Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

but her deeds speak the louder, and both spring from a kindly and humanitarian nature. Fortunately her wisdom did not afflict her with any constructive theory of life; she simply lived and was lovely. To make others happy was as the breath of life to her, and she entered on her judicial exploit as blithe as a maid preparing for a masque-ball. And then that playfulness of hers, so gently arch and lovingmischievous, that sparkled on the surface of her deep woman's nature! There seemed to be nothing wanting to make gracious music of Bassanio's life.

Such are some of the creations with which Shakspere has adorned human literature. It is always the quality of his greatness that he wins the unconscious surrender of his audience, and never more effectually than here, where the romance of life supplements its reality. The ultimate spring of this power is of course the reality: in a broad sense, realism. It is something which resides in the obvious human coloring of all he writes. He has nothing abstruse, however close his observation. When Shylock says, "Still have I borne it with a patient shrug," he illustrates a scientific truth laboriously ferreted out by Darwin, namely, that the shrug is a physical expression of patience. But here it is shown in its obvious human aspect. And this aspect is fundamental with our poet. He assumes certain human passions, biases, intuitions, as the element in which we all move and have our being,—things to be presupposed, not dissected; and those who would read philosophical systems into Shakspere not only misconceive but depreciate him. For it is the work of mere learning to cope with sage and bewildering problems;-genius alone can appeal to child and philosopher alike. What a man believes in the abstract will not determine how he hates or loves or laughs or cries, or even his emotion toward the universe; and these are what strike home. If it be the function of learningand a valued one in its place to furnish accuracy of thought, all the more blest be Shakspere that he restores to us the resonance of life.

If, therefore, Shakspere is the prince of poets, is Matthew Arnold altogether felicitous when he calls poetry a criticism of life? Is it not rather an exposition of life?-or, better still, a crystallization of life? For, besides realism, there is a second element in Shakspere's greatness, and that is idealism. Carried so far as in these plays it becomes what we have chosen to call romance; but everywhere it is that which differentiates the artist from the mere intense observer like Tolstoi. Life as it comes to us is uneven, exasperating, with many odd ends in search of a connection; and of such we may have our surfeit outside of books. But within the covers of Shakspere we find that selective tact which copies things with a sense of symmetry; rejecting all that contributes nothing to a desired effect, and touching only the heart of experience; so that even his tragedies leave us satisfied.

So

Thus this realist who draws from life; this idealist who combines his strokes in harmony, has that immortal power to master us like music or the sound of the near sea. long as humanity is human and can sympathize with its own heart, it will never cease to love the world which Shakspere made; and in proportion as our Nineteenth Century lives are specialized and dry, do we need in particular that fresh, romantic side of him which is found in the Italian Plays.

EXPERT TESTIMONY IN THE CASE OF END VERSUS MEANS.

RANDOLPH was sitting on the piazza rail, so inter

ested in the discussion as to entirely overlook the fact that he was gesticulating with his cigar, and that it had gone out. Theodosia was leaning forward, with her face flushed, trying with might and main to get an argument in edgewise. Tom had dropped out some time before, as usual, and was doing all the hard listening; in fact this was the regular way for it to turn out, because Tom was a peace-loving man, who preferred smoke to argument, and had learned long since that one could not discuss ethics with Theodosia and keep a cigar burning at the same time.

The question before the house was whether or not truthfulness was a matter of degree. Deponed by the affirmative that one always said "Glad to meet you," in greeting acquaintances, even the acquaintances that one would not have met if one had seen them first. Admitted by the negative, with the qualification that "Glad to meet you" is only a verbal way of shaking hands, and no more a committal than "Your humble servant," at the end of a business letter. Statement also appended by negative that she never said "Glad to meet you," anyway, under such circumstances, but only "How do you do"? Affirmative attempted to prove that negative had weakened her case by defining "Glad to meet you" as an admissible conventionality, and then denying that she used it, but this involved such heartbreaking distinctions that he waived the point, and began to cite instances bearing on the main argument.

"Now take the case of Billy Fricker," said Randolph. "I never yet knew Billy to fail to make just the wrong remark to a person, besides being strikingly original in matters of etiquette, and the most tiresome man I ever

saw.

Billy asked me to take him to call on a particularly

swell friend of mine, and I said 'Sure, I will, some day,'but if I ever see that day coming, I'll run. Now what would you have said, Ted? 'No, William, I will not take you to call, because I think my friend is happier as she is?' That would have been unquestionably true."

"Of course not!" retorted Theodosia, "I should have changed the subject; anyway, I hate a liar!"—which statement appeared undebatable.

"I used to know a girl that had just that same idea," broke in Tom, "and yet a fellow stood up before her and lied alternately to two men for half an hour with the greatest originality and candour, and she afterwards fell on his neck for it." The debate was temporarily suspended to receive this expert testimony, and the witness took the stand.

"You know, when you go to Russia," said Tom, "they take your name, pedigree, and personal data as supplied in reply to forty-three impertinent questions propounded by the government, and enter them all on a passport; three dollars. On the frontier, the Russian police magistrate counts your eyes and ears to see if the number is as specified, and writes six meaningless comments on the back; two rubles, please. First town you meet, the Protector of the Poor and the Lord High Executioner takes your papers to the town hall, find out how old you are with interest, also the name of the ship that your uncle first crossed the ocean on, write "Scat," or something like it, under the police magistrate's name, and charge you for a day's work. All of which is very tiresome, but not fatal, if only you have enough signatures on the passport, and do not lose it. But that is exactly what the girl did.

She was travelling in Russia with her father, and the man in question had come across them unexpectedly in Moscow, and altered his plans to travel with them awhile, as they were old friends. One time, when they were in the country district, the girl's father stayed at home for an afternoon, and she went for a long walk with the man.

It does not take much to set Russians on a wild goose chase, and suddenly, without any sort of warning, an officer stepped up to the girl and told her she was under arrest. Of course she did not know what was the matter, and, what was more to the point, she could not find her passport,has not found it yet, I believe, but she does not want it now, and she wanted it then very badly.

The man took out his own papers, and argued with the official for some time, in guide-book Russian phrases. When he got through, he left him in doubt whether he wanted something to eat, or merely bed and lodging, and the girl just stood and wept to hear so much bitter language. Then an interpreter showed up, with just enough mastery of the intricacies of the English language to take in everything that was said to him, with a smile and a bow, and get about three-tenths of it straight.

'Look here,' said the man to the interpreter, 'this official is a wonderfully keen fellow, but I can't get him to understand that this passport belongs to the lady, and not to me.' The interpreter gave his rendering of that to the official, who at once replied with a word that took two and a half minutes for the saying, without a break.

'He say, not he believe you,' said the interpreter.

'Not he believe me; my, I thought it was going to be lots worse than that! but see here, surely he cannot suppose that Harry is a man's name in English!' The interpreter expanded that into an epic, and while he was declaiming it to the official, the girl cornered the man, and asked him what he meant.

'Look here, Alice,' said he, in an undertone, 'your name isn't Alice any more, it's Harry. And don't you dare say anything to the interpreter, or they will put you in jail. There will be rats in jail.' The girl looked at him as if she did not quite get the idea, and was going to say something, but he held up his finger, and said, 'Remember the rats, Harry.' Three times after that she started to break in, but he frowned at her, and then she just hung her head and watched him.

« ZurückWeiter »