sees the bloody mark upon 
 her hand, and crying, " Out, damned spot ! " strives 
 in vain to wash it away. With this inward sense 
 she smells the blood, and in her anguish exclaims : 
 " All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this 
 little hand. Oh ! oh ! oh ! " 
 
 This scene closes all that relates to Lady Mac- 
 beth, and she is not again introduced. The dram- 
 atist knew when, and where, and how to with- 
 draw his characters from the scene, and also, that 
 the prolonged exhibition of such mental anguish 
 as is shadowed forth in the somnambulism of 
 Lady Macbeth would be unfavorable to dramatic 
 effect. 
 
 In none of Shakspeare's plays, if we except 
 Hamlet, is the psychological knowledge of the 
 dramatist more admirably exhibited than in Lear. 
 " The case of Lear," says a late distinguished psy- 
 chologist, " is a genuine case of insanity from 
 beginning to end, such as we often see in aged 
 persons." 
 
 The very first act of Lear, exhibited by the dram- 
 atist, evinces that well-known imbecility incident 
 to old age, and which frequently results in con- 
 firmed, senile insanity. Incapable alike of per- 
 ceiving the hollow pretensions of affection on the 
 part of Goneril and Regan, the truthfulness of Cor- 
 delia, or the disinterestedness of Kent, he makes 
 over his kingdom to the former with all its revenues, 
 retaining only " the name, and all the additions 
 to a king," and making such stipulations only as 
 
r 
 
 LEAR. — MACBETH. 17 
 
 are in perfect keeping with his mental state, and 
 that madness first glanced at by Kent, which was 
 hanging over him. 
 
 With great psychological exactness Shakspeare 
 has from the first endowed Lear with those mental, 
 peculiarities and eccentricities which experienced 
 medical psychologists recognize at once as the fore- .' 
 runners of confirmed mental disease, but which are 1 
 usually overlooked by ordinary observers, or not | 
 regarded as pathological phenomena, but merely \ 
 the ebullitions of a temper and disposition nat- | 
 urally fiery and irritable perhaps, and now rendered ' 
 unbearable through the infirmities incident to age. 
 
 This seems to have been the view of Lear enter- 
 tained by his daughters, as also by those modern 
 critics who, far more ignorant of psychology than 
 the poet who wrote two hundred years before them, 
 have regarded the insanity of Lear as caused solely 
 by the ingratitude and unkindness of his daughters. 
 In answer to a remark of Goneril, respecting the 
 changeableness of their father's disposition, Regan 
 says: "'Tis the infirmity of his age, yet he has/ 
 ever but slenderly known himself." ,J 
 
 " The best and soundest of his time has been 
 but rash," says Goneril. Regan replies : " Such 
 inconstant starts are we like to have from him as 
 this of Kent's banishment." 
 
 However this may have been looked upon by 
 them, and many of Shakspeare's commentators of 
 the last century, considered in the light of modern 
 psychological science, it must be regarded as a 
 
IS SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 premonition of the disease which followed, and was 
 undoubtedly so intended by the poet. 
 
 Time and the change in Lear's outward circum- 
 stances bring about no change for the better in his 
 disposition or mental state, and the next thing we 
 hear of him is, that in a paroxysm of rage, he has 
 resorted to open violence, " broken the peace," and 
 beaten one of Goneril's gentlemen for chiding his 
 fool. 
 
 Her remarks upon the transaction show how 
 rapidly the disease is advancing, before he has 
 
 : received any marked unkindness from her or her 
 
 I sister : — 
 
 I " T>v dav and bv niijht he wroiii:^ me, every hour 
 
 I ' He flashes into one gross erime or other, 
 
 That set« us all at odds." 
 
 All through Scene IV., Act L, we trace a gradual 
 increase of the mental excitement of Lear, rendered 
 worse by the injudicious treatment he receives ; and 
 towards the conclusion, after the interview with 
 Goneril, where he is reproaelied by her for the 
 riotous conduct of his train, and requested to 
 diminish it, which request is accompanied by a 
 threat in ease of non-compliance, he becomes quite 
 frantic with rage. 
 
 This barefaced outrage upon the kingly dignity 
 he has reserved to himself puts him in a towering 
 
 passion : — 
 
 " Darkness and devils 1 
 Saddle my horses — eall my train together. 
 Degenerate hastani ! I '11 not trouble thee : 
 Yet have I left a daughter." 
 
^ 
 
 LEAH. — MACBETH. 19 
 
 Striking his head with rage, and pouring out 
 such epithets as " Detested kite ! " upon her, he 
 gives vent to his insane rage in that blasting curse, 
 that withering imprecation, which reminds one so 
 strongly of what is frequently heard from the 
 mouths of highly excited patients in the wards of 
 a lunatic asylum. With an ingenuity and a re- 
 finement of malice worthy of an insane man, he 
 seizes upon the weakest and most vulnerable point 
 in her female nature, and to that point he directs 
 his attack. After pouring out the vials of his wrath 
 upon her without stint, his rage finds vent in tears, 
 and he says : — 
 
 *' I am ashamed 
 That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus." 
 
 The first intimation Lear himself gives of his 
 own apprehensions of insanity we have at the con- 
 clusion of Scene V. After amusing himself for a 
 time with the Fool he becomes more calm, and 
 apparently more capable of taking a survey of his 
 mental condition. 
 
 In reply to the Fool, who reminds him that he 
 should not have been old before he was wise, he 
 says, apparently abstracted : — 
 
 *' Oh let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven ! 
 Keep me in temper ; I would not be mad ! " 
 
 It is one of the most common things in the world 
 to find a man decidedly insane, and yet conscious 
 of his infirmity. A premonition of the impending 
 malady, a certain consciousness that it is approach- 
 
4 
 
 20 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 ing, frequently seizes the doomed subject, as is 
 apparent above in the case of Lear. 
 
 Thus far the whole character is psychologically- 
 consistent, and the wonderful skill and sagacity 
 manifested by the great dramatist in seizing upon 
 these premonitory signs, which are usually over- 
 looked by all, even the patient's most intimate 
 friends, and the members of his family, and weaving 
 them into the character of his hero as a necessary 
 element, without which it would be incomplete, 
 like those of inferior artists, is a matter of wonder 
 to all modern psychologists. 
 
 We next find Lear before the Castle of Gloster, 
 where, instead of meeting with that kind reception 
 and welcome which he expected from his other 
 daughter and her husband, his mind and feelings 
 are destined to receive another sad shock. 
 
 Here he jfinds his messenger and faithful attend- 
 ant, Kent, in the stocks, placed in this degrading 
 position by the orders of his son-in-law and daugh- 
 ter. He is so much astounded by the outrage and 
 disrespect heaped upon him by their treatment 
 of his messenger, that he can scarcely believe the 
 palpable evidence of the insult before him, and 
 declares that they could not, dare not, and would 
 not do it ; and when the circumstances attendant 
 upon the act are clearly laid before him by Kent, 
 and his mind grasps the full extent of his degrada- 
 tion, and he finds himself spurned, insulted, and 
 forsaken by those upon whom he has heaped such 
 great benefits, at the expense of his own dignity, 
 
LEAR. — MACBETH. 21 
 
 crown, and kingdom, his outraged feelings are ad- 
 mirably set forth in what follows : — 
 
 " O, how this mother swells up towards my heart ! 
 Hysterica passio ! down, thou climbing sorrow, 
 Thy element 's below ! — Where is this daughter ? " 
 
 At every step through this wonderful play we 
 find evidence, like the above, of Shakspeare's great 
 medico-psychological knowledge, — a knowledge 
 scarcely possessed by any even in our day, except 
 those few who devote themselves to this special 
 department of medical science. 
 
 The influence also of bodily disturbances upon 
 the mental faculties is very truthfully set forth by 
 Lear in the following : — 
 
 "We are not ourselves 
 When nature, being oppressed, commands the mind 
 To suffer with the body" 
 
 If a modern psychological writer, with all the 
 knowledge of our own times at his command, was 
 laboring to convey to the minds of his readers the 
 manner in which insanity is induced in those pre- 
 disposed by nature to the disease, in order that 
 such persons and their friends might guard against 
 the malady, he could not do better than point out 
 the conduct of Goneril and Regan towards Lear^ 
 as set forth in Act II., Scene IV., of the play. Air 
 the feelings of his generous nature are outraged 
 and trampled upon. The waywardness manifested 
 as the result of impending disease, meets with 
 none of that forbearance we are accustomed to 
 
22 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 expect from the native gentleness of woman and 
 the affection of daughters, but selfishness and in- 
 gratitude reign supreme in their hearts. Would 
 that this were only an isolated or imaginary case ! 
 Sensible of his great wrongs, and apparently con- 
 scious of what was being wrought by them in his 
 own generous and confiding mind, already stag- 
 gering under the stroke of disease, he exclaims; 
 "I pr'ythee, daughter, do not make me mad!^^ 
 Before quitting their presence, to encounter the 
 storm without, he again alludes to the state of his 
 mind : — 
 
 " I have full cause of weeping ; but this heart 
 Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws, 
 Or ere I '11 weep. — O fool, I shall go mad ! " 
 
 We next meet Lear on the heath, in the midst 
 of the storm. Nothing in the whole range of 
 dramatic literature can excel this, either in sub- 
 limity of conception, grandeur of description, or 
 psychological interest. In fact, we conceive it is 
 the psychological element infused into the scene 
 which gives it its peculiar intensity — the howling 
 and raging winds, the " spouting cataracts," the 
 " oak-cleaving thunderbolts," and thought-execut- 
 ing fires : — in short, that external commotion of 
 the physical elements seems merely thrown in as 
 a background to that terrible picture of mental 
 commotion which reigns within the mind of the 
 old man. These elements are but 
 
 " servile ministers, 
 That have with two pernicious daughters joined." 
 
f 
 
 LEAR. — MACBETH. 23 \i/ 
 
 These he taxes not with unkindness; he never | 
 
 gave them kingdom, or " called them children." i 
 
 They " owe him no subscription," — therefore they > 
 can " let fall their horrible pleasure," and join 
 
 " Their high-engendered battles 'gainst a head 
 So old and white as this." 
 
 The one absorbing thought, the ingratitude of 
 his daughters, shuts out, as far as he is personally 
 concerned, all idea of physical suffering. It is a 
 well-known fact, that, when the mind is swayed by 
 intense emotions, the sensibility even to intense 
 bodily pain is often completely suspended. The 
 physical endurance manifested by the insane under 
 certain circumstances is truly astonishing, -f- even 
 delicate females have been known to undergo with 
 impunity what might be supposed sufficient to 
 destroy the most vigorous physical constitution) 
 This fact is most beautifully and concisely set 
 forth by Lear in allusion to the suffering of his 
 companions in the storm upon the heath, when 
 they urge him to take shelter in the hovel. 
 
 " Thou think'st 't is much, that this contentious storm 
 Invades us to the skin : so 't is to thee ; 
 But when the greater malady is fixed, 
 The lesser is scarce felt. 
 
 When the mind 'sfree, 
 The body 's delicate ; the tempest in my mind 
 Doth from my senses take all feeling else, 
 Save what beats there." 
 
 This brings round again the ever-recurring 
 thought of filial ingratitude, and after casting a 
 
1/ 
 
 24 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 few words of bitter reproach upon Goneril and 
 Regan, he suddenly checks himself, conscious ap- 
 parently of the dreadful consequences to his already 
 shattered mind, which would result from dwelling 
 upon it, with the exclamation : — 
 
 " O, that way madness lies ; let me shun that ; 
 No more of that." 
 
 The tempest which pours its fury upon his " old 
 white head " is of little moment when compared 
 with that which reigns within. In fact, he appears 
 to regard the former as a blessing, because it 
 
 " Will not give me leave to ponder 
 On things would hurt me more." 
 
 . But perhaps the most ingeniously constructed 
 scene in the whole play is that in which the poet 
 brings together Lear, now an undoubted madman, 
 Edgar, who assumes madness for purposes of dis- 
 guise and deception, and the Fool. tWhat results 
 are to be anticipated from the operation of the 
 extraordinary psychological machinery, now set in 
 motion by and under the direction of the great 
 artist, none but the master- workman himself can 
 foresee. Here, however, all things work together 
 harmoniously. Everything is consistentr^ The 
 appearance of Edgar, ragged, forlorn, a miserable 
 picture of wretchedness and woe, serves only, like 
 the elements in the former scene, to arouse the 
 predominant idea in the mind of the madman ; 
 and filial ingratitude, nothing else, could have 
 brought him to this state, and recognizing in him 
 
v 
 
 LEAR. — MACBETH. 25 
 
 a counterpart of himself, his first question is, | 
 
 " Hast thou given all to thy two daughters ? " \ 
 
 The warm, sympathetic nature of Lear is 1 
 
 strongly aroused by the pitiful object before him, 
 whom he regards as a fellow- sufferer from like 
 causes, and though not a king, like himself, he is 
 nevertheless a " philosopher and most learned 
 Theban " ; and respectfully craving the " noble 
 philosopher's" company, and essaying to enter 
 into scientific discourse, asks him his studies, and 
 gravely inquires " the cause of thunder." How 
 beautifully true all this is to nature, those who are 
 at all acquainted with insanity can furnish ample 
 testimony; as, also, how admirably the genuine 
 disease contrasts with the counterfeit, with which 
 it is here brought in contact. 
 
 In the scene in the farm-house the ideas of 
 Jjear appear still more fantastic, yet the dominant 
 thought, the ingratitude of his daughters, is ever 
 present. Edgar, his companion in misery, is now 
 no longer a "noble philosopher," a "learned The- 
 ban," but a learned " justicer," and the thought of 
 arraigning his daughters before a tribunal made up 
 by him, the Fool — his " yokefellow in equity" — 
 and Kent, is presented to his wayward fancy. Lear 
 himself appears as a witness for the prosecution. 
 
 Goneril is first arraigned in his imagination, 
 before this extraordinary tribunal, and then follows 
 the testimony of Lear : — 
 
 " I here take my oatli before this honorable assembly, she 
 kicked the poor king her father. She cannot deny it." 
 
26 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 After a momentary excitement caused by the 
 imaginary escape of one of the culprits, he seems 
 to suppose sentence to have been passed, and ex- 
 claims : — 
 
 " Then let them anatomize Eegan, 
 See what breeds about her heart." 
 
 Scenes quite as ludicrous as the one set forth 
 above are of daily occurrence in the wards of all 
 extensive establishments for the insane, and those 
 familiar with them can scarcely divest themselves 
 of the idea that the poet has given in this an exact 
 transcription of nature, without assistance from his 
 imagination. 
 
 The next information we have of Leaf comes 
 to us through Cordelia and the Physician, (Act 
 IV., Scene IV.) he is represented as 
 
 " Mad as the vexed sea ; singing aloud ; 
 Crowned with rank fumiter, and furrow weeds." 
 
 Cordelia immediately takes occasion to ask the 
 Physician 
 
 " What can man's wisdom 
 In the restoring of his bereaved sense ? " 
 
 The reply of the Physician is significant, and 
 worthy of careful attention, as embracing a brief 
 summary of almost the only true principles recog- 
 nized by modern science, and now carried out by 
 the most eminent physicians in the treatment of 
 ^he insane. 
 
 We find here no allusion to the scourgings, the 
 charms, the invocation of saints, &c., employed by 
 
LEAR. — MACBETH. 27 
 
 the most eminent physicians of the time of Shak- 
 speare, neither have we any allusion to the rotary 
 chairs, the vomitings, the purgings by hellebore, 
 the showerings, the bleedings, scalp-shavings, and 
 blisterings, which, even down to our own times, 
 have been inflicted upon these unfortunates by 
 " science falsely so-called," and which stand re- 
 corded as imperishable monuments of medical 
 folly ; but in place of all this, Shakspeare, speaking 
 through the mouth of the Physician, gives us the 
 following principle, simple, truthful, and universally 
 applicable : — 
 
 " There is means, madam. 
 Our foster-nurse of nature is repose, 
 The which he lacks ; that to provoke in him, 
 Are many simples operative, whose power 
 Will close the eye of anguish." 
 
 The " means " set forth by the Physician, we 
 learn at the conclusion of Act IV., were used suc- 
 cessfully in the restoration of Lear. He is thrown 
 into a deep sleep, and from this he awakes con- 
 valescent. 
 
 Here follows another most important consid- 
 eration, which is not overlooked by this wonderful 
 medical psychologist. 
 
 He leaves nothing incomplete, therefore the dan- 
 ger of relapse must be taken into consideration, 
 and the means to prevent it are pointed out with 
 his usual truthfulness and accuracy. This we have 
 in the advice given by the Physician to Cordelia. 
 He says : — 
 
 h 
 
4 
 
 28 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 " Be comforted, good madam. The great rage, 
 You see is killed in him ; [and yet 't is danger 
 To make him even o'er the time he has lost.] 
 Desire him to go in ; trouble him no more, 
 Till further settling." 
 
 The late distinguished physician to the insane, 
 Dr. Brigham, remarking on the above, says : " Now 
 we confess, almost with shame, that although near 
 two centuries and a half have passed since Shak- 
 speare wrote thus, we have very little to add to his 
 method of treating the insane as thus pointed out. 
 To produce sleep, to quiet the mind by medical 
 and moral treatment, to avoid all unkindness, and 
 when the patients begin to convalesce to guard, as 
 he directs, against everything likely to disturb their 
 minds and cause a relapse, is now considered the 
 best, and nearly the only essential treatment." 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 IF Lear and Macbeth have served to impress us 
 deeply with the extraordinary intuitive psycho- 
 logical knowledge of Shakspeare, yet even these, 
 wonderful as they are and so infinitely above 
 everything else in ancient or modern dramatic 
 literature, cannot be taken as a gauge by which 
 we are to measure the powers of that intellect from 
 whence they emanated ; for the exhibition of the 
 complete plentitude of these powers seems to have 
 been reserved for the tragedy of Hamlet, that won- 
 derful play, which of all he has left, gives us the 
 most exalted notions of, and the most profound 
 reverence for, the genius of the man. Nothing he 
 has left us exhibits so completely the wonderful 
 versatility of his powers, and the universality of 
 their range, as this play. All the deepest subjects, 
 those which individually have engaged the most 
 profound powers of the human mind in all ages, 
 are here grappled with, and in each the poet has 
 shown himself preeminent. Wit the most spark- 
 ling, humor the most genuine, pathos the most 
 touching, metaphysics the most subtle, philosophy 
 the most profound, are here brought together in 
 complete and harmonious union. Well may such 
 
30 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 an one be called the " myriad-minded." As might 
 be expected, no other of his plays has given rise to 
 so much speculation, regarding the purposes of the 
 dramatist, and the true character of the personages 
 he has represented. ' Some of the most profound 
 critics of the last century, and down to the present 
 time, have here found an enigma which they have 
 by no means been able to solve, and which has 
 been to them a stumbling-block and perpetual rock 
 of offence. Schlegel, one of the most profound of 
 German critics, who devoted some of the best 
 years of his literary life to the study of Shakspeare, 
 and who has poured upon the pages of our great 
 dramatist the light of a most profound and phil- 
 osophical criticism, and done more perhaps than 
 any other man to give us a true conception of his 
 powers, has not been able to analyze the character 
 of Hamlet with anything approaching to psycho- 
 logical accuracy. In fact, the idea of Hamlet as a 
 genuine madman, seems never to have entered his 
 mind, and hence his perplexity, and labored and 
 unsuccessful efforts to unravel the mysteries and 
 apparent contradictions he meets at every step, and 
 the extraordinary manifestations of character which 
 he finds in his hero. 
 
 " This enigmatical work," says Schlegel, " resembles those 
 irrational equations in which a fraction of unknown magnitude 
 always remains, that will in no way admit of solution. He acts 
 the part of a madman with unrivalled powers, convincing the 
 persons sent to examine into his supposed loss of reason, merely 
 by telling them unwelcome truths, and rallying them with the 
 
HAMLET. 31 
 
 most caustic wit. But, in the resolutions lie so often embraces 
 and always leaves unexecuted, his weakness is too apparent ; 
 he does himself only justice when he implies that there is no 
 greater dissimilarity than between him and Hercules. He is 
 not only impelled by necessity to artifice and dissimulation, but 
 he has a natural inclination for crooked ways. He is a hypocrite 
 towards himself; his far-fetched scruples are often mere pre- 
 texts to cover his want of determination, — thoughts, as he says 
 on a different occasion, which have ' but one part wisdom, and 
 ever three parts coward.' 
 
 " He has been chiefly condemned both for his harshness in 
 repulsing the love of Ophelia, which he himself had cherished, 
 and for his insensibility at her death. He is too much over- 
 whelmed with his own sorrows to have any compassion to spare 
 for others ; besides, his outward indifference gives us by no 
 means the measure of his internal perturbation. On the other 
 hand, we evidently perceive in him a malicious joy, when he 
 has succeeded in getting rid of his enemies, more through neces- 
 sity and accident, which alone are able to impel him to quick 
 and decisive measures, than by the merit of his own courage, as 
 he himself confesses after the murder of Polonius. 
 
 " Hamlet has no firm belief either in himself or in any- 
 thing else. From expressions of religious confidence he passes 
 over to sceptical doubts — he believes in the ghost of his father 
 as long as he sees it, but as soon as it has disappeared, it ap- 
 pears to him almost in the light of a deception. He has even 
 gone so far as to say there is nothing either good or bad, but 
 thinking makes it so. With him the poet loses himself here in 
 labyrinths of thought in which neither end nor beginning is 
 discoverable. (?) 
 
 " A voice from another world, commissioned it would appear 
 by Heaven, demands vengeance for a monstrous enormity, and 
 the demand remains without effect. The criminals are at last 
 punished, but as it were by an accidental blow, and not in the 
 solemn way requisite to convey to the world a warning example 
 of justice. Irresolute foresight, cunning, treachery and impetu- 
 ous rage, hurry on to a common destruction : the less guilty and 
 
32 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 the innocent are equally involved in the common ruin. The 
 destiny of humanity is there exhibited as a gigantic sphinx, 
 which threatens to precipitate into the abyss of scepticism all 
 who are unable to solve her dreadful enigmas." 
 
 We have brought forward this extract from one 
 of Shakspeare's most able critics, to illustrate how- 
 vain are all efforts to solve the " enigma " which 
 the poet has furnished us, and to unlock the pro- 
 found mystery with which he has surrounded the 
 character of his hero, without the true key, which 
 is at once furnished by the supposition of the real 
 madness of Hamlet, which, to the experienced med- 
 ical psychologist is quite as evident, notwithstand- 
 ing what he himself says about " putting on an 
 antic disposition," as that of Ophelia or Lear. To 
 the unprofessional critic, this is the " fraction of 
 unknown magnitude," which, so long as it remains, 
 will not allow him to solve his "equation," and, 
 until this is known and recognized, we quite agree 
 with him, that " no thinking head who anew ex- 
 presses himself upon it, will entirely coincide with 
 his predecessors." ^Admit the real madness of 
 Hamlet, and it is readily perceived why this " Prince 
 of royal manners," this man of highly cultivated 
 and deeply philosophical mind, this man naturally 
 endowed with the finest sense of propriety, "the 
 glass of fashion and the mould of form," so sus- 
 ceptible of all that is noble in human nature, be- 
 comes, in the language of the critic, a " hypocrite 
 towards himself," and possessed by a " natural 
 inclination for crooked ways." With the supposi- 
 
HAMLET. 33 
 
 tion of real madness, and only with this supposition, 
 can we account to ourselves for the harshness, the 
 insensibility, the heartless cruelty of one who loved 
 with more than the love of " forty thousand broth- 
 ers," towards the gentle being who was the cherished 
 idol of his heart. 
 
 But, until after taking a view of the peculiar 
 form and character of Hamlet's madness, we for- 
 bear farther comment upon the criticism of the 
 learned and philosophical Schlegel, and pass to 
 that of another German still greater than he. 
 
 Who is more worthy to be heard than Goethe, 
 the poet and philosopher, the father of " the higher 
 literature of Germany," " which," says Carlyle most 
 truthfully, " is the higher literature of Europe ? " 
 Yet even he, with all his profound and philosophical 
 insight, is almost as far as Schlegel from forming a 
 true estimate of the psychological character and 
 mental condition of Hamlet, and the strange bear- 
 ing and conduct which results from it, as the fol- 
 lowing eloquent criticism which we translate from 
 his " Wilhelm Meister^'' abundantly proves. Both 
 fail in their estimate of the character of Hamlet, 
 from one and the same cause, as we shall endeavor 
 to show : namely, a want of that medico-psycho- 
 logical knowledge, which none but a Shakspeare 
 is supposed to possess intuitively. 
 
 " Imagine to yourself a prince whose father dies unexpectedly. 
 
 The desire of honor and love of power are not the passions 
 
 which animate him ; it is sufficient for him that he was the son 
 
 of a king, but now is he under the necessity of observing carer 
 
 3 
 
34 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 fiilly from a distance, the difference between the king and the 
 subject. The right to the crown was not hereditary, yet a 
 longer life of his father might have made the claim of his only 
 son stronger, and the hope of the crown more secm^e. Now, 
 on the contrary, he must attain it through his uncle, and, not- 
 withstanding the apparent promise, perhaps he is forever shut 
 out from it. He now feels himself poor in graces and goods, a 
 stranger in that which, from his youth up, he was accustomed 
 to regard as his own by right. Here his spirit receives the first 
 heavy stroke. He feels that he is no more than, indeed not so 
 much as, any nobleman. He regards himself as a servant of 
 all. He is not courteous, not condescending ; no, rather bowed 
 down and abject. Upon his former circumstances he now 
 looks as upon a vanished dream. In vain does his uncle en- 
 courage him, and endeavor to show him his situation from 
 another point of view ; the perception of his nothingness never 
 leaves him. 
 
 " The second stroke he receives wounds him yet more, bows 
 him yet deeper. It is the marriage of his mother. To him, 
 a true and tender son, there remains after his father's death 
 a mother, and he hopes in company with his noble mother left 
 behind, to do honor to the heroic form of the great one departed. 
 But he also loses his mother, and in a manner far worse than 
 though death had torn her from him. The perfect ideal which 
 a well-bred child so readily forms of his parents, vanishes ; from 
 the dead there is no help, and from the Hving no support. She 
 is also a woman, and from the common frailties incident to her 
 sex she is not exempt. Now for the first time he feels himself 
 truly bowed down, and no fortune in the world can again re- 
 store unto him that which he has lost. Not melancholy, not 
 naturally reflective, melancholy and reflection become to him 
 heavy burdens. Imagine vividly to yourself this young man, 
 this princely son ; figure to yourself his circumstances, and then 
 observe him when he perceives the appearance of his father's 
 form. Stand by him on that terrible night when the venerable 
 spirit himself walks before him. Huge terror and amazement 
 seize upon him. He speaks to the wonderful figure, sees it 
 
HAMLET. 35 
 
 beckoning, follows, and hears. The terrible complaint rcGounds 
 in his ears, calling for vengeance, and the pressing and oft-re- 
 peated entreaty, * Remember me.' And when the spirit has 
 vanished, what do we see standing before us ? A young hero 
 that pants for vengeance ? a born prince that deems himself 
 fortunate in wreaking vengeance upon the usurper of his 
 crown ? No ; astonishment and sadness fall upon the lone one. 
 He becomes bitter against the smiling villain, and swears not 
 to forget the departed, and concludes with the significant ex- 
 pression, ' The times are out of joint, woe unto me that I was 
 born to set them right ! ' In these words lies the key to the 
 whole conduct of Hamlet, and to me it is clear that Shakspeare 
 would have pictured a great deed imposed as a duty upon a 
 spirit that was not equal to that deed. This idea seems worked 
 out in the entire plot. Here is an oak planted in a delicate 
 vessel that should only have contained flowers ; the roots strike 
 out, and the vessel is destroyed. 
 
 " A beautiful, high, noble, pure, moral being, without the 
 mental strength which makes the hero, travels under a burden 
 which crushes him to the earth, — one which he can neither 
 bear nor cast entirely from him. Every duty is sacred to him, 
 but this is too heavy. The impossible was demanded of him ; 
 not that which was in itself impossible, but that which was im- 
 possible to him. How he writhes and turns, filled with anguish, 
 strides backwards and forwards, ever being reminded, ever re- 
 minding himself, and at last losing sight of his purpose without 
 ever having been made happy." 
 
 Here evidently are causes sufficient to induce 
 insanity in minds far less susceptible to the in- 
 vasion of the malady than that of Hamlet ; and 
 simply because early in the progress of the disease, 
 he speaks of " putting on an antic disposition," 
 we are not to suppose, in face of all the evidence 
 which follows, that we have to deal with a case of 
 feigned insanity, and that the poet has, in produc- 
 
36 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 ing the counterfeit, done more than he intended, 
 and made the stamp so perfect, that he has been 
 able to " deceive the very elect " themselves. Upon 
 other occasions, where the evidence of the poet's 
 intention was quite palpable to all, and where he 
 most certainly intended to produce a counterfeit, 
 he has succeeded, as in everything he undertakes, 
 and we have truly a counterfeit^ such as needs no 
 " expert " to detect. 
 
 Shakspeare, in the plentitude of his knowledge, 
 — a knowledge derived not from books and the 
 accumulated experience of others, but from the 
 closest observation of what he must have seen in 
 actual life, — recognized what none of his critics, 
 not conversant with medical psychology in its 
 present advanced state, seem to have any concep- 
 tion of ; namely, that there are cases of melancholic 
 madness, of a delicate shade, in which the reason- 
 ing faculties, the intellect proper, so far from being 
 overcome or even disordered, may, on the other 
 hand, be rendered more active and vigorous, while 
 the will, the moral feelings, the sentiments and 
 affections, are the faculties which seem alone to 
 suffer from' the stroke of disease. Such a case he 
 has given us in the character of Hamlet, with 
 a fidelity to nature which continues more and 
 more to excite our wonder and astonishment, as 
 our knowledge of this intricate subject advances. 
 
 Within the last few years our knowledge of the 
 various shades of insanity has been so much ad- 
 vanced, that what we conceived to be the true 
 
HAMLET. 37 
 
 view of the character of Hamlet appears now to 
 be well established, and whether Shakspeare him- 
 self was conscious of what he was producing, 
 matters little ; the delineation is so true to nature 
 that those who are at all acquainted with this in- 
 tricate disease ai:e fully convinced that Hamlet 
 represents faithfully a phase of genuine melan- 
 cholic madness.* Whatever may have been the 
 intention of Shakspeare, one thing is evident, he 
 has succeeded in exhibiting in the character of 
 Hamlet a complete revolution of all the facul- 
 ties of the soul, by the overwhelming influence of 
 the intense emotions excited in it ; and whether 
 the resulting condition of the mind be one of 
 health or disease, sanity or insanity, (and the line 
 of demarkation is by no means accurately defined,) 
 the phenomena exhibited are, psychologically con- 
 
 * The late Dr. Brigham, who had seen and treated more than four 
 thousand cases of insanity, declared that he had more than once seen 
 the counterpart of Hamlet, as well as of all Shakspeare's insane char- 
 acters, and he describes with his usual clearness and brevity the peculiar 
 characteristics of each. Dr. Isaac Kay, the accomplished superintendent 
 of the Butler Hospital, in a most able, elegant, and classical essay on 
 " Shakspeare's Delineations of Insanity " (see Journal of Insanity, Vol. 
 III.),<a paper which we could hold up with no small amount of national 
 pride to our professional brethren of other countries, as an example of 
 American medical literature^ also takes this view of the character of 
 Hamlet, and in our estimation has set forever at rest the vexed question 
 of his real or assumed madness, and solved satisfactorily that enigma 
 to which Schlegel refers, and which has so long vexed and discomfited 
 aU Shakspeare's non-medical critics. The distinguished Dr. Connolly, 
 in his little book entitled " A Study of Hamlet," lately published, 
 also maintains this view, and to the psychologist has left nothing to be 
 desired — having, as we think, fully established the position of Ham- 
 It t's real madness. 
 
38 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 sidered, of the most profound interest. SWe are 
 convinced that the change wrought is so great, 
 that the resulting condition of mind must, in the 
 present state of our medico-psychological knowl- 
 edge, be regarded as of a pathological character, 
 and that Hamlet, with Lear and Ophelia, must be 
 admitted into the ranks of that " noble army of 
 martyrs " to a mind diseased, too many of whom, 
 alas ! are found in the walks of every-day life. 
 But we must by no means forget that the term 
 " mind diseased " does not necessarily imply a 
 mind destroyed, or even a mind deranged in all 
 its faculties, but one changed in its normal opera- 
 tions ; a change which sometimes consists in a 
 preternatural operation or excessive activity of 
 some of its nobler faculties, while others are more 
 or less paralyzed. Such a change Shakspeare has 
 exhibited in a masterly manner in the character 
 and conduct of Hamlet, as shown throughout 
 this most extraordinary play, which change we 
 shall now proceed to trace, and attempt to analyze 
 the mental and moral phenomena exhibited in the 
 course of it. 
 
