Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 4, no. 24 October 1859 | Page 2

with crowded shelves; the door of
a closet, left ajar, showed that the place was packed with books,
roughly or cheaply clad, and pamphlets. At the bottom of the cases,
books stretched in serried files along the floor. Some had crept up upon
the library-steps, as if, impatient to rejoin their companions, they were
mounting to the shelves of their own accord. They invaded all
accessible nooks and crannies of the room; big folios were bursting out

from the larger gaps, and thin quartos trickling through chinks that
otherwise would have been choked with dust; and even from the
mouldings above the doors bracketed shelves thrust out, upon which
rows of volumes perched, like penguins on a ledge of rock. In fact,
books flocked there as martlets did to Macbeth's castle; there was "no
jutty frieze or coigne of vantage" but a book had made it his "pendent
bed,"--and it appeared "his procreant cradle" too; for the children, in
calling the great folios "papa-books" and "mamma-books," seemed
instinctively to have hit upon the only way of accounting for the rapid
increase and multiplication of volumes in that apartment.
Upon this scene the light fell, tempered by curtains, at the cheapness
and simplicity of which a fashionable upholsterer would have sneered,
but toward whose graceful folds, and soft, rich hues, the study-wearied
eye turned ever gratefully. The two friends sat silently for some
minutes in ruminative mood, till Grey, turning suddenly to Tomes,
asked,--
"What does Iago mean, when he says of Cassio,--
'He hath a daily beauty in his life, That makes me ugly'?"
"How can you ask the question?" Tomes replied; adding, after a
moment's pause, "he means, more plainly than any other words can tell,
that Cassio's truthful nature and manly bearing, his courtesy, which was
the genuine gold of real kindness brought to its highest polish, and not
a base alloy of selfishness and craft galvanized into a
surface-semblance of such worth, his manifest reverence for and love
of what was good and pure and noble, his charitable, generous,
unenvious disposition, his sweetness of temper, and his gallantry, all of
which found expression in face or action, made a character so lovely
and so beautiful that every daily observer of them both found him, Iago,
hateful and hideous by comparison."
Grey. I suspected as much before I had the benefit of your comment;
which, by the way, ran off your tongue as glibly as if you were one of
the folk who profess Shakespeare, and you were threatening the world
with an essay on Othello. But sometimes it has seemed to me as if these
words meant more; Shakespeare's mental vision took in so much. Was
the beauty of Cassio's life only a moral beauty?
Tomes. For all we know, it was.

Grey. I say, perhaps, or--No,--Cassio has seemed to me not more a
gallant soldier and a generous spirit than a cultivated and accomplished
gentleman; he, indeed, shows higher culture than any other character in
the tragedy, as well as finer natural tastes; and I have thought that into
the scope of this phrase, "daily beauty," Shakespeare took not only the
honorable and lovely traits of moral nature, to which you, and perhaps
the rest of the world with you, seem to limit it, but all the outward
belongings and surroundings of the personage to whom it is applied.
For these, indeed, were a part of his life, of him,--and went to make up,
in no small measure, that daily beauty in which he presented so strong a
contrast to Iago. Look at "mine Ancient" closely, and see, that, with all
his subtle craft, he was a coarse-mannered brute, of gross tastes and
grovelling nature, without a spark of gallantry, and as destitute of
courtesy as of honor. We overrate his very subtlety; for we measure it
by its effects, the woful and agonizing results it brings about; forgetting
that these, like all results, or resultants, are the product of at least two
forces,--the second, in this instance, being the unsuspecting and
impetuous nature of Othello, Had Iago undertaken to deceive any other
than such a man, he would have failed. Why, even simple-hearted
Desdemona, who sees so little of him, suspects him; that poor goose,
Roderigo, though blind with vanity and passion, again and again loses
faith in him; and his wife knows him through and through. Believe me,
he had no touch of gentleness, not one point of contact with the
beautiful, in all his nature,--while Cassio's was filled up with gentleness
and beauty, and all that is akin to them.
Tomes. His weakness for wine and women among them?--But thanks
for your commentary. I am quite eclipsed. On you go, too, in your old
way, trying to make out that what is good is beautiful,--no,