The peculiarity and the excellence of Shakespeare's poetry is, that
it seems as if he made his imagination the hand-maid of nature, and
nature the plaything of his imagination. He appears to have been all
the characters, and in all the situations he describes. It is as if
either he had had all their feelings, or had lent them all his
genius to express themselves. There cannot be stronger instances of
this than Hotspur's rage when Henry IV forbids him to speak of
Mortimer, his insensibility to all that his father and uncle urge to
calm him, and his fine abstracted apostrophe to honour, 'By heaven
methinks it were an easy leap to pluck bright honour from the moon,'
&c. After all, notwithstanding the gallantry, generosity, good
temper, and idle freaks of the mad-cap Prince of Wales, we should
not have been sorry if Northumberland's force had come up in time to
decide the fate of the battle at Shrewsbury; at least, we always
heartily sympathize with Lady Percy's grief when she exclaims:
Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers,
To-day might I (hanging on Hotspur's neck)
Have talked of Monmouth's grave.
The truth is, that we never could forgive the Prince's treatment of
Falstaff; though perhaps Shakespeare knew what was best, according
to the history, the nature of the times, and of the man.
Pages:
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226