 Upon our first introduction to Hamlet, (Act I., 
 Scene 11.,) the idea we form of his character is 
 quite at variance with the view which Schlegel 
 has maintained, viz. that the hero is a hypocrite 
 towards himself, and naturally inclined to crooked 
 ways, and more in accordance with that enter- 
 tained by Goethe, who, as we have seen, re- 
 gards him as a prince of most noble, pure, afFec- 
 
HAMLET. 39 
 
 tionate and highly moral nature. His keen pene- 
 tration pierces the mask of hypocrisy and lying 
 deceit assumed by the king, his " uncle-father," 
 and the first expression we have from his lips 
 evinces his utter contempt and detestation of it. 
 When he first addresses him with mock tenderness 
 as " cousin " and " son," he turns aside and gives 
 utterance to the caustic sarcasm, — 
 
 " A little more than kin, and less than kind." 
 
 He also perceives with keen anguish of spirit, 
 the heartlessness of his " aunt-mother," and when 
 she reminds him that death is " common," — 
 
 " That all that Hve must die, 
 Passing through nature to eternity," — 
 
 he replies significantly : " Yes, madam, 't is com- 
 mon," — and when she presses him to know why 
 it " seems " so particular to him, he hints directly 
 at his own real woe, as contrasted with those out- 
 ward, hypocritical expressions of sorrow which 
 surround him, in what follows : — 
 
 " Seems, madam ! nay it is ; I know not seems. 
 'T is not alone my inky cloak, good mother, 
 Nor customary suits of solemn black. 
 Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, 
 No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, 
 Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage. 
 Together with all forms, moods, shows of grief. 
 That can denote me truly. These, indeed, seem, 
 For they are actions that a man might play : 
 But I have that within which passeth show ; 
 These but the trappings and the suits of woe." 
 
40 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 This is certainly not the language of one who 
 is a " hypocrite towards himself" or one who has 
 a natural inclination to, or love for hypocrisy and 
 crooked ways, or delights to recognize those traits 
 of character in others ; whatever we may observe 
 in him afterwards, as the result of disease. 
 
 The keen arrow of affliction first pierces his soul 
 when death suddenly and unexpectedly takes away 
 his kingly father. Time, however, would have 
 healed this wound, but it is torn open and made 
 to bleed afresh by the sudden and too precipitate 
 marriage of his mother with his uncle. His keen 
 moral nature cannot but regard this union as in- 
 cestuous, and the disgrace reflected upon himself 
 buries the arrow yet deeper, and its rankling is 
 perceptible in the language he utters immediately 
 after the interview with the king and queen, glanced 
 at above. The disgrace of this hasty and incestu- 
 ous union, reflected, as we have said, upon himself, 
 seems to cause him to despise even his own flesh 
 and blood, and engenders in him the wish to be 
 free from its encumbrance : — 
 
 " O that this too, too solid flesh would melt, 
 Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew ! " 
 
 Dark thoughts of self-destruction enter his mind, 
 yet his high moral nature, as yet untainted by dis- 
 ease, appears to revolt from suicide as a sin against 
 God and Nature, and in the deep anguish of his 
 soul, he continues, — 
 
 " Or that the Everlasting had not fixed 
 His canon 'gainst self-slaughter." 
 
HAMLET. 41 
 
 Then, very naturally, he seeks to shift the sore 
 burden of his afflictions over to the general account 
 of the world and humanity : — 
 
 " O God ! O God ! 
 How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable 
 Seem to me all the uses of this world ! 
 Fye on 't ! O fye ! 't is an un weeded garden 
 That grows to seed, things rank and gross in nature 
 Possess it merely." 
 
 Let us now follow him, bearing his sore burden 
 of affliction, into the scene which follows between 
 him, his friend Horatio, and the officers of the 
 watch. A new excitement is here prepared to stir 
 up his already overburdened mind, and the extraor- 
 dinary revelations made by them respecting the 
 apparition they had seen, excite in him the most 
 painful curiosity, and his mind appears to become 
 giddy with the intense excitement, without at all 
 losing its balance. After interrogating them keenly 
 and closely in the exciting dialogue as to the ap- 
 pearance and manner of what they had seen, he 
 says, evidently under the most intense excitement 
 of mind : — 
 
 " If it assume my noble father's person, 
 I '11 speak to it, though hell itself should gape, 
 
 And bid me hold my peace 
 
 My father's spirit in arms ! All is not well ; 
 
 I doubt some foul play : 'would the night were come ! 
 
 Till then sit still, my soul." 
 
 Let us now stand by and observe him in the 
 struggles of that terrible night he here longs for, 
 and then endeavor to estimate the effect upon his 
 
42 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 mind and feelings, of the startling disclosures made 
 by the ghost of his father, and which constitute 
 apparently the crowning excitement under which 
 a will, hitherto intact, and a strength of character 
 which has hitherto sustained him in all his severe 
 trials, the highest and strongest manifestations 
 of which we here perceive, appear to give way 
 under the burden now imposed upon them, render- 
 ing all his subsequent struggles impotent and vain. 
 As this extraordinary scene appears to constitute 
 the turning point in his mental and moral career, 
 and serves more than any other to mould the sub- 
 sequent character of his mind and feelings, we 
 deem no excuse necessary for dwelling at some 
 length upon it, and bringing forward what appears 
 necessary to illustrate our position. 
 
 The scene opens by furnishing us another illus- 
 tration of that native, high-toned moral feeling, 
 which is so characteristic of him, and so much at 
 variance with that by which he is, and ever has 
 been surrounded. His reply to the interrogatory 
 of Horatio, who inquires the meaning of the noise 
 which celebrates the bacchanalian revels of the 
 court, asking if it is a " custom," is peculiarly 
 graceful and characteristic of the man : — 
 
 " Ay, marry is 't ; 
 And to my mind, though I am native here 
 And to the manner born, it is a custom 
 More honored in the breach than the observance." 
 
 And here follow some pertinent remarks upon 
 the influence of these things upon individual and 
 
HAMLET. 43 
 
 national character, which remarks are interrupted 
 by the entrance of the ghost. When he first per-^ 
 ceives the approach of the wonderful figure, huge 
 terror and amazement naturally seize upon him, \ 
 and after recovering himself, he addresses it in 
 language, the terrible grandeur of which never has 
 been equalled. 
 
 " Angels and ministers of grace, defend us ! 
 Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damned, 
 Bring with thee airr from heaven, or blasts from hell. 
 Be thine intents wicked, or charitable. 
 Thou com'st in such a questionable shape. 
 That I will speak to thee. I '11 call thee, Hamlet, 
 King, father, royal Dane. Oh, answer me. 
 Let me not burst in ignorance ! but tell 
 Why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death, 
 Have burst these cerements ! Why the sepulchre, 
 Wherein we saw thee quietly inurned. 
 Hath op'd his ponderous and marble jaws. 
 To cast thee up again ! What may this mean, 
 That thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel, 
 Bevisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon. 
 Making night hideous ; and we fools of nature, 
 So horridly to shake our disposition, 
 With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls ? 
 Say, why is this ? wherefore ? what should we do ? " 
 
 He sees the ghost beckoning him to a distance, 
 and while his companions are quaking with terror, 
 he seems to know no fear ; expresses his contempt 
 for life ; declares it cannot hurt his soul, " being a 
 thing as immortal as itself" ; and feeling 
 
 " Each petty artery in this body 
 As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve," 
 
44 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 tears himself from his companions, who hold him 
 back lest he may meet with some terrible fate, or 
 be driven to madness ; threatens to make ghosts of 
 them if they do not " unhand " him ; follows and 
 hears. After a few exclamations of pity, surprise, 
 and horror at what is announced ; after express- 
 ing his determination to sweep to his revenge on 
 
 " Wings swift as meditation, or the thoughts of love," 
 
 he listens with dumb astonishment to the awful 
 revelation of crime which the ghost pours into his 
 ears. After the appearance vanishes, the first words 
 he utters give the clew to his mental and physical 
 state, and it is quite evident that the cord which 
 has been stretched to its utmost tension, here snaps 
 suddenly, and the consequences are immediately 
 apparent, and are evinced throughout his whole 
 subsequent career. Here enters the pathological 
 element into his mind and disposition, and the 
 working of the leaven of disease is soon apparent, 
 for it changes completely and forever his whole 
 character. Up to this time we see no weakness, 
 no vacillation, no want of energy, no infirmity of 
 purpose. After this, all these characteristics are 
 irrecoverably lost, and though some faculties of his 
 great spirit seem comparatively untouched, others, 
 as we shall see, are completely paralyzed. His first 
 exclamation, as we have said, seems to foreshadow 
 this : — 
 
 " O all you host of heaven ! O earth ! What else ? 
 And shall I couple hell ? — O fie ! — Hold, my heart ; 
 And you, my sinews, grow not instant old. 
 
HAMLET. 45 
 
 But bear me stiffly up ! — Remember thee ? 
 Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat 
 In this distracted globe." 
 
 Yet immediately after making the discovery 
 which has so much agitated him, that his mother 
 is a " most pernicious and perfidious woman," and 
 his uncle a "villain, smiling, damned villain," he 
 takes out his tables as though it were necessary 
 to make a memorandum, lest he forget that, " in 
 Denmark at least, one may smile, and smile, and 
 be a villain." 
 
 What follows in the scene when he returns to 
 his friends, evinces strongly the effect upon his 
 mind of the volcanic upheaving and commotion it 
 has experienced in the interview with the ghost, 
 and savors strongly of disease. Instead of clasping 
 his old friends to his bosom, and seeking from them 
 that sympathy, support, and consolation he had a 
 right to expect from them, and which they, though 
 animated with the most intense curiosity and ex- 
 citement, seem ready to give, he tells each to go 
 about his own especial business, offers them a 
 parting hand, and as for himself, he says, — 
 
 " Look you, I '11 go pray." 
 Well does his friend Horatio exclaim, — 
 
 " These are but wild and whirling words, my lord." 
 
 His manner of speaking to the ghost, whom he 
 hears below when he is swearing his friends to 
 secrecy, so different from the tone of awe and 
 reverential respect he had previously adopted, is 
 
46 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 very significant, and seems to indicate something 
 more than a healthly reaction from intense excite- 
 ment. " It betrays," says Dr. Ray, " the excitement 
 of delirium, the wandering of a mind reeling under 
 the first strokes of disease." 
 
 When he first hears the word " swear " pro- 
 nounced by the ghost from below, he exclaims, in 
 language which appears to indicate something more 
 than mock levity : — 
 
 " Ha, ha, boy ! say'st thou, so ? art thou there, true-penny ? 
 Come on, — you hear this fellow in the cellarage, — 
 Consent to swear." 
 
 When he hears the word " swear " pronounced a 
 second time from below, he says : — 
 
 " Hie et uhique ! then we '11 shift our ground." 
 
 A third time the word is pronounced, and he ex- 
 claims : — 
 
 " Well said, old mole I can'st work i' the ground so fast ? 
 A worthy pioneer ! " 
 
 A fourth time he hears it, and assuming the lan- 
 guage of command, he exclaims, — 
 
 *' Rest, rest, perturbed spirit ! " 
 
 The intimation that he conveys in this scene that 
 he may think it " meet to put an antic disposition 
 on," and upon which the theory of feigned mad- 
 ness is mainly built, is quite natural, and quite as 
 consistent with the theory of real as feigned mad- 
 ness, and may, in the commotion of his mind, have 
 resulted as much from a vague consciousness of 
 
HAMLET. 47 
 
 what was impending, as from any intention to act 
 a part. This is quite clear to the " expert," though 
 he may not succeed in making it so to those critics 
 who take an opposite view of it, and who, having 
 no practical knowledge of the more delicate shades 
 of mental disease, quite mistake the character of 
 Hamlet, regarding it, like Schlegel, as a riddle not 
 easily solved, or like Goethe, as an illustration of 
 natural imbecility of will and purpose, as we have 
 seen, or perhaps, what is worse, can only see with 
 Dr. Johnson in the " pretended madness " of Ham- 
 let, a cause of much mirth. 
 
 The next knowledge we have of Hamlet comes 
 to us through Ophelia and her father Polonius, and 
 it is evident that in the interval his already shat- 
 tered mind and crushed feelings have received 
 another sad blow. The gentle and lovely being 
 whom in the ardor of his nature he had loved with 
 more than the love of " forty thousand brothers," 
 prompted by parental duty, and in obedience to 
 the express will of her father, does violence to her 
 own deep, cherished feelings, and repels his letters, 
 and denies him all access to her. The burden of 
 his former sorrows it would seem was sufficiently 
 heavy, but this is greater than all, and what results 
 is just what we might expect, and nothing else ; and 
 to suppose, with most of Shakspeare's critics, that 
 this is a piece of consummate acting, — a drama 
 so admirably played as to deceive her who was 
 accustomed to read the inmost thoughts of his 
 heart, — seems to border upon the absurd. Besides, 
 
48 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 we can perceive no adequate motive for such ex- 
 traordinary conduct, even were he acting a part, 
 and not really frantic. Had he wished to break 
 the connection as incompatible with the heavy duty 
 imposed upon him, he certainly would not have re- 
 sorted to such measures in the first instance : such 
 an act would have been too revolting to his nature, 
 and his conduct as well as his personal appearance 
 in her presence, as delineated by herself, is very in- 
 dicative of the true state of his mind and feelings. 
 His mind, as we have seen, had been made to 
 reel and stagger by the contending emotions ex- 
 cited in the former scene, but it has not been at 
 any time so completely overthrown as to deprive 
 him, even temporarily, of self-control, until it ex- 
 periences the shock imparted to it by her refusal 
 to see him, or receive his letters. This, however, 
 together with what has preceded, is more than it 
 can bear, and he becomes for the time being quite 
 frantic. He rushes unbidden into her presence, 
 quite regardless of his personal appearance, — 
 
 " With his doublet all unbraced ; 
 No hat upon his head, his stockings fouled, 
 ^ Ungartered, and down-gyved to his ankle ; 
 
 Pale as his shirt ; his knees knocking each other ; 
 And with a look so piteous in purport, 
 As if he had been loosed out of hell, 
 To speak of horrors." 
 
 When there, so great are the overwhelming emo- 
 tions of his soul that the power of utterance is 
 denied him. Feelings which no words can express 
 
HAMLET. 49 
 
 rend his bosom. " Thoughts which are too deep 
 for tears," rush like a whirlwind through his already 
 shattered mind, and he can only seize her by the 
 wrist, look earnestly and wildly into that face 
 which was wont to beam upon him with the light 
 of love and the most tender feminine affection, as 
 though he would there read the mystery of her 
 conduct, and the change which had come over her, 
 prompting it. Then heaving a sigh, — 
 
 " A sigh so piteous and profound, 
 That it did seem to shatter all his bulk, 
 And end his being " — 
 
 he retreats as unconsciously as he had entered, his 
 eyes to the last fixed upon that countenance in 
 which he had striven to read the inmost thoughts 
 of her soul. Ophelia could not, and as it is quite 
 evident, did not mistake the import of all this, and 
 if we are to regard it as a well-acted sham^ then 
 let us forever cease to draw a distinction between 
 art and nature ; the two are identical, one and the 
 same. 
 
 In Hamlet's first interview with Polonius, (Act 
 II., Scene II.,) though now quite calm and collect- 
 ed, the evidence of disease is abundantly manifest, 
 as also the keen penetration and capability of dis- 
 cerning the motives of others, so characteristic of 
 certain forms of madness. From the contempt he 
 shows for Polonius and the keen irony he heaps 
 upon him, and also from the way he alludes to his 
 daughter, it is quite evident that the old courtier 
 
50 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 is, in his estimation, the cause of the altered con- 
 duct of Ophelia, and her refusal, as formerly, to 
 countenance his advances. Either instinctively or 
 by positive information, he seems well aware of 
 what has taken place between Ophelia and her fa- 
 ther in a former scene. He appears to regard him, 
 as all lovers, sane or insane, are apt to regard a 
 fond and perhaps too judicious parent, who stands 
 between them and their cherished idol, as a med- 
 dlesome old fool, over anxious as to consequences, 
 and quite incapable of appreciating their motives 
 and feelings. In this view of the case, the keen 
 wit and irony he pours out upon the old courtier 
 are most amusing. When the old man asks if he 
 knows him, he replies : — 
 
 '■'■Ham. Excellent well ; you are a fishmonger. 
 
 Pol. Not I, my lord. 
 
 Ham. I would you were so honest a man To be 
 
 honest, as the world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten 
 thousand. 
 
 Pol. That 's very true, my lord. 
 
 Ham. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a 
 god, kissing carrion, — Have you a daughter ? 
 
 Pol. I have, my lord. 
 
 Ham. Let her not walk i' the sun. Conception is a blessing ; 
 but not as your daughter may conceive — friend, look to 't." 
 
 He seems to take a morbid delight in annoying 
 the old man Polonius. Nothing is more natural 
 than for the insane to fix upon some one individual, 
 from whom they have, or imagine they have, re- 
 ceived some slight or injury, and endeavor to tease 
 them by every means their insane ingenuity can 
 
HAMLET. 51 
 
 devise. After pouring out his satirical spite upon 
 old men in general, and Polonius in particular, he 
 thanks him for leaving his presence, telling him 
 that he could take away nothing that would please 
 him better, " except my life, my life." 
 
 He meets his old friends Rosencrantz and Guil- 
 denstern cordially, and a lively dialogue ensues, 
 brought about apparently by old associations ; yet 
 in a moment this becomes tinctured with the pre- 
 vailing melancholy of his mind, and the hue of his 
 misanthropic feelings. He scouts the idea that the 
 world is getting honest, calls Denmark a prison, 
 and when they hint that it is a prison to him, be- 
 cause too narrow for his ambitious views, he utters 
 a remark quite significant of what is hanging over 
 his mind : — 
 
 " O God ! I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count my- 
 self a king of infinite space ; were it not that I have had bad 
 dreams." 
 
 Restlessness, imperfect sleep, and dreaming are 
 peculiarly incident to the initiatory stages of most 
 forms of mental disease, and this remark forms 
 another link in the chain of evidence respecting 
 the real state of his mind. He interrupts the short 
 metaphysical disquisition on ambition which fol- 
 lows, with a remark which shows that he feels that 
 his mind is not in a fit state to reason on certain 
 things, and can only act as it is directed by the 
 disturbed current of his feelings. " By my fay, 
 I cannot reason," says he ; yet in the direction these 
 lead, see how he can. discourse : — 
 
52 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 "I have of late (but, wherefore, I know not,) lost all my 
 mirth, foregone all custom of exercises : and, indeed, it goes so 
 heavily with my disposition, that this goodly frame, the earth, 
 seems to me a sterile promontory ; this most excellent canopy, 
 the air, look you, — this brave o'erhanging firmament, — this 
 majestic roof fretted with golden fire, — why, it appears no other 
 thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors." 
 
 Then follows his famous and well-known apos- 
 trophe to man, and many no doubt will think 
 these are hardly the thoughts to emanate from 
 a mind at all tinctured with insanity; but such 
 have yet to learn that the peculiar form of mad- 
 ness delineated by Shakspeare in the character of 
 Hamlet, is quite compatible with occasional out- 
 bursts of grand poetic inspiration. Such will no 
 doubt persist in believing him when he says, " I 
 am but mad north-northwest; when the wind 
 is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw." 
 Those, however, who are familiar with the halls 
 of an asylum for the insane, and have repeatedly 
 heard patients scout the idea of their insanity in 
 language almost identical with the above, will 
 persist in holding a contrary opinion. 
 
 At the conclusion of Act II. he furnishes us 
 with the clearest evidence yet given of that par- 
 alyzed will, the first signs of which we began to 
 perceive shortly after his interview with the ghost.* 
 
 * A young lady, aged twenty years, of great talent for piano-forte 
 playing, which had been assiduously and successfully cultivated, was 
 quite recently a patient of the writer with melanchoha, to which she has 
 inherited a strong natural tendency. 
 
 In a late letter to me, speaking of her health, she says : " I am sorry 
 to say that I have not felt well, bodily, for some time, — I feel tired and 
 
HAMLET. 53 
 
 Here we find him deploring his weakness, quite 
 conscious of his utter inability to sweep to that 
 revenge he had so solemnly sworn to execute. 
 As keenly conscious as ever of the great wrong 
 done him by his uncle, the only power left is the 
 power to rail against him, " to fall a-cursing like 
 a very drab, a scullion," and this he does with a 
 hearty good will, a " science," so to speak, thor- 
 oughly understood, it has often seemed to us, only 
 by the insane themselves. Hear him rail at him- 
 self for his infirmity of will and purpose : — 
 
 " Am I a coward ? 
 Who calls me villain ? breaks my pate across ? 
 Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face ? 
 Tweaks me by the nose ? gives me the lie i' the throat ? 
 As deep as to the lungs ? Who does me this ? 
 Ha! 
 
 Why, I should take it; for it cannot be, 
 But I am pigeon-livered, and lack gall 
 To make transgression bitter ; or, ere this, 
 I should have fatted all the region kites 
 With this slave's offal. Bloody, bawdy villain ! 
 Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain ! 
 
 O, vengeance ! 
 
 Fye upon' t ! foh ! A bout, my brain ! " 
 
 How different is all this from the language used 
 in the scene with the ghost, and firom that lion- 
 languid, as if I could not exert myself. I am busy, and try to overcome 
 these feelings, lut my will, once strong, seems to have nothing to do with it. 
 I shall not give up again, come what may. I am determined to succeed 
 in what I have undertaken." This determination to be occupied, and 
 thus to divert her mind from the morbid state of her feelings, will no 
 doubt go far in warding off her malady ; and we shall watch with much 
 interest the struggles of the diseased will in this gifted girl. 
 
54 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 heartedness with which he breaks from his friends 
 and follows it. And what a change does it in- 
 dicate, wrought by disease in the character of the 
 man. He then, as a mere pretext and excuse for 
 his want of energy, pretends to doubt if even the 
 ghost was an honest ghost ; suggests that it might 
 have been the very devil himself, seeking to assail 
 him through his " weakness " and " melancholy," in 
 order to damn him ; and in the true spirit of his dis- 
 ease devises a scheme to test the matter by means 
 of the play. The successive steps in the progress 
 of his disease now become more and more marked, 
 and we next perceive an upheaving and overthrow 
 of those deep moral feelings and affections, so pe- 
 culiar to his character before the invasion of the 
 disease. And here let those who maintain the 
 theory of feigned madness be careful to observe, 
 that the very feelings and faculties of his soul 
 whicH have J^een most intensely exercised, are the 
 very ones which first give way and become most 
 completely upset by the diseased reaction which 
 follows. This they may regard, if they choose, 
 as a mere coincidence ; it will, however, be some- 
 what difficult for them to show that it was more 
 easy, natural, and convenient for Hamlet to assume 
 this form of madness than a form more readily 
 calculated to deceive others, — one more easily 
 feigned to carry out his purpose of deception. To 
 us it appears that Shakspeare has, as usual, " held 
 the mirror up to nature," in making his faculties 
 become diseased in the very direction in which 
 
HAMLET. 55 
 
 they have been most intensely exercised ; whether 
 that direction be, as he says, " north-northwest," 
 or towards some other point of the intellectual 
 compass. 
 
 His will, courage, and energy of purpose had 
 been put to the utmost test in the interview with 
 the ghost, and the result we have seen. Let us 
 now see what has been the consequence of exces- 
 sive exercise of the moral feelings and affections 
 of his ardent nature. In illustration of this, let us 
 glance for a moment at his remarkable interview 
 with Ophelia, in Act III., Scene I., of the play. 
 From what we have observed in former scenes, if 
 is abundantly evident that Hamlet had loved the 
 gentle Ophelia with all the intensity his ardent 
 and affectionate nature was capable of, and which 
 love, it is also evident, had been abundantly re- 
 ciprocated. The first blow to this comes through 
 her, prompted by her father, and it falls upon him 
 when his mind is sadly unprepared to receive it. 
 Writhing as he was under his other sorrows and 
 their diseased reaction, as we shall see in this scene, 
 the blow rebounds upon her with a weight so 
 crushing, that all our sympathies are enlisted for 
 the gentle being, and these are made more lively 
 by the remembrance that she has not called down 
 all this upon herself by her fickleness and feminine 
 caprice, but that it has been instigated by parental 
 duty. In the midst of that grand soliloquy, in 
 which, prompted by the melancholy of his mind 
 and the dark misanthropy of his feelings, he places 
 
56 SHAKSPEAKE'S INSANE. 
 
 SO insignificant an estimate upon hunnan life when 
 weighed in the balance against the cares, perplex- 
 ities, and sorrows incident to it, and where, quite 
 forgetting the axiom he has previously advanced, 
 that " there is nothing good or bad but thinking 
 makes it," he spurns it, and casts a fearful glance 
 towards the mysteries of the grave and eternity, 
 also tinged with the dark hue of his thoughts, and 
 in which he thinks " perchance " there may be 
 " dreams " more terrible than the sad realities 
 which now surround him, — he is interrupted by 
 the entrance of Ophelia. The first sight of her 
 appears to awaken in him all those tender emo- 
 tions he was accustomed in health to indulge to- 
 wards her : — 
 
 " Soft you, now ! 
 
 The fair Ophelia : — Nymph, in thy orisons, 
 
 Be all my sins remembered." 
 
 To her first greeting he replies thankfully and re- 
 spectfully, and if not affectionately and cordially, 
 in a manner suited to the state of mind in which 
 she has found him. She then takes occasion to 
 restore him the gifts he has made her, intimating 
 that he had ceased to love her. In an instant the 
 demon of disease slumbering in his mind is roused 
 up and let loose upon her, to lacerate most unmer- 
 cifully her already crushed and bleeding heart, 
 and he does his work with that refined cruelty 
 which only such a demon is capable of. She at- 
 tempts to reason with the monster, and as was 
 to be expected from its true nature, it only becomes 
 
HAMLET. 57 
 
 more and more cruel, and ceases not to rend her 
 till its mad rage is expended, and she stands before 
 us trembling in every limb, her heart bleeding from 
 many deep and sore wounds, and " like Niobe, all 
 tears," an object of the deepest commiseration. 
 
 Surely they must be blind to dramatic propriety 
 who can perceive in all this nothing more than 
 a well-acted sham, in which the actor does violence 
 to his own best feelings, and wounds and lacerates 
 fearfully those of her whom he had loved so ten- 
 derly, when the deception which he is thereby sup- 
 posed to attempt is attainable at so much less 
 cost. Ophelia, certainly no incompetent judge 
 under the circumstances, seems as before to have 
 placed the proper estimate upon his conduct. The 
 lynx-eyed vigilance of woman's love could not be 
 deceived, and she has read correctly the riddle 
 which has so perplexed all Shakspeare's critics 
 down to the present time. When he leaves her 
 presence after this harrowing scene, with the cut- 
 ting words, " Get thee to a nunnery " upon his lips, 
 she says : — 
 
 " O what a noble mind is bere o'erthrown ! 
 The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's, eye, tongue, sword : 
 The expectancy and rose of the fair state, 
 The glass of fashion, and the mold of form. 
 The observed of all observers, quite, quite down ! 
 *, And I of ladies most deject and wretched. 
 That sucked the honey of his music vows, 
 Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, 
 Like sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh ; 
 That unmatched form and feature of blown youth, 
 
58 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 Blasted with ecstacy : O, woe is me ! 
 
 To have seen what I have seen, see what I see ! 
 
 In the first part of Scene II. (Act III.) in giving 
 his instructions to the players, and also his ideas 
 as to what should be the true character of theatrical 
 performances, he is quite calm and collected, his 
 mind and feelings apparently undisturbed, and to 
 have met him now no one would have supposed 
 him either insane or feigning. This is quite natu- 
 ral, and consistent with the form of madness under 
 which he suffers; " a form," says Dr. Brigham, 
 " under which the mind only occasionally suffers, 
 while the feelings are greatly disordered by disease." 
 Strangers to insanity, on passing for the first time 
 through the halls of an asylum which are devoted 
 to the better classes of patients, are frequently 
 much surprised at the rational conversation, apt 
 remarks, and gentlemanly bearing and conduct 
 of some, and can scarcely believe them insane, and 
 often, as we have frequently seen, manifest much 
 curiosity in questioning the medical officers in 
 charge as to how the disease which they are unable 
 to perceive, manifests itself. Farther on in the 
 scene, when the court enters to witness the play, 
 he is quite calm, as though he had braced up his 
 mind and curbed his feelings to observe carefully 
 its effect upon the king and queen. Yet even here, 
 there is a kind of childishness, a juvenility of mind 
 manifested, which is quite unlike the real Hamlet 
 of Act I. or the insane Hamlet of Act II. The 
 demon within is now slumbering, and towards the 
 
HAMLET. 59 
 
 gentle being he so lately lacerated is now quite 
 changed, throws himself down at her feet, and like 
 a little child asks to be permitted to lay his head 
 in her lap. Throughout this entire scene, even 
 after the developments brought about by the effect 
 of the play upon the king, there is a peculiar levity 
 in his manner and conduct which savors strongly 
 of mental and moral unsoundness, and we are 
 quite ready to believe him when he says to Guil- 
 denstern : " I cannot make you a wholesome an- 
 swer, my wit's diseased." Such are the varied 
 phases of madness, aAd how wonderful is that 
 power of observation in our great dramatist, which 
 has enabled him to draw them so minutely and 
 accurately. His knowledge of the human heart 
 and mind, under all circumstances and in all forms, 
 whether of health or disease, is so accurate that 
 he never makes a mistake, and when he appears 
 to do so, we should strongly suspect that we do 
 not understand him, and wait humbly and labor 
 patiently for a more accurate knowledge of his 
 purposes and intentions. 
 
 The next appearance of Hamlet, of importance 
 in illustration of our position, is at the conclusion 
 of Scene HI., where he finds the king alone and 
 at his attempted devotions. Here was an excellent 
 opportunity for him to wreak his vengeance upon 
 him, and he saw it. " Now might I do it pat," 
 says he ; but he does not, for the impulse under 
 which alone he can act efficiently is not upon him, 
 and his diseased will and infirmity of purpose are 
 
60 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 not sufficient for it ; and framing a flimsy excuse, 
 such as the fear that if he sent him into eternity- 
 while praying he would not be damned, and his 
 revenge would be incomplete, he allows the oppor- 
 tunity to slip from him. He can make great re- 
 solves, but he can only execute by a diseased im- 
 pulse, and this never serves him at the right time. 
 That speedy vengeance which was the sworn pur- 
 pose of his life is here prevented by his infirmity, 
 and a mad impulse in a subsequent scene causes 
 him to plunge his sword into the heart of poor old 
 Polonius, instead of the heart of the real culprit, 
 his uncle. 
 
 We now come to the extraordinary interview 
 between Hamlet and his mother. (Act IH., Scene 
 IV.) Perhaps no scene furnishes to the non-pro- 
 fessional reader such strong evidence as this in 
 favor of the theory of feigning. To us, however, 
 he appears like one who, being really and truly 
 insane, has summoned all his powers for the ac- 
 complishment of his purposes, one of which is to 
 convince others that he is not mad. He can feign 
 either sanity or insanity, as best suited his purposes 
 at the time. Here, in the true spirit which ani- 
 mates him, he asserts in plain words that he is not 
 mad, only in " craft," and in spite of all internal 
 evidence to the contrary, most of his readers and 
 critics are ready to believe him. 
 
 " It is not madness I have uttered ; bring me to 
 the test." Unfortunately the test he relies upon, 
 though once considered infallible, is not now re- 
 
HAMLET. 61 
 
 garded as positive ; indeed, as applicable to his 
 case it is quite worthless. It strikes us as rather 
 strange too, that one who is really feigning for a 
 purpose, should take so much pains to make others 
 believe he is not doing so. He speaks rationally, 
 yet sometimes wildly and obscurely, and the un- 
 merciful manner in which he harrows up the feel- 
 ings of his mother, blameworthy as she was, and 
 so deserving of his severe censure, is in perfect 
 keeping with his conduct towards Ophelia in a 
 former scene. The reappearance of the ghost, now 
 visible only to himself, shows the deep agitation of 
 his mind, and with all his self-possession he is not 
 able to suppress the emotions caused by this men- 
 tal apparition, 
 
 In Scenes II. and III. of Act IV., we see another 
 phase of his malady. That^peculiar levity of con- 
 duct evinced by the insane in view of the dreadful 
 circumstances which they have brought upon them- 
 selves by their insane acts, — circumstances which 
 would cause the guilty sane to quake with fear, — 
 is here admirably shown, as also that waywardness 
 and perversity peculiar to certain forms of insanity. 
 He appears to have concealed the body of Polo- 
 nius, whom he has slain in an insane impulse, 
 merely out of pure perversity, and not from any 
 fear as to the consequences to himself from the 
 deed. In answer to the question of Rosencrantz, 
 " What have you done, my lord, with the dead 
 body ? " he says, quite significantly, " Compounded 
 it with the dust, whereto 't is kin." 
 
