This play contains little action or violence of passion, yet it has
considerable interest of a more mild and thoughtful cast, and some
of the most striking passages in the author's works. The character
of Queen Katherine is the most perfect delineation of matronly
dignity, sweetness, and resignation, that can be conceived. Her
appeals to the protection of the king, her remonstrances to the
cardinals, her conversations with her women, show a noble and
generous spirit accompanied with the utmost gentleness of nature.
What can be more affecting than her answer to Campeius and Wolsey,
who come to visit her as pretended friends.
--'Nay, forsooth, my friends,
They that must weigh out my afflictions,
They that my trust must grow to, live not here;
They are, as all my comforts are, far hence,
In mine own country, lords.'
Dr. Johnson observes of this play, that 'the meek sorrows and
virtuous distress of Katherine have furnished some scenes, which may
be justly numbered among the greatest efforts of tragedy. But the
genius of Shakespeare comes in and goes out with Katherine. Every
other part may be easily conceived and easily written.' This is
easily said; but with all due deference to so great a reputed
authority as that of Johnson, it is not true. For instance, the
scene of Buckingham led to execution is one of the most affecting
and natural in Shakespeare, and one to which there is hardly an
approach in any other author. Again, the character of Wolsey, the
description of his pride and of his fall, are inimitable, and have,
besides their gorgeousness of effect, a pathos, which only the
genius of Shakespeare could lend to the distresses of a proud, bad
man, like Wolsey. There is a sort of child-like simplicity in the
very helplessness of his situation, arising from the recollection of
his past overbearing ambition. After the cutting sarcasms of his
enemies on his disgrace, against which he bears up with a spirit
conscious of his own superiority, he breaks out into that fine
apostrophe:
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost;
And--when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening--nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new open'd; O how wretched
Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favours!
There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and our ruin,
More pangs and fears than war and women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again!--
There is in this passage, as well as in the well-known dialogue with
Cromwell which follows, something which stretches beyond
commonplace; nor is the account which Griffiths gives of Wolsey's
death less Shakespearian; and the candour with which Queen Katherine
listens to the praise of 'him whom of all men while living she hated
most' adds the last graceful finishing to her character.
Among other images of great individual beauty might be mentioned the
description of the effect of Ann Boleyn's presenting herself to the
crowd at her coronation.
--While her grace sat down
To rest awhile, some half an hour or so,
In a rich chair of state, opposing freely
The beauty of her person to the people.
Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman
That ever lay by man. Which when the people
Had the full view of, 'such a noise arose
As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest,
As loud and to as many tunes'.
The character of Henry VIII is drawn with great truth and spirit. It is
like a very disagreeable portrait, sketched by the hand of a master. His
gross appearance, his blustering demeanour, his vulgarity, his
arrogance, his sensuality, his cruelty, his hypocrisy, his want of
common decency and common humanity, are marked in strong lines. His
traditional peculiarities of expression complete the reality of the
picture. The authoritative expletive, 'Ha!' with which ne intimates his
indignation or surprise, has an effect like the first startling sound
that breaks from a thunder-cloud. He is of all the monarchs in our
history the most disgusting: for he unites in himself all the vices of
barbarism and refinement, without their virtues. Other kings before him
(such as Richard III) were tyrants and murderers out of ambition or
necessity: they gained or established unjust power by violent means:
they destroyed their or made its tenure insecure. But Henry VIII's power
is most fatal to those whom he loves: he is cruel and remorseless to
pamper his luxurious appetites: bloody and voluptuous; an amorous
murderer; an uxorious debauchee. His hardened insensibility to the
feelings of others is strengthened by the most profligate
self-indulgence. The religious hypocrisy, under which he masks his
cruelty and his lust, is admirably displayed in the speech in which he
describes the first misgivings of his conscience and its increasing
throes and terrors, which have induced him to divorce his queen. The
only thing in his favour in this play is his treatment of Cranmer: there
is also another circumstance in his favour, which is his patronage of
Hans Holbein.--It has been said of Shakespeare, 'No maid could live near
such a man.' It might with as good reason be said, 'No king could live
near such a man.' His eye would have penetrated through the pomp of
circumstance and the veil of opinion. As it is, he has represented such
persons to the life--his plays are in this respect the glass of
history--he has done them the same justice as if he had been a privy
counsellor all his life, and in each successive reign. Kings ought never
to be seen upon the stage. In the abstract, they are very disagreeable
characters: it is only while living that they are 'the best of kings'.
It is their power, their splendour, it is the apprehension of the
personal consequences of their favour or their hatred that dazzles the
imagination and suspends the judgement of their favourites or their
vassals; but death cancels the bond of allegiance and of interest; and
seen AS THEY WERE, their power and their pretensions look monstrous and
ridiculous. The charge brought against modern philosophy as inimical to
loyalty is unjust because it might as well be brought lover of kings. We
have often wondered that Henry VIII as he is drawn by Shakespeare, and
as we have seen him represented in all the bloated deformity of mind and
person, is not hooted from the English stage.