DIes Boreales. No. VI. CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. Camp at Cladich. Scene I. -- The Wren's Nest. Time -- Six a.m. North--Talboys--Seward. NORTH.

You recollect the words of Edmund in Lear—

This is exactly Iago with Othello—believing in virtue, using, despising it. These idolators of self think the virtuous worship imaginary, unreal Gods. But they never doubt the sincerity of the worship; and therein show a larger intelligence, a clearer insight, than those other idolators who, shut up in their own character, ascribe their own motives to all; and in virtues can see only different shapes of hypocrisy.

TALBOYS.

The Devil himself knows better, sir. He knows that Virtue exists; only he flatters himself that he can undermine its foundations. "And ofttimes does succeed"—seeking Evil "as contrary to His High Will whom we resist!"

NORTH.

The Evil Principle at war with the Good.

TALBOYS.

In what war soever, sir, you are once engaged, you soon feel yourself pledged to it. A few blows given on both sides settle you fast, and you no longer inquire about the cause.

NORTH.

To an evil soul all good is a reproach; therefore he wars on it. To the self-dissatisfied the happiness of the good is a reproach; therefore, if he be thoroughly selfish, he pulls it down.

TALBOYS.

Every one's impulse is to throw off pain; and if no pity, no awe, no love be there to stay him, he pulls down of course.

NORTH.

My dear Talboys, believe me, that, for a moment, every man has motives fit for a fiend. Perhaps he obeys—perhaps rejects them. The true fiend is constant.

TALBOYS.

Every man has motives fit for a fiend! I beg you to speak for yourself, my dear sir.

NORTH.

I speak of myself, of you, and of Iago. What is the popular apprehension or theory of the malice disclosed in "mine Ancient"—not the Old One, but the Standard-bearer?

TALBOYS.

Why, the prompt, apt, and natural answer will be, he is a Devil.

NORTH.

And pray what is a Devil?

TALBOYS.

Iago.

NORTH.

Don't reason in a circle, sir.

TALBOYS.

I'd rather reason in a circle, sir, than not reason at all. I like reasoning in a circle—it is pleasant pastime in a cold, raw morning—far preferable to ascending Cruachan; for you are never far from home, and when tired can leap out at your own pleasure, and take some reasoning in a straight line.

NORTH.

You are always so pleasant, Talboys, circular or ziz-zag. Whence is the malice in the heart of a Devil?

TALBOYS.

I want data, sir. Milton has given some historical elucidation of it; but the People reason less, and are no philosophers.

NORTH.

Hate in a devil is like Love in an Angel—uncaused, or self-causing; it is his natural function—his Essence, his Being. Herein the seraph is a seraph—the fiend is a fiend.

TALBOYS.

Reason—Motive—Cause.

NORTH.

Prospero calls Caliban a devil—a born Devil.

TALBOYS.

Also, a demi-Devil—as Othello calls Iago.

NORTH.

The Philosopher knows—in humanity—of no born devil. He follows, or tries to follow, the causes which have turned the imperfect nature into the worst. The popular sense takes things as it finds them, and acknowledges "born devils," Iago being one, and "of the prime." The totality of monster in the moral world seems to that unphilosophical, sincere, and much-to-the-purpose intuition, expressed under the image of a nativity. The popular sense recognises a temper of man which elects evil for evil's sake—which inflicts pain, because it likes to see pain suffered—which destroys, because it revels in misery.

TALBOYS.

Coleridge calls Iago's "a motiveless malignity." He hated Othello for not promoting him, but Cassio. That seems to me the real, tangible motive—a haunting, goading, fretting preference—an affront—an insult—a curbing of power—wounding him where alone he is sensitive—in self-esteem and pride. See his contempt for Cassio as a book-warrior—and "for a fair life"—simply like our notion of a "milksop." Why Othello, who so prizes him for his honesty as to call him ever "honest Iago," keeps him down, I have not a guess—

NORTH.

Haven't you? And pray what right have you to interfere with the practice of promotion in the army of the Venetian State?

TALBOYS.

I cannot approve of this particular instance—it looks like favouritism. Othello fancied Cassio—Cassio was the genteeler young fellow of the two—the better-born—Iago had risen from the ranks—and was a stout soldier—

NORTH.

You don't take your character of Cassio, from Iago?

TALBOYS.

I do. Iago was a liar—but here I think he spoke truth—there is nothing in the Play indicating that Cassio had seen much service—he had never been at Cyprus—nor anywhere else—he had never seen a Turk—he had never—

NORTH.

Hold your tongue.

TALBOYS.

A more disgraceful Brawl—

NORTH.

Hold your tongue, I say.

TALBOYS.

Don't keep pouring out your excuses for him, sir, with such overwhelming volubility—it won't do. He knew his own wretched head. "I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking," yet drink he would,—"I have drunk but one cup to-night, and that was craftily qualified too"—worse than shirking—"behold what innovation it makes here,"—and yet he would not join the Teetotallers. Out on such a Lieutenant! Iago was an ill-used man.

NORTH.

Talboys—

TALBOYS.

O that ceaseless volubility! Shakspeare afterwards makes Iago say that Cassio "has a daily beauty in his life." Where do we see it? In his liaison with that "fitchew?" From pleading with the Divine Desdemona on a question to him of life or death, to go straight to sup—and sleep with Bianca!

NORTH.

Othello's "Now thou art my Lieutenant," shows the importance meant by Shakspeare to be attached to the previous oppression—or "holding down" of Iago. Alas! how that allocution instigating Iago to murder by more than a promise of promotion, sadly lowers Othello to me—I hardly know why. I feel a descent from his own passion to a sympathy with Iago's desire to step into his superior officer's shoes. I can fancy that Shakspeare meant this. Ay, that he did; for I believe that turbulent passion, in some of its moods, lowers—degrades—debases a great and generous nature.

TALBOYS.

Iago, was jealous of Othello. He says he was, and either believes it, or tries to believe it. His own words intimate the doubt, and the determination to believe. Malignity and hate indulge in giving acceptance to slight grounds—such he says, in his own coarse way, was the rumour—and perhaps it was true—

NORTH.

Certainly it was false. High characters, as Coriolanus, Hotspur, Othello, are, by a native majesty of spirit, saved and exalted from the pursuit of illicit pleasure.

TALBOYS.

They are. But let his jealousy of Othello—sincere or assumed—or mixed or alternating—enter as an element into the hatred.

NORTH.

Let it. Iago was, you said truly, a stout Soldier—and I add, a hard, unfeeling, unprincipled Soldier. Of all trades in the world, that of a Soldier is the worst and the best—witness an Iago—an Othello. The same trade helped to make both. In Othello we almost see Wordsworth's Happy Warrior—in Iago one—

You are convinced, without a hint, that he is infidel—atheist: everything shaped like religion, like moral conscience—his mind shakes off and rejects with scorn. He does not, however, as I said, disbelieve in Virtues. He believes in them, and uses them to the destruction of the havers. What he disbelieves is the worth of Virtues. To that savage Idol, Self, the more bleeding and noble victims, the more grateful the sacrifice.

TALBOYS.

A singular combination in him, sir, is his wily Italian wit—like Iachimo's—and his rough—soldierlike—plain, blunt, jovial manners—the tone of the Camp, and of the wild-living, reckless Camp—plenty of hardihood—fit for toil, peril, privation. You never for a moment doubt his courage—his presence of mind—his resources—he does not once quail in presence of Othello at his utmost fury. He does not stir up the Lion from without, through the bars of his cage, with an invisible rod of iron—that is, a whip of scorpions; he lashes up the Wild Beast, and flinches not an inch from paw that would smite, or tusk that would tear—a veritable Lion Queller and King.

NORTH.

I cannot but believe that the Othello of Shakspeare is black, and all black. I cannot conceive the ethnography of that age drawing—on the stage especially—the finer distinction which we know between a Moor and a Blackamoor or Negro. The opposition, entertained by nature, is between White and Black—not between White and Brown. You want the opposition to tell with all its power. "I saw Othello's visage in his mind" is nothing, unless the visible visage is one to be conquered—to be accepted by losing sight of it. I say again, that I cannot myself imagine the contemporary audience of Shakspeare deciding colour between a Moor and a Negro. The tradition of the Stage, too, seems to have made Othello jet black. Such, I opine, was the notion of the Moor, then, to the People, to the Court, to the Stage, to Shakspeare.

TALBOYS.

Woolly-headed?

NORTH.

Why, yes—if you choose—in opposition to the "curled darlings."

TALBOYS.

Yet Coleridge has said it would be "something monstrous to conceive this beautiful Venetian girl failing in love with a veritable Negro."

NORTH.