62 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 In the next scene, when the king asks him where 
 is Polonius, he answers : " At supper. . . . Not 
 where he eats, but where he is eaten; a certain 
 convocation of politic worms are e'en at him. 
 Your worm is your only emperor for diet ; " and he 
 continues to rally the king with the most caustic 
 sarcasm, showing him the ultimate identity between 
 a fat king and a lean beggar. 
 
 Again, when the king puts the question, " Where 
 is Polonius ? " he evades in a most provoking man- 
 ner : " In heaven ; send thither to see : if your mes- 
 senger find him not there, seek him i' the other 
 place yourself." 
 
 We next find him bewailing his own imbecility 
 of purpose in view of the expedition of young For- 
 tinbras, quite conscious apparently of his infirmity, 
 yet wholly under its influence and totally unable to 
 overcome it. 
 
 We now come to Scene V. Act IV., in which we 
 find another and very different form of insanity in 
 the case of Ophelia. Ophelia, of all the creations 
 of Shakspeare's genius, is certainly one of the most 
 charming and exquisite. The gentle being, occa- 
 sional glimpses of whom we have caught in former 
 scenes, gliding before us for a moment and disap- 
 pearing like a vision of loveliness and purity, weep- 
 ing in the heaviness of her heart over the misfor- 
 tunes which have befallen her lover, and bewailing 
 the change which his sad disease had wrought in 
 his feelings and conduct towards her, is now 
 doomed to fall a victim to another, and if possible 
 
HAMLET. 63 
 
 more painful form of the same malady. With true 
 feminine fortitude she has borne meekly and pa- 
 tiently all that the mental disease of her lover has 
 inflicted upon herself, and in childlike obedience to 
 the will of the politic old courtier, Polonius, her 
 father, whom, notwithstanding all his follies, she 
 appears to have loved with the tenderness of a 
 daughter, faithful and true, she has tried to smother, 
 if she could not entirely quench, the pure flame 
 which glowed in her bosom towards Hamlet. This, 
 no doubt, cost her a sad struggle, yet in obedience 
 to duty she could make the attempt. But when 
 under an impulse of disease this lover plunges his 
 sword into the heart of her beloved parent, the 
 measure of her sorrow is full and running over. 
 Her gentle heart, which had been so often and so 
 sorely wounded, is now crushed forever, and her 
 pure and delicate mind at once becomes a wreck. 
 Its native delicacy, though sadly shattered by dis- 
 ease, is not wholly lost, and though a maniac she is 
 not wild, but the same gentle, loving, kind-hearted, 
 affectionate Ophelia. Sad is the picture which the 
 poet has here given us, yet the records of womanly 
 experience teach us that it is only too true. After 
 the mournful exhibition she furnishes us of crushed 
 feelings and a mind in fragments, we are quite pre- 
 pared, indeed we feel a kind of relief, when death 
 interposes to take her away from the sorrows and 
 perplexities of her short and melancholy career. 
 
 We next meet Hamlet in the churchyard, with 
 that same levity of character and conduct which 
 
64 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 we have before glanced at as one of the character- 
 istics of his disease. He jests with clowns, and 
 moralizes over dry bones. Here, with all his own 
 sorrowful experiences of human life fresh in his 
 memory, and surrounded with the solemn evidences 
 of the vanity of all earthly things, in the true spirit 
 of madness he makes himself merry with things 
 most grave and solemn. A skull " grins with a 
 ghastly smile " upon him, and he in return smiles 
 upon it, supposes it to have been the skull of a 
 lawyer, and asks what has become of its " tenures " 
 and its " tricks," and wonders why it does not bring 
 an action for battery against the clown for knock- 
 ing it about with a dirty shovel. Here he utters 
 that terrible sarcasm against " men made of 
 money" : — 
 
 " Ham. Is not parchment made of sheep-skins ? 
 Hor. Ay, my lord, and of calves-skins too. 
 Ham. They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance 
 in that." 
 
 This scene with the grave-diggers is not merely 
 rich in wit, humor, philosophy, and morality, but it 
 possesses a profound psychological interest, and it is 
 evident that Hamlet acted very unnaturally under 
 the circumstances, supposing him to be sane or 
 feigning ; or supposing him to be insane, acted in 
 the true spirit of his disease, very naturally. The 
 latter supposition is the more reasonable. 
 
 In the midst of this singular scene in the grave- 
 yard, the funeral procession, bearing the remains 
 
HAMLET. 65 
 
 of Ophelia, enters. And here we are furnished with 
 the poet's views respecting the obsequies paid by 
 the church to the bodies of those unfortunates, who, 
 in a paroxysm of the most dreadful of human mala- 
 dies, commit suicide. He is evidently at issue with 
 the priestly prejudicies of his times, remnants of 
 which have descended to, and are even now occa- 
 sionally manifest in the midst of the enlightenment 
 of our own. The poet seems to have felt instinc- 
 tively that the bodies of those, who, urged by a par- 
 oxysm of disease beyond the power of self-control, 
 have perished by their own hands, should have the 
 same sad rites as those who have perished from any 
 other cause, and that withholding them could do 
 no possible good, and inflict much unnecessary in- 
 jury upon the feelings of friends; — 
 
 " Laer. Must there no more be done ? 
 
 Priest No more be done ! 
 
 We should profane the service of the dead, 
 To sing sage requiem^ and such rest to her, 
 As to peace-parted souls. 
 
 Laer. Lay her i' the earth ; 
 And from her fair and unpolluted flesh, 
 May violets spring ! I tell thee, churlish priest, 
 A ministering angel shall my sister be. 
 When thou liest howhng." 
 
 The wild manifestations of sorrow on the part 
 of Laertes at the grave of his sister, which Hamlet 
 has observed at a distance, very naturally excite in 
 him a paroxysm of his malady, and his conduct 
 here establishes beyond all question the existence 
 of genuine madness. At times he could control 
 
 5 
 
66 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 himself completely, and act and talk rationally, yet 
 ever since the interview with the ghost, even during 
 these intervals, we can detect the genuine mani- 
 festations of that disease, which is ready to burst 
 out in marked paroxysms upon occasions of unusual 
 excitement like this. He here rushes forward, leaps 
 into the grave, grapples with Laertes, and disputes 
 with him the position of chief-mourner; and his 
 language as well as his conduct leads us to coincide 
 with the queen when she says, — 
 
 " This is mere madness : 
 And thus awhile the fit will work on him ; 
 Anon, as patient as the female dove 
 When that her golden couplets are disclos'd, 
 His silence will sit drooping." 
 
 Alternately calm and excited, we find him, in the 
 next scene, relating with great circumspection the 
 means he adopted to circumvent his transporta- 
 tion to England, and to devote his treacherous 
 companions to the same fate they had, in concert 
 with the king, intended for him. He also expresses 
 his regret that the " towering passion " into which 
 the grief of Laertes had put him, should have made 
 him forget himself at the grave of Ophelia. 
 
 The wild confusion of the last scene furnishes 
 us a fitting denouement of what has preceded. 
 It was not to be expected that a drama in which 
 the principal actor is an undoubted madman, 
 should end as one in which other materials are em- 
 ployed. The mental malady of Hamlet was of 
 such a character as to influence deeply the whole 
 
HAMLET. 67 
 
 plot, and in the end we see the irresolution, feeble- 
 ness of will, and want of foresight resulting from it, 
 bringing about just what was to be expected, a com- 
 plete chaos. Each dies as it were by accident, and 
 by the means intended for the destruction of an- 
 other. These means seem like the " times " " out 
 of joint," and hobble on to the accomplishment of 
 purposes, vague, indistinct, and uncertain. Ven- 
 geance indeed falls upon the head of the chief cul- 
 prit, not however in the solemn manner to give it a 
 character suited to his enormous guilt, but just as 
 we might expect from the nature of the instrumen- 
 talities employed; the only way in fact it could 
 have been brought about, with the perservation of 
 the complete dramatic consistency of the plot ; the 
 whole furnishing another evidence of the wonder- 
 ful sagacity of the poet, and the truthfulness to 
 nature, and consistency with which he works out 
 whatever he undertakes. 
 
OPHELIA. 
 
 « 
 
 OF Ophelia, we have already said a few words, 
 in treating of the character of Hamlet, with 
 whose mad career her own sad destiny was so inti- 
 mately interwoven. Of all the poet's characters, we 
 may say truly that there is not one that so thor- 
 oughly enlists the best and most profound sym- 
 pathies of the human heart as Ophelia. There 
 are others whose circumstances have been quite 
 as sad, and whose end, to a superficial view, quite 
 as tragic ; but every one who studies this character 
 with that carefulness which its exceeding loveliness 
 demands, feels that there is a certain something 
 here, not easily defined perhaps, causing it to differ 
 from all others in the amount and intensity of the 
 sympathy excited. 
 
 Of all Shakspeare's female characters, Ophelia 
 is, par excellence^ the most feminine ; and in her, it 
 strikes us, we perceive a closer approximation to 
 the " divine perfection of a woman," than is to be 
 found in any other of the poet's delineations. The 
 daughter of a courtier, bred amid the vices, the 
 arts, and the intrigues incident to court life, she 
 escapes all contamination by the innate purity of 
 her natural character, and to the end maintains 
 
OPHELIA. 69 
 
 that artless and childlike simplicity so essentially 
 characteristic of the true woman. This, how- 
 ever, is not the simplicity of ignorance, but, as we 
 have said, of innate purity. All she knows about 
 the " primrose path of dalliance " is by hearsay 
 and rumor ; but she has never trod its deceitful 
 and treacherous windings, neither has she wandered 
 there in thought, nor even in dreams. The love 
 she bears towards Hamlet is so pure, so free from 
 the slightest trace of any base alloy, either of pas- 
 sion, pride, or selfishness, that it seems in very 
 truth " not of the earth, earthy," but an effloresence 
 of that divine nature with which she has been so 
 highly endowed, — a nature in which pride, selfish- 
 ness, or ambition, had no part or lot whatever. The 
 high social position of her royal lover she regards 
 with fear and trembling, inasmuch as this may 
 prove an insurmountable barrier to the possession 
 of that which was the most cherished desire of 
 her gentle heart. Yet this desire, pure, holy, un- 
 selfish, as she felt it to be, she is ready to sacrifice 
 at whatever cost to her own feelings, and yield it 
 up in childlike obedience to the expressed wishes 
 of her father. Duty to her parent, with her, was 
 paramount to all else, and the thought of dis- 
 obedience seems never to have entered her mind. 
 Ophelia is so unselfish and pure-minded, that she 
 is slow to suspect that others can be actuated by 
 impure or selfish motives. The unaffected sim- 
 plicity, the naivete^ of her replies to her father and 
 brother in Act L, Scene HI., show the exceeding 
 
70 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 beauty of her natural character and disposition 
 from the very first. She is unwilling to doubt the 
 affection or motives of her father or brother, and 
 she is equally unwilling to doubt the honesty and 
 truthfulness of her lover's protestations ; and, with 
 conflicting emotions, she is "• perplexed in the ex- 
 treme," like Othello, not kno-^ving what to do, or 
 think, or believe ; and when her father calls her a 
 green girl, and asks her if she believes the protes- 
 tations of Hamlet, her reply is singularly beautiful : 
 " I do not know, my lord, what I should think." 
 
 The advice which her brother bestows upon her 
 in taking his leave, good and wholesome as it is, 
 is quite unnecessary, though received in the kindest 
 manner, and she tells him : " I shall the effect of 
 your good lesson keep, as watchman to my heart." 
 Yet all the time we are made to feel that it is far 
 more important for him to remember the gentle, 
 modest, and loving admonition of her reply, than 
 it is for her to remember his advice, which, we are 
 led to believe, he has framed from his own prac- 
 tical experience of the world : — 
 
 " but, good my brother, 
 
 Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, 
 Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven, 
 Whilst, like a puflfed and reckless hbertine. 
 Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, 
 And recks not his own read." 
 
 The scene between Ophelia and her father, 
 " touching the lord Hamlet," furnishes an admi- 
 
OPHELIA. 71 
 
 rable exhibition of obedience to parental authority, 
 and further serves to set forth the extreme truthful- 
 ness and loveliness of her natural character and 
 disposition. When her father tells her, that of late 
 she has " of her audience been most free and boun- 
 teous," in conscious innocence she evades nothing, 
 and in answer to his demand to " give up the 
 truth " as to what is between them, she answers : — 
 
 " He hath, my lord, of late, made many tenders 
 
 Of his affection to me 
 
 He hath importuned me with love 
 
 In honorable fashion — .... 
 
 And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord, 
 
 With almost all the holy vows of heaven." 
 
 Here we feel that the demand is fully answered, 
 and that we have the truth, and the whole truth ; 
 and when he tells her that these vows are not 
 " sterling," 
 
 " But mere implorators of unholy suits, 
 Breathing life sanctified and pious bonds, 
 The better to beguile," 
 
 and lays his commands upon her to avoid in future 
 these frequent interviews with the prince, she does 
 not presume to argue the matter with her father, 
 or to defend the motives of her lover, or her own 
 conduct, but replies simply and beautifully in the 
 language of a dutiful and affectionate daughter, — 
 
 " I shall obey, my lord." 
 
 It is here that her pure spirit receives the first 
 heavy blow. How much this resolution of obedi- 
 
72 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 ence cost her, is known only to herself and those 
 gentle spirits (and their name is legion) who have 
 been placed in like circumstances. They stagger 
 under the stunning blow, but they do not fall ; hope 
 has not fled forever, but still lingers to sustain and 
 comfort, and a sublime faith in the divine order 
 of things, known only to themselves and their like, 
 points to something beyond the dismal present. 
 They know that they are beloved, and this they feel 
 like an " everlasting arm " beneath them, and they 
 cannot sink until it is removed. 
 
 Whatever may be the opinion of others, Ophelia 
 is fully persuaded in her own mind that her lover 
 is not playing false with her ; and while such im- 
 passioned words as the following are treasured up 
 in the depths of her confiding heart, they are all- 
 sufficient, and come what will, she is happy. 
 
 " To the celestial, and my soul's idol, the most beautified Ophelia : 
 Doubt thou the stars are fire ; 
 Doubt, that the sun doth move ; 
 Doubt truth to be a liar ; 
 But never doubt I love. 
 " O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers ; I have not art 
 to reckon my groans ; but that I love thee best, O most best, 
 believe it. Adieu. 
 
 " Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this 
 
 machine is to him, Hamlet." 
 
 We next meet Ophelia in Act IL, Scene I. 
 From what we gather in the interview between 
 her and her father in this scene, it is evident that 
 the heart of the doomed one has received another 
 
OPHELIA. 73 
 
 and still more stunning blow, in the first frightful 
 meeting with Hamlet, after she has, by her father's 
 express commands, repelled his letters and denied 
 him all access to her presence. In the interval, 
 since their forced separation, her lover has become 
 a frightful maniac, not a feigning imposter as some 
 believe, but a real confirmed melancholic madman, 
 from causes we have heretofore discussed. It is 
 evident from the anxious inquiries of her father, 
 and from her replies, that she has been greatly- 
 shocked and frightened by this interview, which 
 Hamlet, following the instinct of his love, and the 
 promptings of his disease, so rudely and informally 
 forced upon her as she was sewing in her closet. 
 The thought, too, that she has been the innocent 
 cause of this mental overthrow, makes her 
 
 " Of ladies most deject and wretched ; " 
 
 though, as she says to her father, she has given 
 him no " hard words," — a thing impossible to her 
 nature, — but has simply obeyed, as in duty bound, 
 the strict injunctions of her parent. 
 
 With all her gentleness, Ophelia was a woman 
 of strong character, and to crush her entirely, as she 
 is doomed to be, required blows both heavy and 
 repeated. She has been greatly agitated and 
 frightened by the strange conduct of Hamlet, who, 
 though he utters not a word, has, by his insane 
 bearing and appearance, harrowed up her inmost 
 soul, not so much with fear as with pity and regret, 
 
74 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 — pity, that, perhaps, " a noble mind is here o'er- 
 thrown," and regret most poignant that she may- 
 have been the innocent instrument in the hands 
 of others in accomplishing it. 
 
 The air of truthfulness, the calm dignity and 
 precision of her description of this silent interview 
 with her lover, exhibit the native strength of her 
 mind and character, and show clearly that she was 
 by no means the " green girl " her father calls her ; 
 he indeed seems to have been convinced of his 
 own weakness and mistake, and admits that he 
 is sorry for what he has done, and in his agitation 
 invites her to go with him at once to the king, and 
 lay the whole matter before him. 
 
 " Pol. I am sorry that, with better heed and judgment, I had 
 not quoted him." 
 
 Notwithstanding the strangeness of this silent 
 interview, which has so greatly frightened her, and 
 in spite of the hasty suggestions of Polonius as 
 to the mental condition of Hamlet, Ophelia seems 
 not yet to be fully persuaded of the insanity of 
 her lover, which, indeed, is yet in its initiatory 
 stage. She only fears, and these fears even she 
 would like to question as long as possible, and in 
 answer to her father, who asks if he is mad for her 
 love, she says, with her accustomed modesty : — 
 
 " My lord, I do not know, 
 But truly I do fear it.'* 
 
 In her next interview with Hamlet, Act IH., 
 
OPHELIA. 75 
 
 Scene L, these fears are only too fully confirmed 
 by the unmerciful manner in which he lacerates 
 her already bleeding heart. The blows which here 
 fall upon the doomed one are more stunning than 
 any she has yet received ; but still she does not 
 sink under them, and the gentle pleadings, ques- 
 tionings, and remonstrances which she employs, 
 the plaintive wail which bursts from her heart at 
 the conclusion of the scene, when she is made to 
 perceive fully that he is insane, are affecting in the 
 extreme. The touching character of the scene in 
 which she seeks to return his gifts would be greatly 
 modified if we could feel that she acts as she does 
 from feminine caprice, to annoy her lover, or from 
 a natural desire to test the sincerity of his protesta- 
 tios. But we cannot bring ourselves to think that 
 this is the case, for it is contrary to her character, 
 and quite opposed to her confiding nature. On the 
 contrary, we are conscious throughout the whole 
 scene that she is acting from the promptings of 
 another, obedience to whom she regards as a para- 
 mount duty, to which all her own most cherished 
 feelings must be held in complete and sovereign 
 subjection. That Ophelia was, at least in the 
 opinion of Hamlet, acting from an impulse im- 
 parted by her father, seems evident from the man- 
 ner in which he alludes to Polonius in this scene, 
 and where he speaks of shutting him up at home, 
 that he may " play the fool nowhere but in his own 
 house." Be this as it may, there is no modification 
 of the blows he so unmercifully lets fall upon her 
 
76 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 in his paroxysm of insane violence. This scene 
 is so illustrative of the character and disposition 
 of Ophelia, that we cannot forbear quoting from 
 it at length. When Hamlet first perceives her, at 
 the conclusion of his grand soliloquy, he seems for 
 a moment to forget the relation in which he now 
 stands to her, and all his old cherished feelings 
 seem uppermost in his heart and mind : — 
 
 " Soft you, now ! 
 
 The fair Ophelia. Nymph, in thy orisons 
 Be all my sins remembered." 
 
 Yet immediately after her kind and respectful 
 greeting, and inquiry after his welfare, the thought 
 of their present relation seems to return, and he 
 replies with a cold, cutting dignity : — 
 " I humbly thank you, well." 
 
 Ophelia then proceeds to the discharge of the 
 heavy and painful duty imposed upon her : — 
 
 " Opli. My lord, I have remembrances of yours. 
 That I have longed long to re-deliver ; 
 I pray you, now receive them. 
 
 Ham. No, not I ; I never gave you aught. 
 
 Oph. My honored lord, you know right well, you did ; 
 And witli them, words of so sweet breath composed 
 As made the things more rich. Their perfume lost, 
 Take these again ; for to the noble mind, 
 Rich gifts wax poor, when givers prove unkind. 
 There, my lord. 
 
 Ham. Ha ! ha ! Are you honest ? 
 
 Oph. My lord ? 
 
 Ham. Are you fair ? 
 
 Oph. What means your lordship ? 
 
OPHELIA. 77 
 
 Hayn. That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should 
 admit no discourse to your beauty. 
 
 Oph. Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than 
 with honesty ? 
 
 Ham. Ay, truly ; for the power of beauty will sooner trans- 
 form honesty from what it is to a bawd, than the force of 
 honesty can translate beauty into its likeness ; this was some 
 time a paradox, but now the time gives it proof I did love 
 you once. 
 
 Oph. Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so. 
 
 Ham. You should not have believed me ; for virtue cannot 
 so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it. I loved 
 you not. 
 
 Oph. I was the more deceived." 
 
 In this scene, with an ingenuity, and a refined 
 sarcasm worthy of the form of insanity under 
 which he is suffering, he pours out his invective 
 upon her in a manner which those best acquainted 
 with this disease in all its variable forms, can most 
 readily appreciate. The first object he selects for 
 attack is the one which of all others he feels in his 
 inmost soul to be the most dear to her, namely, 
 himself ; and as though with one blow he would 
 dash to the earth all the fond hopes he has led her 
 to cherish, and there trample upon them, he says 
 to her, — 
 
 " Get thee to a nunnery ; why wouldst thou be a breeder 
 of sinners ? " 
 
 He then seeks to reveal to her that this idol of 
 her heart, this Hamlet, is the very " chief of sin- 
 ners," and so black that " it were better that his 
 mother had not borne him ; " and, after enumerat- 
 
78 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 ing his many vices, he repeats his harsh demand, 
 " Go thy way ; get thee to a nunnery." He then 
 opens his batteries upon the object next dear to 
 her, namely, her father, and in a few words disposes 
 of him, as we have ah-eady seen, in a manner best 
 calculated to wound her feelings. 
 
 ** Oh, help him, you sweet heavens ! 
 Heavenly powers, restore him ! " 
 
 is the deep prayer of her bruised heart, and all she 
 can utter in reply. 
 
 After disposing of Polonius, his mad rage falls 
 upon Ophelia herself; the intense bitterness and 
 cruelty of his words, and the awful sarcasm he 
 launches at the gentle and unresisting creature 
 before him, are worthy the madman, and call forth 
 the deepest commiseration for the victim. How 
 torturing are these words, coming as they do from 
 one whose love she had cherished so fondly. 
 
 " If thou dost marry, I '11 give thee this plague for thy dowry. 
 Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape 
 
 calumny Or, if thou wilt ,needs marry, marry a fool ; 
 
 for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of 
 them." 
 
 As though this were not enough to crush and 
 humble her, he must torture her with certain dis- 
 agreeable personal peculiarities, evidently false, and 
 quite conti-ary to the simplicity and native dignity 
 of her character. But madness of the kind here 
 delineated is never scrupulous in the choice of 
 means for the accomplishment of its purposes : — 
 
OPHELIA. 79 
 
 " I have heard of your paintings, too, well enough. God 
 hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another ; 
 you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nickname God's creatures, 
 and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to; I'll no 
 
 more of it ; it hath made me mad To a nunnery, 
 
 go." 
 
 The plaintive wail which bursts from her heart 
 in view of the awful malady which has called 
 down all this upon her, is truly most affecting : — 
 
 " Oh, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown ! 
 The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword ; 
 The expectancy and rose of the fair state. 
 The glass of fashion and the mould of form, 
 The observed of all observers, quite, quite down ! 
 And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, 
 That sucked the honey of his music vows, 
 Now see that noble and most sovereign reason. 
 Like sweet bells jangled, out of time, and harsh ; 
 That unmatched form and feature of blown youth, 
 Blasted with ecstacy. Oh, woe is me ! 
 To have seen what I have seen, see what I see ! " 
 
 At the play her lover is in a better mood of 
 mind, in view of the revelations he expects to 
 bring forth by means of the players, and this ap- 
 pears to have reacted upon herself, as was quite 
 natural, so that for a moment she is again happy. 
 This, however, is but a treacherous lull in the 
 awful tempest which has hitherto blown her about, 
 and which is again to burst upon her with in- 
 creased and destructive violence. 
 
 When we next meet Ophelia, Act IV., Scene 
 v., the last heavy blow has descended upon her ; 
 
80 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 her gentle, confiding heart, which has hitherto with- 
 stood so many shocks, is now crushed completely, 
 and her pure mind is in fragments — hopelessly 
 destroyed. That insanity which, under all ordinary 
 circumstances, is justly regarded as the most dire 
 of human calamities — more fearful even than 
 the king of terrors — here comes like a minister- 
 ing angel, and even the shadow of its dark wing 
 hovering over her, is a species of relief to us ; for 
 it shields her from the consciousness of the terrible 
 calamities that have befallen her, till, in great 
 mercy, death bears her beyond the reach of all 
 earthly sorrows. 
 
 This last sad blow which she suffers, is the 
 violent death of Polonius, her father, by the hand 
 of Hamlet. The previous calamities, though in 
 themselves sufficiently heavy to crush a less hope- 
 ful and confiding spirit, she has borne up under ; 
 but this is too much. The bitter cup, which might 
 not depart from her, has been drained, and she 
 sinks at once into a form of mild mania, the hope- 
 less character of which is recognized at once by 
 all who have any practical acquaintance with 
 mental disease. To such, the delineation is so 
 perfect that we feel that in no instance has the 
 poet " held the mirror up to nature " more carefully. 
 The language used is almost identical with what 
 is heard daily in the wards of all asylums. Cohe- 
 rence and incoherence are here sti'angely, but most 
 truthfully, intermingled; yet throughout the whole, 
 the truthfulness, gentleness, and loving kindness 
 
OPHELIA. 81 
 
 of her nature are manifested. We perceive this 
 in the first words which she utters when in this 
 state, — " Where is the beauteous majesty of Den- 
 mark ? " These words, and those which follow, 
 fall upon the ear with a sad, melodious sweetness, 
 than which nothing in the whole range of dramatic 
 literature is more pathetic ; and were it not that 
 they manifest utter unconsciousness of her ow^n 
 great misfortunes, would be altogether too painful 
 for dramatic effect. 
 
 Throughout her incoherence, as is most common 
 in such cases, there are one or two dominant 
 thoughts, tortured though these be into all manner 
 of curious shapes. These thoughts twine fantas- 
 tically round her dead parent, with once or twice 
 an obscure allusion to her lover : — 
 
 " How should I your true love know 
 From another one ? 
 By his cockle hat and staff, 
 And his sandal shoon." 
 
 This stanza seems to have been suggested by 
 some vague thought of her lover, but the dominant 
 thought is of her dead father, and is expressed in 
 the stanza which follows. In answer to the queen's 
 question, — " What imports this song ? " she replies, 
 as if not quite conscious of what is said of her : — 
 
 " Say you ? nay ; 'pray you, mark. (Sings.) 
 He is dead and gone, lady, 
 He is dead and gone ; 
 At his head a grass-green turf, 
 At his heels a stone ; 
 6 
 
82 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. * 
 
 White his shroud as the mountain snow, 
 Larded all with sweet flowers ; 
 Which bewept to the grave did go, 
 With true-love showers." 
 
 Nothing could be more natural than the com- 
 plete incoherence of her reply to the greeting of the 
 king: — 
 
 " King. How do you, pretty lady ? 
 
 Oph. Well, God 'ield you ! They say the owl was a baker's 
 daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we 
 may be. God be at your table ! " 
 
 How perfectly natural the above incoherence, to 
 such as are afflicted with this form of disease, 
 those best acquainted with insanity can bear am- 
 ple testimony.* The obscenity of the lines begin- 
 ning 
 
 " Good morrow ; 't is Saint Valentine's day," 
 
 though shocking to the polite ears of modern times, 
 is also quite natural, even when we remember that 
 it comes from one whose lips, previous to disease, 
 have ever been most pure, and her ears quite 
 unused to such enunciations. These utterances fall 
 
 * This day the following words were noted down, verbatim, by the writer, 
 as they fell from the lips of one whose case has many points of resem 
 blance to that of Ophelia : — 
 
 " Phy. — Good morning ; how do j'ou do ? 
 
 Patient. — Very well, thank you. My cow has jumped into the Lord's 
 pasture. I am driven about from pillar to post. They mean to kill me ; 
 wonder how my brains will taste ? " 
 
 In reply to the salutation of another person, and inquiry as to her wel- 
 fare, she said, — "I ' ve a pain in my side ; some one must have killed a 
 cat; is n't there one dead in the garret ? " 
 
OPHELIA. 83 
 
 unconsciously, like most words which escape from 
 their mouths, and when so regarded, they are 
 robbed of much of their force. Even persons quite 
 young, and who have been carefully secluded all 
 their lives from such language, are found indulging 
 in obscene expressions when insane ; and parents 
 are struck dumb with astonishment, and wonder 
 where they could have been learned. This is only 
 one of the many curious phenomena attendant 
 upon mania. All this obscenity is, perhaps, fol- 
 lowed immediately by the sweetest utterances that 
 can fall from the lips of innocence. Witness the 
 following, for example, from Ophelia : — 
 
 " Oph. I hope all will be well. We must be patient ; but I 
 cannot choose but weep to think they should lay him i' the cold 
 ground. My brother shall know of it, and so I thank you for 
 your good counsel. Come, my coach ! Good night, ladies ; 
 good night, sweet ladies ; good night, good night." * 
 
 * The late distinguished Dr. Brigham, than whom no man in modem 
 times has observed the insane more carefully, asserted that he had seen 
 all of Shakspeare's characters in the wards of the Utica Asylum, of 
 which he was physician-in-chief. " Here, too," says he, " is Ophelia, past 
 cure, past hope, sitting at the piano and singing the songs of Moore and 
 other modem poets, as the Ophelia of Shakspeare sang the songs of the 
 poets of her own times." We think we know to whom he refers, and 
 have quoted her words in the preceding note. "Yes, twenty years since 
 she was here, and here she is now, " the observed of all observers, 
 quite, quite down; " and though the snows of some sixty winters have 
 settled upon her head, she still bears traces of that extraordinary beauty 
 for which she was once celebrated. The causes, too, of her insanity are 
 known to have been similar to those of the Ophelia of the poet, namely, 
 domestic sorrow and blighted affections. At times she is obscene ; though, 
 like her great prototype, apparently as unconscious of this now as she is 
 of all her early sorrows. She decks herself fantastically, constructs the 
 most curious and fantastic things, and will sit at the piano, and, with 
 
84 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 When we next meet Ophelia, she is fantastically 
 dressed with straws and flowers, and though still 
 more maniacal, if possible, than before, the domi- 
 nant thought — the death of her father — is still 
 uppermost in her mind, and she sings : — 
 
 " They bore him barefaced on the bier ; 
 Hey no nonny, nonny hey nonny ; 
 And in his grave rained many a tear ; — 
 Fare you well, my dove I 
 
 " You must sing, Down-a-down, an' you call him a-down-a. Oh, 
 hovTthe wheel becomes it ; it is the false steward, that stole his 
 master's daughter There 's rosemary, that 's for re- 
 membrance ; 'pray you, love, remember ; and there is pansies, 
 
 that's for thoughts There's fennel for you, and 
 
 columbines ; — there 's rue for you, and here 's some for me ; — 
 we may call it herb o' grace of Sundays ; — you may wear your 
 rue with a difference. — There 's a daisy ; — I would give you 
 some violets ; but they withered all when my father died. — They 
 say he made a good end, 
 
 For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy." — \_Sings. 22 
 
 With great truthfulness, Laertes adds, — 
 
 " Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, she turns to favor 
 and to prettiness." 
 
 The burden of her last song is the same, — her 
 dead parent ; and how plaintive, and what desola- 
 tion of heart does it exhibit : — 
 
 much taste, sing the songs of brighter days, together with her own 
 strange and wild improvisations. And so her life is gliding away, if not 
 happily, at least without the consciousness of the early sorrows that have 
 overthrown her. 
 
OPHELIA. 85 
 
 " And will he not come again ? ISings. 
 And will he not come again ? 
 No, no, he is dead ; 
 Go to thy death-bed, 
 He will never come again. 
 
 His beard was white as snow, 
 All flaxen was his poll ; 
 He is gone, he is gone, 
 And we cast away moan ; 
 God a mercy on his soul ! 
 And of all Christian souls ! I pray God. God be wi' you ! " 
 
 This is the last utterance of Ophelia which ifalls 
 upon our ears ; and all the knowledge we have of 
 her subsequently, comes through others. The poet 
 has given us an exhibition of supreme loveliness, 
 and upon it has called down an intensity of sorrow, 
 calculated to enlist the most profound sympathy of 
 which humanity is capable — a sorrow so crushing 
 that a prolonged exhibition of it would be too 
 painful. He seems to have been well aware of the 
 effect he has produced, and, in wisdom, closes the 
 scene. 
 
