IN THREE PARTS.
DURING the time of the civil wars of York and
Lancaster, England was a perfect bear-garden, and
Shakespear has given us a very lively picture of
the scene. The three parts of HENRY VI. convey
a picture of very little else; and are inferior
to the other historical plays. They have brilliant
passages; but the general ground-work is
comparatively poor and meagre, the style "flat
and unraised." There are few lines like the following:--
"Glory is like a circle in the water;|
Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself,
Till by broad spreading it disperse to naught."
The first part relates to the wars in France
after the death of Henry V. and the story of the
Maid of Orleans. She is here almost as scurvily
treated as in Voltaire's Pucelle. Talbot is a
very magnificent sketch: there is something as
formidable in this portrait of him, as there would
be in a monumental figure of him or in the sight
of the armour which he wore. The scene in
which he visits the Countess of Auvergne, who
seeks to entrap him, is a very spirited one, and
his description of his own treatment while a
prisoner to the French not less remarkable.
"Salisbury. Yet tell'st thou not how thou wert entertain'd.|
Talbot. With scoffs and scorns, and contumelious taunts,
In open market-place produced they me,
To be a public spectacle to all.
Here, said they, is the terror of the French,
The scarecrow that affrights our children so.
Then broke I from the officers that led me,
And with my nails digg'd stones out of the ground,
To hurl at the beholders of my shame.
My grisly countenance made others fly,
None durst come near for fear of sudden death.
In iron walls they deem'd me not secure:
So great a fear my name amongst them spread,
That they suppos'd I could rend bars of steel,
And spurn in pieces posts of adamant.
Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had:
They walk'd about me every minute-while;
And if I did but stir out of my bed,
Ready they were to shoot me to the heart."
The second part relates chiefly to the contests
between the nobles during the minority of
Henry, and the death of Gloucester, the good
Duke Humphrey. The character of Cardinal
Beaufort is the most prominent in the group:
the account of his death is one of our author's
master-pieces. So is the speech of Gloucester
to the nobles on the loss of the provinces of
France by the king's marriage with Margaret of
Anjou. The pretensions and growing ambition
of the Duke of York, the father of Richard III.
are also very ably developed. Among the episodes,
the tragi-comedy of Jack Cade, and the
detection of the impostor Simcox are truly edifying.
The third part describes Henry's loss of his
crown: his death takes place in the last act,
which is usually thrust into the common acting
play of Richard III. The character of Gloucester,
afterwards King Richard, is here very powerfully
commenced, and his dangerous designs
and long-reaching ambition are fully described in
his soliloquy in the third act, beginning, "Aye,
Edward will use women honourably." Henry
VI. is drawn as distinctly as his high-spirited
Queen, and notwithstanding the very mean
figure which Henry makes as a king, we still
feel more respect for him than for his wife.
We have already observed that Shakespear
was scarcely more remarkable for the force and
marked contrasts of his characters than for the
truth and subtlety with which he has distinguished
those which approached the nearest to
each other. For instance, the soul of Othello
is hardly more distinct from that of Iago than
that of Desdemona is shewn to be from Aemilia's;
the ambition of Macbeth is as distinct
from the ambition of Richard III. as it is from
the meekness of Duncan; the real madness of
Lear is as different from the feigned madness of
Edgar [There is another instance of the same distinction in
Hamlet and Ophelia. Hamlet's pretended madness would
make a very good real madness in any other author.]
as from the babbling of the fool; the
contrast between wit and folly in Falstaff and
Shallow is not more characteristic though more
obvious than the gradations of folly, loquacious
or reserved, in Shallow and Silence; and again,
the gallantry of Prince Henry is as little confounded
with that of Hotspur as with the cowardice
of Falstaff, or as the sensual and philosophic
cowardice of the Knight is with the pitiful
and cringing cowardice of Parolles. All these
several personages were as different in Shakespear
as they would have been in themselves: his
imagination borrowed from the life, and every
circumstance, object, motive, passion, operated
there as it would in reality, and produced a
world of men and women as distinct, as true and
as various as those that exist in nature. The
peculiar property of Shakespear's imagination
was this truth, accompanied with the unconsciousness
of nature: indeed, imagination to be
perfect must be unconscious, at least in production;
for nature is so.--We shall attempt one
example more in the characters of Richard II.
and Henry VI.
The characters and situations of both these
persons were so nearly alike, that they would
have been completely confounded by a common-place
poet. Yet they are kept quite distinct
in Shakespear. Both were kings, and both
unfortunate. Both lost their crowns owing to
their mismanagement and imbecility; the one
from a thoughtless, wilful abuse of power, the
other from an indifference to it. The manner
in which they bear their misfortunes corresponds
exactly to the causes which led to them. The
one is always lamenting the loss of his power
which he has not the spirit to regain; the other
seems only to regret that he had ever been king,
and is glad to be rid of the power, with the trouble;
the effeminacy of the one is that of a voluptuary,
proud, revengeful, impatient of contradiction,
and inconsolable in his misfortunes;
the effeminacy of the other is that of an indolent,
good-natured mind, naturally averse to the
turmoils of ambition and the cares of greatness,
and who wishes to pass his time in monkish indolence
and contemplation.--Richard bewails
the loss of the kingly power only as it was the
means of gratifying his pride and luxury; Henry
regards it only as a means of doing right, and
is less desirous of the advantages to be derived
from possessing it than afraid of exercising it
wrong. In knighting a young soldier, he gives
him ghostly advice--
"Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight,|
And learn this lesson, draw thy sword in right."