Coleridge almost always thought, felt, wrote, and spoke finely, as a Critic—but may I venture, in all love and admiration of that name, to suggest that the removal which the stage makes of a subject from reality must never be forgotten. In life you cannot bear that the White Woman shall marry the Black Man. You could not bear that an English Lady Desdemona—Lady Blanche Howard—should—under any imaginable greatness—marry General Toussaint or the Duke of Marmalade. Your senses revolt with offence and loathing. But on the Stage some consciousness that everything is not as literally meant as it seems—that symbols of humanity, and not actual men and women, are before you—saves the Play.

TALBOYS.

I believe that Wordsworth's line—

expresses explicitly the feeling of the general English heart—pity for the contrast, and a thought of the immense love which has overcome it.

NORTH.

White and Black is the utter antithesis—as, at intensity, Night and Day. Yes—Talboys—Every jot of soot you take from his complexion, you take an iota from the signified power of love.

TALBOYS.

As you say, sir, the gap which is between the Stage and Reality must prevent, in our hearts, anything like loathing of the conjunction.

NORTH.

The touch of such an emotion would annul the whole Tragedy. A disparity, or a discrepancy, vast as mysterious—but which love, at the full, is entitled to overlook—overstep! Whether Fate dare allow prosperity to a union containing so mighty an element of disruption, is another question. It seems like an attempt at overruling the "Æterna foedera rerum."

TALBOYS.

For half an hour after her death, Othello believes her guilty. You must take it for a representation of what his feelings would have been, if she had really been guilty.

NORTH.

Unless the fact of her innocence have a secret potency that reaches, through all appearance and evidence of her guilt, into his innermost soul. Be that as it may, he is, after the deed, perplexed and unmanned, totally unlike a man who has performed a great sacrifice to the offended gods. You may say that the convulsion of uptorn love is too fresh, and that he would in time have regained his strength—that had she been guilty, the first half-hour must have been just what it was. All I know is, that his mind first becomes clear, when he knows her innocent. Then he is, in a measure, himself, and sees his way. Had she been guilty, he would have lived two years with a stern, desolate soul—not harsh, perhaps, to honest folks, though—and have then fallen in battle.

TALBOYS.

But how is Iago affected by the blackness? No doubt, with more hate and aversion at being commanded by and outshone by him. High military rank and command—high favour by the Senate—high power and esteem in the world—high royalty of spirit—happiness in marriage—all these in Othello are proper subjects of envy, and motives of hate in Iago. The Nigger!

NORTH.

Antipathy of bad to good—of base to noble—exacerbated by physical antipathy of colour! But I never could fathom the hate and malice and revenge of Iago.

TALBOYS.

It is unfathomable—and therefore fit agent in Tragedy.

NORTH.

Even so. I don't believe that Shakspeare always means you to be able to lay motives in the balance and weigh them. Far otherwise.

TALBOYS.

Ay—Think how the Murder of Duncan leaps up, Hell-born, into the heart of Macbeth—at the breath of the Weird Sisters!

NORTH.

Perhaps. Poetry shaping out an action, distinguishes herself, amongst other points of distinction herein, from History, that while she shows lucidly, and of her own clear knowledge, the concatenation of Cause and Effect, yet passion and imagination require the indefinite. There is then a conflict of claims and powers; and the part of logic is hence imperfectly rendered. You see the river sweeping by you, without knowing all the springs that have fed it.

TALBOYS.

Say that again, sir.

NORTH.

There is the hatred—a tragical power, which the Poet is principally concerned to use—less to explain.

TALBOYS.

You said, sir, the noble Moor must have been much disennobled ere he could have cried to Iago, "Now thou art my lieutenant."

NORTH.

I did, and you think so too.

TALBOYS.

I do. Othello and Iago, are joint conspirators to two double murders. Can you conspire to a murder—a private assassination—without lowering yourself—even on the Stage? Othello takes on himself the murder of Desdemona—act, responsibility, consequences; but does he not seem to hire Iago to assassinate Cassio?

NORTH.

What did Othello intend to do—after all was accomplished? Consequences indeed! He was stone-blind to the future. What does he expect? that when he has killed his wife, everything is to go on as smoothly as before? That no notice will be taken of it? or that he will have to make another speech to the Senate? He has told them how he married her—the counterpart will be to relate "a plain unvarnished tale of my whole course" of smothering and stabbing her with bolster and dagger. "Now thou art my lieutenant"—shows—if not stone-blindness—a singular confidence in the future.

TALBOYS.

The Personages who come in at the End look at the matter contrariwise. Othello exalts the killing of his wife into a sacrifice to Justice. But Cassio? That is mere—pure Revenge. "O that the slave had forty thousand lives,—one is too poor, too weak for my revenge."

NORTH.

Upon what pedestal does Othello stand now—engaging another to kill Cassio in the dark, for his own revenge? I repeat it, surely the Noble Moor is now very much disennobled.

TALBOYS.

I rejoice, my dear sir, that you have so completely got rid of that nasty cough—your voice is as clear as a bell. Lungs sound—

NORTH.

As those of a prize bagpiper. Talboys, I cannot help thinking that Shakspeare shows up in Othello, foul passions—that you see in him two natures conjoined—the moral Caucasian White, and the animal tropical Black. In the Caucasian, the spiritual or angelical in us attains its manifestation. In the offspring of the tropics, amongst the sands, and under the suns of Africa, the animal nature takes domination. The sands and suns that breed Lions, breed Men with Lion's hearts in them. The Lion is for himself noble, but blood of the Irrational in the veins of the Rational is a contradiction. The noblest moral nature and the hot blind rage of animal blood!

TALBOYS.

Ay, the noblest moral nature, and high above every other evidence of it, his love of Her—which, what it was, and what it would have remained, or become—and what he was and would have been, had Iago not been there—we may imagine! With all the power of a warrior, and a ruler, he has the sensibility of a Lover—with all spontaneous dignity and nobility, he has the self-mastery of reason—before his overthrow.

NORTH.

Wherefore, my dear Sheriff, I prefer Othello as a specimen of the Ethical Marvellous. Like, as in another kingdom, a Winged Horse or a Centaur—the meeting of two natures which readily hold asunder. All this has under the Æthiop complexion its full force—less if you mitigate—if not mitigate merely, but take away, where are we all? The innate repugnance of the White Christian to the Black Moorish blood, is the ultimate tragic substratum—the "must" of all that follows. Else—make Othello White—and, I say again, see where we are!

TALBOYS.

Shakspeare, sir, is not one to flinch from the utmost severity of a Case.

NORTH.

Not he, indeed—therefore I swear Othello is a Blackamoor.

TALBOYS.

And I take it, sir, that Othello's natural demeanour is one of great gravity, to which the passionate moods induced are in extremity of contrast. I conceive that, by these mixtures and contrasts, he is rendered picturesque and poetical.

NORTH.

I swear Othello was a Blackamoor—and that Desdemona was the Whitest Lady in Europe.

TALBOYS.

Had he lived to be tried for murder, I think his counsel might have successfully set up the plea of insanity.

NORTH.

They might have successfully set it up—but I, the Judge, would have successfully put it down. Honestly, I don't think Othello mad; and for this reason, that the thought never before came into my head. An incident that appears to me most wonderful in dramatic invention is—the Swooning. Look at the precise words preceding his falling down. To me it has no other effect or sense, than that of the blood being driven up into the head, and oppressing with physical pressure that bodily organ—the brain. The soul strikes the body like a hammer, and knocks it down.

TALBOYS.

Ay, how his words waver—"That's not so good now"—from a man believing, or on the point of believing. There is to me a physical faintness in these words, and in the play upon the words "lie with her," &c., intellect reeling to fall.

NORTH.

Good. But I believe body and soul of Othello—or the relation between body and soul—to be physiologically right and sound. The swooning goes soon off—the accident of an hour—the mind is else in full vigour, sound, and misled. You must recollect that a mind of supereminent physical (may one say so?) and moral power—a mind that would have been strong and calm through the Russian Campaign of Napoleon—is not in a day stricken into a state which requires the medical skill and attention of Dr Willis. Othello had an immensely strong physical constitution undoubtedly—had he not, the adventures related would long ago have extinguished him. This is one meaning of that sudden and strange narrative which children are taught by rote, and which men may not have quite fathomed; but a strong body and strong soul conjoined, do not lightly admit of disjunction. Madness, properly so called, is a disjunction, in some way or kind, of the natural union between soul and body. A few days disrupt the ties in the aged Lear. You may think that in Othello—I suppose Ætat. 40 or 45—the ties would bear some wrenching of the rack, ere snapping. I think that they held firm.

TALBOYS.

True, sir, insanity would even detract from the moral majesty and splendour of Othello.

NORTH.

It would. The time comes back to me when I did not care for the Play or the Man. The Play now seems to me wonderful, more even than Hamlet or Lear—and the Man, in poetical invention, a match for Achilles or Satan.

TALBOYS.

Sir—sir.

NORTH.