 The last calamity which can befall the doomed 
 one has passed, and death now comes like an angel 
 of mercy, and the dark pall is made to descend 
 upon her as gently as was possible, in the nature 
 of things ; and though this sweet vision of the 
 poet has passed away, the memory of its loveliness 
 will linger fresh and green till the very end of all 
 earthly things. For this and for all that he has 
 
86 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 given us, humanity is thankful ; and that portion 
 of humanity, the best, most truthful, most loving, 
 and most sorrowing, whence he has taken this 
 character, will, in all coming time, " rise up and 
 call him blessed." 
 
JAQUES. 
 
 THOSE who have observed carefully the phe- 
 nomena of mind as warped by the more delicate 
 shades of disease, — shades so delicate perhaps as 
 to be scarcely recognized by the ordinary observer, 
 — must have remarked that in certain cases there 
 are mental conditions which appear at first sight 
 almost incompatible and contradictory. 
 
 This is most frequently illustrated in those more 
 mild, but nevertheless marked cases of incipient 
 melancholia, underlying which may frequently be 
 found a vein or substratum of genuine humor ; so 
 that the expression " wrapped in a most humor- 
 ous sadness " is neither contradictory, nor by any 
 means paradoxical. How frequently have we 
 observed even confirmed melancholies, persons so 
 depressed at times as to be strongly suicidal, 
 " setting the table in a roar" by the quiet piquancy 
 of their humor, their countenances at the same time 
 so expressive of the genuine sadness, the fixed 
 sorrow that brooded in their hearts, that we hardly 
 knew whether to weep or smile ; indeed were al- 
 most ready for both. Of this class was the poet 
 Cowper, who, in the midst of profound melan- 
 cholia, as is well known, could write one of the 
 
88 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 most humorous poems in the English language. 
 The instance of the comedian who consulted Aber- 
 nethy for melancholy, and, unknown to the doctor, 
 was advised to go and hear himself, is a familiar 
 one. But it is not necessary in this place to mul- 
 tiply illustrations, as such will occur to the reader, 
 who will, no doubt, be able to recall examples of 
 what is here referred to, from the experience of life. 
 
 Shakspeare, who observed everything, has fur- 
 nished us some notable examples, none more so, 
 if we except perhaps Hamlet, than Jaques, the 
 character we now propose to consider. 
 
 lln the character of Jaques it is very evident that 
 Shakspeare intended to represent a certain delicate 
 shade of incipient melancholia. He is called the 
 " Melancholy Jaques " by one character in the 
 play, and another, Rosalind, tells him he is regarded 
 as a very "melancholy fellow." He speaks of 
 himself as one who is sometimes " wrapped in a 
 most humorous sadness," and one who can " suck 
 melancholy from a song as a weasel sucks eggs." 
 At the same time he seems to regard his melan- 
 choly as something quite unique and peculiar to 
 himself. > 
 
 When pressed by Rosalind to describe it, he finds 
 himself unable to say in what it consist's, yet of 
 this he is certain, it is something very delicious, 
 and a thing he cherishes, and " loves better than 
 laughing."i 
 
 " It is not the scholar's melancholy," says he, 
 " which is emulation ; nor the musician's, which is 
 
JAQUES. 89 
 
 fantastical ; nor the courtier's, which is proud ; nor 
 the soldier's, which is ambitious ; nor the lawyer's, 
 which is politic ; nor the lady's, which is nice ; nor 
 the lover's, which is all these," but it is a " melan- 
 choly of his own," which is " compounded of many 
 simples, and extracted from many objects," and 
 one which frequently " wraps him in a most humor- 
 ous sadness." 
 
 The melancholy of Jaques is not so much a 
 fixed condition of disease, as the gradual ingraves- 
 cence of the melancholic state, that condition so 
 admirably delineated below by old Burton. 
 
 " Generally," says Burton, " thus much we may 
 conclude of melancholy, that it is most pleasant 
 at first, hlanda ab initio^ a most delightful humour 
 to be alone, dwell alone, walk alone, meditate 
 alone — lie in bed whole days dreaming awake, 
 as it were, and frame a thousand fantastical im- 
 aginations unto themselves ; they are never better 
 pleased than when they are so doing ; they are 
 in paradise for the time. Tell him what incon- 
 venience will follow, what will be the event, all 
 is one. Canis ad vomitum, 't is so pleasant he cannot 
 refrain ; so, by little and little, by that shoehorn of 
 idleness, and voluntary solitariness, melancholy 
 that feral fiend is drawn on." 
 
 When the disease becomes fairly fixed, the 
 genuine melancholic is the greatest of egotists. 
 All his thoughts run in the one turbid stream which 
 wells up from the dark depths of feeling within 
 him, when the fountain is stirred by disease and 
 
90 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 morbid impulse. He has no sympathy whatever 
 with anything external to himself; he cannot force 
 a genuine smile even at the most ludicrous things, 
 though perhaps he may be able to induce others 
 both to smile and weep. 
 
 With such, however, Jaques has no part or lot 
 whatever. And though he is called a " melan- 
 choly fellow," he is nevertheless a most delightful 
 dreamer, and the very prince of contemplative 
 moralizing idlers ; a species of intellectual and 
 emotional epicurean, if we may use the expression, 
 whose mental appetite is the most dainty imag- 
 inable. 
 
 vEverything in external nature, it matters not 
 what, which can in any way administer to his intel- 
 ectual and emotional gratification, he lays hold 
 upon ; and when once within his grasp, he converts 
 it into a most delicious, healthful, and life-giving 
 intellectual aliment ; not like the confirmed mel- 
 ancholic of the more advanced stages, who, by his 
 morbid imagination, converts it into a poison. 
 Indeed, after a careful examination of him, we 
 confess our inability to discover anything more 
 really morbid in his mental or moral organization, 
 than what is glanced at above as belonging to the 
 initiatory stage of this disease. 
 
 His love for lounging and moralizing " under the 
 greenwood tree, and by the babbling brook," and 
 his ability to laugh at a fool " an hour by his dial, 
 sans intermission," or until his lungs do " crow like 
 chanticleers," is but one of the conditions peculiar 
 to this initiatory stage of melancholy. 
 
JAQUES. 91 
 
 The first introduction which we have to Mons. 
 Jaques is in the forest of Arden, and the first words 
 he utters are in commendation of that delightful 
 little song of Amiens's, which it strikes us is any- 
 thing but melancholy or suggestive of sadness : — • 
 
 " Under the greenwood tree, 
 Who loves to lie with me, 
 And tune his merry note, 
 To the sweet bird's throat," etc. 
 
 Well may Jaques cry " more, more," for the kind 
 of melancholy he could suck from such a song, was 
 about as luscious to his feelings and intellectual 
 appetite, as is the fresh egg to the palate of the 
 egg-sucking weasel. 
 
 Jaques, though at times he appears to assume 
 the garb of cynicism for the gratification of an in- 
 tellectual freak, is never egotistical or misanthropic, 
 but manifests the keenest sympathy with every- 
 thing. " His sullen fits," as they are called, in 
 which, according to the Duke, he is so " full of 
 matter," are not so much the sad introspective 
 musings of the confirmed melancholic, as the quiet 
 contemplative musings upon the nature and essence 
 of surrounding objects. With what keen sympa- 
 thy can he moralize the spectacle " of a wounded 
 stag into a thousand similes." 
 
 " First, for his weeping into the needless stream ; 
 ' Poor deer,' quoth he, ' thou mak'st a testament 
 As worldlings do, giving thy sum for more 
 To that which had too much.' Then, being alone, 
 Left and abandoned of his velvet friends. 
 
92 SHAKSPE ARE'S INSANE. 
 
 * 'T is rigLt,' quoth he, ' thus misery doth part 
 
 The flux of company/ Anon, a careless herd. 
 
 Full of the pasture, jumps along by him, 
 
 And never stays to greet him. ' Ay,' quoth Jaques, 
 
 ' Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens ; 
 
 'T is just the fashion. Wherefore do you look 
 
 Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there ? ' *' 
 
 Confirmed melancholies are not given to such 
 moralizing as this; they have no sympathy with 
 humanity, much less with inferior creatures, but 
 are wholly wrapped up in themselves and their 
 own real or fancied ills, and can scarcely be said to 
 moralize at all ; they theorize much, however, upon 
 these ills, and speculate continually on their imag- 
 inary misfortunes. All their ideas centre in them- 
 selves, and to this focus they seek to concentrate 
 the thoughts of those who approach them. Jaques, 
 on- the contrary, never alludes to himself for the 
 purposes of enlisting the sympathies of others in 
 his behalf. When, 
 
 " Most invectively he pierces through 
 The body of country, city, court," etc., 
 
 he does it more as a moralist than as a cynical 
 misanthrope, or melancholy egotist, — "more in 
 sorrow than in anger," and because in the kindness 
 of his heart, he has little sympathy with the abuses 
 which he sees about him in every direction. All 
 the superficial conventionalities of life not founded 
 upon genuine feeling, he heartily despises, — he 
 " pierces through " the hoUow pretences of cour- 
 tiers, the false flatteries of the world, with the 
 
JAQUES. 93 
 
 keenness and certainty of instinct, and vents his 
 opinion of them. He feels sympathy for all gen- 
 uine and refined emotion ; for this he experiences, 
 cultivates, and cherishes ; but to him, " that they 
 call compliment, is like the encounter of two dog- 
 apes." 
 
 / He shuns the company of the Duke, because he 
 looks upon him as a man of many words and few 
 thoughts, — a character not at all in accordance 
 with his ideas and feelings. " The Duke," he says, 
 " is too disputable for my company ; I think of as 
 many things as he, but I give Heaven thanks and 
 make no boast of them." Jaques has no compan- 
 ions equal to his own thoughts. When he is told 
 by Amiens that the Duke " has been all this day to 
 look you," he replies in a most significant manner, 
 that he "has been all this day to avoid him." 
 When, at last, he discovers himself to his friends, 
 he had been laughing an hour by the fool's dial, 
 " sans intermission," and the quiet yet significant 
 irony he pours out upon Lady Fortune, the Duke, 
 and the miserable world, in his rhapsody over this 
 motley fool he has met in the forest, is most edify- 
 ing and characteristic. The fool has made the 
 profound discovery of " the way the world wags," 
 — that as ten o'clock is preceded by nine, and 
 followed by eleven, 
 
 " So, from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, 
 And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot, 
 And thereby hangs a tale." 
 
94 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 The irony expressed in the lines which follow in 
 reference to the amusement afforded him by the 
 fool, is about as rich in its way as anything that 
 can be found : — 
 
 " When I did hear 
 The motley fool thus moral on the time, 
 My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, 
 That fools should be so deep-contemplative ; 
 And I did laugh, sans intermission 
 An hour by his dial. — O noble fool ! 
 A worthy fool ! Motley 's the only wear." 
 
 To the Duke's question, " What fool is this ? " he 
 answers that he is a " worthy " fool, and " one that 
 hath been a courtier," and therefore, as a matter 
 of course, a genteel, if not a philosophical fool, that 
 can make the most profound observation ever con- 
 ceived by a brain " as dry as the remainder biscuit 
 after a voyage," namely, that, 
 
 " If ladies be but young and fair, 
 They have the gift to know it." 
 
 I His greatest ambition, he professes, is to be a 
 fool, that he may utter his sentiments without giv- 
 ing offence to any one, that he may " rail on Lady 
 Fortune in good terms, in good set terms," and 
 utter what he thinks, in a pleasant way, without 
 being called to account for it.^ 
 
 " Oh, that I were a fool ! 
 
 I am ambitious for a motley coat 
 
 Invest me in my motley ; give me leave 
 
 To speak my mind, and I will through and through 
 
JAQUES. 95 
 
 Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, 
 If they will patiently receive my medicine.'* 
 
 But here, let it be observed, he would be a fool only 
 on certain conditions, which conditions, it strikes 
 us, are highly creditable to both his head and his 
 heart. He will be allowed the license of a fool 
 only, and, — 
 
 " Provided, that you weed your better judgments 
 Of all opinion that grows rank in them, 
 That I am wise. I must have liberty . . . 
 To blow on whom I please ; for so fools have : 
 And they that are most galled with my folly, 
 They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so ? 
 The lohy is plain as way to parish church. 
 He that a fool doth very wisely hit, 
 Doth very foolishly, although he smart, 
 Not to seem senseless of the bob. If not, 
 The wise man's folly is anatomized 
 E'en by the squandering glances of the fool." 
 
 But he would not like to indulge in personalities, 
 and " therein tax any private party," or hurt any 
 one's feelings ; for this he is too gentle, and his 
 character in this respect contrasts most favorably 
 with that of the Duke, who indulges in the grossest 
 personalities towards him, and thereby shows that, 
 if the one is the nobleman, the other is, in this re- 
 spect, much more the gentleman : — 
 
 " Duke. Fie on thee ! I can tell what thou would'st do. 
 Jaques. What, for a counter, would I do but good ? " 
 
 The Duke replies in a tirade of most ungentle- 
 manly personalities, and the way these are received 
 
96 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 and replied to by Jaques is characteristic of him, 
 and highly creditable to his temper and disposition. 
 How charmingly he eschews all personalities, and 
 a disposition to injure the feelings of individuals, 
 in his innocent railings, in what follows : — 
 
 " Why, -who cries out on pride, 
 That can therein tax any private party ? 
 Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea, 
 Till, that the very, very means do ebb ? 
 What woman in the city do I name, 
 When that I say, the city woman bears 
 The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders ? 
 Who can come in, and say, that I meant her, 
 When such a one as she, such is her neighbor ? " 
 
 Thus does he answer the coarse railings and 
 gross personalities of the Duke. He does not stoop 
 to reply in the same strain, and the disposition of 
 Jaques is nowhere shown to better advantage than 
 in this scene. The charge of libertinism and sen- 
 suality, made in such a way, he deems unworthy 
 of an answer, but he sets forth the animus which 
 calls out his invectives against the world, and shows 
 that he deals in generalities. If, in the language 
 of the Duke, he " disgorges into the general world," 
 unlike him, he is never grossly personal or discour- 
 teous. 
 
 " Jaques. Let me see wherein 
 
 My tongue hath wronged him ; if it do him right, 
 Then he hath wronged himself : if he be free, 
 Why then, my taxing like a wild goose flies, 
 Unclaimed of any man." 
 
JAQUES. 97 
 
 Some one of Shakspeare's critics has made the 
 remark, that the character of Jaques seems to have 
 been intended by the poet as a satire upon sat- 
 irists. If Jaques was intended as a satirist in any 
 sense, he certainly appears to us the most gentle of 
 his crew. / His railings, though they may be " in 
 good set terms," are always kindly, and show that 
 he is sound hearted, and possessed of many gener- 
 ous feelings and gentle impulses. Neither the sting 
 of abusive words, nor the attempt of Orlando to 
 rob him of his meal when famishing in the forest, 
 call forth any violence of speech or action ; nor does 
 his conduct here leave upon the mind the impres- 
 sion of cowardice, but of forbearance and a kindly 
 consideration for the wants and distresses of others 
 similarly situated.^ When suddenly set upon with 
 a drawn sword, his words are significant, and quite 
 in accordance with previous manifestations. His 
 language is not the language of fear, but simply of 
 quiet concession to the wants of others, perhaps 
 more pressing than his own : — 
 
 " An you will not be answered with reason, 
 I must die. " 
 
 He cares little for eating or drinking, only that 
 thereby he can live, and dream, and moralize every- 
 thing " into a thousand similes." And these phil- 
 osophical moralizings of his seem to have culmi- 
 nated in the famous passage in Act II. Scene VII. : 
 
 " All the world 's a stage, 
 And all the men and women merely players. 
 
 7 
 
98 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 They have their exits and their entrances ; 
 And one man in his time plays many parts, 
 His acts being seven ages." 
 
 To Jaques, as to Prospero, everything external 
 was merely a mockery, a show, " an insubstantial 
 pageant," fading, if not faded, and thought, the 
 only thing really enduring, and in the end strictly 
 substantial ; as the sensualist says to himself, " Let 
 us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die," so, to both 
 these dreamers, we are really " such stuff as dreams 
 are made of," and as finally, our " little life" is to 
 be " rounded with a sleep," therefore, in their phi- 
 losophy, the true way to pass off even this " little 
 life " is in moralizing, thinking, and dreaming. 
 This may not be sound practical philosophy, but 
 we find in it little trace of anything morbid, mel- 
 ancholic, or egotistic. There is, perhaps, a certain 
 delicate shade of sadness, which borders on mel- 
 ancholy, but as yet there is nothing really morbid. 
 Everything is strictly within the bounds of physio- 
 logical soundness. 
 
 Jaques, like all of Shakspeare's characters, is 
 complete in his way, and undoubtedly just what 
 the poet intended him to be. He does " after his 
 kind " exactly what he is expected to do, and noth- 
 ing more nor less. 
 
 Viewed as a phase of human character, he is, 
 as we have said, complete ; but viewed as a model 
 of humanity, he is, in his mental and moral or- 
 ganization, most incomplete and inharmonious, but 
 none the less genuine. One great mainspring in 
 
JAQUES. 99 
 
 his mental and moral machinery has either been 
 broken and destroyed, or left out originally. That 
 the former was the case, we are led to believe, not 
 only from his general characteristics, as shown in 
 his " walk and conversation," but from the words 
 of the Duke, which we have already referred to. 
 Like Falstaff, he had no genuine love for the sex. 
 This was not in the nature of the latter originally, 
 as shown in the forced attempt in the *' Merry 
 Wives," to represent him in love, and which at- 
 tempt, we are told, was made by order of the poet's 
 mistress. Queen Elizabeth, and could not, with 
 consistency, be shown in any other way than it 
 was in this play. When the Duke says to Jaques, 
 
 " Thou thyself hast been a libertine, 
 As sensual as the brutish sting itself," 
 
 we are forced, reluctantly, to believe him, not only 
 from the fact that Jaques does not so much as give 
 the assertion a simple denial, but from the evidence 
 furnished byjhis contemptuous manner of dealing 
 with the tender passion, whenever and under what- 
 ever circumstances he comes in contact with it — 
 whether it be in Audrey, Touchstone, Rosalind, or 
 Orlando, f To him the clownish love, courtship, and 
 marriage of Audrey and Touchstone is quite as 
 interesting and romantic as that of Rosalind and 
 Orlando. The sharp dialogue between him and 
 Orlando in Act III. Scene II., shows that he has 
 far less sympathy with unfortunate swains smitten 
 by the arrows of Cupid, than for the stag, smitten 
 
100 SHAKSPE ARE'S INSANE. 
 
 by the arrow of the hunter in the forest of Arden. 
 He can laugh at the one as heartily as he can weep 
 at the other. In the true spirit of the bachelor, he 
 begs Orlando to " mar no more trees by writing 
 love - songs on their barks " ; annoys him by tell- 
 ing him he does not like the name of his love, 
 and when Orlando replies so prettily to his question 
 about her stature, telling him that she is "just as 
 high as his heart," he pours ridicule upon him by 
 asking him if he had not " been acquainted with 
 goldsmiths' wives, and conned his pretty answers 
 out of rings.' V He tells Orlando that his worst fault 
 is being in love, and ends by hinting that good 
 Seignior Love is a fool.' 
 
 In the famous love-scene between Touchstone 
 and Audrey, in Act III. Scene III., which Jaques 
 witnesses unobserved at a distance, it has often 
 struck us that a sight of his countenance, as he 
 contemplated the amorous farce before him, would 
 have furnished any one but a confirmed melan- 
 cholic with material sufficiently ludicrous to cause 
 him to laugh an hour by the dial " sans intermis- 
 sion " ; and Jaques seems to have entered into the 
 scene with sufficient zest. After the entrance of 
 Sir Oliver Martext to perform the marriage cere- 
 mony, and when the sport is like to be cut short 
 by the want of some one to give away the bride, 
 Jaques steps forward and offers his humble services. 
 " Proceed, proceed ; I '11 give her. . . . Will you 
 be married, Motley ? " It strikes us that the coun- 
 tenance of Jaques at this precise point was ex- 
 
JAQUES. 101 
 
 pressive of emotions about the opposite of melan- 
 choly. In fact, we think it has been sufficiently 
 shown that Jaques is no confirmed melancholic, in 
 the strict sense of the term, and as it is now used 
 by modern psychologists ; but that this most curi- 
 ously unique of the poet's characters is more of a 
 humorist, or gentle satirist, and that his melancholy 
 is initiatory, and consists in a profound love for con- 
 templation and moralizing. This he can do, as he 
 can laugh, by the hour, " sans intermission." What 
 is better, we are never tired of him ; but like the 
 Duke, are glad to " cope him in his sullen fits," 
 when he is so " full of matter ; " and, what is more, 
 the world will never tire of him. Already, nearly 
 three, centuries with their generations have passed 
 away, and much that these years have produced 
 has passed with them into utter forgetfulness " and 
 mere oblivion." Much more which now clamors 
 loudly for earthly immortality will follow ; but that 
 extraordinary gathering in the forest of Arden will 
 never be scattered. The old man Adam, though 
 nearly famished when we last saw him, yet lives. 
 Touchstone is there ; he too, thank Heaven, will 
 never take his departure. Celia, Orlando, and Ro- 
 salind are yet there, in all the freshness of immor- 
 tal youth. Jaques still lingers in the forest, moral- 
 izing, laughing, and weeping, and there we leave 
 him, where the generations of the earth will find 
 him, in all coming time, " under the greenwood 
 tree " and by the " babbling brook." We shall not 
 stop to inquire the precise geographical position of 
 
102 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 the forest of Arden, as this would be a species of 
 topographical criticism for which we have little 
 taste or inclination ; but content ourselves with the 
 thought, that wherever it is, it yet " waves above 
 them its green leaves," and though " dewy with 
 Nature's tear-drops," will never be found " weep- 
 ing " that the shadows of its immortals have 
 passed forever away. 
 
CORDELIA. 
 
 rjlHIS character, though perhaps not presenting 
 -■- as many points of profound psychological sig- 
 nificance as some others, is, nevertheless, so inti- 
 mately interwoven with another about which so 
 much of this peculiar interest is gathered, and, 
 besides, is so illustrative of the true spirit which 
 should guide, govern, and direct all who are 
 thrown in contact with the insane, in whatever 
 capacity, that it comes properly within the scope 
 of our inquiry. 
 
 The stern and humane principle, the gentleness, 
 patience, and forbearance which should character- 
 ize all intercourse with those afflicted, as was her 
 father, with the most dire of human calamities, 
 is nowhere so admirably set forth as it has been 
 in the delineation of the character of this noble, 
 queenly woman. Shakspeare has placed the 
 character of Cordelia in immediate juxtaposition 
 with two others so diametrically opposite in all 
 things, that it is made to appear the more striking 
 by the mere force of contrast ; for the truthfulness, 
 humanity, and tender love of Cordelia is brought 
 into immediate contact with the selfishness, dupli- 
 city, and untruthfulness of her two sisters, Goneril 
 and Regan. 
 
104 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 The first words she utters give us the key-note 
 to her whole character. 
 
 In the state of extreme senility of her father, 
 she seems to feel at once that she is no match for 
 her sisters in the contest for his favor and affec- 
 tions, and after the hollow-hearted words of Gon- 
 eril, in which she feigns so much love for Lear, 
 she asks herself sadly and plaintively, 
 
 " What shall Cordelia do ? " 
 
 For the answer she looks into the depths of 
 her truthful heart, and it finds expression in the 
 short but significant phrase, 
 
 " Love, and be silent." 
 
 Here spoke the true woman. While others 
 were to receive wealth, honor, and preferment for 
 their duplicity, an unrequited love was apparently 
 the only reward for her truthfulness ; but like one 
 of old, she had " chosen the good part which 
 should in no wise be taken from her," as the 
 sequel abundantly proves. Her love was indeed 
 " cast upon the w^aters," but, in strict accordance 
 with that promise which cannot be broken, it was 
 to be found again, " after many days." 
 
 Yet, though caring little apparently for what 
 she is to lose in a material point of view, she is, 
 like all true women, sensitively jealous of her good 
 name, and shrinks appalled from the thought that 
 the fact of being utterly disinherited and cast 
 off by her father may even for a moment lead 
 an uncharitable world to cast its cruel and unjust 
 
CORDELIA. 105 
 
 aspersions upon her honor; and before taking 
 leave of her weak and misguided parent, she pre- 
 fers the dignified and plaintive appeal which fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " I yet beseech your majesty, 
 (If for I want that ghb and oily art, 
 To speak and purpose not ; since what I well intend, 
 I '11 do 't before I speak,) that you make known 
 It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness. 
 No unchaste action, or dishonored step 
 That hath deprived me of your grace and favor ; 
 But even for want of that, for which I am richer, — 
 A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue 
 That I am glad I have not, though not to have it 
 Has lost me in your liking." 
 
 To the cruel reply of Lear to this plaintive 
 appeal for the protection of her character and 
 innocence, 
 
 " Better thou 
 Hadst not been born, than not to have pleased me better," 
 
 she utters no word of remonstrance, but shrinks 
 back in silence and sorrow, choosing to bide her 
 time — "to love and be silent." 
 
 She is little moved apparently when told by 
 Burgundy, her betrothed, that the loss of father 
 and fortune must necessarily entail the loss of 
 a husband, and replies with characteristic dig- 
 nity, — 
 
 " Peace be with Burgundy ; 
 Since that respects of fortune are his love, 
 I shall not be his wife." 
 
106 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 The farewell she takes of her sisters is equally 
 characteristic and dignified. She indulges in no 
 bitter words of reproach, though in commending 
 her father to their " professed bosoms," she inti- 
 mates, with dignity, that their duplicity is not 
 unperceived : — 
 
 " Cor. The jewels of our father, with washed eyes, 
 Cordelia leaves you ; I know you what you are ; 
 And, like a sister, am most loath to call 
 Your faults, as they are named. Use well our father ; 
 To your professed bosoms, I commit him. 
 But yet, alas ! stood I within his grace, 
 I would prefer him to a better place. 
 So, farewell to you both, .... 
 Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides ; 
 Who cover faults, at last shame them derides. 
 Well may you prosper." 
 
 We hear no more of Cordelia until in Act IV., 
 Scene III., the gentleman in attendance upon her 
 as queen of France, relates to Kent the impres- 
 sion made upon her by his letters, detailing the 
 sufferings of her father ; and the deep, yet digni- 
 fied and undemonstrative grief evinced is in com- 
 plete accordance with what we have previously 
 seen in the character of this noble woman. She 
 does not multiply words, shows no bitterness of 
 feeling, nor manifests any undue excitement ; yet 
 it is abundantly evident, from the short, abrupt 
 ejaculations which she could not entirely sup- 
 press, that her heart is surcharged with soitow. 
 
 In answer to Kent's questions as to the impres- 
 
CORDELIA. 107 
 
 sion made upon her by his letters, the gentleman 
 replies : — 
 
 " Ge7it. She took them, read them in my presence ; 
 And now and then an ample tear trilled down 
 Her delicate cheek. It seemed, she was a queen 
 Over her passion ; who, most rebel-like, 
 Sought to be king o'er her. 
 
 Kent. Oh, then it moved her. 
 
 Gent. Not to a rage ; patience and sorrow strove 
 Who should express her goodliest. You have seen 
 Sunshine and rain at once ; her smiles and tears 
 Were like a better way. Those happy smiles. 
 That played on her ripe lips, seemed not to know 
 What guests were in her eyes ; which parted thence 
 As pearls from diamonds dropped. In brief, sorrow 
 Would be a rarity most beloved, if all 
 Could so become it. 
 
 Kent. Made she no verbal question ? 
 
 Gent. 'Faith, once or twice, she heaved the name of 
 father 
 Pantingly forth, as if it pressed her heart. 
 
 Kent. Cried, Sisters ! sisters !— shame of ladies ! sisters ! 
 Father ! sisters ! what i' the storm ? i' the night ? 
 Let pity not he believed. There she shook 
 The holy water from her heavenly eyes. 
 And clamor moistened ; then away she started 
 To deal with grief alone." 
 
 When we meet her again at the opening of 
 Scene IV. of the same Act, she has evidently re- 
 ceived more definite information as to the mental 
 condition of her father, and her words are so de- 
 scriptive of a condition of mind, which all conver- 
 sant with the forms of insanity must have observed, 
 that we cannot refrain from quoting them. 
 
108 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 " Alack, 't is lie ; why, he was met even now 
 As mad as the vexed sea ; singing aloud ; 
 Crowned with rank fumiter, and furi;pw weeds, 
 With harlocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, 
 Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow 
 In our sustaining corn." 
 
 She then inquires earnestly of the physician, — 
 
 " What can man's wisdom do 
 In the restoring his bereaved sense ? " 
 
 The reply of the physician is so fraught wjth 
 wisdom, and so expressive of Shakspeare's views 
 of the treatment of the insane, that it should be 
 deeply pondered by all. " Eepose," the " foster 
 nurse of Nature," which the old worn body and 
 distracted brain so much needed, is the first thing 
 to be sought after, and, to induce this, the physician 
 says, most truly, there are " means " and " simples 
 operative " whose power will " close the eye of 
 anguish." 
 
 With implicit trust in the wisdom manifested by 
 the physician, Cordelia urges that these "means" 
 be put to immediate use, — 
 
 " Lest his ungoverned rage dissolve the life 
 That wants the means to lead it." 
 
 Or, in the professional language of our times, 
 before he sinks irrecoverably from exhaustive mania. 
 
 To prevent this is now the sole object of her 
 thoughts, and with womanly and characteristic 
 self-sacrifice, she says, — 
 
 " He that helps him, take all my outward worth. 
 . . . . All blessed secrets, 
 
CORDELIA. 109 
 
 All you unpublished virtues of the earth, 
 Spring with my tears ! be aidant, and remediate, 
 In the good man's distress." 
 
 How "many a time and oft" has the same 
 heart-felt aspiration been breathed into the ear of 
 the physician to the insane, by the loving and de- 
 voted wife, or daughter, as, with crushed heart 
 and streaming eyes, they have committed with a 
 Cordelia's trust and confidence to his care all 
 they hold most dear upon earth, in " trembling 
 hope " that the " bruised reed " will not be utterly 
 " broken." 
 
 When the messenger enters, informing her that 
 " The British powers are marching hitherward," 
 
 the only interest she manifests in the important in- 
 telligence is connected with her father, and the re- 
 dress of his great wrongs, and she replies calmly, 
 and apparently without a thought as to her own 
 personal safety and the sad destiny that hung over 
 
 her, — 
 
 " 'T is known before ; our preparation stands 
 In expectation of them. — O dear father, 
 It is thy business that I go about ; 
 Therefore great France 
 
 My mourning, and important tears, hath pitied. 
 No blown ambition doth our arms incite, 
 But love, dear love, and our aged father's right." 
 
 Here, though her mind is apparently fully occu- 
 pied with her father's misfortune, she does not for- 
 get, in the first instance, to express her heart-felt 
 gratitude to Kent, for his noble, humane, and self- 
 sacrificing devotion to him : — 
 
110 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 " Cor. O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work, 
 To match thy goodness ? My life will be too short, 
 And every measure fail me." 
 
 She then turns to make anxious inquiries of the 
 physician touching the condition of her father. 
 And here, let it be observed, that the physician, as 
 depicted by a few master-strokes of this never fail- 
 ing pencil, seems to have been one fully deserving 
 of the confidence bestowed upon him. There is 
 none of the charlatan about him ; he does not mul- 
 tiply words, or seek to make a vain display of his 
 medical lore ; he makes no ostentatious exhibition 
 of " means and appliances " ; neither do we per- 
 ceive about him, strange to say, any of the curious 
 notions and fantastic doctrines and ideas concern- 
 ing the insane which belonged to the sixteenth 
 century ; had he lived in the nineteenth, his princi- 
 ples could not have been more simple, natural, and 
 scientific. Kind care, nourishment, sleep, and rest, 
 during the course of the disease, and, more es- 
 pecially during convalesence ; the avoidance of 
 everything tending to excite the mind of the patient 
 by turning it back towards what it had previously 
 dwelt upon, or the supposed exciting causes, are the 
 principles inculcated. These principles are now 
 regarded as universally applicable by the best phy- 
 sicians of modern times, and, indeed, seem to em- 
 brace nearly all species of treatment not now ob- 
 solete. 
 
 Cordelia, who was a woman of strong common 
 sense, perceives instinctively the character of her 
 
CORDELIA. Ill 
 
 medical adviser, and casts the care of her father 
 upon him with implicit confidence. Her conduct 
 here is a lesson to be well pondered by all who are 
 so unfortunate as to have friends afflicted as was 
 Lear. She never manifests the slightest inclina- 
 tion to run counter to his advice, and, even though 
 this should lead in a direction quite opposite to 
 her own feeling, inclinations, or affections, we are 
 made to perceive, that as a fond child, she would 
 without questioning submit to all reasonable 
 " means " for the good of him she so much loved. 
 Although she never questions the means employed 
 and the skill, judgment, and humane intentions of 
 her medical adviser, she wishes, as was eminently 
 right and proper, to know all about his condition ; 
 and here again the physician, as was to have been 
 expected from his high character and keen sense 
 of duty, gives her all the satisfaction in his power. 
 
