Far less has been made of Alcibiades. The underplot in which he figures is conceived in Shakespeare's manner, but its execution suggests imitation. The great soldier, banished by his fellow-citizens in spite of his services, who avenges his wrongs not with the spoken daggers of Timon, but with energetic military reprisals, plays the part of Coriolanus, but plays it in the simple, straightforward temper of Fortinbras. The scene of his banishment (iii. 5.) is as remote in passion and force from the great climax of the Roman play as it is proximate in motive. In the closing scene— -his vengeful return-the Coriolanus motive is still visible; but Fortinbras predominates. Alcibiades announces his impending vengeance to the trembling senators; but he is a gentle conqueror, and returns, with facile accommodation, to the citizenship of the 'coward and lascivious town' whose baseness had provoked Timon's annihilating hatred, as the Norwegian prince succeeds, blithe and high-hearted, to the rule of the rotten Denmark that had blasted the genius of Hamlet. TIMON OF ATHENS ACT I. SCENE I. Athens. A hall in Timon's house. Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Poet. Good day, sir. Pain. I am glad you're well. Poet. I have not seen you long: how goes the world? Pain. It wears, sir, as it grows. Poet. Ay, that's well known: But what particular rarity? what strange, Which manifold recórd not matches? See, Magic of bounty! all these spirits thy power Hath conjured to attend. I know the merchant. Pain. I know them both; th' other's a jeweller. Mer. O, 'tis a worthy lord. Jew. Nay, that's most fix'd. Mer. A most incomparable man, breathed, as it were, To an untirable and continuate goodness: He passes. 10. breathed, exercised. ΙΟ Mer. O, pray, let's see 't: for the Lord Timon, sir ? Jew. If he will touch the estimate: but, for that Poet. [Reciting to himself] 'When we for recompense have praised the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good.' Mer. 'Tis a good form. Jew. And rich: here is a water, look ye. Pain. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication To the great lord. Poet. A thing slipp'd idly from me. Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes From whence 'tis nourish'd: the fire i' the flint Shows not till it be struck; our gentle flame Provokes itself and like the current flies Each bound it chafes. Pain. A picture, sir. forth? What have you there? When comes your book Poet. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir. Let's see your piece. Pain. 'Tis a good piece. Poet. So 'tis: this comes off well and excellent. Poet. 20 Admirable how this grace 30 Speaks his own standing! what a mental power The 30. how this grace, etc. poet speaks with the preciosity of art coteries. He possibly 'How vividly the grace means: of the portrait expresses that of the man himself, on which it is founded.' One might interpret. Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life. Here is a touch; is 't good? Poct. I will say of it, It tutors nature: artificial strife Lives in these touches, livelier than life. Enter certain Senators, and pass over. Pain. How this lord is follow'd! Poet. The senators of Athens: happy man! Poet. You see this confluence, this great flood I have, in this rough work, shaped out a man, Pain. How shall I understand you? Poet. I will unbolt to you. You see how all conditions, how all minds, 44. beneath, under. 45. my free drift, etc., my spontaneous tribute is not a straggling isolated current of opinion, but moves in consort with a tide of literary eulogy.— The poet's affected jargon is obscure to his hearer, as the painter's question shows. Its interpretation is not free from VOL. X 50 doubt. Ingleby and Littledale take sea of wax' to mean a flood-tide ('he waxed like a sea,' Cor. ii. 2. 103); I cannot believe this. 'A sea of wax' would be as natural an expression in the days of tablets as a sea of ink in ours. 161 47. levell'd, intended. M Subdues and properties to his love and tendance Pain. I saw them speak together. Poet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill Feign'd Fortune to be throned: the base o' the mount Is rank'd with all deserts, all kind of natures, Pain. 'Tis conceived to scope. This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, Bowing his head against the steepy mount To climb his happiness, would be well express'd Poet. Nay, sir, but hear me on. Pain. Ay, marry, what of these? Poet. When Fortune in her shift and change of mood 72. to scope, to the purpose. 60 70 80 |