Passion in the blood like that of a Negro—and right in the soul as of Socrates or Epaminondas. Yes, Talboys, the Majesty of the Moral soul in Othello seems to me the most prophetic, or divining, or inconceivable of Shakspeare's conceptions.

TALBOYS.

Nay—nay—my dear sir.

NORTH.

Everything else might seem to offer its own reason—

TALBOYS.

Nay—nay—my dear sir. Compare the gross Hamlet of Saxo Grammaticus with Ours.

NORTH.

Well, do—but Othello—you don't know whence he is derived. He is a tropical animal—kindred to the lion—the tiger—the dragon—and, on the other hand, he has the rational equipoise of the faculties that stamp the Philosopher—and he is everything between the two.

TALBOYS.

An Eloge, indeed—perhaps a leetle too eulogistic.

NORTH.

No. What a simple sincerity colours the narrative of his love-making! Is your imagination bewitched by the wild story of his adventurous life? Hers, doubtless, was fascinated. But your soul, methinks, is won to approving the Venetian Maiden's choice by a profounder, a more legitimate charm. Who ever heard Othello relate, and hung back from believing him? He is honest, and she is honest. That is the bond whereby the ParcÆ united their souls and their threads. Why they disunited both—how that infernal intervention of Lachesis and Atropos crossed their pure souls in their pure conjunction, let Clotho—if she can—tell.

TALBOYS.

Let's be more cheerful.

NORTH.

Ay—let's.

TALBOYS.

Othello shows that our Good—our excellence—our capacity of happiness—lies all in Love. That our light in which we walk—our light which we give forth—is Love. He declares this, by cleaving to this Good—by having it—by losing it—by recovering it. The self-consciousness of Othello returns to its unison with universal being—with heaven's harmony of the worlds. Iago denies this Good—never acknowledges it—although he serves involuntarily to demonstrate the truth—of which Othello perishes the self-sacrificed witness. It is great, sir, in the Tragedy, but in him the House of Love is divided against itself. His jealousy, child of his love, lifts up a parricidal hand, wounds and is wounded—but only unto its own death. And what is the feeling left by the catastrophe?

NORTH.

Say, my friend, say.

TALBOYS.

Peace—rest—repose—depth of tranquillity—like the sea stilled from storms.

NORTH.

The charmed calm that reflects heaven.

TALBOYS.

Peace grounded in this proved thought—that Love is Best. Of all the Persons, whose stars will you accept to be your own? If you are a man, Othello's; if woman, the wronged and murdered Desdemona's. Study for ever the two closing and summing up verses—"I kissed thee ere I killed thee; no way but this—Killing myself to die upon a kiss!" To gather up all the terror that is past, as if not only the winds were upgathered like sleeping flowers, but upgathered into the sleeping flowers. I don't know how to avoid comparing—all unlike as the characters are—the end of Romeo and Juliet—Lear and Cordelia—Othello and Desdemona. I never can separate them. Love the mightiest torn asunder in life—reunited in death. Love—the solace of lapsed and mortal humanity.

NORTH.

Lend the Old Hobbler your arm.

Scene II.—Pavilion.
Time—After Breakfast.
North—Talboys—Seward—Buller.

---

NORTH.

NOW FOR THE GRAND INQUIRY.

How long, think you, was Othello Governor of Cyprus, and Desdemona the General's wife?

TALBOYS.

How long? Why, some weeks, or some months; quarter of a year, half a year, a year.

NORTH.

A most satisfactory answer indeed to a simple question. How long have I been Commander of the Forces at Cladich?

TALBOYS.

Tents pitched on the 14th May 1849—This is the 24th of June Ditto. You, like Michael Cassio, are "a great arithmetician"—and can calculate the Days.

NORTH.

That's precise. Let's have some small attempt at precision with respect to the time at Cyprus.

TALBOYS.

Well then—a Month—Two Months.

NORTH.

And you are a Student—a Scholar—in Shakspeare!

TALBOYS.

What the ace do you mean?

NORTH.

Just Two Days.

TALBOYS.

What the deuce do you mean? The Man has lost his Senses.

NORTH.

Who? Shakspeare?

TALBOYS.

Really, sir, you are getting daily more and more paradoxical—and I begin to tremble for your wits.

NORTH.

See that your own have not gone wool-gathering, Talboys. Two Months! For two Months read two Days—I insist on it.

TALBOYS.

Gentlemen, the case seems serious. What would you propose?

SEWARD.

Let's hear the Sage.

NORTH.

Open Shakspeares. Act II.—Scene I.

BULLER.

All ready, sir.

NORTH.

A Sea-port Town in Cyprus—not Nicosia, the capital of the Island, which is inland—thirty miles from the Sea—but Famagusta.

TALBOYS.

So says in a note Malone—what's that to the purpose?

NORTH.

I wish to be precise. Ship ahoy!

TALBOYS.

NORTH.

BULLER.

TALBOYS.

BULLER.

NORTH.

There's the power of poetry for you—I do pity poor prose. The sea-beach—town—fortifications—all crowded with people on the gaze-out—for hours. For ships on the stormy sea. But not a ship to be seen. Obedient to the passion of the people, one ship after another appears in the offing—salutes and is saluted—is within the Bay—inside the Breakwater—drops anchor—the divine Desdemona has landed—Othello has her in his arms—

all in five minutes—in three minutes—in one minute—in no time—in less than no time.

TALBOYS.

What's your drift?

NORTH.

Handle Shakspeares! Scene II.—A Street—On the day of Othello's arrival—the Proclamation is issued "that there is full liberty of feasting for this present hour of Five, till the bell has told Eleven"—for besides the mere perdition of the Turkish Fleet, it is the "celebration of his nuptials."

TALBOYS.

We all know that—go on.

SEWARD.

His nuptials! Why, I thought he had been married at Venice!

NORTH.

Who cares what you think? Scene III.—a Hall in the Castle—and enter Othello, Desdemona, Cassio, and attendants. Othello says—

And before retiring for the night with Desdemona, he says—

TALBOYS.

Why lay you such emphasis on these unimportant words?

NORTH.

They are not unimportant. Then comes the Night Brawl—as schemed by Iago. Othello, on the spot, cashiers Cassio—and at that very moment, Desdemona entering disturbed, with attendants, he says—

Iago advises the unfortunate Cassio to "confess himself freely" to Desdemona—who will help to put him in his place again—and Cassio replies—"betimes in the morning I will beseech the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me: I am desperate of my fortunes, if they check me here;"—and the Scene concludes with these words of Iago's—

"By the mass, 'tis morning," quoth Iago—and Act II. closes with the dawn of the Second Day at Cyprus. You don't deny that?

TALBOYS.

Nobody denies it—nobody ever denied it—nobody ever will deny it.

NORTH.

Act Third. Now for Act III.

TALBOYS.

Our six eyes—and our six ears are all wide awake, sir.

NORTH.

It opens before the Castle—as the same morning is pretty well advanced—and Cassio is ordering some Musicians to play "Good-morrow, General."

TALBOYS.

On the same morning? I am not so sure of that, sir.

NORTH.

Nobody denies it—nobody ever did deny it—nobody ever will deny it.

TALBOYS.

Not so fast, sir.

NORTH.

Why, you slow Coach! Cassio says to the Clown, who is with the Musicians, "There's a poor piece of gold for thee: if the Gentlewoman that attends the General's wife be stirring, tell her, there's one Cassio entreats her a little favour of speech;"—and as the Clown goes off, Iago enters—and says to Cassio—

And Cassio answers—

Emilia then enters, and tells Cassio that all will soon be well—"the General and his Wife are talking of it—and she speaks for you stoutly."—

TALBOYS.

All this does not positively imply that the preceding night was the night of the Brawl. Cassio, though originally intending it, on reflection may have thought it too precipitate to apply to Desdemona the very next day; and there is nothing improbable in his having been with Iago till daybreak on some subsequent night. It is not quite clear, then, that the Third Act commences on the morning after Cassio's dismissal.

NORTH.

O rash and inconsiderate man!

TALBOYS.

Who is?

NORTH.

You. It is not quite clear! I say 'tis clear as mud or amber. Iago has with such hellish haste conceived and executed his machinations, that Cassio has been cashiered some few hours after landing in Cyprus. In the pride of success, he urges on Cassio to apply without delay to Desdemona in the morning. We see the demi-devil determined to destroy—"By the mass, 'tis morning—pleasure and action make the hours seem short." Iago may have gone to bed for a few hours—Cassio had not—"You have not been a-bed, then."—"Why, no; the day had broke before we parted." The Time of the end of Second Act, and of the beginning of Third Act, are thus connected as firmly as words and deeds can connect. You say there is nothing improbable in Cassio's having been with Iago till daybreak on some subsequent night! Why, who the devil cares to know that Cassio had not been to bed on some other night? His not having been to bed on this night is an indication of his anxiety, and Iago's question is a manifestation of his malevolence cloaked with an appearance of concern. In each case an appropriate trait of character is brought before us; but the main purpose of the words is to fix the time, which they do without the possibility of a doubt. They demonstrate that the Third Act opens on the morning immediately subsequent to the night on which Act Second closes. This morning dovetails into that night with an exactness which nothing could improve.