 " Cor. How does the King ? 
 Phy. Madam, sleeps still. 
 Cor. O you kind Gods, 
 Cure this great breach in his abused nature, 
 The untuned and jarring senses, oh ! wind up, 
 Of this child-changed father." 
 
 The manner in which this simple piece of infor- 
 mation, that he sleeps, is conveyed by the physi- 
 cian without comment, and the reply of Cordelia, 
 show what curative importance was attached to 
 this condition. 
 
 " Phy. So please your majesty. 
 That we may wake the King ? he hath slept long." 
 
112 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 This question and the reply are significant. 
 The question was evidently prompted by courte- 
 ous respect for her rank and her relations to the 
 patient, and in full confidence that the good sense 
 of Cordelia would not in the least embarrass him, 
 or lead her to set up her own will and inclinations 
 in opposition to his. 
 
 The temptation to have her father awakened 
 prematurely was great, and to one constituted like 
 herself, and situated as she then was, almost irre- 
 sistible. His loved voice she had not heard per- 
 haps for years, and its last sad accents had fallen 
 upon her ear in mad chidings and unjust com- 
 plaints, the last glance of his eye had been cruel- 
 ly unnatural and scornful. The physician had as- 
 sured her that he had no doubt when the patient 
 was awakened he would be calm and " temper- 
 ate," yet she is in no haste, but calmly leaves 
 all to him. She has applied to him because he 
 has more knowledge and experience in the mat- 
 ter than herself, and she is bound not to interfere 
 with him, or set up her own queenly will to embar- 
 rass in any way his proceedings. We commend 
 her conduct here, and the words which follow, to 
 the careful consideration of all friends of the in- 
 sane : — 
 
 " Cor. Be governed by your knowledge, 
 And proceed in the way of your will." 
 
 When told by the physician that now, when he 
 had slept so long, it would not be improper to 
 
CORDELIA. 113 
 
 arouse him, and that she might be present, and 
 even accomplish this herself, she is not slow to 
 take advantage of the liberty allowed her ; and 
 the manner in which she proceeds is eminently 
 feminine, and characteristic of the genuine wo- 
 man. 
 
 " Cor. O my dear father ! Restoration, hang 
 Thy medicine on my lips ; and let this kiss 
 Repair those violent harms that my two sisters 
 Have in thy reverence made ! .... 
 Had you not been their father, these white flakes 
 Had challenged pity of them. Was this a face 
 To be exposed against the warring winds ? 
 [To stand against the deep, dread-bolted thunder ? 
 In the most terrible and nimble stroke 
 Of quick, cross lightning ? to watch (poor perdu !) 
 With this thin helm ?] Mine enemy's dog, 
 Though he had bit me, should have stood that night 
 Against my fire ; and was 't thou fain, poor father, 
 To hovel thee with swine, and rogues forlorn, 
 In short and musty straw ? Alack, Alack ! 
 'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once 
 Had not concluded all." 
 
 As soon as Lear is awake, the physician per- 
 ceives the danger of exciting his enfeebled mind 
 by having it directed to former scenes of sorrow 
 and trouble, whether real or imaginary, through 
 which he has passed ; and tenderly and modestly 
 he breaks in upon Cordelia, who, with her accus- 
 tomed good sense, heeds at once the admonition : 
 
 " PJiy. Be comforted, good madam. The great rage 
 You see, is killed in him, (and yet it is danger 
 To make him even o'er the time he has lost.) 
 
114 SHAKSPEARE'S INSANE. 
 
 Desire him to go in ; trouble him no more, 
 Till further settling." 
 
 Though her father had, when fairly awake, con- 
 versed quite rationally, she breaks away at once 
 from what they have been speaking about, and, 
 evidently seeking to direct his mind into another 
 channel, asks him to walk away with her. 
 
 Would that all friends of the unfortunate insane 
 were alike sensible, tractable, and confiding ; and, 
 we may add, all physicians equally as judicious as 
 was Lear's. Many sad relapses and much suffer- 
 ing would be spared ; and much anxiety, care, and 
 perhaps, fruitless effort saved, while the work of 
 restoration would be none the less complete. 
 
PART II. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE'S 
 DELINEATIONS OF IMBECILITY. 
 
 BOTTOM.— DOGBERRY.— ELBOW.— SHALLOW. 
 
 In former essays we have attempted to point out 
 the extraordinary accuracy and facility manifested 
 by the great dramatist in the delineation of mind as 
 warped and influenced by disease, and to show that 
 in drawing the characters of Lear, Macbeth, Lady 
 Macbeth, Ophelia, and Hamlet, he has exhibited a 
 knowledge of the operations of mind, thus influ- 
 enced, far beyond that of his own times, and quite 
 equal to that of the most accomplished psychol- 
 ogists of our own. Nothing connected with the 
 operations of the human intellect in any form, 
 whether of health or disease, seems to have es- 
 caped the observation of this " myriad-minded " 
 man ; nothing has been too high for his sublime 
 and philosophical contemplation, nothing too low 
 for his minute and careful observation. He has 
 traversed the whole realm of human intellect, as a 
 sovereign prince makes a triumphal tour through 
 a conquered province ; while philosophers and mor- 
 ralists, physicians and metaphysicians, statesmen, 
 
116 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 lawgivers, and poets, have fallen humbly at his feet, 
 to do him homage ; for in the province of each he 
 has been acknowledged worthy to reign supreme. 
 In that of the physician and medical psychologist, 
 we think we have already given sufficient evi- 
 dence of his deserved supremacy, and what is ap- 
 plicable to this our peculiar province, we believe 
 to be applicable to all, and that proof of this would 
 not be difficult to furnish. 
 
 To multiply instances and bring forward illus- 
 trations would not come within the scope of these 
 papers. One illustration, however, we are tempted 
 to adduce in this place, which must suffice. So 
 great was Shakspeare's knowledge of law-forms 
 and law-terms, (see Lord Campbell's cum multis 
 aliis, ) that nearly every lawyer who reads Shak- 
 speare carefully is ready to maintain that the poet 
 must have been a lawyer, or at least a law student, 
 at some period of his life, and as one once re- 
 marked to the writer, was only driven from the 
 legal profession into poetry and the drama by the 
 force of his great genius. If the validity of such 
 evidence is to be admitted in proof of his having 
 been a lawyer, we see no reason why, on the 
 strength of the proofs we have already adduced, we 
 should not be allowed to claim that the great bard 
 must once have been a physician to the insane ; 
 for we think we have shown conclusively that he 
 understood insanity in all its varied forms ; and 
 perhaps it would not be more difficult to show that 
 Shakspeare was once physician-in-chief to Bed- 
 
THE UNIVERSALITY OF SHAKSPEARE'S GENIUS. 117 
 
 lam Hospital, than to establish many other things 
 that have been asserted respecting his early career. 
 Such, for example, as his horse-grooming and deer- 
 stealing. 
 
 But, unlike our brethren of the law, we seek to 
 set up no special claim to him as one of our num- 
 ber, but content ourselves with regarding him as 
 the common property of all thinkers in each and 
 every department of literary effort and scientific re- 
 search ; and proceed at once to consider another 
 phase of this great intellectual luminary of the 
 sixteenth century, namely, his delineations of the 
 innumerable shades of mental obtuseness and men- 
 tal imbecility in the characters of his fools and 
 clowns. 
 
 In the illustration of the varied and innumerable 
 shades of folly, mental obtuseness, and mental im- 
 becility naturally incident to humanity, our poet 
 is incomparably rich, and every degree and order 
 of mental manifestation is represented with a truth- 
 fulness and vigor which has never been equalled, 
 and perhaps never will be to the end of time. He 
 has given us a type of everything bearing the shape 
 of humanity, however remote, and the class of 
 characters we now have to consider, like all his 
 others, do not stand up before us as creatures of the 
 imagination, but as real bodily existences, so that 
 we cannot divest ourselves of the idea that such 
 must at some period of time have walked or 
 " crawled between heaven and earth." Many of 
 them we have seen; and those that we have not, we 
 
116 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 feel that we might and should have seen " if our 
 eyes had been opened " like those of the poet. 
 
 Of imbeciles and clowns — fools as they are gen- 
 erically termed — he has an almost endless variety, 
 and the very names which he gives them are some- 
 times so strikingly significant and characteristic, 
 that the mere mention of them forces a smile. 
 
 Let us take a few examples by way of introduc- 
 tion, and see if we can suppress a smile when the 
 mere name of some of them is called out from 
 the presentation role. Bottom the "Weaver, Peter 
 Quince the Carpenter, Snug the Joiner, Snout the 
 Tinker, Flute the Bellows-mender, Starveling the 
 Tailor, Christopher Sly the Tinker, Sir Toby Belch, 
 Sir Andrew Ague -cheek. Froth, Dogberry, Mal- 
 volio, Launcelot Gobbo, Touchstone, Simple, 
 Slender, Shallow, Speed, Dull, Costard, Caliban, 
 Elbow, Lucio, Moth, Mouldy, Shadow, Feeble, 
 Bull-calf, and Wart ; and lastly, as the curious pro- 
 cession must end somewhere, comes Launce, lead- 
 ing his interesting dog Crab. 
 
 Here we have presented to us a galaxy of fools 
 such as is nowhere else to be found, and every 
 shade of folly, imbecility, and mental obtuseness is 
 represented ; and the portraiture of each, as deline- 
 ated by the bard, is well worthy of the cognomen 
 bestowed. •■ 
 
 First in the motley procession we see Bottom 
 the Weaver, the very embodiment and quintessence 
 of self-conceit, and of everything, in short, necessary 
 to constitute a perfect human ass. It was not suf- 
 
BOTTOM AND QUINCE. 119 
 
 ficient for him simply to be " writ down an ass " in 
 the record, like Dogberry, but the diadem which 
 crowned him prince of all his tribe must be placed 
 in due form upon his head, and when first led in 
 by Puck after his coronation, the poet must cer- 
 tainly have chuckled over his own workmanship, 
 and said quietly to himself, — " O all ye tribes 
 of human asses, that are, ever have been, or ever 
 will be, behold your king ! from this time hence- 
 forth and forever, let no one of you deny my 
 anointed." And to all posterity he seems yet to say, 
 " Behold the perfection of conceited blockheads, 
 the asinorum asinalissimus, par excellence ! From 
 henceforth and forever let no man dispute my work- 
 manship. Doubt if you will that moonshine can 
 be personated by a man holding a lantern behind 
 a thorn-bush ; that a lion can modulate his voice 
 so sweetly that he shall roar you as 'twere any 
 nightingale or sucking dove ; that a wall can be 
 personated by a man plastered over with lime and 
 rough cast; but while Bottom, wearing his ass's 
 head, can, by his conceit which makes all things 
 possible, believe this, let no one deny that he is the 
 crowned and anointed king of Donkeys." 
 
 And by what a court is this strange potentate 
 surrounded and worshipped ! 
 
 First we see Peter Quince the Carpenter and 
 Playwright. If Bottom is prince of donkeys, 
 Quince takes the first place of honor in his court 
 and his title, prince of playwrights, like that of 
 Bottom, cannot be disputed. 
 
120 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 O all ye tribes of playwrights, wherever ye are, — 
 ye Knowlesesj and Shees, and Maturins ; ye Gill- 
 parzers, Klingemanns, and Kotzebues ; many of you 
 cunning men in your handicraft,— behold your king, 
 Peter Quince, the anointed of the poet! And 
 whomsoever he anoints and crowns let none of 
 you seek to depose. 
 
 And you, ye " periwig-pated players," who, 
 whether ameteur or professional, can " tear a passion 
 to tatters," to very rags ; ye who are capable of 
 nothing but inexplicable dumb show, and noise to 
 " split the ears of the groundlings " ; who " strut 
 and bellow, having neither the accent of Christians, 
 nor the gait of Christians, pagans, or men, — pro- 
 ducts of Nature's journeymen," — those mechanics 
 w^ho " imitate Nature so abominably," remember 
 your great antecessors, those histrionic mechanicals 
 of the poet. Snug the Joiner, Starvling the Tailor, 
 Flute the Bellows-mender, and Snout the Tinker. 
 
 So extensive, varied, and rich is Shakspeare in 
 his illustrations of the almost endless forms of 
 metal imbecility, that it would be impossible to 
 give each more than a passing glance in this con- 
 nection. He has taken his subjects for portraiture 
 from all ranks and grades of life, high and low, 
 rich and poor ; and almost every trade, profession, 
 and calling has furnished material aid. With this 
 mere glance at such as he has selected from his 
 own calling, the histrionic, we pass on to take a 
 view of his official imbeciles. 
 
 Of this class of mental impotents we hardly 
 
DOGBERRY. 121 
 
 know which to select to head the list, — whether 
 Dogberry, Justice Shallow, or some other, as each 
 seems to claim preeminence. With all due defer- 
 ence to others, however, we consider we shall not 
 go far astray in selecting the first. 
 
 Dogberry is not so much an imaginary character 
 as a type of a class of bungling judicial impotents 
 to be found in real life, through whose clumsy and 
 cowardly imbecility many a thief has escaped the 
 penitentiary, and many a murderer the gallows. 
 The outskirts of civilization in all new countries 
 furnish too many such. A justice of this kind, 
 who had allowed the chief of a trio of murderers to 
 escape, we once saw in the witness-box at a court 
 of Assize, held before one of the most learned and 
 eloquent judges on the bench ; and the answers to 
 the questions put to him by the judge would have 
 done ample justice to Dogberry himself. " Is it 
 possible," said the judge, at the conclusion of his 
 examination of the witness, " that you are a jus- 
 tice of the peace ? " " Yes, and I has been for 
 more as fifteen years, your honor," was the reply. 
 " God help the country ! " said the learned judge, 
 as he dismissed him contemptuously from the stand. 
 Shakspeare, with a few vigorous touches of his 
 never-failing pencil, has given us a full-length por- 
 trait of such a character in Dogberry. (See Much 
 Ado About Nothing, Act III., Scene III., and Act 
 IV., Scene II.) 
 
 The downright stupidity, ignorance, and donkey- 
 ism shown in Act III., Scene V., and the ludicrous 
 
122 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 misuse and misconception of terms peculiar to 
 worthies of the Dogberry and Verges stamp, is rich 
 in the extreme. 
 
 " Leonato. What is it, my good friends ? 
 
 Dogberry. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little of this mat- 
 ter — an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt as, God 
 help, I would desire they were ; but, in faith, honest as the skin 
 between his brows. 
 
 Verges. Yes, I thank God, I am as honest as any man 
 living, that is an old man and no honester than I. 
 
 Dogberry. Comparisons are odorous ; palabras, neighbor 
 Verges. 
 
 Leonato. Neighbors, you are tedious. 
 
 " It pleases your worship to say so," says Dogberry, (evidently 
 not comprehending the term tedious, but mistaking it for a com- 
 modity of value), " but we are the poor duke's officers ; but, 
 truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could 
 find in my heart to bestow it all on your worship. 
 
 Leonato. All thy tediousness on me ! ha ! 
 
 Dogberry. Yes, and 'twere a thousand times more than 
 't is ; " etc. 
 
 The following, as a sample of drivelling senile 
 imbecility, can scarce be matched, and is from the 
 mouth of Dogberry, where he speaks of Verges, 
 and in which (quite oblivious, of course, as to his 
 own stupidity) he patronizingly and with great 
 self-satisfaction bewails the infirmities of his 
 brother official. 
 
 " Dogberry. A good old man, sir ; he will be talking ; as 
 they say, When the age is in, the wit is out ; God help us ! It 
 is a world to see ! — Well said, i' faith, neighbor Verges : — well, 
 God 's a good man ; an two men ride of a horse, one must ride 
 behind. An honest soul, i' faith, sir ; by my troth, he is, as ever 
 
DOGBERRY. 123 
 
 broke bread ; but God is to be worshipped. All men are not 
 alke ; alas ! good neighbor ! " 
 
 When Leonato reminds him that indeed his 
 friend comes very far short of himself, what self- 
 satisfaction and conceit is embodied in his short 
 reply. 
 
 « Gifts," says he, <' Gifts that God gives I " quite 
 unconscious that his greatest gift is like that con- 
 ferred on Bottom, the gift of an ass's head. 
 
 But the climax of bungling imbelicity, ignorant 
 officiousness, and self-conceit, we have in Act IV., 
 Scene II., where Dogberry presides at the court of 
 inquiry held over Conrade and Borachio ; and the 
 laughable record of proceedings, in which every- 
 thing is so curiously jumbled together, — where 
 everything which is impertinent is carefully noted 
 down, and everything incident to the inquiry as 
 carefully excluded, and where terms the most dis- 
 similar are confounded, — furnishes, in its way, a 
 model of judicial procedure. The first blunder he 
 makes is simply the confounding of himself and 
 his brother official with the culprits to be examined 
 before him : — 
 
 " Dogberry. Is our whole dissembly appeared ? . . . 
 Sexton. Which be the malefactors ? 
 Dogberry. Marry, that am I and my partner. 
 Verges. Nay, that 's certain ; we have the exhibition to 
 examine." 
 
 After duly recording the names of his prisoners, 
 the first question he puts to them is certainly most 
 pious and pertinent, considering the characters 
 he is supposed to address : — 
 
124 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 " Masters," says he, " do you serve God ? " 
 
 " Con. and Bera. Yes, sir, we hope. 
 
 Dogberry. Write down — that they hope they serve God ; — 
 and write God first ; for God defend but God should go before 
 such villains ! " 
 
 The idea soon strikes the Sexton that the pro- 
 ceedings are somewhat informal, and that wit- 
 nesses and proof were necessary. 
 
 " Sexton. Master constable, you go not in the way to ex- 
 amine ; you must call forth the watch that are their accusers." 
 
 Dogberry, whose dignity is hard to offend, and 
 who is totally unsuspicious that any one should 
 ever presume to question his knowledge and intelli- 
 gence, seizes at once upon the suggestion, as though 
 it was something of minor importance, however, 
 that had escaped him in the most casual way. He 
 says : — 
 
 " Dogberry. Yea, marry, that 's the eftest way. — Let the 
 watch come forth. — Masters, I charge you, in the prince's 
 name, accuse these men." 
 
 The first witness testifies that one of the prisoners 
 called Don John a villain. Dogberry immediately 
 orders Don John to be put down a villain in the 
 record, and pronounces the calling a man villain 
 flat perjury. The second w^itness testifies that the 
 other prisoner had declared that he received a 
 thousand ducats from Don John for accusing a 
 lady wrongfully. " Flat burglaryj'^ says Dogberry, 
 " as ever was committed." 
 
 " Verges. Yea, by the mass, that it is. . . . 
 
 Dogberry. O villain ! thou wilt be condemned into ever- 
 lasting redemption for this." 
 
DOGBERRY. 125 
 
 The Sexton suggests that the prisoners be bound 
 and removed. Dogberry, acting upon the hint, im- 
 mediately orders them to be " opinioned," when 
 one of them, resisting, calls him a coxcomb. This 
 does not seem greatly to disturb his equanimity. 
 Perhaps, as usual, he does not fully comprehend 
 the import of the word coxcomb ; for he calls the 
 prisoner simply a naughty varlet, and orders the 
 Sexton to write down the prince's officer a coxcomb 
 in his extraordinary record of procedure. The 
 other prisoner is more clear and explicit. The term 
 he applies to Dogberry is by no means ambiguous. 
 " You are an ass," says he, emphatically, and re- 
 peats it, " You are an ass." The import of the 
 term ass Dogberry has no difficulty in compre- 
 hending; that is quite clear, and he immediately 
 throws himself back upon his offended official dig- 
 nity, and the terms in which he asserts this are 
 most ludicrously characteristic : — 
 
 " Dogberry. Dost thou not suspect my place ? Dost thou 
 not suspect my years ? Oh, that he were here to write me 
 down an ass ! — But, masters, remember that I am an ass ; 
 though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. 
 No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved on thee 
 by good witnesses. I am a wise fellow ; and, which is more, 
 an officer ; and, which is more, an householder ; and, which is 
 more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina ; and one that 
 knows the law, go to ; and a rich fellow enough, go to ; and a 
 fellow that hath had leases ; and one that hath two gowns, 
 and everything handsome about him. — Bring him away. Oh, 
 that I had been writ down — an ass ! " 
 
 Another official of the Dogberry stamp we have 
 
126 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 in constable Elbow, in " Measure for Measure." 
 As with Dogberry, much of the humor of this 
 character rests upon his ridiculous misuse and mis- 
 conception of the most common terms. 
 
 " Elbow. If it please your honor, I am the poor duke's con- 
 stable, and my name is Elbow. I do lean upon justice, sir, and 
 do bring in here before your honor two notorious benefactors. 
 
 Angela. Benefactors ? Well, what benefactors are they ? 
 are they not malefactors ? " 
 
 The meek simplicity of the reply, and the don- 
 key-like unconsciousness with which he contradicts 
 himself, is worthy of the most accomplished of our 
 poet's long-eared officials. 
 
 " Elboiv. If it please your honor, I know not what they 
 are ; but precise villains they are, that I am sure of; and void 
 of all profanation in the world, that good Christians ought to 
 have." 
 
 A little farther on he makes other most ludicrous 
 blunders in the use of the king's English ; which 
 blunders, aided by the humor of the clown, are 
 near calling in question the character of his own 
 wife. When Elbow is asked by Escalus by what 
 authority he gives the clown and his employer, 
 Mistress Over-done, such an infamous character, 
 he replies : — 
 
 " My wife, sir, whom I detest (protest) before Heaven," &c. 
 ..." I say, sir, I will detest myself, also, as well as she, that 
 this house, if it be not a bawd's house, it is a pity of her life, 
 for it is a naughty house." . . . 
 
 " First, and it like you, the house is a respected (suspected) 
 house ; next, this a respected fellow ; and his mistress is a 
 respected woman. 
 
SHALLOW. 127 
 
 Clown. By this hand, sir, his wife is a more respected 
 person than any of us all. 
 
 Elbow. Varlet, thou liest ; thou liest, wicked varlet ; the 
 time is yet to come, when she was ever respected with man, 
 woman, or child. 
 
 Clown. Sir, she was respected with him, before he married 
 with her. 
 
 Elbow. O thou caitiff! O thou varlet! O thou wicked 
 Hannibal ! I respected with her before I was married to her ! 
 If ever I was respected with her, or she with me, let not your 
 worship think me the poor duke's official ; — Prove this, thou 
 wicked Hannibal, or I '11 have my action of battery on thee." 
 
 This whole scene in " Measure for Measure," (Act 
 II., Scene II.,) is exceedingly rich in illustration of 
 our subject. The amusing circumlocution of the 
 clown in telling his story in defence from the 
 charge brought against him by Elbow is also very 
 characteristic. 
 
 The next worthy we select from our list of im- 
 beciles is Shallow, or, as he designates himself 
 and is described by his scarcely less interesting 
 cousin Slender, " Robert Shallow, Esquire, in the 
 county of Gloster, justice of the peace and coram 
 and custalorum, and ratolorum, a gentleman born, 
 who writes himself armigero in all warrants, obli- 
 gations, &c., and has done so any time these three 
 hundred years, as all his successors gone before 
 him have done, and all his ancestors that come 
 after him may do." As with other worthies of his 
 class in real life, who have " a plentiful lack of 
 wit," a plentiful supply of titles and cheap honors 
 is necessary to complete his personality. When 
 
128 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 Nature is niggardly in her gifts, Fortune sometimes 
 steps in to make in her way ample restitution, and 
 a " plentiful lack " of brains is compensated by a 
 plentiful supply of bonds, and the lack of wit and 
 wisdom by " land and beeves." Among worthies of 
 this class, Robert Shallow, Esquire, of Gloster, holds 
 an eminently respectable, if not honorable position ; 
 and though his antecedents, as given by Falstaff, 
 are not the most flattering, as we shall see, this mat- 
 ters little. Like other " respectables," he is only un- 
 der the necessity of remembering such as are suited 
 to his present circumstances and condition in life. 
 
 Shallow, like a true scion of a genuine English 
 family of parvenues, has gone through the forms 
 necessary to a liberal education. He has shown 
 above that he has some Latin, and when Bardolph 
 tells him that the soldier Falstaff is better accom- 
 dated than with a wife, he adds, after a little cir- 
 cumlocution : " Accommodated, that comes of ac- 
 cominodo ; very good, a good phrase." What little 
 Latin he has, he is ready to display upon every con- 
 venient, and sometimes inconvenient occasion, like 
 all superficials. Like his cousin William, he may 
 have been at Oxford to the great " cost" of some 
 one, bringing home with him, as the natural fruit 
 of this " cost," a cherished and ever-abiding re- 
 membrance of his wildness and folly. " I was 
 once," says he, " at Clement's Inn, where I think 
 they will talk of mad Shallow yet." 
 
 How very natural is the boasting which follows ! 
 It might have come from the mouth of any one 
 
SHALLOW. 129 
 
 " of all the kind of the " Shallows, as well as from 
 Robert Shallow, Esquire, of Gloster : — 
 
 " By the mass, I was called anything ; and I would have 
 done anything, indeed, and roundly too. There was I, and 
 little John Doit, of Staffordshire, and black George Bare, and 
 Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele, a Cotswold man, — you 
 had not four such swingebucklers in all the inns of court, again ; 
 and I may say to you, we knew where all the bona-robas were, 
 and had the best of them all at commandment." 
 
 The crouching obsequiousness and lack of dig- 
 nified self-respect in their intercourse with superi- 
 ors in rank and station in life, so characteristic of 
 the whole family of Shallows, wherever found, 
 (and every one must have met some of them in 
 the journey of life,) is admirably delineated in the 
 scene where he bores FalstafF with his vain, offi- 
 cious, and bustling hospitality, — a hospitality based 
 entirely upon vanity, and a desire to show off his 
 own importance, and to " have a friend at court." 
 
 " Shallow. Nay, you shall see mine orchard, where in an 
 arbor, you will eat a last year's pippin of mine own graffing, 
 and a dish of carraways, and so forth." 
 
 The silly affectation of his reply to the knighf s 
 compliment to his rich dwelling is also quite char- 
 acteristic, — " Barren, barren, barren ; beggars all, 
 beggars all. Sir John ! " 
 
 Notwithstanding this affectation of poverty and 
 beggary, it is plain to all, and to none more so 
 than FalstafF, that the Shallows are a thriving fam- 
 ily. If he is an adept in finesse. Shallow is infi- 
 nitely his superior in finance and domestic econo- 
 
130 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 my ; shrewdness in these matters is, as a rule, quite 
 characteristic of the Shallows, wherever they are 
 found. Indeed, the most worldly thoughts are apt 
 to creep in and disturb their most solemn musing ; 
 sometimes it is to be feared, their very devotions. 
 When Silence reminds Shallow of the uncertainty 
 of life, he replies : — 
 
 " Certain, 't is certain, very sure, very sure ; death, as the 
 Psalmist saith, is certain to all ; all must die. How a good yoke 
 of bullocks at Stamford fair ? " 
 
 Even in the midst of his excitement at the arri- 
 val of the " man-of-war " and his suite, and his 
 bustling endeavors to entertain them suitably to 
 his own dignity, and to their importance as coming 
 from the court, he can stop to give directions in 
 matters of business and domestic economy to his 
 man Davy : — 
 
 " Marry, sir, thus ; — those precepts cannot be served : and, 
 again, sir, — Shall we sow the headland with wheat ? 
 
 Shallow. With red wheat, Davy ? . . . 
 
 Davy. Yes, sir. — Here is now the smith's note for shoe- 
 ing and plough-irons. 
 
 Shallow. Let it be cast, and paid. — Sir John, you shall 
 not be excused. 
 
 Davy. Now, sir, a new link to the bucket must needs be 
 had. — And, sir, do you mean to stop any of William's wages, 
 about the sack he lost the other day at Hinckley fair ? 
 
 Shallow. He shall answer it," &c. 
 
 How descriptive is all this of a class of charac- 
 ters to be met with every day ; they are fools, and 
 acknowledged to be such by the world, yet in 
 
SHALLOW. 131 
 
 money transactions and matters of domestic econ- 
 omy they are " wise as serpents." And yet in 
 these matters of finance and economy their serpent 
 wisdom is not always a match, however, for the 
 hawk-eyed vigilance and shrewd wit of the spend- 
 thrift, who, taking them in an unguarded moment, 
 and understanding well their weak points, by a 
 stroke of policy relieves them at once of the hard 
 earnings and niggardly savings of years, as FalstafF 
 relieved Justice Shallow of his thousand pounds. 
 
 Who is there that has not met some one or more 
 of this family of Shallows ? It is a known fact in 
 psychology that a man may be " stark mad " on 
 one or two subjects, and to all outward appear- 
 ances quite sound on others. Upon precisely the 
 same psychological principles we may suppose 
 that a man may be wise on some one or two sub- 
 jects, and in the sense in which the term is applied 
 to Shallow, a fool on all others. Indeed our ex- 
 perience and observation of life teach us that it 
 is so. 
 
 Another characteristic of the Shallows is admi- 
 rably illustrated in Act V., Scene I., namely, their 
 manner of dealing with domestics and dependents. 
 Towards the weak, like William, who lost the 
 sack, they are overbearing and cruel, while, uncon- 
 sciously to themselves, they are completely ruled 
 and led captive by those who are cunning and 
 strong of will and purpose, like Davy, who in real- 
 ity is the justice in all but name, and on such 
 familiar terms with his nominal master that he 
 
132 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 presumes to dictate the manner in which he is to 
 dispense his judical favors. 
 
 " Davy. I beseech you, sir, to countenance William Visor of 
 Wincot, against Clement Perkes of the hill. 
 
 Shallow. There are many complaints, Davy, against that 
 Visor ; that Visor is an arrant knave, on my knowledge. 
 
 Davy. I grant your worship that he is a knave, sir ; but 
 yet. Heaven forbid, sir, but a knave should have some coun- 
 tenance at his friend's request. An honest man, sir, is able to 
 speak for himself, when a knave is not. I have served your 
 worship truly, sir, these eight years ; and if I can not once or 
 twice in a quarter bear out a knave against an honest man, I 
 have but a very little credit with your worship. The knave is 
 mine honest friend, sir ; therefore, I beseech your worship, let 
 him be countenanced. 
 
 Shallow. Go to ; I say, he shall have no Avrong," &c. 
 
 But for a climax to every description of the 
 character of Justice Shallow we must resort to 
 FalstafF. It would be impertinent to look for such 
 elsewhere. The fat knight, whose brain was by 
 nature as plethoric of wit and worldly wisdom as 
 was the rest of his huge body of capons, sack, and 
 sugars, measures at once the mental calibre of the 
 lean justice and the depth of his purse, and 
 shapes his course accordingly. " I do see the bot- 
 tom of Justice Shallow," says he ; and if he had 
 never told a greater lie, or made a more unreason- 
 able boast, he would not have been Jack Falstaff. 
 But let us come at once to his descriptive climax 
 of Justice Shallow : — 
 
 " K I were sawed into quantities, I should make four dozen 
 such bearded hermit's-staves as Master Shallow. It is a wonder- 
 
SHALLOW. 133 
 
 ful thing to see the semblable coherence of his men's spirits and 
 his ; they, by observing of him, do bear themselves like foolish 
 justices ; he, by conversing with them, is turned in a justice- 
 like serving man ; their spirits are so married in conjunction 
 with the participation of society, that they flock together in 
 consent, like so many wild geese. If I had a suit to Master 
 Shallow, I would humor his men, with the imputation of being 
 near their master ; if to his men, I would curry with Master 
 Shallow, that no man could better command his servants. It is 
 certain that either wise bearing or ignorant carriage is caught 
 as men take diseases, one of another ; therefore, let men take 
 heed of their company. I will devise matter out of this Shal- 
 low, to keep Prince Harry in continual laughter, the wearing 
 out of six fashions, (which is four terms, or two actions,) and 
 he shall laugh without intervallums. Oh, it is much, that a lie 
 with a slight oath, and a jest with a sad brow, will do with a 
 fellow that never had the ache in his shoulders. . . . 
 
