But this, too, in the hands of Shakespeare, becomes for him, like any other of those fantastic, ineffectual, easily discredited, personal graces, as capricious in its operation on men's wills as merely physical beauty, kindling himself to eloquence indeed, but only giving double pathos to insults which "barbarism itself" might have pitied--the dust in his face, as he returns, through the streets of London, a prisoner in the train of his victorious enemy. How soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face! he cries, in that most poetic invention of the mirror scene, which does but reinforce again that physical charm which all confessed. The sense of "divine right" in kings is found to act not so much as a secret of power over others, as of infatuation to themselves. And of all those personal gifts the one which alone never altogether fails him is just that royal utterance, his [198] appreciation of the poetry of his own hapless lot, an eloquent self-pity, infecting others in spite of themselves, till they too become irresistibly eloquent about him. In the Roman Pontifical, of which the order of Coronation is really a part, there is no form for the inverse process, no rite of "degradation," such as that by which an offending priest or bishop may be deprived, if not of the essential quality of "orders," yet, one by one, of its outward dignities. It is as if Shakespeare had had in mind some such inverted rite, like those old ecclesiastical or military ones, by which human hardness, or human justice, adds the last touch of unkindness to the execution of its sentences, in the scene where Richard "deposes" himself, as in some long, agonising ceremony, reflectively drawn out, with an extraordinary refinement of intelligence and variety of piteous appeal, but also with a felicity of poetic invention, which puts these pages into a very select class, with the finest "vermeil and ivory" work of Chatterton or Keats. Fetch hither Richard that in common view He may surrender!-- And Richard more than concurs: he throws himself into the part, realises a type, falls gracefully as on the world's stage.--Why is he sent for? To do that office of thine own good will Which tired majesty did make thee offer.-- Now mark me! how I will undo myself. [199] "Hath Bolingbroke deposed thine intellect?" the Queen asks him, on his way to the Tower:-- Hath Bolingbroke Deposed thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart? And in truth, but for that adventitious poetic gold, it would be only "plume-plucked Richard."-- I find myself a traitor with the rest, For I have given here my soul's consent To undeck the pompous body of a king. He is duly reminded, indeed, how That which in mean men we entitle patience Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts. Yet at least within the poetic bounds of Shakespeare's play, through Shakespeare's bountiful gifts, his desire seems fulfilled.-- O! that I were as great As is my grief.