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noble nature is taken in the toils because it is noble. Iago suspects his wife of every baseness, but the suspicion has no other effect than to intensify his malignity. Iago could not be captured and constrained to heroic suffering and rage. The shame of every being who bears the name of woman is credible to Iago, and yet he can grate from his throat the jarring music:

"And let me the canakin clink, clink!

And let me the canakin clink!"

There is, therefore, Shakspere would have us understand, something more inimical to humanity than suffering-namely, an incapacity for noble pain. To die as Othello dies is indeed grievous. But to live as Iago lives, devouring the dust and stinging-this is more appalling.

Such is the spiritual motive that controls the tragedy. And the validity of this truth is demonstrable to every sound conscience. No supernatural authority needs to be summoned to bear witness to this reality of human life. No pallid flame It is a porof hell, no splendour of dawning heaven, needs show itself beyond the verge of earth to illumine this truth. tion of the ascertained fact of human nature, and of this our We look upon "the tragic loading of the mortal existence. bed," and we see Iago in presence of the ruin he has wrought. That may also We are not compelled to seek for any resolution of these apparent discords in any alleged life to come. be; we shall accept it, if it be. But looking sternly and strictly at what is now actual and present to our sight, we yet rise above despair. Desdemona's adhesion to her husband and to love survived the ultimate trial. Othello dies He perceives his own calamitous error, and "upon a kiss." he recognizes Desdemona pure and loyal as she was. Goodness is justified of her child. It is evil which suffers defeat. It is Iago whose whole existence has been most blind, purposeless, and miserable-a struggle against the virtuous

of the world by which at last he stands convicted

OTHELLO

THE

MOOR

of

VENICE

Enter RODERIGO and IAGO.

Roderigo. Tush! never tell me; I take it much unkindly That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse

As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.

Iago. 'Sblood, but you will not hear me;

If ever I did dream of such a matter,

Abhor me.

Roderigo. Thou told'st me thou didst hold him in thy
Iago. Despise me, if I do not.

hate.

Three great ones of the

city,

In personal suit to make me his lieutenant,
Off-capp'd to him; and, by the faith of man,
I know my price, I am worth no worse a place :
But he, as loving his own pride and purposes,
Evades them, with a bombast circumstance
Horribly stuff'd with epithets of war;
And, in conclusion,

Nonsuits my mediators; for, 'Certes,' says he,

'I have already chose my officer.'
And what was he?

Forsooth, a great arithmetician,
One Michael Cassio, a Florentine,
A fellow almost damn'd in a fair wife;
That never set a squadron in the field,
Nor the division of a battle knows

More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric,
Wherein the toged consuls can propose

As masterly as he mere prattle, without practice,
Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election;
And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof
At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds.
Christian and heathen, must be be-lee'd and calm'd
By debitor and creditor, this counter-caster:
He, in good time, must his lieutenant be,
And I-God bless the mark!--his Moorship's ancient.
Roderigo. By heaven, I rather would have been his hang-

man.

30

Iago. Why, there's no remedy; 't is the curse of service, Preferment goes by letter and affection,

And not by old gradation, where each second

Stood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge yourself,

Whether I in any just term am affin'd

To love the Moor.

Roderigo.