TALBOYS.

Why so fierce, my good sir?

NORTH.

Fierce! I may well be fierce. What! Cassio's desire to see Desdemona cool before morning—Iago's desire to drive him on to his destruction cool too—and both walk away without further heed—and when next seen, after an interval of some weeks or months, talking about not having been in bed during some other night on which nothing particular has happened! Bah!

TALBOYS.

Sir, I do not like to see you so much excited. You mistake me—I was merely, at your bidding, assisting you in your expiscation of the Time—we are at one about it—

NORTH.

My dear Talboys, forgive me—my irascibility is a disease—

TALBOYS.

Health—health—exuberant health of mind and body—May you live a thousand years.

NORTH.

The Third Act, then, you allow, opens on the morning of the day following the night on which the Second Act closes?

TALBOYS.

I not only allow, my dear Sir, I insist on it. Let me hear any man deny it, and I will knock the breath out of his body! Proceed, Sir.

NORTH.

Obstinate? I never called you obstinate, my dear Talboys. Well—let me proceed, with you for an ally. In this same scene, First of Act Third, Cassio says to Emilia,

And Emilia says to him,

And off they go to sue to the gentle Desdemona.

TALBOYS.

Alas! somewhat too gentle.

NORTH.

Then follows Scene II. of Act III.—a very short one—let me read it aloud.

"A Room in the Castle.

Enter Othello, Iago, and Gentlemen.

That this Scene is on the same day as Scene Second—and with little intermission of time—is too plain to require proof. Othello here sends off his first dispatches to Venice by the pilot who had brought him safely to Cyprus, and then goes out to inspect the fortification. That is in the natural course of things—such a scene at any subsequent time would be altogether without meaning.

TALBOYS.

I cannot see that, sir.

NORTH.

None so blind as they who will not see.

TALBOYS.

There again.

NORTH.

What do you want, Talboys?

TALBOYS.

Have the goodness, my dear sir, to pause a moment—and go back to the close of the Scene preceding this short one. Then and there, Cassio, as we saw, goes into the Castle with Emilia, "to be bestowed" that he may have an opportunity of asking Desdemona to intercede for him with Othello. But "to be bestowed" may mean to have apartments there—and he may have been living in the Castle for several days, with or without Othello's knowledge, before that short Scene which you have just now quoted.

NORTH.

Living in the Castle for several days! With or without Othello's knowledge! Prodigious! All that Cassio asked was, "the advantage of some brief discourse;" and, that he might have that advantage, Emilia gave him apartments in the Castle! And there we may suppose him living at rack and manger, lying perdu in the Governor's House! Emilia was a queer customer enough, but she could hardly have taken upon herself the responsibility of secreting a man under the same roof with Desdemona, without the sanction of her Mistress—and if with her sanction, what must we think of the "gentle Lady married to the Moor?" Talboys, you are quizzing the old Gentleman.

TALBOYS.

I give it up.

NORTH.

The short Scene I quoted, then, immediately follows the preceding—in time; and that short Scene is manifestly introduced by Shakspeare, merely to get Othello out on the ramparts with Iago, that Iago may bring the Moor "plump on Cassio soliciting his wife." Scene Third of Act III.! Unfurl.

TALBOYS.

Ay, ay, sir. Scene Third of Act III. That is the Scene of Scenes.

NORTH.

Scene Third of Act III., accordingly, shows us Desdemona, Cassio, and Emilia before the Castle—and while Cassio is "soliciting his wife"—"enter Othello and Iago at a distance."

Down to this exit of Cassio, we are on the morning or forenoon of the Second Day at Cyprus. Every word said proves we are. Cassio's parting words prove it. "Madam, not now—I'm very ill at ease—unfit for my own purposes." He had been up all night—had been drunk—cashiered. He sees Othello coming—his heart sinks—and he retreats in shame and fear—"unfit for his own purposes."

TALBOYS.

Eh?

NORTH.

In Scene First of Act III., Emilia tells Cassio that she will do a particular thing—do it of course—quam primum—as a thing that requires no delay, and demands haste—and in Scene III. she appears having done it. In Scene First she tells Cassio that she will bring him to speak with Desdemona about his replacement—and in Scene Third, before the Castle, we find that she has done this. The opportunity came immediately—it was made to her hand—all that was necessary was that Othello should not be present—and he was not present. He had gone out on business. Now was just the nick of time for Cassio to bespeak Desdemona's intercession, and now was just the nick of time on which that intercession was by him bespoken. Nothing could be more nicely critical or opportune.

TALBOYS.

Between us, sir, we have tied down Scene III. of Act Third to the Forenoon of the Second Day at Cyprus.

NORTH.

We have tied down Shakspeare thus far to Short Time at Cyprus—and to Short Time we shall tie him down till the Catastrophe. Othello murdered Desdemona that very night.

TALBOYS.

No—no—no. Impossible.

NORTH.

Inevitably—and of a dead certainty.

TALBOYS.

How—how, sir?

NORTH.

Why will an Eagle be an Owl?

TALBOYS.

A compliment and a banter—

NORTH.

Why, you Owl! we have just seen Cassio slink away—all is plain sailing now—Talboys—for Iago by four words seals her doom.

Mark what follows—there is not a moment of intermission in the Action down to end of this Scene Third of Act Third, which you well call the Scene of Scenes, by which time Othello has been convinced of Desdemona's guilt, and has resolved on her Death and Cassio's.

TALBOYS.

Not a moment of intermission! Let's look to it—if it indeed be so—

NORTH.

See—hear Desdemona pleading for Cassio—see, hear Othello saying—"Not now, sweet Desdemona;" and then again—"Prythee, no more: let him come when he will—I will deny thee nothing." And again—

Turn over leaf after leaf—without allowing yourself to read that dreadful colloquy between the Victim and his Destroyer—but letting it glimmer luridly by—till Desdemona comes back—and Othello, under the power of the Angel Innocence, exclaims—

TALBOYS.

I behold her! I hear her voice—"gentle and low, an excellent thing in woman."

She drops that fatal handkerchief—

What touching words! They go out together—ignorant she that her husband hath heartache, worse than any headache—

NORTH.

Both to be effectually cured that night by—bleeding.

TALBOYS.

By bleeding?

NORTH.

You Owl—yea.

TALBOYS.

A sudden thought strikes me, Sir. Desdemona has said to Othello—

How's this? This looks like long time—

NORTH.

It may look like what it chooses—but we have proved that we are now on the forenoon of the Second Day at Cyprus.

TALBOYS.

Would it not have been treating them too unceremoniously to have sent round the cards of invitation only the night before? As far as I have been able to learn, they have long been in the habit of giving not less than a week's invitation to dinner at Cyprus. In Glasgow it is commonly three weeks. And why "generous?" Because they, the Islanders, have given a series of splendid entertainments to Othello and his Bride.

NORTH.

No nonsense, sir. Othello had done what you or I would have done, had either of us been Governor of Cyprus. He had invited the "generous Islanders," immediately on his landing, to dine at the Castle "next day." Had he not done so, he had been a hunks. "Generous," you know, as well as I do, means high-born—men of birth—not generous of entertainments.

TALBOYS.

True, too. But how comes it to be the dinner hour?

NORTH.

People dined in those days, all England over, about eleven a.m.—probably they dined still earlier in the unfashionable region of Cyprus. You are still hankering after the heresy of long time—but no more of that now—let us keep to our demonstration of short time—by-and-by you shall see the Gentleman with the Scythe—the Scythian at full swing—as long as yourself.

TALBOYS.

I sit corrected. Go on.

NORTH.

Othello and Desdemona have just gone out—to do the honours at the Dinner Table to the generous Islanders. He must have been a strange Chairman—for though not yet absolutely mad, his soul was sorely changed. Perhaps he made some apology, and was not at that Dinner at all—perhaps it was never eaten—but we lose sight of him for a little while; and Emilia, who remains behind, picks up the fatal handkerchief, and, with a strange wilfulness, or worse, says—

Iago snatches it from her—and in soliloquy says—

Then follows, without break, all the rest of this dreadful Third Scene. The first dose of the poison—the second, and third, and fourth—are all given on one and the same day. The mineral has gnawed through all the coats of the stomach—and He has sworn to murder Her—all in one day. We have Iago's word for it. Yesterday his sleep was sweet—how happy he was then we can imagine—how miserable he is now we see—"what a difference to him," and in him, between Saturday and Sunday!

---

TALBOYS.

