This is justly considered as one of the most delightful of Shakespeare's
comedies. It is full of sweetness and pleasantry. It is perhaps too
good-natured for comedy. It has little satire, and no spleen. It aims at
the ludicrous rather than the ridiculous. It makes us laugh at the
follies of mankind, not despise them, and still less bear any ill-will
towards them. Shakespeare's comic genius resembles the bee rather in its
power of extracting sweets from weeds or poisons, than in leaving a
sting behind it. He gives die most amusing exaggeration of the
prevailing foibles of his characters, but in a way that they themselves,
instead of being offended at, would almost join in to humour; he rather
contrives opportunities for them to show themselves off in the happiest
lights, than renders them contemptible in the perverse construction of
the wit or malice of others.--There is a certain stage of society in
which people become conscious of their peculiarities and absurdities,
affect to disguise what they are, and set up pretensions to what they
are not. This gives rise to a corresponding style of comedy, the object
of which is to detect the disguises of self-love, and to make reprisals
on these preposterous assumptions of vanity, by marking the contrast
between the real and the affected character as severely as possible, and
denying to those who would impose on us for what they are not, even the
merit which they have. This is the comedy of artificial life, of wit and
satire, such as we see it in Congreve, Wycherley, Vanbrugh, &c. To this
succeeds a state of society from which the same sort of affectation and
pretence are banished by a greater knowledge of the world or by their
successful exposure on the stage; and which by neutralizing the
materials of comic character, both natural and artificial, leaves no
comedy at all--but the sentimental. Such is our modern comedy. There is
a period in the progress of manners anterior to both these, in which the
foibles and follies of individuals are of nature's planting, not the
growth of art or study; in which they are therefore unconscious of them
themselves, or care not who knows them, if they can but have their whim
out; and in which, as there is no attempt at imposition, the spectators
rather receive pleasure from humouring the inclinations of the persons
they laugh at, than wish to give them pain by exposing their absurdity.
This may be called the comedy of nature, and it is the comedy which we
generally find in Shakespeare.--Whether the analysis here given be just
or not, the spirit of his comedies is evidently quite distinct from that
of the authors above mentioned, as it is in its essence the same with
that of Cervantes, and also very frequently of Moliere, though he was
more systematic in his extravagance than Shakespeare. Shakespeare's
comedy is of a pastoral and poetical cast. Folly is indigenous to the
soil, and shoots out with native, happy, unchecked luxuriance. Absurdity
has every encouragement afforded it; and nonsense has room to flourish
in. Nothing is stunted by the churlish, icy hand of indifference or
severity. The poet runs riot in a conceit, and idolizes a quibble. His
whole object is to turn the meanest or rudest objects to a pleasurable
account. The relish which he has of a pun, or of the quaint humour of a
low character, does not interfere with the delight with which he
describes a beautiful image, or the most refined love. The clown's
forced jests do not spoil the sweetness of the character of Viola; the
same house is big enough to hold Malvolio, the Countess, Maria, Sir
Toby, and Sir Andrew Aguecheek. For instance, nothing can fall much
lower than this last character in intellect or morals: yet how are his
weaknesses nursed and dandled by Sir Toby into something 'high
fantastical', when on Sir Andrew's commendation of himself for dancing
and fencing, Sir Toby answers: 'Wherefore are these things hid?
Wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? Are they like to take
dust like Mistress Moll's picture? Why dost thou not go to church in a
galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig! I
would not so much as make water but in a cinque-pace. What dost thou
mean? Is this a world to hide virtues in? I did think by the excellent
constitution of thy leg, it was framed under the star of a
galliard!'--How Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and the Clown afterwards chirp
over their cups, how they 'rouse the night-owl in a catch, able to draw
three souls out of one weaver'!--What can be better than Sir Toby's
unanswerable answer to Malvolio, 'Dost thou think, because thou art
virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?' In a word, the best
turn is given to everything, instead of the worst. There is a constant
infusion of the romantic and enthusiastic, in proportion as the
characters are natural and sincere: whereas, in the more artificial
style of comedy, everything gives way to ridicule and indifference,
there being nothing left but affectation on one side, and incredulity on
the other.--Much as we like Shakespeare's comedies, we cannot agree with
Dr. Johnson that they are better than his tragedies; nor do we like them
half so well. If his inclination to comedy sometimes led him to trifle
with the seriousness of tragedy, the poetical and impassioned passages
are the best parts of his comedies. The great and secret charm of
TWELFTH NIGHT is the character of Viola. Much as we like catches and
cakes and ale, there is something that we like better. We have a
friendship for Sir Toby; we patronize Sir Andrew; we have an
understanding with the Clown, a sneaking kindness for Maria and her
rogueries; we feel a regard for Malvolio, and sympathize with his
gravity, his smiles, his cross-garters, his yellow stockings, and
imprisonment in the stocks. But there is something that excites in us a
stronger feeling than all this--it is Viola's confession of her love.
Duke. What's her history?
Viola. A blank, my lord, she never told her love:
She let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud,
Feed on her damask cheek, she pin'd in thought,
And with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
We men may say more, swear more, but indeed,
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.
Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
Viola. I am all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too; and yet I know not.
Shakespeare alone could describe the effect of his own poetry.
Oh, it came o'er the ear like the sweet south
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour.
What we so much admire here is not the image of Patience on a
monument, which has been generally quoted, but the lines before and
after it. 'They give a very echo to the seat where love is throned.'
How long ago it is since we first learnt to repeat them; and still,
still they vibrate on the heart, like the sounds which the passing
wind draws from the trembling strings of a harp left on some desert
shore! There are other passages of not less impassioned sweetness.
Such is Olivia's address to Sebastian whom she supposes to have
already deceived her in a promise of marriage.
Blame not this haste of mine: if you mean well,
Now go with me and with this holy man
Into the chantry by: there before him,
And underneath that consecrated roof,
Plight me the full assurance of your faith,
THAT MY MOST JEALOUS AND TOO DOUBTFUL SOUL
MAY LIVE AT PEACE.
We have already said something of Shakespeare's songs. One of the
most beautiful of them occurs in this play, with a preface of his
own to it.
Duke. O fellow, come, the song we had last night.
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chaunt it; it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.