This is justly considered as one of the most delightful of Shakspeare'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. Shakspeare'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 the 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 shew 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, Vanburgh, etc. 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 neutralising 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
Shakspeare.--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 Shakspeare. Shakspeare'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 idolises 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 Ague-cheek. 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 Shakspeare'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 patronise Sir Andrew; we have an
understanding with the Clown, a sneaking kindness for Maria and her
rogueries; we feel a regard for Malvolio, and sympathise 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 shews 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."--
Shakspeare 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_."
V