 " Lord, lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of 
 lying. This same starved justice has done nothing but prate 
 to me of the wildness of his youth, and the feats he hath done 
 about Turnbull Street ; and every third word a lie, duer paid 
 to the hearer than the Turk's tribute. I do remember him at 
 Clement's Inn, like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring ; 
 when he was naked he was for all the world like a forked 
 radish, with a head fantastically carved on it with a knife ; he 
 was the very genius of famine, yet lecherous as a monkey. . . 
 He came ever in the rearward of the fashion, and sung those 
 tunes to the over-scutched huswives that he heard the carmen 
 whistle, and sware they were his fancies, or his good-nights. 
 And now is this Vice's dagger become a squire ; and talks as 
 familiarly of John of Gaunt as if he had been sworn brother to 
 him ; and I '11 be sworn he never saw him but once in the Tilt- 
 yard ; and then he burst his head for crowding among the mar- 
 shal's men. I saw it, and told John of Gaunt he beat his own 
 name ; for you might have thrust him and all his apparel into 
 an eel-skin ; the case of a treble hautboy was a mansion for him, 
 
134 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 a court ; and now hath he lands and beeves. Well, I will be 
 acquainted with him, if I return; and it shall go hard but I 
 will make him a philosopher's two stones to me. If the young 
 dace be a bait for the old pike, I see no reason in nature but I 
 may snap at him. Let time shape, and then an end." 
 
MALVOLIO. — BARDOLPH. — NYM. — PISTOL. 
 
 WE have frequently had occasion to remark 
 that whatever Shakspeare does is always 
 complete in its way, and leaves nothing to be de- 
 sired. The ass and the fool which he depicts are 
 ever the ass and the fool par excellence^ and he has 
 been no less successful in drawing a fantastic and 
 a fop ; for if Bottom, as we have seen, is prince 
 of donkeys, Malvolio is prince of fops, and his 
 title is also not to be disputed. 
 
 Malvolio, of all Shakspeare's impotents, has al- 
 ways appeared to us the most contemptible and 
 least interesting, unless to make a man supremely 
 ridiculous is to cast about him a certain amount 
 of interest from this very reason. The other fools 
 we have glanced at, have all some redeeming qual- 
 ities, and there is not one of them for whom we 
 should not feel more pity if placed by his folly in 
 the circumstances in which Malvolio finds himself, 
 in Act IV., Scene II., " Twelth Night," where he is 
 confined for supposed lunacy, and " Sir Topas, the 
 curate, comes to visit Malvolio the lunatic." Dog- 
 berry, Shallow, Bottom, and his companions are all 
 imbeciles in their way, but the most we can do is 
 to pity the fools and smile at their folly ; but for 
 
136 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 Malvolio we feel a sort of contempt, for he is not 
 simply a fool, he is also a fantastic, the very sub- 
 lime of coxcombs and affected fops. Dogberry, as 
 we have seen, is an ass and a fool, but he at least 
 thinks he is a " wise fellow," and one that " knows 
 the law." Let others think as they will of him, 
 he himself believes that he has some brains, and 
 the same remark is applicable to Shallow. This 
 sort of conceit, applying as it does to certain in- 
 tellectual qualities, for which, if not possessed, 
 it shows at least a respect and a desire, com- 
 mands our sympathy. Even Bottom the Weaver, 
 the prince of donkeys, is not contemptible; he 
 believes that he is the very perfection of histrionics, 
 for he is told so by Peter Quince, and worshipped 
 as such by the motley crew that surrounds him, and 
 we smile at the delusion and pity the deluded, but 
 feel no contempt for him. Indeed, the very facul- 
 ties in him which prompt him to covet these high 
 histrionic honors prevent this. Not so, however, 
 with Malvolio, the fop par excellence ; for, like all 
 his tribe, he has not so much as the conceit of any- 
 thing intellectual. As to whether he has wit or 
 wisdom — whether like Dogberry he is a " wise 
 fellow " who " knows the law," or like Shallow can 
 write Esquire or armigero to his name — is all a 
 matter of very small importance to him. Indeed, 
 as to whether he has an excess or deficiency of 
 brains, is a question which never troubles him ; 
 for, like the genuine fop, his external personal qual- 
 ities are with him all-sufficient, all in all. To Mai- 
 
MALVOLIO. 137 
 
 volio, indeed to all the family of Malvolios, what 
 is the mind of a Newton, a Shakspeare, or a Leib- 
 nitz, or an intellect rich in all the philosophy of 
 a Plato, or the learning of an Erasmus ? Has 
 he not what will more than compensate for the 
 lack of all these ? Has he not a most magnificent 
 pair of legs, which, garnished with yellow stockings 
 and cross- gartered, must be quite irresistible to all 
 the rich Olivias in the world ? Besides, has he not 
 a splendid set of teeth, and is not his smile in the 
 presence of his mistress quite overpowering ? 
 Like all brainless fops, his smile he regards as the 
 chief weapon with which he subdues hearts ; that 
 continuous, affected, unmeaning, half-idiotic smile, 
 always ready to garnish the face, in season and out 
 of season, having no soul, ^ spirit, or life behind 
 which prompts it, and which, to the genuine smile 
 springing from all these and lighting up an intelli- 
 gent countenance, is as the dim light of a night 
 lantern to the Aurora Borealis, or the heat light- 
 nings of a summer evening. See how he opens 
 his batteries upon his mistress, in Scene IV., 
 Act HI: — 
 
 " Olivia. Where is Malvolio? 
 
 Maria. He 's coming, madam ; but in very strange manner. 
 He 's sure possessed, madam. 
 
 Olivia. Why, what 's the matter ? does he rave ? 
 
 Maria. No, madam, he does nothing but smile : . . . Sure, 
 the man is tainted of his wits. 
 
 Olivia. Go, call him hither. . . . How now, MalvoHo ? 
 
 Malvolio. Sweet lady, ha, ha. \_Smiles fantastically. 
 
 Olivia. Smilest thou ? I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. 
 
138 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 Mai. Sad, lady? I could be sad; this does make some 
 obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering. But what of that? 
 if it please the eye of one, it is with me, as the very true sonnet 
 hath it, ' please one, please all.' 
 
 Olivia. Why, how dost thou, now? What is the matter 
 with thee ? 
 
 Mai. Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs," 
 etc. 
 
 Like all Shakspeare's characters, Malvolio is a 
 being of real life. No one can walk from the Bat- 
 tery the length of Broadway without meeting more 
 than one Malvolio, — men who scarce have a 
 thought not derived from their tailor, hatter, boot- 
 maker, or posture-master, and who, like Malvolio, 
 think of nothing but their externals, and how these 
 are to be made to dazzle the eyes of some rich 
 Olivia, of whom, in their own estimation, none is 
 so worthy as themselves. The yellow stockings 
 of Malvolio have indeed disappeared, giving place 
 to the flashy vest ; and the obstruction of blood by 
 tight cross-gartering, which pained Malvolio and 
 made him sad, is now brought about by very tight 
 boots. As a specimen of their meditations as they 
 strut along the pavement, stroking their beards, 
 twirling their canary-colored canes, and looking 
 both wise and foolish, or like him " practice be- 
 havior to their own shadows," we take the follow- 
 ing from the mouth of their great prototype : — 
 
 " '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 else that 
 
MALVOLIO. 139 
 
 follows her. What should I think on 't ? To be Count Mal- 
 volio ; — There 's example for 't ; the lady of the Strachy 
 married the yeoman of the wardrobe. Having been three 
 months married to her, sitting in my state, — Calling my officers 
 about me in my branched velvet gown ; . . . And then to have 
 the humor of state ; and after a demure travel of regard — ■ 
 telling them, I know my place, as I would they should do theirs 
 — to ask for my kinsman Toby : — 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 approaches ; courtesies there to me : — I extend my hand 
 to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere re- 
 gard of control : — Saying, Cousin Toby, my fortunes having 
 cast me upon your niece, give me this prerogative of speech : — 
 You must amend your drunkenness," &c., &c. 
 
 We doubt much if a more complete personifica- 
 tion of self-love could be drawn than has been by 
 Shakspeare in the character of Malvolio. This 
 sentiment is here developed in all its perfection, 
 and we believe that the closest scrutiny and most 
 complete analysis of the character could not dis- 
 cover anything beyond the most consummate ego- 
 tism in the whole machinery of his mind. This is 
 the mainspring which sets all in motion. He is 
 " sick of self-love," and this causes him to taste 
 everything with a " distempered appetite." Every- 
 thing which can in any way satisfy his vanity is 
 devoured greedily, and without questioning the 
 quality of the aliment, or the source whence it has 
 been obtained. To this distempered appetite his 
 folly is chief purveyor. When the forged letter 
 which intimates to him that his rich mistress is in 
 love with him is left in his way, he scarcely allows 
 
140 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 himself to question its genuineness. " By my life," 
 says he, '' this is my lady's hand ; these be her very 
 C's, her U's, and her T's." He is so much in love — 
 not with her, but with the vain idea — that he will 
 not allow that there can be any mistake about the 
 matter. Therefore, says he, " it is evident to any 
 formal capacity. Daylight and champaign discov- 
 ers not more." And as he swallows the bait which 
 has been so cunningly prepared for him, see how 
 he swells himself and gloats over it : — 
 
 " I -will be proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir 
 Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-device, 
 the very man. I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade 
 me ; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. 
 She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise 
 my leg being cross-gartered ; and in this she manifests herself 
 to my love, and, with a kind of injunction, drives me to these 
 habits of her liking. I thank my stars I am happy. I will be 
 strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with 
 the swiftness of putting on. . . . Jove, I thank thee. — I will 
 smile ; I will do everything that thou wilt have me." 
 
 Everything, as we have observed, turns upon his 
 vanity and egotism. The pains he takes to pre- 
 serve order in the household, disturbed by the 
 druken revels of Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew 
 Ague-cheek, is more from a desire to show off the 
 importance of his stewardship in the eyes of his 
 mistress and others, than for any love he has for 
 her or the household. Indeed, any other kind of 
 love than the love of self would be quite inconsis- 
 tent with his whole character. 
 
 With all the desire he has to marry his mistress, 
 
PISTOL. 141 
 
 which causes him to make such an ass of himself, 
 and others to make such a fool of him, we see not 
 a trace of love for her. No ; it is the idea of her 
 love for a man of his complexion — for Malvolio, 
 the exquisite in yellow stockings, the fop who can 
 bow so elegantly, and the fool that can grin so in- 
 comparably — that fills him to overflowing; not his 
 love for her, to which scarcely an allusion is made. 
 
 Need we ask the reader if he has ever seen the 
 counterparts of Malvolio in real life ? individuals 
 into whose bosoms the sentiment of love for an- 
 other could not possibly enter, while their vanity 
 and self-love are so great as to lead them to be- 
 lieve themselves quite iiTesistible, and that, for their 
 mere external, personal qualities every one must 
 love them at first sight as well as they love them- 
 selves ? 
 
 In Ancient Pistol we have another and very dif- 
 ferent kind of fool from any we have hitherto con- 
 sidered ; but he is also a prince in his way, and 
 his realm is that of bombast and " buncombe." Pis- 
 tol is the perfection of swaggering, cowardly impo- 
 tents, or, to use another expressive Americanism, 
 the prince of " tall talkers," and his title, like the 
 others, is not to be disputed. Pistol is in his way 
 a merchant prince, a wholesale dealer in fustian, 
 and his capital stock in trade is unlimited. His 
 mother English is quite inadequate to express his 
 lofty and swelling emotions, and, like others of his 
 tribe, when this fails him, he lays murderous hands 
 upon Latin or French. 
 
142 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 « I will cut thy throat," says Nym. " Coupe le 
 gorge^ that's the word," says Pistol; and what a 
 medley of the mock-sublime and vulgar we have 
 in the following, which appears to be a slight 
 ebullition of jealousy : — 
 
 " O hound of Crete ! think'st thou my spouse to get ? 
 No ; to the spittal go, 
 And from the powdery tub of infamy 
 Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid's kind, 
 Doll Tear-sheet she by name, and her espouse. 
 I have, and I will hold, the quondam Quickly 
 For the only she : and pauca, there 's enough." 
 
 Like others of his kind in real life. Pistol is very 
 fond of exhibiting his classical lore, both in season 
 and out of season. When he comes to Falstaff in 
 the house of Justice Shallow, swelling with the 
 important news of the death of the old king, and 
 his high-sounding sentences are interrupted by 
 Master Silence, who, being maudlin and musical, 
 sings out, — 
 
 " And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John," 
 
 he exclaims in most classical bombast, — 
 
 " Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons ? 
 And shall good news be baffled ? 
 Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies' lap ! '* 
 
 And again, when he informs Falstaff that his 
 favorite Mistress Tear-sheet is in "base durance 
 and contagious prison," he employs another high- 
 sounding classical allusion : — 
 
PISTOL. 143 
 
 " Rouse up revenge from Ebon den with fell Alecto's snake, 
 For Doll is in ; Pistol speaks naught but truth." 
 
 When, however, he finds that his master Falstaff 
 is not " on fortune's cap the very button," and that 
 all of them, both fools and knaves, are ordered by 
 the chief-justice to the fleet, his plumes droop at 
 once, and he exclaims in most demure Latin, — 
 
 " Sifortuna me tormenta, spero me contenta." 
 
 Pistol's force, like that of all swaggerers, spends 
 itself in high-sounding words. His acts are ever 
 pusillanimous and mean, and his whole character 
 cannot be better drawn than it is by the boy in 
 Act III, Scene 11. (" Henry V.") 
 
 " For Pistol," says the boy, " he hath a killing 
 tongue and a quiet sword ; by the means whereof 
 'a breaks words, and keeps whole weapons." Upon 
 all occasions, where there is even an approach 
 towards putting him upon his " metal," he shows 
 himself a weak-hearted, spiritless craven ; yet when 
 fully persuaded that there is no personal danger, no 
 one can swagger like him ; as for example, when 
 he is set upon by Corporal Nym for the payment 
 of the eight shillings lost in betting. He is not so 
 much a fool as not to perceive that Nym is as 
 great a coward as himself, and that his " sword is 
 an oath " merely, like his own ; and the words in 
 which he repudiates the debt show that his honor 
 is quite on a par with his courage : " Base is the 
 slave that pays." 
 
 The manner in which the poet brings together 
 
144 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol, in Act IL, Scene L, is 
 admirably calculated to show up their individual 
 parts. The two latter, it would seem, had aspired 
 to the high honor of the hand of Dame Quickly, 
 the hostess ; but, as in all contests of the kind, the 
 quiet fool, being no match for the blustering fool, 
 is compelled to see the latter carry off the prize ; 
 and the very quiet way in which Nym acknowl- 
 edges himself a coward, and in the same breath 
 hints at the revenge he may take, when occasion 
 serves, on Pistol's throat, is one of many rich 
 things of our bard : — 
 
 " Nym. For my part, I care not. I say little ; but when 
 time shall serve, there shall be smites. 1 dare not fight, hut I 
 will wink and hold out mine iron. It is a simple one, but what 
 though, it will toast cheese. . . . Faith I will live so long as I 
 may, that 's the certain of it. . . Men may sleep, and they may 
 have their throats about them at the same time ; and, some say, 
 knives have edges." 
 
 Nym is in one respect the very opposite of Pistol. 
 Both are imbeciles and cowards, yet the former is 
 a quiet fool, using but few words ; but he evidently 
 attaches quite as much importance to the few and 
 simple, as Pistol does to the many and boisterous. 
 Nym's character is also admirably sketched in a 
 few words by the boy. 
 
 " For Nym," says the boy, " he hath heard that men of few 
 words are the best men ; and therefore he scorns to say his 
 prayers lest 'a should be thought a coward. But his few bad 
 words are matched with as few good deeds ; for 'a never broke 
 any man's head but his own, and that was against a post when 
 he was drunk." 
 
PISTOL. 145 
 
 No newsboy or printer's devil was ever more 
 shrewd or quick-witted than this youth, FalstafF's 
 page. He is the prince of sharp boys, and Falstaff 
 himself never got off a better piece of wit at the 
 expense of Bardolph's glowing nose, than he does 
 when he summons him to his sick master, shaking, 
 as Mrs. Quickly says, of a quotidian tertian. 
 
 " He is very sick," says the boy, " and would to 
 bed. Good Bardolph, put thy nose between the 
 sheets, and do the office of a warming-pan,^^ 
 
 Pistol, like all swaggering fools, is ready to stand 
 upon his dignity, whenever he thinks he can do so 
 without being in danger of a broken head. 
 
 When Falstaff desires him to carry the letters to 
 Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page, he throws himself back 
 upon his offended dignity. 
 
 " Pist. Shall I, Sir Pandarus of Troy become, 
 And by my side wear steel ? 
 Then Lucifer take all." 
 
 His objection to the term "steal," shows how 
 much more importance he attaches to words and 
 phrases than to things and acts. When Falstaff 
 dismisses Bardolph from his train because he was 
 not an adroit thief, his filchings being, like an un- 
 skilful singer, " out of time " — and he had not the 
 skill to " steal at a minim's rest " — Pistol objects 
 to the term steal. " Convey the wise it call," says 
 he. '' Steal ! foh ! a flco for the phrase." To the 
 act of stealing per se he makes no objection, but 
 the term by which it is expressed is evidently in 
 his view not quite respectable. If he steals he 
 
 10 
 
146 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 would not be called a thief ^ but simply a " convey- 
 ancer.^^ 
 
 These worthies, Nym and Pistol, like others of 
 their kind in real life, are not destitute at times of 
 a certain species of vulgar wit and mental astute- 
 ness. Nym's observations in view of Bardolph's 
 change of vocation are rich, when we consider the 
 calibre of the mind from whence they emanate. He 
 evidently believes in the doctrine of hereditary 
 transmission, even of the qualities, mental or phys- 
 ical, which lead to drunkenness in the offspring.* 
 When Bardolph is about to assume the office of 
 tapster, which he has so long desired, and in which 
 he thinks he shall " thrive," Nym says, in allusion 
 to his enormous imbibing capacities, — "Se was 
 gotten in drink — his mind is not heroic^^ &c. 
 
 Of the two fools, Nym and Pistol, the latter 
 " hath the more excellent wit," vulgar and pomp- 
 ous though it be. When Falstaff gives so graphic 
 a description of the bearing of Mrs. Ford towards 
 him, which caused him to " spy entertainment in 
 her," Pistol's remark is like one of those shrewd 
 observations which sometimes fall, as if by acci- 
 dent, from individuals of his mental capacity : — 
 
 " He hath studied her well," says he, " and trans- 
 lated her well, out of honesty into English.'''^ 
 
 And again, when Falstaff speaks of the interest 
 with which she regards his huge belly, his reply, 
 though inclining to the vulgar when uttered in 
 
 * In this matter of hereditary propensity to drunkenness, we are not 
 prepared to say that Nym is altogether in the wrong. 
 
PISTOL. 147 
 
 modern ears, is nevertheless shrewd, sarcastic, and 
 to the purpose : — 
 
 " Then did the sun on dunghill shine ! " 
 
 " My honest lass," says the huge-bellied knight, 
 " I will tell you what I am about " — 
 
 " Tivo yards and morej^ says Pistol. Shakspeare 
 knew well that a peculiar kind of low wit, flashing 
 at times even from such acknowledged fools as 
 Nym and Pistol, is by no means inconsistent or 
 unnatural. 
 
 The war of words between Mistress Tearsheet 
 and Pistol at the Boar's Head, when the billings- 
 gate of the bawd on the one hand is matched with 
 the bombast of the fool on the other, is most ludi- 
 crously characteristic and natural. The billings- 
 gate of the bawd we pass by, but a little of the 
 bombast of the fool will not be out of place in this 
 connection. Pistol sober, it would seem, was not 
 sufficient for our poet, who leaves nothing incom- 
 plete ; therefore we must have Pistol " charged " 
 with a cup of sack, and a little tipsy, as he appears 
 to be in this scene, to complete the psychological 
 delineation. The mental characteristics remain 
 substantially the same, only, as is usual in this 
 state, a little more strongly marked. His folly 
 is made somewhat more foolish, his "tall talk" 
 a little more elevated, the bombast still more 
 bombastic than usual, and the classic allusions 
 more frequent and far-fetched. When urged by 
 Bardolph and the boy to go down - stairs, and 
 
148 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 retire from the windy contest with the bawd, he 
 says : — 
 
 " I '11 see her damned first ; — to Pluto's damned lake, to the 
 infernal deep, with Erebus and tortures vile also. Hold hook 
 and line, say I. Down ! down, dogs ! down, faitors ! Have we 
 not Hiren here ? " . . . 
 
 " Shall pack-horses, 
 And hollow, pampered jades of Asia, 
 Which cannot go but thirty miles a day, 
 Compare with Caesars, and with Cannibals, 
 And Trojan Greeks ? nay, rather damn them with 
 King Cerberus : and let the welkin roar ! " 
 
 He calls for another cup of sack, and goes on 
 with his classical bombast, " piling Ossa upon 
 Pelion": — 
 
 " Fear we broadsides ? no, let the fiend give fire. 
 Give me some sack ; — and, sweetheart, lie thou there." 
 
 [Lays doiun the sword. 
 
 When urged to extremes, and, taking up the 
 sword, he is about to assume the appearance of a 
 gladiator, he brings in, after a few more "tall" 
 words, his grand allusion to the three goddesses of 
 the distaff and thread, who preside over the desti- 
 nies of men ; and the mock grandeur with which 
 he resigns himself to the fates is worthy of the 
 hero : — 
 
 " Pist. What, shall we have incision ? shall we imbrue ? — 
 Then death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful days ! 
 Why then, let grievous, gaping, ghastly wounds 
 Untwine the sisters three ! Atropos, I say." 
 
 " So dies a Hero adorable." \_Rohhers. 
 
PISTOL. 149 
 
 Not so, however, dies ancient Pistol, for after 
 this most valiant and windy contest with the bawd 
 — after a slight prick in the shoulders from Fal- 
 staff's rapier, he suffers himself to be thrown down 
 stairs by the quondam soldier, but now tapster, 
 Bardolph, and whether the journey is made more 
 speedy by an impulse imparted from the boot of 
 the latter, we are not told. Neither, however, die 
 of " grievous, ghastly wounds," the one being re- 
 served to hang for stealing a Pix, and the other 
 to plead his cause with his accustomed grandilo- 
 quence. 
 
 These worthies, Nym, Bardolph, and Pistol, turn 
 up again in " Henry V.," where they are brought 
 together in the battle-scene. (Act III, Scene 11.) 
 Here Bardolph is the only man that does not play 
 the coward, for while he pushes on, Nym declares 
 that it is " too hot" for a man that has not " a case 
 of lives," and Pistol sighs in doleful measure for 
 safety, and " an alehouse in London ; " and when 
 driven on by Fluellen to the breach, the terms in 
 which he begs him to desist, and cries for mercy 
 are ludicrous in the extreme. 
 
 " Pist. Be merciful, great duke, to men of moukl. Abate 
 thy rage," &c. 
 
 In view of his cowardly conduct upon this oc- 
 casion, the impudence with which he presumes to 
 plead for Bardolph, the only man of the three who 
 has shown any bravery, and the fire of whose nose 
 was about to be quenched forever by the halter, for 
 
150 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 this desecration of the church, is amusing, and quite 
 characteristic of the man ; and also the insolence 
 shown his captain when his suit is refused. " Die 
 and be damned ! " says he, " and fico for thy friend- 
 ship." 
 
 Pistol seems never to have forgiven Fluellen, 
 either for driving him up to the breach and into dan- 
 ger, or for refusing to interfere in behalf of Bardolph, 
 but remains vindictive to the end ; for in Act IV., 
 Scene III., where he meets the king, whom he takes 
 for a Welshman, he desires him to tell his country- 
 man Fluellen, that he will " knock his leek about 
 his pate on St. David's day." When, however, he 
 meets his man, in Act V., Scene L, he comes off 
 second best, like all cowards, and the leek is thrust 
 down his own throat. Cudgelled and insulted, he 
 swears revenge, at first loudly, but makes no resist- 
 ance, offers no personal violence. While Fluellen, 
 laying on the cudgel, forces him to eat the leek, 
 telling him insultingly it was " goot for green 
 wounds " and " broken coxcombs," how meekly, 
 demurely, and with what a cowardly, craven spirit, 
 does he beg him to desist : — 
 
 " Quiet thy cudgel," says he ; " thou dost see I 
 eat!'' 
 
 As soon, however, as his adversary is away. Pis- 
 tol *' is himself again." Like a cowardly spaniel 
 who has just escaped with his life from the jaws 
 of the bull-dog, he can now bristle up his courage, 
 and, all danger past, bark loud and look threaten- 
 ing. How different is the tone of what follows 
 
PISTOL. 151 
 
 from that we have just quoted above, when he was 
 under Fluellen's cudgel ! How grandly he can 
 threaten now, when all danger is past ! " All hell 
 shall stir for this," says he. 
 
 This, however, is PistoPs last explosion — the 
 last thunder-tone which escapes from the empty- 
 headed, hollow-hearted, deep-throated Pistol. This 
 " roaring devil 'i the old play " has roared out his 
 last note. He is now desolate. Falstaff, about 
 whom he hung so long, is dead, his friends Nym 
 and Bardolph are both hung for stealing, and his 
 cowardice alone is all that has saved him from a 
 like fate. His Nell is " dead in spital of malady 
 of France," and there his " rendezvous is quite cut 
 off." He is now old, and " from his weary limbs 
 honor is cudgelled," and he asks sadly, " Does For- 
 tune play the huswife with me now ? " Reforma- 
 tion is out of the question. So old a sinner would 
 make but a sad saint, and, conscious of this, his 
 resolution is soon taken. Let us not quarrel with 
 him for taking the only course which seemed open 
 to him : — 
 
 " Well, bawd, I '11 turn, 
 
 And something lean to cut-purse of quick hand. 
 
 To England will I steal, and there I '11 steal ; 
 
 And patches will I get unto these cudgelled scars, 
 
 And swear I got them in the Gallia wars." 
 
 Adieu, ancient Pistol ! Though your face may 
 never be seen in the flesh, your spirit^ together 
 with the hundreds raised by the mighty wand 
 which has now been broken for more than two 
 
152 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 hundred years, like the fabled Hebrew wanderer, 
 still walks the earth, and will never be suffered to 
 rest while time shall endure ; though the great ma- 
 gician himself, who called you up from the " vasty 
 deep" and sent you forth upon the earth, now 
 sleeps soundly and sweetly on the banks of the 
 Avon. 
 
LAUNCE. 
 
 ANOTHER shade of mental obtuseness and 
 imbecility has been exhibited by the poet in 
 the character of Launce, the clown po.r excellence^ 
 in " Two Gentlemen of Verona." Launce is 
 not a character manufactured by a playwright — 
 one of " Nature's journeymen," to serve a particular 
 purpose, but is a product of Nature's own handi- 
 work, and if not the most cunning, still none the 
 less genuine. 
 
 The close companionship which exists between 
 him and his interesting dog Crab is evidently one 
 based upon a moral and intellectual fitness in the 
 characters of the two. The clown is such by nat- 
 ural organization, and no education or change of 
 circumstances or condition could make him other- 
 wise. So the dog Crab, even with the " gentle- 
 man-like dogs " among whom he has thrust him- 
 self, under the Duke's table, is nevertheless the cur 
 which Nature made him ; and we can scarcely con- 
 ceive that even the cultivation of "three genera- 
 tions," which some high authorities have contended 
 for as necessary to make a gentleman, would suf- 
 fice to make either a courtier of the one, or a gen- 
 tleman-like dog " of the other. Like Justice Shal- 
 low and his serving men, the spirits of the two are 
 
154 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 SO " married in conjunction " by constant inter- 
 course, that the one has come to conduct himself, 
 in all companies, as a curlike clown, and the other 
 as a clownish cur, among all kinds of gentlemanly 
 and well-bred dogs, whether spaniel, terrier, mastiff, 
 or poodle. 
 
 i Next to the human associates whom a man takes 
 into his confidence, nothing seems to furnish a more 
 correct index to his character than the species of 
 the canine race which he selects as his companions. 
 The grim-looking, fighting bull-dog is found at the 
 heels of the bully and prize-fighter. The dignified 
 mastiff" and gentlemanly Newfoundland, guard care- 
 fully the vaults and premises of the stately banker. 
 The gaunt hound is found in the train of the 
 active, vigorous, fox-hunting squire. The poodle 
 or spaniel, who trusts to his good looks and fawn- 
 ing manners to carry him through, is the combed, 
 washed, and petted companion of my lady, or the 
 dandy who " capers nimbly in my lady's chamber," 
 but the cur^ who seems to be a combination of the 
 evil qualities of all these, your " y oiler dog J'' so 
 graphically described by the inimitable Autocrat in 
 " Elsie Venner," is found at the heels of the clown, 
 and the nature of the relationship is nowhere so 
 admirably depicted as by the poet in his delinea- 
 tions of Launce and his dog Crab. The one is as 
 much the prince of curs as the other is the prince 
 of clowns, and the inimitable curtain-lecture which 
 is bestowed by the clown upon the cur in Act IV., 
 Scene IV., has shaken the sides of all Christendom 
 
LAUNCE. 155 
 
 for the last two centuries, and will continue to do 
 so until a sense of the ludicrous ceases to be a 
 characteristic of mankind. 
 
 The clown and his cur are first introduced to us 
 in Act IT., Scene III., where the former depicts viv- 
 idly and dramatically the parting scene between 
 himself and his family, and contrasts his own and 
 their grief with the stoical indifference of the cur. 
 He first calls especial attention to that extreme 
 tender-heartedness which is a marked characteristic 
 of the Launce family, and measures by the hour 
 the time it will take to do his weeping. 
 
 " Nay, 't will be this hour ere I have done weeping. All the 
 kind of the Launces have this very fault." 
 
 > These Launces are all " soft people." In other 
 words, there is a " soft spot," or a " screw loose," 
 somewhere in the minds of all of them ; yet they 
 are simple, good-hearted, amiable, harmless people, 
 who cannot suffer to see a dog abused, even for 
 such undignified behavior as Crab was guilty of 
 when among the " gentleman-like dogs " under the 
 Duke's table. ^ 
 
 Launce, in his extreme goodness of heart, would 
 sooner be kicked himself than see a " dumb brute " 
 suffer, even though guilty. , In a humane society 
 for the prevention of cruelty to animals, all the 
 Launces would be " burning and shining lights," 
 and ever ready to suffer to shield the brute, as 
 Launce suffered for Crab. 
 
 "Nay, I'll be sworn, I have sat in the stocks for puddings 
 
156 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 he has stolen, otherwise he had been executed ; I have stood on 
 the pillory for geese he hath killed, otherwise he had suffered 
 for it." (Act IV., Scene IV.) 
 
 i The invective which the clown pours out upon 
 the cur for his ingratitude, and the imperturbable 
 stoicism in refusing his sympathy and tears in the 
 parting scene, so touchingly and dramatically 
 described in Act II., Scene III., is richly humorous. 
 His old grand-dam, " having no eyes, had wept her- 
 self blind ; " his mother had gone on " like a wild 
 woman ; " the maid had howled, and the cat wrung 
 her hands, yet the surly and imperturbable cur, be- 
 ing " one not used to the melting mood," sheds not 
 a tear nor speaks a word. , A decent, intelligent, 
 " gentleman-like dog " might reasonably have been 
 supposed to show emotion of some kind, for the 
 scene, as depicted by the clown, must certainly 
 have been sufficient to " make a horse laugh," if 
 not to cause a dog to grieve. But perhaps Crab 
 may have had the sagacity to perceive that after 
 all, the weeping and wailing were only the mani- 
 festation of a very superficial sorrow, a grief quite 
 shallow, like the minds of those affected. At all 
 events, he must be a " prodigious son " indeed, and 
 affected with a most prodigious sorrow, who can 
 employ such figures in giving so minute and 
 graphic a description of it. When he takes one 
 old shoe to personate his father, and another with 
 a " worser sole " to represent his mother, and his 
 staff, " because it is long and white," to represent 
 his sister, and his hat to represent Nan the maid, 
 
LAUNCE. 157 
 
 and makes use of such grand hyperbolical figures, 
 such as laying the dust with his tears, filling the 
 channel of the river with them if it were dry, so 
 that it would float his boat, the sails of which he 
 could fill with his sighs, etc., we have a pretty cor- 
 rect gauge of the depths of sorrow of which such 
 an imbecile is capable. Like many in real life of 
 the same mental proportions, Launce is endowed 
 with a certain kind of wit and humor, and this, as 
 a careful and minute examination of Shakspeare's 
 delineations will show, is ever entirely consistent 
 with the general mental characteristics of the indi- 
 vidual, and is made to flow naturally and easily 
 from its source. 
 
 We are ever made to feel that the wit belongs 
 to the character, as a natural and essential ingredi- 
 ent, and is not, as is sometimes the case with infe- 
 rior artists, something merely engrafted upon it, for 
 effect. The wit of Shakspeare, if we may use the 
 expression, is always filtered through the mental 
 alembic of the character he is depicting, and comes 
 forth unalloyed, — something which is recognized at 
 once by all who have the knowledge necessary to 
 examine carefully, to be a genuine product, — and 
 yet, though this is an object aimed at by all delinea- 
 tors of character, none have been so eminently suc- 
 cessful, in whatever they have attempted, as our 
 great dramatist. His characters always appear to 
 think their own thoughts and speak their own 
 words, without giving us the faintest impression 
 that these thoughts and words are put into their 
 
158 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 minds and mouths by another. They are their 
 thoughts and their words by natural, mental evolu- 
 tion. 
 