Richard II. in the first speeches of the play
betrays his real character. In the first alarm of
his pride, on hearing of Bolingbroke's rebellion,
before his presumption has met with any check,
"Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords:|
This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones
Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king
Shall faulter under proud rebellious arms.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
Can wash the balm from an anointed king;
The breath of worldly man cannot depose
The Deputy elected by the Lord.
For every man that Bolingbroke hath prest,
To lift sharp steel against our golden crown,
Heaven for his Richard hath in heavenly pay
A glorious angel; then if angels fight,
Weak men must fall; for Heaven still guards the right."
Yet, notwithstanding this royal confession of
faith, on the very first news of actual disaster,
all his conceit of himself as the peculiar favourite
of Providence vanishes into air.
"But now the blood of twenty thousand men|
Did triumph in my face, and they are fled.
All souls that will be safe fly from my side;
For time hath set a blot upon my pride."
Immediately after, however, recollecting that
"cheap defence" of the divinity of kings which
is to be found in opinion, he is for arming his
name against his enemies.
"Awake, thou coward Majesty, thou sleep'st;|
Is not the King's name forty thousand names?
Arm, arm, my name: a puny subject strikes
At thy great glory."
King Henry does not make any such vapouring
resistance to the loss of his crown, but lets
it slip from off his head as a weight which he is
neither able nor willing to bear; stands quietly
by to see the issue of the contest for his kingdom,
as if it were a game at push-pin, and is
pleased when the odds prove against him.
When Richard first hears of the death of his
favourites, Bushy, Bagot, and the rest, he indignantly
rejects all idea of any further efforts, and
only indulges in the extravagant impatience of
his grief and his despair, in that fine speech
which has been so often quoted:--
"Aumerle. Where is the duke my father, with his power?|
K. Richard. No matter where: of comfort no man speak:
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow in the bosom of the earth!
Let's chuse executors, and talk of wills:
And yet not so--for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own but death,
And that small model of the barren earth,
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For heaven's sake let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of Kings:
How some have been depos'd, some slain in war;
Some haunted by the ghosts they dispossess'd;
Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping kill'd;
All murder'd:--for within the hollow crown,
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps death his court: and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp!
Avowing him a breath, a little scene
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit--
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and, with a little pin,
Bores through his castle wall, and--farewell king!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live on bread like you, feel want, taste grief,
Need friends, like you;--subjected thus,
How can you say to me--I am a king?"
There is as little sincerity afterwards in his
affected resignation to his fate, as there is fortitude
in this exaggerated picture of his misfortunes
before they have happened.
When Northumberland comes back with the
message from Bolingbroke, he exclaims, anticipating
"What must the king do now? Must he submit?|
The king shall do it: must he be depos'd?
The king shall be contented: must he lose
The name of king? O' God's name let it go.
I'll give my jewels for a set of beads;
My gorgeous palace for a hermitage;
My gay apparel for an alms-man's gown;
My figur'd goblets for a dish of wood;
My sceptre for a palmer's walking staff;
My subjects for a pair of carved saints,
And my large kingdom for a little grave--
A little, little grave, an obscure grave."
How differently is all this expressed in King
Henry's soliloquy during the battle with Edward's party:--
"This battle fares like to the morning's war,|
When dying clouds contend with growing light,
What time the shepherd blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day or night.
Here on this mole-hill will I sit me down;
To whom God will, there be the victory!
For Margaret my Queen and Clifford too
Have chid me from the battle, swearing both
They prosper best of all whence I am thence.
Would I were dead, if God's good will were so.
For what is in this world but grief and woe?
O God! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain,
To sit upon a hill as I do now,
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many make the hour full complete,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock,
So many hours must I take my rest,
So many hours must I contemplate,
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean,
So many months ere I shall shear the fleece:
So many minutes, hours, weeks, months, and years
Past over, to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah! what a life were this! how sweet, how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroidered canopy
To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?
O yes it doth, a thousand fold it doth.
And to conclude, the shepherds' homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
Hid viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treasons wait on him."
This is a true and beautiful description of a
naturally quiet and contented disposition, and
not, like the former, the splenetic effusion of
In the last scene of Richard II. his despair
lends him courage: he beats the keeper, slays
two of his assassins, and dies with imprecations
in his mouth against Sir Pierce Exton, who
"had staggered his royal person." Henry,
when he is seized by the deer-stealers, only
reads them a moral lecture on the duty of allegiance
and the sanctity of an oath; and when
stabbed by Gloucester in the Tower, reproaches
him with his crimes, but pardons him his own death.