# Characters of Shakespear's Plays/The Tempest

THE TEMPEST.
There can be little doubt that Shakespear was the most universal genius that ever lived. "Either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, scene individable or poem unlimited, he is the only man. Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light for him." He has not only the same absolute command over our laughter and our tears, all the resources of passion, of wit, of thought, of observation, but he has the most unbounded range of fanciful invention, whether terrible or playful, the same insight into the world of imagination that he has into the world of reality; and over all there presides the same truth of character and nature, and the same spirit of humanity. His ideal beings are as true and natural as his real ​characters; that is, as consistent with themselves, or if we suppose such beings to exist at all, they could not act, speak, or feel otherwise than as he makes them. He has invented for them a language, manners, and sentiments of their own, from the tremendous imprecations of the Witches in Macbeth, when they do "a deed without a name," to the sylph-like expressions of Ariel, who "does his spiriting gently;" the mischievous tricks and gossipping of Robin Goodfellow, or the uncouth gabbling and emphatic gesticulations of Caliban in this play.
"Caliban. As wicked dew as e'er my mother brush'd With raven's feather from unwholesome fen, Drop on you both: a south-west blow on ye, And blister you all o'er! Prospero. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins Shall for that vast of night that they may work, All exercise on thee: thou shalt be pinch'd As thick as honey-combs, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em. Caliban. I must eat my dinner. This island's mine by Sycorax my mother, Which thou tak'st from me. When thou camest first, Thou stroak'dst me,, and mad'st much of me; would' st give me Water with berries in't; and teach me how To name the bigger light and how the less That burn by day and night; and then I lov'd thee, And shew'd thee all the qualities o' th' isle, The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile: Curs'd be I that I did so! All the charms Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you! For I am all the subjects that you have, Who first was mine own king; and here you sty me In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me The rest o' th' island.
And again, he promises Trinculo his services thus, if he will free him from his drudgery.
"I'll shew thee the best springs; I'll pluck thee berries, I'll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough. I pr'ythee let me bring thee where crabs grow, ​And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts: Shew thee a jay's nest, and instruct thee how To snare the nimble marmozet: I'll bring thee To clust'ring filberds—, and sometimes I'll get thee Young scamels from the rock."
In conducting Stephano and Trinculo to Prospero's cell, Caliban shews the superiority of natural capacity over greater knowledge and greater folly; and in a former scene, when Ariel frightens them with his music, Caliban to encourage them accounts for it in the eloquent poetry of the senses.
—"Be not afraid, the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twanging instruments Will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices, That if I then had waked after long sleep, Would make me sleep again; and then in dreaming, The clouds methought would open, and shew riches Ready to drop upon me: when I wak'd I cried to dream again."
This is not more beautiful than it is true. The poet here shews us the savage with the simplicity of a child, and makes the strange monster amiable. Shakespear had to paint the human animal rude and without choice in its pleasures, but not without the sense of pleasure or some germ of the affections. Master Barnardine in Measure for Measure, the savage of ​civilized life, is an admirable philosophical counterpart to Caliban.
Shakespear has, as it were by design, drawn off from Caliban the elements of whatever is ethereal and refined, to compound them in the unearthly mould of Ariel. Nothing was ever more finely conceived than this contrast between the material and the spiritual, the gross and delicate. Ariel is imaginary power, the swiftness of thought personified. When told to make good speed by Prospero, he says, "I drink the air before me." This is something like Puck's boast on a similar occasion, "I'll put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes." But Ariel differs from Puck in having a fellow feeling in the interests of those he is employed about. How exquisite is the following dialogue between him and Prospero!
"Ariel. Your charm so strongly works 'em, That if you now beheld them, your affections Would become tender. Prospero. Dost thou think so, spirit? Ariel. Mine would, sir, were I human. Prospero. And mine shall. Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling Of their afflictions, and shall not myself, One of their kind, that relish all as sharply, Passion'd as they, be kindlier moved than thou art?"
It has been observed that there is a peculiar charm in the songs introduced in Shakespear, ​which, without conveying any distinct images, seem to recall all the feelings connected with them, like snatches of half-forgotten music heard indistinctly and at intervals. There is this effect produced by Ariel's songs, which (as we are told) seem to sound in the air, and as if the person playing them were invisible. We shall give one instance out of many of this general power.
"Enter Ferdinand; and Ariel invisible, playing and singing.
ARIEL'S SONG. Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands; Curt'sied when you have, and kiss'd, (The wild waves whist;) Foot it featly here and there; And sweet sprites the burden bear. [Burden dispersedly.
Hark, hark! bowgh-wowgh: the watch-dogs bark, Bowgh-wowgh. Ariel. Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry cock-a-doodle-doo.
Ferdinand. Where should this music be? in air or earth? It sounds no more: and sure it waits upon Some god o' th' island. Sitting on a bank Weeping against the king my father's wreck, This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air; thence I have follow'd it, ​Or it hath drawn me rather:—but 'tis gone.— No, it begins again.
ARIEL'S SONG. Full fathom five thy father lies, Of his bones are coral made: Those are pearls that were his eyes, Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea change, Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell— Hark! now I hear them, ding-dong bell. [Burden ding-dong.
Ferdinand. The ditty does remember my drown'd father. This is no mortal business, nor no sound That the earth owns: I hear it now above me."—
The courtship between Ferdinand and Miranda is one of the chief beauties of this play. It is the very purity of love. The pretended interference of Prospero with it heightens its interest, and is in character with the magician, whose sense of preternatural power makes him arbitrary, tetchy, and impatient of opposition. The Tempest is a finer play than the Midsummer Night's Dream, which has sometimes been compared with it; but it is not so fine a poem. There are a greater number of beautiful passages in the latter. Two of the most striking in the Tempest are spoken by Prospero. The one is that admirable one when the vision which he has conjured up disappears, beginning "The ​cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces," &c. which has been so often quoted, that every school-boy knows it by heart; the other is that which Prospero makes in abjuring his art.
"Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves, And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets, that By moon-shine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew, by whose aid (Weak masters tho' ye be) I have be-dimm'd The noon-tide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds, And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault Set roaring war; to the dread rattling thunder Have I giv'n fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak With his own bolt; the strong-bas'd promontory Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck'd up The pine and cedar; graves at my command Have wak'd their sleepers; op'd, and let 'em forth By my so potent art. But this rough magic I here abjure; and when I have requir'd Some heav'nly music, which ev'n now I do, (To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for) I'll break my staff, Bury it certain fadoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book."—
We must not forget to mention among other things in this play, that Shakespear has ​anticipated nearly all the arguments on the Utopian schemes of modern philosophy.
"Gonzalo. Had I the plantation of this isle, my lord— Antonio. He'd sow't with nettle-seed. Sebastian. Or docks or mallows. Gonzalo. And were the king on't, what would I do? Sebastian. 'Scape being drunk, for want of wine. Gonzalo. I' th' commonwealth I would by contraries Execute all things: for no kind of traffic Would I admit; no name of magistrate; Letters should not be known; wealth, poverty, And use of service, none; contract, succession, Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none; No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil; No occupation, all men idle, all, And women too; but innocent and pure: No sov'reignty. Sebastian. And yet he would be king on't. Antonio. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning. Gonzalo. All things in common nature should produce Without sweat or endeavour. Treason, felony, Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine Would I not have; but nature should bring forth, Of its own kind, all foizon, all abundance To feed my innocent people! Sebastian. No marrying 'mong his subjects? Antonio. None, man; all idle; whores and knaves. Gonzalo. I would with such perfection govern, sir, T' excel the golden age. Sebastian. Save his majesty!"