 Some critics assert, we are aware, that Shaks- 
 peare sometimes causes his heroes and heroines to 
 utter sentiments not consistent with their general, 
 mental, and moral characteristics, making them the 
 media for the utterance of what has more the ap- 
 pearance of his own divine inspiration than the 
 thoughts of his <jharacters. This has more than 
 once been pointed out as a blemish, or, in the lan- 
 guage of the critics, one of those " spots " to be 
 found on the face of the great intellectual luminary. 
 We think,- however, that a more careful study and 
 examination of his characters will go far to remove 
 this objection. It is only within the last few years 
 that several of his higher creations have been at 
 all understood, from a want of that scientific knowl- 
 edge absolutely necessary to the proper understand- 
 ing of them ; and since, it is to be hoped, the reign 
 of critical ignorance has well-nigh ceased, the nu- 
 merous " spots " upon the face of the " luminary " 
 have one by one disappeared ; and this leads us to 
 think that time and knowledge may cause the 
 whole to vanish. The history of the critical inves- 
 tigations into the characters of Lear and Hamlet 
 alone would furnish some curious illustrations of 
 this. 
 
 Shakspeare was too good a metaphysician and 
 psychologist to make any glaring errors of the kind 
 referred to ; and so great is our confidence in the 
 
LAUNCE. 159 
 
 keenness and accuracy of his metaphysical and 
 psychological perceptions that, at the risk of being 
 charged by such critics with a blind adoration of 
 his great genius, we venture to assert that such 
 psychological inaccuracies are scarcely in the na- 
 ture of things, and in a large majority of instances 
 arise more from critical misconception than from 
 any error or mistake of the artist. 
 
 Shakspeare has ever been far in advance of all 
 his critics, and if, as has been sufficiently shown, it 
 has taken two centuries for them to discover a 
 mere fractional part of what he appears to have 
 known, we may reasonably suppose that it will yet 
 take some decades at least, if not centuries, of crit- 
 ical, scientific, and intellectual development to com- 
 prehend the whole. Experience has amply shown, 
 that, though humiliating, it is far safer to acknowl- 
 edge our weakness and the imperfection of our 
 own vision as compared with his, than to employ 
 ourselves in seeking to discover and point out the 
 "spots" upon the face of the great luminary. In 
 his works, like those of a still higher and more di- 
 vine order of inspiration, much that is hard to com- 
 prehend must be reserved for the future to develop, 
 for now the feeble-eyed critic can scarcely " behold 
 him face to face," but must contemplate him 
 through the dim and obscure glass of his own com- 
 paratively imperfect perceptions. 
 
 But to return, after this digression, to, the char- 
 acter we have been examining. 
 ^ The humorous and bull-headed obstinacy, in 
 
160 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 Scene V., Act II., with which Launce refuses to 
 give Speed any knowledge of his master's amours, 
 except the same is wrung from him by a parable, 
 is exceedingly characteristic of his lubberly nature. 
 After much circumlocution, and much teasing of his 
 impertinent and curious questioner, he " caps the 
 climax" of his mulish obstinacy by referring the 
 whole matter in question to Crab, his interest- 
 ing, intelligent, and ever-present canine compan- 
 ion: — 
 
 " Speed. But tell me true, will 't be a match ? 
 
 Launce. Ask my dog ; if he say, ay, it will ; if he say, no, it 
 will ; if he shake his tail, and say nothing, it will. 
 
 Speed. The conclusion is, then, that it will. 
 
 Launce. Thou shalt never get such a secret from me, but by 
 a parable." 
 
 ^ His humorous punning and play upon words is 
 also quite characteristic, and shows that this fac- 
 ulty may be possessed in quite an eminent de- 
 gree by those of very inferior mental calibre, like 
 Launce. ^ The play upon the word " understand- 
 ing," in the scene just quoted, though not the most 
 brilliant, is nevertheless eminently worthy of the 
 source from whence it proceeds : — 
 
 " Speed. What an ass thou art ; I understand thee not. 
 
 Launce. What a block thou art, that thou can'st not. My 
 staff understands me. 
 
 Speed. What thou sayest ? 
 
 Launce. Ay, and what I do too. Look thee, I '11 but lean 
 and my staff understands me. 
 
 Speed. It stands under thee, indeed. 
 
 Launce. Why, stand under and understand is all one." 
 
LAUNCE. 161 
 
 'But Launce^s most choice humor is always spent 
 upon Crab, his boon companion, and the standing 
 butt of his ridicule and invective. The dog ap- 
 pears to have possessed naturally certain very 
 unamiable qualities, even for a cur, which qualities 
 the " precise " education of the clown seems to 
 have been insufficient to correct. " I have taught 
 him," says the clown, " even as one would say, 
 precisely thus would I teach a dog." He had dili- 
 gently sought to have him " one that takes upon 
 himself to be a dog indeed; to be, as it were, a 
 dog at all things." But alas, the inherent cur-like 
 qualities, natural to the brute, are ever prominent, 
 and always thrust forward to the great annoyance 
 of his master, upon every occasion when they 
 should not be. 
 
 The unfeeling nature of the brute, and the in- 
 gratitude he manifests for all the kindness lavished 
 upon him by Launce, who " saved him from drown- 
 ing when three or four of his blind brothers and 
 sisters went to it," is always brought prominently 
 forward by the clown in a manner so serious as to 
 render the whole exceedingly comical. The clown's 
 play upon the word " tide," in reference to the dis- 
 position of the dog, is about as rich and charac- 
 teristic as anything : — 
 
 " Panthino. Away, ass, you *11 lose the tide, if you tarry any 
 longer. 
 
 Launce. It is no matter if the tied were lost, for it is the un- 
 kindest tied that ever any man tied. 
 
 Panthino. What is the unkindest tide ? 
 
 Launce. Why, he that is tied here, Crab, — my dog." 
 11 
 
162 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 But the character of Launce would not have 
 been complete if the poet had neglected to give us 
 an insight of his amours. This he has taken care 
 to do in the latter part of Scene I., Act III. K, as 
 we have already shown, the mental and moral 
 characteristics of the clown have been most curi- 
 ously illustrated in the selection of his canine com- 
 panion, they have been none the less so in the 
 selection of his mistress, who, if we may judge 
 from that curious "cat-log" of her qualities pro- 
 duced by the clown and submitted to the in- 
 spection of his friend Speed, appears to have 
 been about as well adapted to Launce as was 
 Crab himself. The principles which guided him 
 in making his selection of a mistress, appear to 
 have been the same as would have actuated him 
 in the selection of a dog, or a horse, or a piece of 
 property of any kind. In this respect, we fear the 
 character of Launce, the clown, is by no means 
 unique. The same presiding principles have un- 
 doubtedly actuated many a " marriage of con- 
 venience" among those who regard themselves, 
 and are regarded by the world, as possessing far 
 greater mental and moral proportions than Launce, 
 and who indeed would think themselves hardly 
 dealt by if all the characteristic virtues of genuine 
 Christians were not attributed to them. Launce 
 first proceeds to make, most systematically, a com- 
 parative estimate of the qualities and characteristic 
 virtues and vices of his mistress, and here he lets 
 slip a very quiet, yet significant inuendo, in respect 
 
LAUNCE. 163 
 
 to the kind of Christians here aHuded to. " She 
 has more qualities," says he, " than a water-span- 
 iel, which is much in a bare Christian.^'' " Here is 
 a cat-log," continues he, pulling out a paper, " of 
 her conditions. Imprimis, she can fetch and carry. 
 Why, a horse can do no more. Nay, a horse can- 
 not fetch, only carry, therefore she is better than a 
 jade." 'A most generous admission, certainly, as 
 well as characteristic comparison, for, in the mind 
 of the clown, a horse, dog, and maid are readily 
 associated, and it is hard to say which would take 
 the first place in his affections. Launce appears to 
 have chosen his mistress as the Vicar of Wakefield 
 chose his wife, less for the eminence of her intellect- 
 ual characteristics than for the durability of such 
 gifts and qualities as were capable of being turned 
 to some practical account in the conduct of life. 
 
 That she had had " gossips," and that her only 
 title to " maid " was that she could " milk," and 
 that she was "her master's maid and served for 
 wages," appears not to have troubled him, as was 
 to have been supposed. With him this small 
 " drawback " would not signify, when weighed in 
 the balance, against her practical qualities. She 
 could " sew," she could " knit," and she could 
 " spin," and this last faculty would enable him to 
 " set the world on wheels," for she could " spin for 
 a living." She could " wash and scour," and this 
 was a " special " virtue, for then she " need not be 
 washed and scoured." And moreover, " blessings 
 on her heart," she could " brew good ale," which, in 
 
164 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 the eyes of the clown, was her most shining virtue, 
 and one which he could turn to great practical ac- 
 count, for his appetite for ale was like to be one of 
 great permanence, and therefore this most valuable 
 quality must not be set down with those " name- 
 less," those " bastard virtues," which have no fath- 
 ers, but as a most especial offset to aU these. And 
 then as to her " vices, following close on the heels 
 of her virtues," we will allow him to speak for 
 himself, to show how his love, such as it was, could 
 transform all these into most especial virtues : — 
 
 " Speed, Item. She is not to be kissed fasting, in respect to 
 her breath. 
 
 Launce. Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. 
 Read on. 
 
 Speed. Item. She has a sweet mouth. 
 
 Launce. That makes amends for her sour breath. 
 
 Speed. Item. She doth talk in her sleep. 
 
 Launce. It is no matter for that, so she slip not in her talk. 
 
 Speed. Item. She is slow in words. 
 
 Launce. O villain ! that set this down among her vices. To 
 be slow in words is a woman's only virtue. I pray thee out 
 with it, and place it for her chief virtue. 
 
 Speed. Item. She is proud. 
 
 Launce. Out with that too ; it was Eve's legacy, and cannot 
 be taken from her. 
 
 Speed. Item. She hath no teeth. 
 
 Launce. I care not for that, neither, for I love crusts. 
 
 Speed. Item. She is curst. 
 
 Launce. Well, the best is, she has no teeth to bite. 
 
 Speed. Item. She will often praise her liquor. 
 
 Launce. If her liquor be good, she shall ; if she will not, I 
 will, for good things should be praised. 
 
 Speed. Item. She is too Hberal. 
 
LAUNCE. 165 
 
 Launce. Of her tongue she cannot, for that 's writ down she 
 is slow of; of her purse, she shall not, for that I'll keep shut. 
 Now, of another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, 
 proceed. 
 
 Speed. Item. She hath more hair than wit, and more faults 
 than hairs, and more wealth than faults. 
 
 Launce. Stop there, I '11 have her ; she was mine and not 
 mine twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once 
 more. 
 
 Speed. Item. She hath more hair than wit. 
 
 Launce. More hair than wit ; it may be I '11 prove it. The 
 cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the 
 salt ; the hair that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the 
 greater hides the less. What next ? 
 
 Speed. And more faults than hairs. 
 
 Launce. That 's monstrous. Oh, that that were out. 
 
 Speed. And more wealth than faults. 
 
 Launce. Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well, 
 I '11 have her ; and if it be a match, as nothing is impossible." 
 
 Launce, like many in real life, of far greater 
 Christian pretentions, and of far greater intellect- 
 ual, if not moral proportions, appears not to have 
 been unsusceptible to the influence of money in the 
 formation and direction of matrimonial alliances. 
 With him as with others, wealth appears to have 
 been a cloak whose ample folds were sufficient to 
 cover a multitude of vices, for though she have 
 " more faults than hairs," the wealth was all power- 
 ful to " make the faults gracious." 
 
 The last act of Launce's clownish imbecility is 
 shown in Act IV., Scene IV., where the " foolish 
 lout," as he is designated by his master, is sent to 
 deliver the lap-dog to Madam Silvia, his master's 
 
166 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 mistress, and where, after he has suffered the hang- 
 man's boy to steal the gift from him in the market- 
 place, the brilliant but dangerous expedient of sub- 
 stituting his own insufferable cur Crab, and offer- 
 ing him to the lady in place of the lost poodle, oc- 
 curs to his mind : — | 
 
 " Launce. Marry, sii', I can-led Mistress Silvia the dog you 
 bade me. 
 
 Proteus. And what says she to my little jewel ? 
 
 Launce. Marry, she says your dog was a cur, and currish 
 thanks is good enough for such a present. 
 
 Proteus. But she received my dog ? 
 
 Launce. No, indeed, did she not ; here have I brought him 
 back again. 
 
 Proteus. What ! did'st thou offer her this cur from me ? 
 
 Launce. Ay, sir, the other squirrel was stolen from me by a 
 hangman's boy in the market-place, and then I offered her my 
 own, who is a dog as big as ten of yours, and therefore the gift 
 the greater." 
 
 After this Launce disappears forever, amid the 
 fierce blaze of his master's indignation at his clown- 
 ish stupidity, , but happily not till he has uttered his 
 famous soliloquy over his dog, at the opening of 
 Scene IV., Act IV., commencing, " When a man's 
 servant shall play the cur with him," &c., which, 
 as a specimen of low clownish humor has never 
 been approached, and perhaps never will be ; not 
 indeed, until, in the eloquent words of the late Dr. 
 Maginn, " The waters of some Avon, here or else- 
 where, (it is a good Celtic name for rivers in gen- 
 eral,) shall once more bathe the limbs of the like of 
 him who was laid for his last earthly sleep under a 
 
LAUNCE. 167 
 
 gravestone bearing a disregarded inscription, on the 
 north side of the chancel in the great church at 
 Stratford." 
 
 The disregard of the inscription upon the humble 
 tablet reared above the last resting-place of all that 
 was earthly of the bard is of little moment, when 
 we remember, that while the dust it was meant to 
 commemorate was animated by the spirit, there 
 was reared, as it were unconsciously, a monument 
 far nobler than the huge piles which mark the rest- 
 ing-places of Egyptian kings, a monument of en- 
 during thoughts and immortal words, and one 
 which shall stand, not only when the " great church 
 at Stratford" shall have crumbled into dust, but 
 when all the " cloud-capped towers," the " gor- 
 geous palaces " and " solemn temples " which now 
 adorn the proud isle which claims him as her mas- 
 ter-spirit, shall be numbered among the things that 
 were, having passed forever away, 
 
 " And like an insubstantial pageant, faded, 
 Left not a rack behind." 
 
CALIBAN. 
 
 THIS is a character of the poet which we have 
 always been taught to regard as out of the 
 range or circle of ordinary humanity, something 
 infra-human^ a being as much below the common 
 standard of humanity as Ariel and some others are 
 above it ; an opinion based upon the same ground 
 as that which in times passed placed the insane 
 among the possessed of devils, altogether out of the 
 pale of ordinary humanity, and consequently be- 
 longing to a class of beings not to be governed by 
 humane laws, but whom, in the language of Pros- 
 pero, " stripes may move, not kindness," — goril- 
 las^ perhaps, not gifted with language, but taught 
 to speak like some of the inferior creatures, and 
 whose exact position in the scale of being natural- 
 ists have not yet fully determined. Caliban says 
 to Prospero, — 
 
 " You taught me language ; and my profit on 't 
 Is, I know how to curse." 
 
 By the poet he is designated as a " savage and 
 deformed slave." His physical deformities, as is 
 ever the case, render him an object of loathing and 
 disgust to the unthinking and unfeeling, while his 
 ignorance and mental imbecility make him ithe 
 
CALIBAN. 169 
 
 sport of all superior intelligences, and the tortured 
 slave of their cruelty and inhumanity. Like most 
 degraded and ignorant imbeciles, he is vindictive 
 and revengeful. He never forgets the wrongs in- 
 flicted upon him by his torturing enemies^ yet for 
 those who treat him kindly and considerately he 
 manifests, like the lower creatures, a genuine affec- 
 tion, and is ever ready to serve and requite them by 
 every means his instinctive ingenuity can suggest. 
 While Prospero treated him kindly, he could ap- 
 preciate it and love him in return. 
 " Caliban. When thou com'st here first 
 Thou strok'dst me and made much of me ; would'st give me 
 Water with berries in't, and teach me how 
 To name the bigger Hght, and how the less, 
 That burn by day and night, and then I loved thee. 
 And showed thee all the qualities of the isle, 
 The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren places and fertile." 
 
 But upon Prospero, the tyrant, who, not without 
 some shadow of excuse from the brutal conduct of 
 the creature, has made him a beast of burden, and 
 whom Caliban supposes, in his ignorance and 
 weakness, capable of tormenting him by his black 
 and mysterious art, he vents fearfully his deepest 
 curses. 
 
 " Caliban. As wicked dew as e'er my mother brushed 
 With raven feather from unwholesome fen 
 Drop on you both ! a southwest wind blow on ye, 
 And blister you all o'er, ... All the charms 
 Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, Hght on you ! . . . 
 The red plague rid you, for learning me your language." 
 
 In the character of Caliban it has sometimes 
 
170 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 struck US that the poet, in his contemplations of the 
 chain of being, might have intended to shadow 
 forth one of the gradations through which the hu- 
 man intellect may have been destined to pass, in 
 its gradual progress upwards from a state of deg- 
 radation, characteristic of the intellectual life of in- 
 ferior orders in the universe. In the progress of 
 human society we may observe the successive steps 
 from the rudest and most uncultivated states, up 
 to the highest refinements of civilization. The 
 passage from brute to man, and from man to a yet 
 higher order of intelligences, unseen yet revealed, 
 is but a gradation of being, and the lessons of hu- 
 mility taught by the contemplation of our connec- 
 tion with one extremity of the chain, are accompa- 
 nied with the glowing aspirations inseparable from 
 our connection with the other. 
 
 The poet has taken upon himself to exhibit not 
 only the intermediate links, but others, not many 
 removes from both terminations of this great chain 
 of beings. If the poet himself, — if " Hamlet " and 
 some of the higher creations of his genius, seem to 
 exhibit unto us something we feel almost con- 
 strained to regard as superhuman, and belonging to 
 a higher order of intelligences, although allied to 
 our common humanity, revealing unto us, as it 
 were, the last and uppermost link in the great chain 
 which binds our humanity to the throne of the 
 Eternal, — f Caliban, if not the connecting link in 
 the lower extremity, is certainly not many removes 
 from it. His physical deformity is so great that he 
 
CALIBAN. 171 
 
 barely approaches the status of humanity. Pros- 
 pero speaks of him as a Tortoise, and when Trin- 
 culio first encounters him, he seems to doubt where 
 to place him in the scale of beings. 
 
 " Trinculio. What have we here, a man or a fish ? he smells 
 like a fish : a very ancient and fish-like smell ; a kind of, not of 
 the newest, Poor-John. A strange fish ! legged like a man ! 
 and his fins like arms ! I do now let loose my opinion, hold it 
 no longer ; this is no fish, but an islander that hath lately suf- 
 fered by a thunder-bolt." 
 
 Comparisons between men and beasts, as is 
 known, have been made in the earliest times, even 
 in those of Moses. Socrates, the wise philosopher 
 of antiquity, says, satirically, " Between the most 
 uncultivated of men and the brute beast, there is but 
 a slight difference " ; and further, " Man is a fair 
 blooming animal with his surroundings poisoned." 
 Plato, who has penetrated deeply into the intellect- 
 ual life of animals, says, " Man has the same brut- 
 ish lusts in his spirit as are possessed by animals " ; 
 and he speaks of man as a tamed beast, who, under 
 proper culture, is the most God-like of tame ani- 
 mals, but who, under bad breeding, becomes the 
 wildest. 
 
 ^ In the character of Caliban we have a painful 
 exhibition of a combiuation of beastliness and a 
 type of human imbecility and degradation, though 
 not of that low form characteristic of idiocy or cre- 
 tinism, rendering the individual quite irresponsible 
 for his conduct. 
 
 One of the first of his acts set forth, is his at- 
 
172 SHAKSPEARE*S IMBECILES. 
 
 tempt upon the innocence of Miranda, and the 
 only regret which he exhibits for this is, that he 
 was foiled by her father in the accomplishment 
 of his diabolical purpose. This is apparently the 
 only act that can be brought forward in justifica- 
 tion of the harsh and cruel treatment of Prospero, 
 who is represented to have been so much incensed 
 by this act of the man-beast, that he brings the full 
 force of his dark and mysterious art to bear in tor- 
 menting him, and further punishes him by making 
 him a beast of burden. The degree of mental and 
 moral capacity which, as we have said before, 
 makes him responsible for his acts, renders him also 
 conscious and appreciative of both kindness and 
 cruelty. We feel that much more might have been 
 made of him but for those "poisoned surround- 
 ings," spoken of by Socrates, which have ever en- 
 compassed his path, drawfing and warping his 
 mental, moral, and physical capacities. Prospero 
 says, in allusion to the condition in which he found 
 him, when first cast upon the island, — 
 
 " I pitied thee, took pains to make thee speak, taught thee 
 each hour one thing or other when thou did'st not, savage, 
 know thine own meaning, but would'st gabble like a thing most 
 brutish. I endoioed thy purposes with words, that made them 
 known. But thy vile race, though thou did'st learn, had that 
 in 't which good natures could not bide to be with." 
 
 If we were allowed to judge Caliban by the light 
 of modern science, we might perhaps say that, like 
 maUy of ignorant, imbecile, and perverted minds, 
 he appears to have suffered from and been influ- 
 
CALIBAN. 173 
 
 enced by his delusions or hallucinations. These 
 give rise to the language used below, in speaking 
 of the supposed vexings of Prospero's tormenting 
 spirits, and which evidently appear to him in the 
 light of most disagreeable and painful realities. 
 
 '•'■ Caliban. His spirits hear me 
 
 And yet I needs must curse, but they '11 nor pinch, 
 Fright me with urchin shows, pitch me i' the mire. 
 Nor lead me, like a fire-brand in the dark, 
 Out of my way, unless he bid them, but 
 For every trifle are they set upon me ; 
 Sometimes like apes that moe and chatter at me, 
 And after bite me, then like hedgehogs which 
 Lie tumbhng in my barefoot way, and mount 
 Their pricks at my foot-fall ; sometimes am I 
 All wound with adders who, with cloven tongues, 
 Do hiss me into madness." 
 
 When he first meets with Stephano and Trincu- 
 lio, he regards them as the cruel emissaries of his 
 master, Prospero, and appears to expect from them 
 only the same tormenting unkindness he has been 
 accustomed to receive. His first impulse is that 
 of craven animal fear, which prompts him to seek 
 to escape observation. When discovered, he calls 
 out repeatedly, to these supposed spiritual emissa- 
 ries of his master, not to be tormented. 
 
 " Do not torment me, pr'ythee, 
 I '11 bring my wood home faster." 
 
 But he is quite mistaken in the characters he 
 now has to deal with, and the great psychological 
 remedies, kindness and forbearance, are brought 
 into requisition in taming him, and their never-fail- 
 
174 SHAKSPEAEE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 ing potency is soon apparent in rendering him 
 quite docile. Stephano, the jolly butler, aside from 
 his philanthropy, is a far better medical psycholo- 
 gist than the great Prospero, with all his magic art. 
 The butler soon recognizes his condition, and his 
 universal and all-potent remedy, the bottle.^ with 
 other " appliances and means to boot," is brought 
 to bear successfully in taming and treating the 
 man-monster. 
 
 '•^Stephano. He is in his fit now, and does not talk after the 
 wisest ; he shall taste of my bottle ; if he have never drank wine 
 before, it will go near to remove his fit. If I can recover him 
 and keep him tame, I will not take too much for him." 
 
 The never-failing influence of kindness and hu- 
 mane treatment is soon apparent. His fears are 
 quieted, his confidence, as is apparent in the lan- 
 guage which follows, is partially, if not wholly, se- 
 cured, and the wonder and astonishment he mani- 
 fests at the treatment he receives, so unlike any- 
 thing he has ever been accustomed to, have been 
 witnessed in hundreds of instances by the humane 
 and philanthropic, in their intercourse with such 
 degraded beings, whether savage, imbecile, or in- 
 sane : — 
 
 " Caliban. Thou dost me yet but little hurt ; 
 Thou wilt anon, I know it by thy trembling." 
 
 Stephano perseveres in the use of his remedies, 
 both material and psychological, with full confi- 
 dence in their efficacy : — 
 
 *' Stephano. Come on your ways ; open your mouth ; here is 
 
CALIBAN. 175 
 
 that which will give language to you, cat ; open your mouth ; 
 this will shake your shaking, I can tell you, and that soundly ; 
 you cannot tell who is your friend ; open your chaps again." 
 
 The means work out the desired effects, and their 
 potency is soon apparent in the change wrought 
 upon Caliban, who now begins to appreciate them 
 fully:- 
 
 " Caliban. These be fine things, and if they be not sprites, 
 that 's a brave god, and bears celestial liquor. I will kneel to 
 him. I '11 swear, upon that bottle^ to be thy true subject ; for the 
 liquor is not earthly." 
 
 As his blood warms up under the influence of 
 the kindness and the wine of the benevolent butler, 
 he comes to regard his benefactor as something 
 superhuman, and the manner in which Stephano 
 humors the delusion of the creature is laughably- 
 characteristic and ludicrous : — 
 
 " Cal. Hast thou not dropt from heaven ? 
 
 Steph. Out of the moon I do assure thee. I was the man 
 in the moon when time was. 
 
 Cal. I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee. My 
 mistress showed me thee, and thy dog and bush." 
 
 Like all savages when first made acquainted 
 with the bottle, he takes kindly to it, though the 
 language used towards Stephano seems as much 
 prompted by the humane treatment he has received 
 at his hands as from the liberal potations which the 
 butler has thrust down his throat. Whatever influ- 
 ence the drink may have had upon him, it is abun- 
 dantly evident that, like every creature, however 
 degraded, he is not unsusceptible to kind and con- 
 
176 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 siderate treatment; and, not unlike many of the 
 lower animals, when moved by kindness, he takes 
 every means which his ingenuity can suggest, to 
 show his gratitude. Mark how the exuberance of 
 his gratitude is pom-ed out in what follows. How 
 characteristic is the thought and feeling, and the 
 language used in giving utterance to it ! 
 
 " Caliban. I '11 show tliee every fertile inch of the island, 
 And kiss thy foot : I pr'ythee be my god. . . . 
 I '11 show thee the best springs, I '11 pluck thee berries, 
 I '11 fish for thee, and get thee wood enough. 
 A plague upon the tyrant that I serve ! 
 I '11 bear him no more sticks, but follow thee, 
 Thou wondrous man. 
 
 I pr'ythee let me bring thee where crabs grow ; 
 And I, with my long nails, will dig thee pig-nuts, 
 Show thee a jay's nest, and instruct thee how 
 To snare the nimble marmozet. I '11 bring thee 
 To clustering filberds, and sometimes I '11 get thee 
 Young sea-mells from the rock." 
 
 / Caliban is by no means that monstrous offspring 
 of the poet's imagination which he is sometimes 
 supposed, — an evolution of the superfecundity of 
 his genius. Those who, like the writer, have spent 
 a portion of their lives in the former slave States 
 of America, will remember to have met more than 
 once with individuals quite similar to Caliban in 
 many respects, if not identical with him, among 
 the lower grades of plantation slaves. The per- 
 sonal appearance, conduct, mental and moral char- 
 acter of many of the " contrabands " of Fortress 
 Monroe and Port Royal, as set forth by the corre- 
 
CALIBAN. 177 
 
 spondents of the Northern press, show that Caliban 
 has many representatives in real life, who were held 
 in bondage by the " chivalry " of the South ; the 
 boasted affection for their masters of these modern 
 Calibans of the actual and the present, and their 
 readiness to fight for them, as has been abundantly 
 shown, is about as great as that of the Caliban of 
 the poet for his tormenting master Prospero. 
 The parallel between the conduct of some of the 
 " contrabands " at Beaufort, after their rebellious 
 masters had fled and left them " a law unto them- 
 selves," and that of Caliban when he finds himself 
 free from his master, and seeks to attach himself to 
 Stephano as they sought to attach themselves to 
 their liberators, is very marked, and must be appar- 
 ent to every one. The savage and uncultivated 
 nature of both, made desperate by years of degrad- 
 ing and abusive servitude, shows itself in the out- 
 rages they are ready to commit, when suffered to 
 act unrestrained by the superior intelligences that 
 have enslaved them and made them beasts of bur- 
 den. 
 
 " Col. I am subject to a tyrant, a sorcerer, 
 That by his cunning has cheated me of this island." 
 
 Like Caliban, the lower and more ignorant or- 
 ders of the blacks of the South have proverbially a 
 firm belief in magic, sorcery, and the machinations 
 of a personal devil, who " goes about like a roaring 
 lion " seeking to devour them, soul and body. 
 
 " Caliban. I say, by sorcery he got this isle ; 
 From me he got it. If thy greatness will 
 12 
 
178 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 Revenge it on him, thou shalt be lord of it, and I '11 serve 
 
 thee. . . . 
 1*11 yield him thee asleep, when thou mayest knock a nail into 
 
 his head. . . . 
 *Tisa custom with him i' the afternoon to sleep: then thou 
 
 mayest brain him." 
 
 How they love their masters is quite apparent, 
 we conceive, from the subjoined extracts respecting 
 the conduct of the slaves after the desertion of 
 Beaufort, which we are tempted to bring forward 
 here to complete the parallel. 
 
 " We went through spacious houses," says the 
 correspondent of the " New York Tribune," " where 
 only a week ago families were living in luxury, 
 and saw their costly furniture despoiled, books and 
 papers thrown out upon the floor, mirrors broken, 
 safes smashed, pianos on the sidewalks, feather- 
 beds ripped open, and even the filth of the negroes 
 left lying in parlors and bedchambers. The de- 
 struction had been wanton ; in many instances no 
 purposes of plunder could have been served, but 
 simply a malicious love for mischief gratified. 
 Entirely of their own accord the negroes perpe- 
 trated these enormities. We looked through the 
 rooms so ruthlessly devasted and so sadly changed, 
 out on the luxuriant gardens, blooming with tropi- 
 cal plants and redolent with unfamiliar fragrance, 
 and saw the November sun shining on a landscape 
 as warm and genial as our Northern fields in June. 
 The slaves had in many instances been shot at by 
 their masters for refusing to follow them." " There 
 can hardly be a doubt," continues this correspond- 
 
CALIBAN. 179 
 
 ent, " that the whole slave population, in this vicin- 
 ity, is ready at least to desert its masters, — is not 
 only ready and determined to do so, but has done 
 so already by thousands. It is not yet a week 
 since this battle, one of whose results is so tremen- 
 dous." 
 
 The following from the correspondence of the 
 " New York Herald," renders the parallel between 
 these Southern Calibans and the Caliban of our 
 poet still more striking. Read the language of the 
 latter after he attaches himself to Stephano, and 
 witness his joy in the idea of being free from his 
 tormenting master, and then the following from this 
 correspondent : — 
 
 " Contraband slaves still flock into the camp, and 
 find profitable employment and plenty to eat from 
 the representatives of the United States. It is 
 highly amusing to see these poor creatures, after 
 their day's work, give expression to their exuberant 
 spirits at the change in their condition from that of 
 animals to that of human beings. At night, groups 
 of them gather together ; they sing and dance and 
 otherwise enjoy themselves, and seem grateful to 
 our troops for their unexpected delivery from the 
 hands of their tyrant masters." 
 
 " Caliban. I'll fish for thee and get thee wood enough. 
 A plague upon the tyrant that I serve ! 
 I '11 bear him no more sticks, but follow thee, 
 Thou wondrous man." 
 
 The further consideration of this parallelism be- 
 tween the savage of the poet's imagination and 
 
180 SHAKSPEARE'S IMBECILES. 
 
 the real Calibans of the actual and the present, 
 would open an interesting chapter in comparative 
 psychology, a subject which is now beginning to 
 attract the serious attention of the mental and 
 moral philosopher, and from the further develop- 
 ment of which we venture to predict the most in- 
 teresting and important results. Here also the 
 poet has pointed out the road and has himself led 
 the way, leaving his footprints further in the direc- 
 tion yet to be trod than any other who has under- 
 taken the journey. Our great bard has something 
 applicable to all conceivable circumstances ; he has 
 written for all time, past, present and to come. 
 His was not only " a mind reflecting ages past," 
 but it was also one " to outrun hasty time," pene- 
 trate the mysteries of ages yet to come, and dis- 
 cover what lies hid in the " deep, dusky dungeons " 
 of futurity ; and we cannot conceive that the evolu- 
 tion of the great Platonic year would find him ob- 
 solete, but still unexhausted and inexhaustible. 
 
PART III. 
 