Thou Great original Short-Timeist! Unanswerable art Thou. But let us look at the close of this dreadful Third Act.

In three days—at the longest—for Cassio;—but Iago understood, and did it that very night. And swift means of death for the fair devil were in Othello's own hands—ay—he smothered her that night to a dead certainty—a dead certainty at last—though his hands seem to have faltered.

NORTH.

In the next Scene—Scene IV.—we find Desdemona anxious about the loss of the handkerchief, but still totally unapprehensive of the Moor's jealousy—

Othello enters, saying, "Well, my good Lady,"—and mutters aside, "Oh! hardness to dissemble"—and very ill he does dissemble, for he leaves Desdemona and Emilia amazed at his mad deportment, the latter exclaiming—"Is not this man jealous?" Iago had told Othello of Cassio's possessing the handkerchief in the previous Scene, and Othello takes the first opportunity, that same afternoon, to ascertain for himself whether she had parted with it. Would he have let an hour elapse before making the inquiry? Can it be for a moment imagined that he passed days and nights with Desdemona without attempting to sound her regarding this most pregnant proof of her guilt? This Scene concludes the Third Act—and the time is not long after dinner.

TALBOYS.

All this being proved, it is unnecessary to scrutinise the consecution of the Scenes of Acts Fourth and Fifth—Iago's work is done—one day has sufficed—and what folly to bring in long time after this—when his presence would have been unsupportable—had it not been impossible. Death must follow doom.

NORTH.

Death must follow doom. In these four words you have settled the question of time. Long time seemed necessary to change Othello into a murderer—and all the world but you and I believe that long time there was; but you and I know better—and have demonstrated short time—for at the end of the "dreadful Third Act" Othello is a murderer—and what matters it now when he really seized the pillow to smother her, or unsheathed the knife?

TALBOYS.

It matters not a jot. But he did the deed that same night—or he had not been Othello.

NORTH.

There again—or he "had not been Othello." In these four words, you have settled the question of time—now and for ever.

TALBOYS.

It would be a waste of words, sir, to seek to prove by the consecution of the Scenes in Acts Fourth and Fifth—though nothing could be easier—that he did murder her that very night.

NORTH.

Very few will suffice. Act IV. begins a little before supper-time. Bianca enters in Scene I. inviting Cassio to supper—"An you'll come to supper to-night, you may." If anything were wanting to connect the closing Scene of Act III. with this opening Scene of Act IV. it is fully supplied by Bianca, who at the end of Act III. gets the handkerchief, in order that she may copy it, and in the scene of this IVth Act, comes back in a fury. "Let the devil and his dam haunt you—what did you mean by that same handkerchief you gave me even now? I was a fine fool to take it." Cassio had given it to her a little after dinner, and Bianca, inviting him to supper, says he had given it to her even now. This Scene I. of Act IV. ends with Othello's invitation to the newly arrived Lodovico—"I do entreat that we may sup together." Scene II. comprehends the interview between Othello and Emilia; Othello and Desdemona—Desdemona, Emilia and Iago. The whole do not occupy an hour of time—they follow one another naturally, and the action is continuous. Scene III. shows Lodovico and the Noble Venetians still at the Castle—but now it is after supper. Lodovico is departing—

Desdemona, obeys—the bed-scene follows—and she is murdered. What say you, Seward?

SEWARD.

"I say ditto to Mr Burke."

NORTH.

Buller?

BULLER.

I say ditto to Mr North.

NORTH.

Why have both of you been so silent?

SEWARD.

I knew it all before.

TALBOYS.

What a bouncer!

BULLER.

I never speak when I am busking Flies. There's a Professor for you—(six red and six black)—pretty full in the body—long-winged—liker eagle than insect—sharper than needle—and with, barb "inextricable as the gored Lion's bite." Lunch-gong. To the Deeside.

NORTH.

Verdict: Desdemona Murdered by Othello on the Second Night In Cyprus.

Scene III.—Deeside.
Time—At and after Lunch.
North—Talboys—Seward—Buller.

---

NORTH.

Having demonstrated Short Time at Cyprus, let us now, if it please you, gentlemen, show forth Long Time at Cyprus.

TALBOYS.

With all our heart. We have demonstrated the one, let us show forth the other.

NORTH.

And as, in our Demonstration of Short Time, we kept Long Time out of sight—excluded him from the Tent—

BULLER.

Pardon me, sir. I for one was beginning to feel his influence.

NORTH.

How?

BULLER.

In that contraction and expansion of the jaws denoted by that most expressive and characteristic word Yawn; for Seward and I were but listeners.

NORTH.

I don't believe you heard one word.

BULLER.

I did—several; and spoiled a promising Palmer in idly trying to audit your discourse at the interesting point of quarrel—just as you, sir, threw yourself back on your Swing, with an angry jerk, and Talboys started up, "like Teneriffe or Atlas removed," endangering the stability of the Tent.

NORTH.

My dear Talboys, I was saying to you, when rudely interrupted by Buller, that as in our demonstration of Short Time at Cyprus, we, purposely and determinedly, and wisely kept Long Time out of sight, on account of the inextricable perplexity and confusion that would otherwise have involved the argument, so now let us, in showing forth Long Time at Cyprus, keep out of sight Short—and then shall we finally have before our ken Two Times at Cyprus, each firmly established on its own ground—and imperiously demanding of the Critics of this great Tragedy—Reconcilement. Reconcilement it may be beyond their power to give—but let them first see the Great Fact which not one of the whole set have seen—hand in hand one Day and unassigned Weeks! The condition is altogether anomalous—

TALBOYS.

A Day of the Calendar, and A Month of the Calendar! No human soul ever dreams of the dreadful sayings and doings all coming off in a day! till he looks—till he is made to look—as we have made Seward and Buller to look—for they heard every word we said—and finds himself nailed by Act and Scene.

NORTH.

To some fifteen hours.

BULLER.

I thought you were going to show forth Long Time at Cyprus.

NORTH.

Why, there it is, staring you in the face everywhere—you may see it with your eyes shut—and as most people read with their eyes shut, they see it—and they see it only—while—

BULLER.

Why, sir, since you won't get on a little faster, Talboys and I must be Ushers to Long Time.

NORTH.

Be—do.

TALBOYS.

Long Time cunningly insinuates itself, serpentwise, throughout Desdemona's first recorded conversation with Cassio, at the beginning of Scene III., Act III.—the "Dreadful Scene." Thus—

This points to a protracted time in the future—and though announcing an intention merely, yet somehow it leaves an impression that Desdemona carries her intention into effect—that she does "watch him tame," does make his "bed seem a school"—does "intermingle everything she does with Cassio's suit." The passage recurred to my mind, I recollect, when you first hinted to me the question of time; and no doubt it tells so on the minds of many—

NORTH.

Inconsiderate people.

TALBOYS.

All people are more or less inconsiderate, sir.

NORTH.

True.

TALBOYS.

Then Desdemona says—

I cannot listen to that line, even now, without a feeling of the heart-sickness of protracted time—"hope deferred maketh the heart sick"—languishes! even unto death. I think of that fine line in Wordsworth—

SEWARD.

Poo!

NORTH.

Seward, the remark is a fine one.

TALBOYS.

Far on in this Scene, Othello says to Iago—

Iago has not said that he had perceived anything, but Othello, greatly disturbed, speaks as if Iago had said that he had perceived a good deal; and we might believe that they had been a long time at Cyprus. Othello then says—

In all this, sir, we surely have a feeling of longish time.

SEWARD.

Poo!

NORTH.

Heed him not—English manners. We have—

TALBOYS.

This is the language of a some time married man—not of a man the morning after his nuptials.

NORTH.

The Handkerchief.

TALBOYS.

Ay—Emilia's words.

Here we have long time, and no mistake. Iago has wooed her to steal it a hundred times! When and where? Since their arrival at Cyprus.

SEWARD.

I don't know that.

TALBOYS.

Nor do I. But I say the words naturally give us the impression of long time. In none of his soliloquies at Venice, or at Cyprus on their first arrival, has Iago once mentioned that Handkerchief as the chief instrument of his wicked design—and therefore Emilia's words imply weeks at Cyprus,—

NORTH.

Go on.

TALBOYS.

Next night—night after night—many nights—many wedded nights—long time at Cyprus.

NORTH.

And then Cassio's dream.

TALBOYS.

"I lay with Cassio—lately." Where, but at Cyprus? "Cursed fate! that gave thee to the Moor."

SEWARD.

Of that by-and-by.

TALBOYS.

Of that now. What?

SEWARD.

By-and-by.

NORTH.

Better be a dumb dog, Seward, than snarl so.

TALBOYS.

And on Othello going off in a rage about the handkerchief—what saith Desdemona?—

These few words are full charged with long time.

NORTH.

