tearing, ramping
language in the mouths of his heroes--for in their positions it is the
only language fit to use--but that, in accordance with the bullying,
blustering habits of his day, he has placed every one of his heroes in
such a situation, that blustering and bullying is the only thing he can
do. And therefore every man who writes plays at the present, and at any
future time, must have a hero first-cousin at least to Stentor. Who
would venture to place Louis the Eleventh on the boards? He probably
never spoke louder than a physician at a consultation--no, not when he
confronted the Duke of Burgundy. He would have to glide noiselessly from
scene to scene, a whisper here, a look there, and perhaps a shrug of the
shoulder or scarcely perceptible motion of the hand; yet, all through,
it would be evident that he was the snake on two legs, the anointed
Mephistopheles, the intellect without the feeling--and, with all that,
he could not be the hero of a play. Or, if he was made the hero, he
would be changed from the quiet self-contained character I have
supposed him, to a more _effective_ one. He would have sudden starts of
anger which would not be in keeping; outbursts of fiery imprecation
which would not be in keeping; or, if the poet was much put to it, he
might be shown, answering taunt for taunt, and threat for threat, with
the ferocious Charles, which would certainly not be in such keeping as
he himself was at the fortress of Peronne. So you see the fact of
Shakspeare covering the stage with Titans, and forming them with Titanic
thoughts, and endowing them with Titanic voices, has rendered it
indispensable for all the little fellows of the present time to be
prodigiously Titanic too. Did you ever hear the skipper of a steamer
bellowing and roaring through a speaking-trumpet, when his ordinary
voice could have had no effect amidst the awful noises of a hurricane,
and the sea and the breakers under his lee? Nothing could be fitter than
his attitude on the creaking paddle-box, and the thunderous sound that
issued from the tube. But wouldn't it be absurd for the commander of the
Hugh Frazer, amid the quiet waters of Loch-Lomond, to give orders to the
little boy that holds the helm, or point out the beauties of Inversnaid,
through an instrument that would startle all the cattle on the
surrounding hills? Just so with Shakspeare's kings and lovers. They have
"prave 'ords enough, look you," to fill the biggest speaking-trump