Shakespeare Part 3

Thousands of people have stolen stones from the Coliseum to make huts for themselves. So thousands of writers have taken the thoughts of others with which to adorn themselves. These are plagiarists. But the man who takes the thought of another, adds to it, gives it intensity and poetic form, throb and life,--is in the highest sense original.

Shakespeare found nearly all of his facts in the writings of others and was indebted to others for most of the stories of his plays. The question is not: Who furnished the stone, or who owned the quarry, but who chiseled the statue?

We now know all the books that Shakespeare could have read, and consequently know many of the sources of his information. We find in _Pliny's Natural History_, published in 1601, the following: "The sea Pontis evermore floweth and runneth out into the Propontis; but the sea never retireth back again with the Impontis." This was the raw material, and out of it Shakespeare made the following:

"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 h.e.l.lespont------

"Even so my b.l.o.o.d.y thoughts, with violent pace, Shall ne'er turn back, ne'er ebb to humble love, Till that a capable and wide revenge Swallow them up."

Perhaps we can give an idea of the difference between Shakespeare and other poets, by a pa.s.sage from "Lear." When Cordelia places her hand upon her father's head and speaks of the night and of the storm, an ordinary poet might have said:

"On such a night, a dog Should have stood against my fire."

A very great poet might have gone a step further and exclaimed:

"On such a night, mine enemy's dog Should have stood against my fire."

But Shakespeare said:

"Mine enemy's dog, though he had bit me, Should have stood, that night, against my fire."

Of all the poets--of all the writers--Shakespeare is the most original.

He is as original as Nature.

It may truthfully be said that "Nature wants stuff to vie strange forms with fancy, to make another."

VIII.

THERE is in the greatest poetry a kind of extravagance that touches the infinite, and in this Shakespeare exceeds all others.

You will remember the description given of the voyage of Paris in search of Helen:

"The seas and winds, old wranglers, made a truce, And did him service; he touched the ports desired,"

And for an old aunt, whom the Greeks held captive,

"He brought a Grecian queen whose youth and freshness Wrinkles Apollo, and makes stale the morning."

So, in Pericles, when the father finds his daughter, he cries out:

"O Helica.n.u.s! strike me, honored sir; Give me a gash, put me to present pain, Lest this great sea of joys, rus.h.i.+ng upon me, O'erbear the sh.o.r.es of my mortality."

The greatest compliment that man has ever paid to the woman he adores is this line:

"Eyes that do mislead the morn."

Nothing can be conceived more perfectly poetic.

In that marvellous play, the "Midsummer Nights Dream," is one of the most extravagant things in literature:

"Thou rememberest Since once I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath That the rude sea grew civil at her song, And certain stars shot madly from their spheres To hear the sea-maid's music."

This is so marvellously told that it almost seems probable.

So the description of Mark Antony:

"For his bounty There was no winter in't--an autumn t'was That grew the more by reaping.

His delights Were dolphin-like--they showed his back above The element they lived in."

Think of the astronomical scope and amplitude of this:

"Her bed is India--there she lies a pearl."

Is there anything more intense than these words of Cleopatra?

"Rather on Nilus mud lay me stark naked And let the water-flies blow me into abhorring."

Or this of Isabella:

"The impression of keen whips I'd wear as rubies, And strip myself to death as to a bed That longing I've been sick for, ere I yield My body up to shame."

Is there an intellectual man in the world who will not agree with this?

"Let me not live After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff Of younger spirits."

Can anything exceed the words of Troilus when parting with Cressida:

"We two, that with so many thousand sighs Did buy each other, most poorly sell ourselves With the rude brevity and discharge of one.

"Injurious time now with a robber's haste Crams his rich thievery up, he knows not how; As many farewells as be stars in heaven, With distinct breath and consigned kisses to them, He fumbles up into a loose adieu, And scants us with a single famished kiss, Distasted with the salt of broken tears."

Take this example, where pathos almost touches the grotesque.

"O dear Juliet, why art thou yet so fair?

Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous, And that the lean, abhorred monster keeps thee here I' the dark, to be his paramour?"

Often when reading the marvellous lines of Shakespeare, I feel that his thoughts are "too subtle potent, tuned too sharp in sweetness, for the capacity of my ruder powers." Sometimes I cry out, "O churl!--write all, and leave no thoughts for those who follow after."

IX.

SHAKESPEARE was an innovator, an iconoclast. He cared nothing for the authority of men or of schools. He violated the "unities," and cared--nothing for the models of the ancient world.