They are. And Emilia's—"'Tis not a year or two shows us a man." True, that is a kind of general reflection—but a most foolish general reflection indeed, if made to a Wife weeping at her husband's harshness the day after marriage.

TALBOYS.

Emilia's "year or two" cannot mean one day—it implies weeks—or months. Desdemona then says,—

Does not that look like long time at Cyprus? Unlike the language of one who had herself arrived at Cyprus from Venice but the day before. And in continuation, Desdemona's

And that thought brings sudden comfort to poor Desdemona, who says sweetly—

That is—why did I, a married woman some months old, forget that the honey-moon is gone, and that my Othello, hero as he is, is now—not a Bridegroom—but a husband? "Men are not gods."

NORTH.

And Bianca? She's a puzzler.

TALBOYS.

A puzzler, and something more.

Here the reproaches of Bianca to Cassio develop long time. For, besides his week's absence from her house, there is implied the preceding time necessary for contracting and habitually carrying on the illicit attachment. Bianca is a Cyprus householder; Cassio sups at her house; his intimacy, which has various expressions of continuance, has been formed with her there; he has found her, and grown acquainted with her there, not at Venice. I know it has been suggested that she was his mistress at Venice—that she came with the squadron from Venice; and that her last cohabitation with Cassio had taken place in Venice about a week ago—but for believing this there is here not the slightest ground. "What! keep a week away?" would be a strange exclamation, indeed, from one who knew that he had been but a day on shore—had landed along with herself yesterday from the same ship—and had been a week cooped up from her in a separate berth. And Bianca, seeing the handkerchief, and being told to "take me this work out," cries—

"To the felt absence," Eight score eight hours! the cause? Some new mistress at Cyprus—not forced separation at sea.

NORTH.

Then, Talboys, in Act IV., Scene I., Othello is listening to the conversation of Iago and Cassio, which he believes relates to his wife. Iago says—

That is, have you marked me for destruction, in order that you may marry my wife? Othello believes that Cassio is said to entertain an intention of marrying Desdemona, and infers that, as a preliminary, he must be put out of the way. This on the first day after marriage? No, surely—long time at Cyprus.

TALBOYS.

Iago says to Cassio,

This is a lie—but Cassio believes it. Cassio could not have believed it, and therefore Iago would not have told it, had "yesterday" been the day of the triumphant, joyful, and happy arrival at Cyprus. Assuredly, Cassio knew that Othello had had no fit that day; that day he was Othello's lieutenant—Iago but his Ancient—and Iago could know nothing of any fits that Cassio knew not of—therefore—Long Time.

NORTH.

He does so—and Othello believes what he hears Cassio tell of Bianca to be of Desdemona. Madness any way we take it—but madness possible only—on long time at Cyprus.

TALBOYS.

Then, sir, the trumpet announcing the arrival of Lodovico from Venice, at the close of Iago's and Othello's murderous colloquy, and Lodovico giving Othello a packet containing—his recall!

What are we to make of that?

NORTH.

The Recall, except after considerable time, would make the policy of the Senate frivolous—a thing Shakspeare never does, for the greatness of political movements lies everywhere for a support to the strength and power of his tragical fable. Half that we know of Othello out of the Scenes is, that he is the trusted General of the Senate. What gravity his esteem with you derives hence, and can we bear to think of him superseded without cause? Had Lodovico, who brings the new commission, set off the day after Othello from Venice? No. You imagine an intercourse, which has required time, between Othello, since his appointment, and the Senate. Why, in all the world, do they thus suddenly depose him, and put Cassio in his place? You cannot well think that the very next measure of the Senate, after entrusting the command of Cyprus, their principal Island, to their most tried General, in most perilous and critical times, was to displace him ere they hear a word from him. They have not had time to know that the Turkish Fleet is wrecked and scattered, unless they sit behind Scenes in the Green-room.

TALBOYS.

We must conclude that the Senate must give weeks or months to this New Governor ere interfering with him.—To recall him before they know he has reached Cyprus—nay, to send a ship after him next day—or a day or two following his departure—would make these "most potent, grave, and reverend Signors," enigmas, and the Doge an Idiot. What though a steamer had brought tidings back to Venice that the Turks had been "banged" and "drowned?" That was not a sufficient reason to order Othello back before he could have well set his foot on shore, or taken more than a look at the state of the fortifications, in case the Ottoman should fit out another fleet.

NORTH.

Then mark Lodovico's language. He asks, seeing Othello strike his wife—as well he may—"Is it his use?" Or did the letters "work upon his blood, and new-create this fault?" And Iago answers, "It is not honesty in me to speak what I have seen and known." Lodovico says, "The noble Moor, whom our Senate call all in all sufficient." Then they have not quarrelled with him, at least—nor lost their good opinion of him! Iago answers, "He is much changed?" What, in a day? And again—"It is not honesty in me to speak what I have seen and known." What, in a day? Lodovico comes evidently to Othello after a long separation—such as affords room for a moral transformation; and Iago's words——lies as they are—and seen to be lies by the most unthinking person—yet refer to much that has passed in an ample time—to a continued course of procedure.

NORTH.

But in all the Play, nothing is so conclusive of long time as the Second Scene of the Third Act.

If all this relates to their residence at Cyprus, it indicates many weeks.

SEWARD.

Ay—If.

NORTH.

What wicked whisper was that? Did you whisper, Buller?

BULLER.

No. I have not once whispered for a quarter of a century—My whispering days have long been over.

NORTH.

Then a word about Emilia. "I prythee, let thy wife attend on her," says Othello, going on board at Venice, to Iago. In the slight way in which such arrangements can be touched, this request is conclusive evidence to Emilia's being then first placed about Desdemona's person. It has no sense else; nor is there the slightest ground for supposing a prior acquaintance, at least intimacy. What had an Ensign's wife to do with a Nobleman's daughter? and now she is attached as an Attendant. Now, consider, first, Emilia's character. She seems not very principled, not very chaste. She gives you the notion of a tolerably well-practised Venetian Wife. Hear Iago's opinion, who suspects her with two persons, and one on general rumour. Yet how strong her affection for Desdemona, and her faith in her purity! She witnesses for her, and she dies for her! I ask, how long did that affection and that opinion take to grow? a few days at Venice, and a week while they were sea-sick aboard ship? No. Weeks—months. A gentle lady once made to me that fine remark,—"Emilia has not much worth in herself, but is raised into worth by her contact with Desdemona—into heroic worth!" "I care not for thy sword—I'll make thee known, though I lost twenty lives." And that bodeful "Perchance, Iago, I will ne'er go home"! what does it mean? but a dim surmise, or a clear, that what she will disclose will bring the death upon her from his dagger, which it brings. The impure dying a voluntary martyr for the pure is to the highest degree affecting—is the very manner of Shakspeare, to express a principal character by its influence on subordinate ones—has its own moral sublimity; but more than all, for our purpose, it witnesses time. Love, and Faith, and Fidelity, won from her in whom these virtues are to be first created!

SEWARD.

Very fine. My dear sir, you are not angry with me?

TALBOYS.

Angry? Not he. Look on his face—how mild!

NORTH.

Othello, in his wrath, calls Emilia "a closet-lock-and-key of villanous secrets: and yet she'll kneel and pray; I have seen her do't." Where and when? It could only have been at Cyprus; and such language denotes a somewhat long attendance there on Desdemona.

SEWARD.

Ingenious—and better than so.

NORTH.

"Some of your function, mistress," renewed to Emilia—when, after conversing with Desdemona, Othello is going out—is his treatment of one whom he supposes to have been serviceable to his wife's and Cassio's amour. Where? There, only there, in Cyprus, by all witnessing, palpably. She could not before. He speaks to her as professional in such services, therefore long dealing in them; but this all respects this one intrigue, not her previous life. The wicked energy of the forced attribution vanishes, if this respects anything but her helpfulness to his wife and her paramour, and at Cyprus—there—only there. Nothing points to a farther back looking suspicion. Iago's "thousand times committed" can only lengthen out the stay at Cyprus. Othello still believes that she once loved him—that she has fallen to corruption.

BULLER.

Antenuptial?

NORTH.

Faugh! Could he have the most horrible, revolting, and loathsome of all thoughts, that he wedded her impure? and not a hint given of that most atrocious pang? Incredible—impossible! I can never believe, if Shakspeare intended an infidelity taking precedency of the marriage, that he would not by word or by hint have said so. Think how momentous to our intelligence of the jealousy the date is; not as to Tuesday or Wednesday, but as to before or after the nuptial knot—before or after the first religious loosing of the virgin zone. That a man's wife has turned into a wanton—hell and horror! But that he wedded one—Pah! Faugh! Could Iago, could Othello, could Shakspeare have left this point in the chronology of guilt to be argued out doubtfully? No. The greatest of Poets for pit, boxes, and gallery, must have written intelligibly to pit, boxes, and gallery; and extrication, unveiled, after two hundred and fifty years, by studious men, in a fit of perplexity, cannot be the thunderbolt which Shakspeare flung to his audience at the Globe Theatre.