 SHAKSPEAEE'S 
 DELINEATION OF SUICIDE. 
 
 OTHELLO. 
 
 THAT state of mind, whether healthy and nor- 
 mal, or unhealthy and abnormal, which leads 
 an individual to the commission of self-murder, was 
 one not likely to escape the careful observation and 
 comment of the great psychologist of the sixteenth 
 century ; therefore, scattered throughout the whole 
 extent of his works, we find allusions to this sub- 
 ject, characterized by that deep, philosophical, and 
 comprehensive knowledge of the motives and main- 
 springs of human action, which, as we have taken 
 occasion frequently to remark, places him preemi- 
 nently above all others of ancient or modern times. 
 Some of the greatest minds have contemplated 
 this subject ; many of them, alas ! viewing it 
 through the dark, dismal shadows of their own sad 
 experience. 
 
 One of the greatest minds of modern times has 
 been brought to bear upon it, and a volume of 
 great power and all-absorbing interest has been the 
 result. Yet the " Sorrows of Werther," with its 
 
182 SHAKSPEARE'S SUICIDES. 
 
 deep analysis of feeling and sentiment, is but an 
 amplification of Hamlet's great soliloquy, " To be, 
 or not to be." And aside from the light which 
 modern science has shed upon suicide as a mani- 
 festation of nervous disease, this soliloquy, uttered 
 near three hundred years since, is the " end of the 
 law" upon the subject when viewed in the ab- 
 stract. 
 
 Shakspeare evidently regarded suicide as result- 
 ing not so much from what might be termed a 
 iporbid mental process, in the strict scientific accep- 
 tation of the term, as from a false moral philoso- 
 phy, acting upon minds which had been wrought 
 to the point of desperation, though not of disease, 
 and from false views of man in his relations to 
 time, death, and eternity. Moreover, it was not his 
 purpose either to furnish us a philosophy of suicide, 
 or to regard the subject from a scientific point of 
 view and as the result of a certain diseased mental 
 process. He certainly was not the man to sit upon. 
 a coroner's inquest, and pronounce upon oath a ver- 
 dict of " temporary insanity " upon every case of 
 suicide that came up. This is a psychological 
 refinement reserved for modern times, and one of 
 the things " not dreamed of " in his psychology. 
 Therefore, all his principal suicides, as it will be 
 observed, perpetrate the crime in their natural, at 
 least, if not in their sober senses. 
 
 Prominent among these stands Othello, a char- 
 acter which we think could not have been rendered 
 insane by any combination of moral causes. 
 
OTHELLO. 183 
 
 In all the characters that become insane, as we 
 have already shown, the experienced psychologist 
 detects at once the peculiar physical, mental, and 
 moral organization which constitutes the inherent 
 predisposition. He perceives that the germ of the 
 disease has been implanted there originally, and 
 only awaits the influence of adequate exciting 
 causes, to bring about its complete development. 
 In Othello this is not present, and though " per- 
 plexed in the extreme," and wrought up to the 
 highest pitch of desperation, his mind, up to the 
 moment he plunges the dagger into his heart, never 
 loses its balance even temporarily. If in the mind 
 of Othello there had existed the slighest inherent 
 tendency to mental disease, the jealousy and ex- 
 treme perplexity, which have so strong an influence 
 in calling it forth, would most certainly have ren- 
 dered him insane, and that they do not may, we 
 think, naturally be attributed to the entire absence 
 of any such natural tendency. 
 
 No one will pretend to aflirm that Othello was 
 naturally endowed with the highest order of intel- 
 lect. He has great force of will, and all the quali- 
 ties calculated to adorn the soldier, — open, gener- 
 ous, brave, faithful, confiding, and to the last de- 
 gree "jealous of honor ; " in short, possessed natu- 
 rally of the exact qualities necessary to be acted 
 upon by the deep cunning and base treachery of 
 one endowed with a high order of intellect, one 
 who knew exactly how and when and where to 
 him. Othello has not naturally the keen 
 
184 SHAKSPEARE'S SUICIDES. 
 
 penetration and discernment of character necessary 
 to shield him from the machinations of the intel- 
 lectual villain and moral bankrupt who haunts and 
 pursues him to desperation. His reason and judg- 
 ment, though never diseased, he allows to become 
 clouded by the deep passions stirred up within 
 him by this evil genius. His mind sometimes ap- 
 pears to reel and stagger so strongly under the in- 
 fluence of the whirlwind of passion, that once, and 
 only once, is it suggested that it is upset ; and Lo- 
 dovico asks, " Are his wits safe ? is he not light of 
 brain ? " Yet we have no apprehensions of such a 
 result as is here hinted at, and to whatever extrem- 
 ities of desperation he is driven we feel certain that 
 his wits are safe, and that, though he may seem for 
 a moment light of brain, it is but temporary, for he 
 soon recovers his balance, and in the desperation 
 of his passion, with a clear head, sweeps on to the 
 accomplishment of hi^ dark purpose, — 
 
 " Like to the Pontic sea, 
 Whose icy current and compulsive course 
 Ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on 
 To the Propontic and the Hellespont." 
 
 Let us now attempt to trace out and observe the 
 working of the fearful passions which ultimately 
 culminate in homicide and self-murder. With 
 Othello, everything relating to love and matrimo- 
 nial felicity has gone on well up to act third, scene 
 third, of the tragedy. At this point the measure of 
 his happiness seems indeed full and running over. 
 Care rests lightly upon him, though no duty is neg' 
 
OTHELLO. 185 
 
 lected. When aroused, in a former scene, from his 
 balmy slumbers by the drunken brawl into which 
 poor Cassio has been drawn by the deep villain who 
 lies in wait for Othello himself, he disposes of the 
 matter with the energy and the cool commanding 
 decision so characteristic of the true soldier, and 
 says, playfully, to Desdemona, 
 
 " 'T is the soldiers' life 
 To have their balmy slumbers waked with strife." 
 
 In scene third, where Othello and lago come in 
 upon Desdemona, Emilia, and Cassio, as the latter 
 have been importuning her " in most honorable 
 fashion " to interpose in restoring him to favor with 
 his captain, the villain takes occasion to drop the 
 first drop of poison into his cup of felicity. 
 
 " Ha ! I like not that," he utters slyly in the ear 
 of Othello, as something which had slipped uninten- 
 tionally from his lips. He here intimates to Othello 
 most adroitly his suspicion that all is not well. 
 The time, the opportunity, and all circumstances 
 are now most fitting, and the result is just what he 
 intended it should be ; a suspicion is aroused in the 
 mind of his victim. The first coil of his fatal web 
 is fastened upon him, to be cautiously woven and 
 strengthened, as time and circumstances may ad- 
 mit. 
 
 " But the Moor 
 Is of a constant, loving, noble nature,'* 
 
 and this suspicion seems to have been nearly dis- 
 sipated by the mere presence and words of Des- 
 demona, though the plot has been so cunningly 
 
186 SHAKSPEARE'S SUICIDES. 
 
 arranged that her discourse regarding Cassio was 
 precisely what was required to confirm it, and on 
 dismissing her kindly and affectionately from his 
 presence, he says : — 
 
 " I will deny thee nothing. . . . 
 Farewell, my Desdemona, I will come to thee straight." 
 
 On her departure, he exclaims in words which 
 indicate thoroughly the intensity of his affection : — 
 
 " Excellent wretch ! Perdition catch my soul, 
 But I do love thee ! and when I love thee not, 
 Chaos is come again." 
 
 The arch intriguer then proceeds to cast another 
 coil about his victim, and with a profound dissim- 
 ulation which Othello has not the discernment to 
 detect, asks shrewdly, and as though the answer 
 would involve something of terrible importance 
 touching the happiness of his victim, — 
 
 <' My noble lord, 
 Did Michael Cassio, when you wooed my lady, 
 Know of your love ? " 
 
 When told that he did, and interrogated as to 
 why he asked such a question, he replies with dia- 
 bdlical coolness, — 
 
 " But for the satisfaction of my thought ; 
 No further harm." 
 
 This thought, the import of which lago conceals 
 so adroitly, until it suits his purpose to reveal it, 
 becomes at once another drop of bitterness in the 
 cup of his noble victim, by stirring up still more 
 
OTHELLO. 187 
 
 his suspicions that all is not well between Cassio 
 and his heart's idol. 
 
 " 0th. Think, my lord ! 
 By Heaven, lie echoes me, 
 As if there were some monster in his thought 
 Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something : 
 I heard thee say but now, — Thou lik'dst not that, 
 When Cassio left my wife. What didst not like ? 
 And, when I told thee, he was of my counsel 
 In my whole course of wooing, thou cry'dst. Indeed ? 
 And didst contract and purse thy brow together, 
 As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain 
 Some horrible conceit." 
 
 Throughout this entire scene we are made to 
 feel the weakness of Othello, and his utter inability 
 to discern and analyze the character and motives 
 of lago, and the lack of that shrewd peneti-ation 
 which would enable him to cope with the intellect- 
 ual villain who besets him, and in whose hand he 
 seems like a little child, to be led in whatever "way 
 may seem fit to the master mind. In this case it is 
 painfully interesting to observe the subtle workings 
 of the strong, acute intellect, and its influence for 
 evil upon the weaker. 
 
 lago proceeds so subtly, and leads on his victim 
 so cautiously, step by step, that Othello seems 
 quite incapable of discerning the contradictions in 
 his conduct and conversation, though striving with 
 all his force of penetration to determine which of 
 the two, lago or Desdemona, is false to him. 
 When lago tells him, — 
 
 " Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy ; 
 
188 SHAKSPEARE'S SUICIDES. 
 
 It is the green-eyed monster, which doth make 
 The meat it feeds on," 
 
 and at the same instant takes every means to add 
 fuel to the passion, Othello is quite incapable of 
 perceiving the contradiction. The dissimulation 
 expressed in the panegyric on good nmne, is alto- 
 gether too profound for Othello, and produces just 
 such an impression as the villain intended it 
 should. 
 
 In the profound duplicity of lago, nothing is bet- 
 ter or more successfully managed than this pretence 
 to put Othello on his guard against the very jeal- 
 ousy he is seeking to bring about ; and among the 
 observations he drops so carelessly from his lips, in 
 working out his evil purpose, we find some of deep 
 psychological significance. With what force, for 
 example, do the following lines fall upon the ears 
 of those who have had repeated opportunities in 
 the course of their professional experience to ob- 
 serve that unfortunate class of melancholies, who, 
 while vastly rich, perhaps, in all that pertains to 
 worldly goods, are, through fear of poverty, " all 
 their life-time subject to bondage " : — 
 
 " lago. Poor, and content, is rich, and rich enough ; 
 But riches fineless, is poor as winter. 
 To him that ever fears he shall be poor." * 
 
 * Numbers of such unfortunates can be pointed out in Lunatic Asy- 
 lums any day. " I have no home and no friends on earth," said one of 
 these to the writer, not long since, with an expression of utter desolation, 
 and the repeated assurance that she had everything that heart could 
 wish, but mental health, was of no avail. She had not this inestimable 
 blessing, and consequently, in the strictest acceptation of the term, was 
 " poor indeed." 
 
OTHELLO. 189 
 
 Towards the conclusion of scene third lago has 
 so far succeeded in worming himself into the con- 
 fidence of Othello, that he waxes more bold. His 
 victim, however, is not firmly within his grasp, and 
 he is yet under the necessity of proceeding some- 
 what cautiously. When lago suggests that, inas- 
 much as Desdemona had deceived her father in 
 marrying him, it may be possible that another 
 passion, hastily conceived, might lead her to de- 
 ceive her husband, he seems, by his expression, to 
 catch at this idea as something new and quite 
 possible. " And so she did," he exclaims. And 
 when lago remarks, 
 
 " I see this hath a little dashed your spirits," 
 
 the complete abstraction of his reply, 
 
 " Not a jot, not a jot," 
 
 shows how fully the thought has taken possession 
 of his mind. And again, when lago remarks, 
 
 " My lord, I see you are moved/' 
 
 his reply shows how intensely his mind is fixed 
 upon the thought which has been suggested : — 
 
 " No, not much moved ; — 
 I do not think but Desdemona 's honest. . . . 
 And yet how Nature erring from itself" — 
 
 When lago takes his leave, Othello asks with 
 great earnestness, 
 
 " Why did I marry ? This honest creature 
 
 Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds." 
 
 Othello seems now to be fully persuaded of 
 
190 SHAKSPEARE'S SUICIDES. • 
 
 the honesty of lago, for a little further on he 
 
 says : — 
 
 " This fellow 's of exceeding honesty, 
 And knows all qualities, with a learned spirit 
 Of human dealing." 
 
 And in the interview with Desdemona imme- 
 diately following, we perceive painfully the in- 
 fluence wrought upon his mind by the first harsh- 
 ness manifested towards his wife. This, although 
 not very marked, is sufficient for her to perceive 
 that something is wrong. 
 
 The passion now deepens, and when lago next 
 meets Othello he seems to feel sure of his victim. 
 
 " lago. The Moor already changes with my poison. 
 Dangerous conceits are, in their nature, poisons, 
 Which, at the first, are scarce found to distaste ; 
 But, with a little act upon the blood, 
 Burn like the mines of sulphur." 
 
 "When the approach of Othello reveals to him 
 the strong working of the poison he speaks of, he 
 says to himself, with a grim, diabolical satisfac- 
 tion, — 
 
 " Not poppy, nor mandragora, 
 Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, 
 Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep 
 Which thou ow'dst yesterday." 
 
 The following shows how firmly his suspicions 
 have taken possession of his mind, even at this 
 early period, and how thoroughly unhappy he has 
 been made by them, even though they do not 
 breathe forth that utter desperation which we shall 
 perceive further on : — 
 
OTHELLO. 191 
 
 " Oh, now, forever, 
 Farewell the tranquil mind ! farewell content 1 
 Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, 
 That make ambition virtue ! Oh, farewell ! 
 Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, 
 The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, 
 The royal banner ; and all quality. 
 Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war ! 
 And, O you rhortal engines, whose rude throats 
 The immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit, 
 Farewell ! Othello's occupation 's gone." 
 
 Although we are made to perceive from the 
 beginning that the doom of Othello has been fixed, 
 — that he is not and could not, from the character 
 of his intellectual organization, be any match for 
 the arch intriguer who besets him, — it is painful to 
 witness the vain struggles of the noble victim. He 
 strides backward and forward as though lashed by- 
 furies ; and at every turn in his rugged pathway 
 he is met by the incarnate devil who seeks only too 
 successfully to destroy him, both soul and body. 
 He struggles manfully with the monster, seizes him 
 by the throat, in his desperate efforts to discover 
 whether he is honest or treacherous, and says, — 
 
 " Be sure of it; give me the ocular proof; 
 Or, by the worth of mine eternal soul. 
 Thou hadst been better have been born a dog, 
 Than answer my waked wrath." 
 
 All this passion, however, is weak and worthless, 
 and when weighed in the balance with the cool, 
 calm intellectuality which opposes it, becomes 
 really a " trifle light as air." A few soft words from 
 
192 SHAKSPEARE'S SUICIDES. 
 
 the destroyer, who never loses temper, turn away 
 his wrath. And now, when the time is come, he 
 is ready at the strenuous demand, with his " confir- 
 mations strong as proofs of holy writ." 
 
 He first brings forward his own personal expe- 
 rience in confirmation of the suspicion he has 
 aroused, by relating what occurred when he lay 
 with Cassioj and was troubled with a raging tooth, 
 that, 
 
 " This may help to thicken other proofs, 
 That do demonstrate thinly." 
 
 The plot is now arranged so consummately that 
 the " other proof," the handkerchief, taken in con- 
 nection with what precedes, appeals so strongly to 
 Othello's personal experience, that in the state of 
 mind in which it finds him, it is overpowering and 
 quite convincing. When lago tells him, — 
 
 " Such a hankerchief 
 Did I to-day 
 See Cassio wipe his beard with,** 
 
 his flaming anger is aroused to a pitch which noth- 
 ing but blood can quench. 
 
 " Oh that the slave had forty thousand lives ; 
 One is too poor, too weak for my revenge ! 
 Now do I see 't is true. Look here, lago ; 
 All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven. 
 'T is gone ! — 
 
 Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell ! 
 Yield up, O love, thy crown, and hearted throne, 
 To tyrannous hate ! swell, bosom, with thy fraught ; 
 For 't is of aspic's tongues ! — 
 Oh blood, lago, blood ! " 
 
OTHELLO. 193 
 
 When lago promises to revenge him by taking 
 the life of Cassio, and begs him deceitfully to spare 
 the life of his wife, he replies : — 
 
 " Damn her, lewd minx ; . . . 
 . . . I will withdraw 
 To furnish me with some swift means of death 
 For the fair devil." 
 
 Nothing is more apparent in the character of 
 Othello, than the great disparity between the 
 strength of his passions and affections, and the 
 weakness of his perceptions, his incapability of dis- 
 cerning clearly the character and motives of others. 
 When we next meet him, in scene fourth of the 
 same act, it would seem as though the mere pres- 
 ence of Desdemona, and the simplicity and truth- 
 fulness of her language, should disarm him ; and it 
 does to a certain extent. But the plot has been so 
 skilfully arranged that even this is made to work 
 against her, in the plea which, conscious of her 
 innocence, she makes with so much earnestness 
 for the restoration of Cassio. Othello does not,^ 
 seem here to nurse his passion with a morbid satis- J 
 faction, as an insane man will cherish a delusion, but; 
 struggles manfully against it with such intellectual 
 force as he has been naturally endowed with, and 
 as though he would fain believe that his wife was 
 innocent, and he himself deceived, in spite of all 
 the evidence brought to bear against her by the 
 demi-devil who plots her destruction. But these 
 " proofs " are so cunningly devised that, to the 
 " jealous mind," they are quite conclusive, — 
 
 13 
 
194 SHAKSPEARE'S SUICIDES. 
 
 " strong as proofs of holy writ," — and to every 
 solicitation he reiterates " the handkerchief," " the 
 handkerchief," and concludes by dismissing her 
 abruptly and harshly from his presence. 
 
 In act fourth, scene first, the mind of Othello 
 seems for the first time to stagger with the heavy 
 burden of passion under which it travels. He here 
 seems to make an effort to be rid of the convictions 
 forced upon him, but is met at every turn by some 
 tormenting suggestion of his cool, cautious, and 
 cunning adversary, and when he reminds him of 
 the handkerchief, he replies somewhat abstractedly, 
 like one waking up from a reverie : — 
 
 " By Heaven, I would most gladly have forgot it : — 
 Thou said'st, O ! it comes o'er my memory, 
 As doth the raven o'er the infected house, 
 Boding to all." 
 
 The terrible mental agony which he now suffers 
 firom the broad, pointed insinuations of lago, is 
 plainly indicated in the broken ejaculations that 
 follow. These broken reflections and fearful starts, 
 however, bear little resemblance to the incoherence 
 of raving madness, and could not be mistaken for 
 such by the most careless observer. This intense 
 mental agony is not disease, though it overcomes 
 completely, for a moment, his strong physical 
 powers, and he 
 
 " Falls in a trance." 
 
 " My medicines work ! " says the villain, con- 
 templating the fearful suffering of his prostrate 
 
 " Thus credulous fools are caught." 
 
OTHELLO. 195 
 
 When Cassio enters, lago is not in the least dis- 
 concerted, but to his question, " What is the mat- 
 ter ? " replies with diabolical coolness : — 
 
 " My lord is fallen into an epilepsy ; 
 This is his second fit ; he had one yesterday." 
 
 The intimate connection between epilepsy and 
 the " savage madness " which follows the fit in 
 many cases of this dreadful malady, Shakspeare 
 seems to have understood thoroughly, for when 
 Cassio proposes to "rub Othello about the tem- 
 ples," lago replies : — 
 
 " jNo, forbear. 
 
 The lethargy must have its quiet course ; 
 If not, he foams at mouth ; and, by and by, 
 Breaks out to savage madness." 
 
 At the first glance it may seem to the psycholo- 
 gist that lago manifested ignorance of the nature 
 and course of the epileptic seizure, by intimating 
 that rubbing the temples would have any influence 
 whatever upon the fit, or what follows it. But it 
 will be perceived, on looking closely, that he says 
 this simply to prevent Cassio from interfering to 
 arouse him, which, just at this moment, did not 
 suit his purposes, and he therefore finds a pretext 
 to dismiss him : — 
 
 " lago. Look, he stirs. 
 Do you withdraw yourself a little while, 
 He will recover straight ; when he is gone, 
 I would on great occasion speak with you." 
 
 From the terrible struggle through which he has 
 just passed, he emerges with a clear head, and 
 
196 SHAKSPEARE'S SUICIDES. 
 
 nothing now, we are convinced, will be sufficient 
 to upset his mind, whatsoever range he may suffer 
 his passions to take. In the scene between Cassio 
 and lago which follows, and which he witnesses 
 unperceived, he becomes more and more wrought 
 up, but manages, though apparently with great 
 difficulty, to control himself. At times he seems 
 ready to spring forth upon Cassio with the fierce- 
 ness of the tiger, more especially when he thinks 
 that he perceives the fatal handkerchief in his 
 hands. 
 
 When Cassio has taken his leave, he gives vent 
 to his feelings and passions to lago, who, as usual, 
 takes occasion to inflame him more and more 
 against his officer and his wife : — 
 
 " I would have him nine years a-killing : 
 A fine woman ! a fair woman ! a sweet woman." 
 
 " Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be damned to-night ; for 
 she shall not live. No, my heart is turned to stone ; I strike it, 
 and it hurts my hand." 
 
 Yet, hard as he declares his heart to be, her 
 image is there firmly enthroned, and there it will 
 remain, in spite of all his efforts to cast it down to 
 destruction, and in the very next breath he says : — 
 
 " Oh, the world hath not a sweeter creature ; ... So deli- 
 cate with her needle ! An admirable musician ! Oh, she will 
 sing the savageness out of a bear ! Of so high and plenteous 
 wit and invention ! . . . And then of so gentle a condition ! 
 . . . . O, lago, the pity of it, lago ! " 
 
 When lago suggests, with diabolical irony, that 
 
OTHELLO. 197 
 
 " If you are so fond over her Iniquity, give her patent to 
 offend ; for, If it touch not you, it comes near nobody, — " 
 
 his mind returns to the consciousness of his in- 
 juries, and he exclaims : — 
 
 " I will chop her into messes ! " 
 
 The fearful working of contending passions here 
 is sufficient, it would seem, to derange any mental 
 organization not cast in the strongest mould. This 
 organization, however, maintains strictly its integ- 
 rity, though, in the scene between Othello, Desde- 
 mona, and Lodovico, which follows, he has become 
 so much changed by what he has passed through, 
 that the latter seems to tremble for the safety of 
 his wits, and asks seriously if he is not " light of 
 brain." But Lodovico, without being fully aware 
 of what has preceded, has just witnessed the blow 
 which, during the first temporary loss of self-con- 
 trol, he has inflicted upon his wife, accompanied 
 by the epithet " devil," and the harsh command to 
 be out of his sight. All this conduct follows very 
 naturally from what has taken place, though un- 
 perceived, in the immediate presence of Lodovico 
 at the time. 
 
 Lodovico naturally supposes that his mind was 
 occupied by the packet recalling him from Cyprus ; 
 but the all-absorbing thought, the inconstancy of 
 his wife, casts the contents of this entirely into the 
 background, as is evident from his replies to the inno- 
 cent remark of Desdemona respecting the " unkind 
 breach," which she says she " would do much to 
 
198 SHAKSPEARE'S SUICIDES. 
 
 atone for the love I bear to Cassio." In the mental 
 obtuseness which results from his fierce passion, he 
 construes this into a direct acknowledgment of her 
 love for Cassio, and the tormenting thought doubt- 
 less suggests the exclamation, " fire and brimstone," 
 in which he gives vent to his anger. 
 
 And when he follows this by striking her in 
 Lodovico's presence, and calling her " devil," Lo- 
 dovico is so much surprised by the change that 
 has come over him, that he declares, — 
 
 " This would not be believed in Venice, 
 Though I should swear I saw it." 
 
 And further on he asks : — 
 
 " Is this the noble Moor whom our full senate 
 Call all-in-all sufficient ? — this the noble nature 
 Whom passion could not shake ? whose solid virtue 
 The shot of accident, nor dart of chance, 
 Could neither gr^ze, nor pierce ? " 
 
 In the painful scene which follows, between 
 Othello and his wife, (scene second, act fourth,) we 
 hardly know which victim excites the more pity, 
 though it must be confessed our sympathy for 
 either is not the most profound, particularly as the 
 simplicity and obtuseness of blind passion has had 
 much to do in bringing about their calamities. 
 
 It is impossible for us to feel towards Othello as 
 we have been made to feel towards Lear or Ham- 
 let. The latter struggle in the grasp of a fearful 
 and inexorable disease, which they cannot in the 
 nature of things cast off; but the former is led cap- 
 tive by a blind passion, and the influence brought 
 
OTHELLO. 199 
 
 to bear upon him by an intellect superior to his 
 own. Yet we cannot listen to the eloquent and 
 gushing sorrow expressed in the lines which follow, 
 without pitying the noble victim of such profound 
 treachery and dissimulation : — 
 
 " Had it pleased Heaven 
 
 To try me with affliction ; had he rained 
 
 All kinds of sores, and shames, on my bare head ; 
 
 Steeped me in poverty to the very lips ; 
 
 Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes ; 
 
 I should have found in some part of my soul 
 
 A drop of patience ; but (alas !) to make me 
 
 A fixed figure, for the time of Scorn 
 
 To point his slow, unmoving finger at, — 
 
 O! O! 
 
 Yet could I bear that too : well, very well : 
 
 But there, where I have garnered up my heart ; 
 
 Where either I must live, or bear no life ; 
 
 The fountain from the which my current runs, 
 
 Or else dries up ; to be discarded thence ! 
 
 Or keep it as a cistern, for foul toads 
 
 To knot and gender in ! — turn thy complexion there ! 
 
 Patience, thou young and rose-lipped cherubim ; 
 
 Ay, there look grim as hell ! . . . 
 O thou weed 
 
 Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet, 
 
 That the sense aches at thee. Would thou hadst ne'er 
 
 been born ! " 
 
 In the whole course of the play we find no more 
 
 delicate touch of nature than the utter confusion 
 
 of mind which comes over Desdemona, from the 
 
 effect of the shock imparted by the conduct and 
 
 language of Othello in the scene just quoted : — 
 
 " Emil. How do you, madam ? How do you, my good lady? 
 
200 SHAKSPEARE'S SUICIDES. 
 
 Des. 'Faith, half asleep. 
 
 Emil. Good madam, what 's the matter with my lord ? 
 
 Des. With who ? 
 
 Emil. Why, with my lord, madam ? 
 
 Des. Who is thy lord ? 
 
 Emil. He that is yours, sweet lady. 
 
 Des. I have none. Do not talk to me, Emilia ; 
 I cannot weep ; nor answer have I none. 
 But what should go by water. Pr'ythee, to-night 
 Lay on my bed my wedding-sheets, — remember ; — 
 And call thy husband hither." 
 
 Let us now pass on to consider briefly the tragic 
 occurrences of the fearful night above referred to, 
 in which the wedding-sheets become the winding- 
 sheets of Desdemona, the innocent and unfortunate 
 victim of the base treachery and blind passion we 
 have attempted to trace. 
 
 What first strikes us here is the complete self- 
 control of Othello. The fierce passions manifested 
 upon former occasions are not now apparent, and 
 in their place we find the cool, calm determination 
 of one whose mind is fixed firmly upon the ac- 
 complishment of his purposes. We perceive no 
 wavering, as upon former occasions ; no halting 
 between two opinions. His mind was never more 
 firm than in this hour of utter desperation, and he 
 reasons calmly upon what he is about to undertake, 
 upon the cause and consequences : — 
 
 " It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul : 
 Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars ! 
 
 It is the cause 
 
 Put out the light, and then put out the light ! 
 If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, 
 
OTHELLO. 201 
 
 I can again thy former light restore, 
 
 Should I repent me ; — but once put out thine, 
 
 Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, 
 
 I know not where is that Promethean heat 
 
 That can thy light relume. When I have plucked thy rose, 
 
 I cannot give it vital growth again ; 
 
 It needs must wither." 
 
 After the accomplishment of the bloody deed, 
 the full consciousness of his great and irreparable 
 bereavement comes over him with fearful force, and 
 the feeling of utter desolation finds expression in 
 the words which follow : — 
 
 " My wife ! my wife ! What wife ? I have no wife. 
 Oh, insupportable ! Oh, heavy hour ! 
 Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse 
 Of sun and moon ; and that the affrighted globe 
 Should yawn at alteration." 
 
 But the most severe trial for the mind and feel- 
 ings of Othello is yet to come ; it is the remorse 
 which results from the discovery that he has been 
 so grossly deceived and led to kill " the sweetest 
 innocent that e'er did lift up eye." 
 
 But even this remorse, it will be observed, is not 
 sufficient to destroy his mental integrity ; his mind, 
 even in his utter desperation, is composed, and 
 there is a degree of sublimity in the stolid calmness 
 with which he takes a survey of his condition, and 
 its utter hopelessness either in this world or that 
 into which he is about to plunge unbidden. He 
 flies to suicide, not from any hope of relief from 
 the awful burden of remorse and sorrow under 
 which he travels, for this burden he expects to bear 
 
202 SHAKSPEARE'S SUICIDES. 
 
 even in that "undiscovered country from whose 
 bourn no traveller returns." And, moreover, he 
 seems to regard this, and whatever may be laid 
 upon him in addition when he arrives there, as the 
 •just punishment of his weakness, his folly, and his 
 crime. 
 
 Even the look of his innocent victim in eternity 
 is to be his suf&cient condemnation. 
 
 " When we shall meet at Compt 
 That look of thine will hurj my soul from heaven, 
 And fiends will snatch at it." 
 
 But notwithstanding, he is ready for anything 
 that can, even for a moment, distract his mind from 
 the sorrow and remorse which springs from the 
 sight of Desdemona, " whose breath these hands 
 have newly stopped ; " and before rushing into her 
 presence and that of his Judge, he invokes upon 
 himself the most awful physical torments the im- 
 agination is capable of conceiving for the lost. 
 
 " Whip me, ye devils, 
 From the possession of this heavenly sight ! 
 Blow me about in winds ! roast me in sulphur ! 
 Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire ! 
 O Desdemona ! Desdemona ! dead ? 
 Dead? Oh! Oh! Oh!" 
 
 Immediately after, when the whole mystery of 
 his deception is unravelled before him, and in the 
 presence of lago, he is quite calm, and in view of 
 his folly and weakness he exclaims, — 
 " Ofool! fool! fool!" 
 
 After passing through all the mental suffering he 
 
OTHELLO. 203 
 
 has been called upon to endure, the complete in- 
 tegrity of his mind is nowhere more clearly shown 
 than in his last words : 
 
 " Soft you ; a word or two, before you go. 
 I have done the state some service, and they know it ; 
 No more of that. I pray you, in your letters, 
 When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, 
 Speak of me as I am ; nothing extenuate, 
 Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak 
 Of one, that loved not wisely, but too well ; 
 Of one, not easily jealous, but being wrought, 
 Perplexed in the extreme ; of one, whose hand. 
 Like the base Judean, threw a pearl away, 
 Richer than all his tribe ; of one, whose subdued eyes, 
 Albeit unused to the melting mood, 
 Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees 
 Their medicinal gum. Set you down this ; 
 And say, besides, — that in Aleppo once, 
 Where a malignant and a turbaned Turk 
 Beat a Venetian, and traduced the state, 
 I took by the throat the circumcised dog. 
 And smote him — thus." [Stabs himself. 
 
 The important psychological lesson inculcated 
 by the poet in the delineation of the character of 
 Othello, namely, that there are certain mental con- 
 stitutions which no combination of moral causes 
 can overthrow, is nowhere more clearly taught 
 than here. The mind of Othello, as we took oc- 
 casion to remark before, belonged strictly to this 
 class ; the inherent germ was not present, and con- 
 sequently the disease could not be developed. 
 
 As we pen these concluding lines, we are re- 
 
204 SHAKSPEARE'S SUICIDES. ^1^^ 
 
 minded that upon this very day (April 23d, 1864,) 
 the whole civilized world is commemorating the 
 three hundredth anniversary of the birth of Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare, and not only the great, the 
 noble, and the good of the isle which gave him 
 birth are gathered reverently around the hallowed 
 earth in which rests all that was mortal of the 
 greatest among the sons of song, but the " isles 
 of the sea " and the " uttermost parts of the earth " 
 are striving together to do homage to his mem- 
 ory. Eloquent and loving words are everywhere 
 being uttered in the noble tongue which, infinitely 
 above all others, he has done so much to adorn. 
 This is as it should be, and however humble the 
 offering, if it be brought reverently and in love, let 
 it not be utterly despised. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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