Again, when
he exclaims in the mad scene, "The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanche,
and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me!" it is passion lending occasion
to imagination to make every creature in league against him, conjuring
up ingratitude and insult in their least looked-for and most galling
shapes, searching every thread and fibre of his heart, and finding out
the last remaining image of respect or attachment in the bottom of his
breast, only to torture and kill it! In like manner, the "So I am" of
Cordelia gushes from her heart like a torrent of tears, relieving it
of a weight of love and of supposed ingratitude, which had pressed
upon it for years. What a fine return of the passion upon itself is
that in Othello--with what a mingled agony of regret and despair he
clings to the last traces of departed happiness, when he exclaims:
---O now, for ever,
Farewell the tranquil mind: farewell content!
Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars,
That make ambition virtue! O, farewell!
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner; and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
And O you mortal engines, whose rude throats
Th' immortal Jove's dread clamours counterfeit,
Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone!
How his passion lashes itself up and swells and rages like a tide in
its sounding course, when, in answer to the doubts expressed of his
returning love, he says:
Never, Iago.
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