TALBOYS.

You remember poor, dear, Sweet Mrs Henry Siddons—the Desdemona—how she gave utterance to those words

The wedding sheets were reserved. They had been laid by for weeks—months—time long enough to give a saddest character to the bringing them out again—a serious, ominous meaning—disturbed from the quietude, the sanctity of their sleep by a wife's mortal presentiment that they may be her shroud.

NORTH.

Scene IV.—The Grove.
Time—After Lunch.
North—Talboys—Seward—Buller.

---

SEWARD.

On rising, sir, to——

NORTH.

Sit down—no gentleman speaks on his legs before, at, or after meals in a private Party.

SEWARD.

Except in Scotland. On sitting down, sir, to state my Theory, I trust that I shall not lay myself open to the im——

NORTH.

Speak with your natural tone as if you were sitting, Seward, and not with that Parliamentary sing-song in which Statesmen, with their coat-tails perked up behind, declaim on the State of Europe—

SEWARD.

I imagine, sir, that Shakspeare assumed the marriage to have taken place some time before the commencement of the Play—sufficiently long to admit the possibility of a course of guilt before the Play opens. I imagine that, with this general idea in his mind, he gave his full and unfettered attention to the working out of the Plot, which has no reference to the time, circumstances, or history of the Marriage, but relates exclusively to the Moor's Jealousy. Therefore the indications of past time at Venice are vague, and rarely scattered through the Dialogue.

TALBOYS.

A more astounding discovery indeed, Seward, than any yet announced by that Stunner, Christopher North. Pardon me, sir.

NORTH.

We have said our say, Shirra; let the Lord-Lieutenant of his County say his—

TALBOYS.

And the Chairman of the Quarter-Sessions, and President of the Agricultural Society of the Land's End say his.

BULLER.

I can beat you at Chess.

TALBOYS.

You!!!

NORTH.

Gentlemen, let there be no bad blood.

SEWARD.

Supposing that this was Shakspeare's general idea of the Plot, I would first beg your attention to the fact that the marriage has taken place—none of us know how long—before the beginning of the Play.

TALBOYS.

The same night—the same night.

SEWARD.

I said—none of us know how long; and as you are a Lawyer, Mr Talboys—

TALBOYS.

For goodness' sake, my dear Seward, don't mister me—

SEWARD.

The only evidence, my dear Talboys, as to the history of the marriage is that given by Roderigo in the First Scene. He, with the most manifest anxiety to prove himself an honest witness, declares that now, at midnight, Desdemona had eloped—not with the Moor, but with no "worse nor better guard, but with a knave of common hire, a gondolier, to," &c., &c. She has fled alone from her father's house; and Roderigo, being interrogated, "Are they married, think ye?" answers, "Truly I think they are."

TALBOYS.

What do you say to Iago's saying to Cassio—

It cannot be inferred, from these words, that this was the first occasion on which Desdemona and Othello had come together as man and wife. The words are quite consistent with the supposition that their marriage had taken place some time before; also quite consistent with Iago's knowledge of that event. It was not his cue or his humour to say more than he did. Why should he?

TALBOYS.

It cannot be inferred! It can—I infer it. And pray, how do you account for Othello saying to Desdemona, on the day of their arrival at Cyprus,

SEWARD.

"The purchase made"—refers to the price which Othello had paid for connubial delight with Desdemona awaiting him at Cyprus. That price was the peril which he had undergone during his stormy voyage. In his exuberant satisfaction, simply expressing a self-evident truth, that his happiness was yet before him. Had Desdemona been then a virgin bride, Othello would hardly have used such language. Iago speaks in his usual characteristic coarse way—so no need to say a word more on the subject.

TALBOYS.

Very well. Be it so. But why should such a private marriage have been resorted to; and if privacy was desirable at first, what change had occurred to cause the public declaration of it?

SEWARD.

Othello had been nine months unemployed in war—the Venetian State was at peace—and he had been in constant intercourse with the Brabantios.

and he "took once a pliant hour" to ask Desdemona to be his wife. That "once" cannot refer to the day on which the Play commences; and that their marriage took place some time before, is alike reconcileable with the character of the "gentle Lady," and with that of the impetuous Hero.

TALBOYS.

Truly!

SEWARD.

Still, a private marriage is, under any circumstances, a questionable proceeding; and our great Dramatist was desirous that as little of the questionable as possible should either be or appear in the conduct of the "Divine Desdemona;" and therefore he has left the private marriage very much in the shade.

TALBOYS.

Very much in the shade indeed.

SEWARD.

Her duplicity must be admitted, and allowance must be made for it. It was wrong, but not in the least unnatural, and perfectly excusable—

TALBOYS.

No.

SEWARD.

And grievously expiated.

TALBOYS.

It was indeed. Poor dear Desdemona!

SEWARD.

It is, you know, part of the proof of her capacity for guilt, that she so ingeniously deceived her father.

TALBOYS.

But why reveal it now?

SEWARD.

Circumstances are changed. The Cyprus wars have broke out, and Othello is about to be commissioned to take the command of the Venetian force.

It was therefore necessary that the marriage should be declared, if Desdemona was to accompany her husband to Cyprus. And the elopement from her father to her husband did take place just in time.

TALBOYS.

Is that what people call plausible?

SEWARD.

All the difficulties of Time are thus removed in a moment. In a blaze of light we see Long Time at Venice—Short Time at Cyprus.

BULLER.

Long Time at Venice—Short Time at Cyprus. That's the Ticket. You Scotsmen are not wholly without Insight; but for seeing into the heart of the bole—or of the stone—

TALBOYS.

Give me a Devonshire Cider-swiller or a Cornish Miner.

NORTH.

What! Can't we discuss a Great Question in the Drama without these unseemly personal and national broils. For shame, Talboys.

TALBOYS.

You Scotsmen indeed!

NORTH.

My dear Seward, let's hear how you support your Theory.

SEWARD.

A great deal of weight, my dear Mr North, is to be attached to the calm tone—the husbandlike and matronlike demeanour of Othello and Desdemona when confronted with the Senate. That scene certainly impresses one with the conviction that they had been man and wife for a considerable period of time.

NORTH.

Very good, Seward—very good.

SEWARD.

I do indeed think, sir, that the bride and bridegroom show much more composure throughout the whole of that Scene, than is very reconcileable with the idea that this was their nuptial night. Othello's "natural and prompt alacrity" in undertaking the wars was scarcely complimentary to his virgin Spouse upon this supposition; and Desdemona's cool distinguishings between the paternal and marital claims on her duty seem also somewhat too matronly for the occasion.

NORTH.

Very good—very good—my dear Seward, I like your observation much, that the demeanour of the married pair before the Senate has a stamp of composure. That is finely felt; but I venture to aver, my dear friend, that we must otherwise understand it. The dignity of their spirits it is that holds them both composed. Invincible self-collectedness is by more than one person in the Play held up for a characteristic quality of Othello. To a mind high and strong, which Desdemona's is, the exigency of a grand crisis, which overthrows weaker and lower minds, produces composure; from a sense of the necessity for self-possession; and involuntarily from the tension of the powers—their sole direction to the business that passes—which leaves no thought free to stray into disorder, and the inquietude of personal regards. Add, on the part of Othello, the gravity, and on that of Desdemona the awe of the Presence in which they stand, speak, and act; and you have ennobling and sufficing tragical, that is loftily and pathetically poetical, motives for that elate presence of mind which both show. Now all the greatness and grace vanish, if you suppose them calm simply because they have been married these two months. That is a reason fit for Thalia, not for Melpomene.

TALBOYS.

Let any one English among all the two of you answer that.

SEWARD.

The Duke says—

This faint expression of Desdemona's slight surprise and reluctance, and no more—is I allow—natural and delicate in her—whether wife, bride, or Maid—but Othello's "with all my heart" is—

TALBOYS.

Equally worthy of Othello. You know it is.

NORTH.

My dear Seward—do the Doge—Brabantio—the Senate understand and believe what Othello has been telling them—and that he has now disclosed to them the fact of a private marriage with Desdemona, of some weeks' or months' standing? Is that their impression?

SEWARD.

I cannot say.

NORTH.

I can. Or has Othello been reserved—cautious—crafty in all his apparent candour—and Desdemona equally so? Are they indeed oldish-married folk?

TALBOYS.

Shocking—shocking. That Scene in the Council Chamber of itself deals your "Theory!" its death-blow.

SEWARD.

I look on it in quite another light. I shall be glad to know what you think is meant by Desdemona's to the Duke

What are the rites which are thus all comprehensive of Desdemona's love for Othello? The phrase is, to the habit of our ears, perhaps somewhat startling; yet five lines before she said truly "I saw Othello's visage in his mind"—a love of spirit for spirit. And again—

I think they had been married some time.

TALBOYS.

The word rites is the very word most fitting the Lady's lips—used in a generous, free, capacious sense—as of the solace entire which the wife of a soldier has, following him; as to dress his wounds, wind his laurel, hear his counsels, cheer his darker mood, smile away the lowering of the Elements—

SEWARD.

You won't understand me.

NORTH.

No—no—no. It won't go down. I have opened my mouth far and wide, and, it won't go down. Our friend Isaac Widethroat himself could not bolt it. The moral impossibility would choke him—that Othello would marry Desdemona to leave her at her Father's House, for which most perilous and entangling proceeding, quite out of his character, no motive is offered, or imaginable. The love-making might go on long—and I accept a good interval since he drew from her the prayer for his history. The pressure of the war might give a decisive moment for the final step, which must have been in agitation for some time—on Desdemona's behalf and part, who would require some persuasion for a step so desperate, and would not at once give up all hope of her, father's consent, who "loved" Othello.

TALBOYS.

If they were married, how base and unmanly to steal one's wedded Wife out of one's Father-in-law's house! The only course was to have gone in the middle of the day to Brabantio and say, "this we have done"—or "this I have done. Forgive us, if you can—we are Man and Wife." Men less kingly than Othello have often done it. To steal in order to marry was a temptation with a circumstantial necessity—a gallant adventure in usual estimation.

NORTH.

The thing most preposterous to me in a long marriage at Venice, is the continued lying position in which it places Othello and Desdemona towards her father. Two months—say—or three or four—of difficult deception! when the uppermost characteristic of both is clear-souledness—the most magnanimous sincerity. By that, before anything else, are they kindred and fit for one another. On that, before anything else, is the Tragedy grounded—on his unsuspicious openness which is drawn, against its own nature, to suspect her purity that lies open as earth's bosom to the sun. And she is to be killed for a dissembler! In either, immense contrast between the person and fate. That These Two should truckle to a domestic lie!

TALBOYS.

No. The Abduction and Marriage were of one stroke—one effort—one plot. When Othello says, "That I have ta'en away—that I have married her"—he tells literally and simply that which has happened as it happened, in the order of events.

SEWARD.

Why should not Othello marry Desdemona, and keep her at her father's, as theorised?

NORTH.

It is out of his character. He has the spirit of command, of lordship, of dominion—an animus imperiosus. This element must be granted to fit him for his place; and it is intimated, and is consistent with and essential to his whole fabric of mind. Then, he would not put that which belonged to him out of his power, in hostile keeping—his wife and not his wife. It is contrary to his great love, which desires and would feed upon her continual presence. And against his discretion, prudence, or common sense, to risk that Brabantio, discovering, might in fury take sudden violent measures—shut her up in a convent, or turn her into the streets, or who knows what—kill her.

TALBOYS.

Then the insupportable consideration and question, how do they come together as man and wife? Does she come to his bedroom at his private Lodgings, or his quarters at the Sagittary? Or does he go to hers at her father's, climbing a garden wall every night like Romeo, bribing the porter, or trusting Ancilla? You cannot figure it out any way without degradation, and something ludicrous; and a sense of being entangled in the impracticable.

NORTH.

The least that can be said is, that it invests the sanctimony of marriage with the air of an illicit amour.

TALBOYS.

Then the high-minded Othello running the perpetual and imminent risk of being caught thieving—slipping through loop-holes—mouse-holes—key-holes. What in Romeo and Juliet is romance, between Othello and Desdemona is almost pollution.

NORTH.

What a desolating of the Manners of the Play! Will you then, in order to evade a difficulty of the mechanical construction, clog and whelm the poetry, and moral greatness of the Play, with a preliminary debasement? Introduce your Hero and Heroine under a cloud?

TALBOYS.

And how can you show that Othello could not at any moment have taken her away, as at last you suppose him to do, having a motive? Mind—he knows that the wars are on—he does not know he shall be sent for that night. He does not know that he may not have to keep her a week at his quarters.

NORTH.

My dear Seward—pray, meditate but for a moment on these words of Desdemona in the Council Chamber—

These are weighty words—of grave and solemn import—and the time has come when Desdemona the Daughter is to be Desdemona the Wife. She tells simply and sedately—affectionately and gratefully—the great primal Truth of this our human and social life. Hitherto her Father has been to her the Lord of Duty—the Lord of Duty henceforth is to be her Husband. Othello, up to that night, had been but her Lover; and up to that night—for the hidden wooing was nothing to be ashamed of or repented—there had been to her no "divided Duty"—to her Father's happiness had been devoted her whole filial heart. But had she been a married woman for weeks or months before, how insincere—how hypocritical had that appeal been felt by herself to be, as it issued from her lips! The Duty had, in that case, been "divided" before—and in a way not pleasant for us to think of—to her Father violated or extinct.

TALBOYS.

I engage, Seward, over and above what our Master has made manifest, to show that though this Theory of yours would remove some difficulties attending the time in Cyprus, it would leave others just where they are—and create many more.

NORTH.

Grant that Othello and Desdemona must be married for two months before he murders her—that our hearts and imaginations require it. The resemblance to the ordinary course of human affairs asks it. We cannot bear that he shall extinguish her and himself—both having sipped only, and not quaffed from the cup of hymeneal felicity. Your soul is outraged by so harsh and malignant a procedure of the Three Sisters. Besides, in proper poetical equilibration, he should have enjoyed to the full, with soul and with body, the happiness which his soul annihilates. And men do not kill their wives the first week. It would be too exceptional a case. Extended time is required for the probability—the steps of change in the heart of Othello require it—the construction and accumulation of proofs require it—the wheel of events usually rolls with something of leisure and measure. So is it in the real World—so must it seem to be on the Stage—else no verisimilitude—no "veluti in speculum." "Two mouths shall elapse between marriage and murder," says Shakspeare—going to write. They must pass at Venice, or they must pass at Cyprus. Place Shakspeare in this position, and which will he choose? If at Venice, a main requiring condition is not satisfied. For in the fits and snatches of the clandestine marriage, Othello has never possessed with full embrace, and heart overflowing, the happiness which he destroys. If an earthquake is to ruin a palace, it must be built up to the battlements and pinnacles; furnished, occupied, made the seat of Pleasure, Pomp, and Power; and then shaken into heaps—or you have but half a story. Only at Cyprus Othello possesses Desdemona. There where he is Lord of his Office, Lord over the Allegiance of soldier and civilian—of a whole population—Lord of the Island, which, sea-surrounded, is as a world of itself—Lord of his will—Lord of his Wife.

TALBOYS.

I feel, sir, in this view much poetical demonstration—although mathematical none—and in such a case Poetry is your only Principia.

NORTH.

Your hand. But if, my dear Seward, Shakspeare elects time at Venice, he wilfully clouds his two excellent Persons with many shadows of indecorum, and clogs his Action with a procedure and a state of affairs, which your Imagination loses itself in attempting to define—with improbabilities—with impracticabilities—with impossibilities. If he was resolute to have a well-sustained logic of Time, I say it was better for him to have his Two Months distinct at Cyprus. I say that, with his creative powers, if he was determined to have Two Calendar Months, from the First of May to the First of July, and then in One Day distinctly the first suspicion sown and the murder done, nothing could have been easier to him than to have imagined, and indicated, and hurried over the required gap of time; and that he would have been bound to prefer this course to that inexplicable marriage and no marriage at Venice.

BULLER.

How he clears his way!

NORTH.

But Shakspeare, my dear Boys, had a better escape. Wittingly or unwittingly, he exempted himself from the obligation of walking by the Calendar. He knew—or he felt that the fair proportionate structure of the Action required liberal time at Cyprus. He took it; for there it is, recognised in the consciousness of every sitting or standing spectator. He knew, or he felt, that the passionate expectation to be sustained in the bosoms of his audience required a rapidity of movement in his Murder-Plot, and it moves on feet of fire.

SEWARD.

Venice is beginning to fade from my ken.

NORTH.

The first of all necessities towards the Criticism of the Play, Seward, is to convince yourself that there was not—could not be a time of concealed marriage at Venice—that it is not hinted, and is not inferable.

BULLER.

Shall we give in, Seward?

SEWARD.

Yes.

NORTH.

You must go to the Tremendous Double Time at Cyprus, knowing that the solution is to be had there, or nowhere. If you cast back a longing lingering look towards Venice, you are lost. Put mountains and waves between you and the Queen of the Sea. Help yourself through at Cyprus, or perish in the adventure.

TALBOYS.

Through that Mystery, you alone, sir, are the Man to help us through—and you must.

NORTH.

Not now—to-morrow. Till then be revolving the subject occasionally in your minds.

TALBOYS.

Let's off to the Pike-ground at Kilchurn.

Printed by William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh.