GAUNT This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house
Against the envy of less happier lands… (2.1.40-49)
Like so many of the Famous Bits (and this is only the beginning, and I’m not doing justice to it) this gets weirder the more one looks at it. And not least because it’s a single incredibly long sentence, with (as yet) no main verb, and no clearly defined subject… It’s ritual, incantatory; this is Gaunt as prophet. But what’s he talking about? the repeated this, this suggests specificity, but it keeps shifting. This royal throne of kings could be an actual throne, a reference to the King, the Crown—then it’s this sceptered isle, this earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, the near-parallel structure (royal/sceptered/majesty/Mars; throne/isle/earth/seat) keeping the conceit tight but also mobile and dynamic, because it’s not precise. You have to keep recalibrating, as throne becomes isle, then earth, then seat (which is both a throne, and more than a throne, a seat of power, a territory). Mars, the first rumble of war—but first, the speech is going to leap, via the classical god of war, from earthly power to heavenly, as the references shift, briefly, from the royal to the divine, this other Eden, demi-Paradise. Not Eden itself, and not quite Paradise, but rather a mixture of the earthly and the divine—but already, it’s a pile-up of resonant, mystical words, in just the first three lines. No verbs yet. (And Eden and Paradise are always already lost…)
A brief relaxation of sorts, as the syntax stretches, a clause expanding over two lines rather than the half-line unit: this fortress built by Nature for herself against infection and the hand of war. That’s one of the main notes of the speech, enclosure, separateness—and defensiveness. (Actually, the sense of enclosure would have been more apparent to an early modern audience, accustomed to thinking of the garden of Eden, and Paradise, as walled.) Infection (ah yes) and the hand of war can be held at bay in this place. (It’s really difficult not to read ahead, or to read, hear without remembering what comes next. Spoiler: is it apparent, yet, that this is an island? That it’s England?) A brief glimpse of people, this happy breed of men (happy meaning fortunate, blessed, more than contented), suggesting a distinctive identity, in this little world, again separate, discrete, entire of itself—and then a zoom, from the little world (which is still a world) to this precious stone set in the silver sea, a brooch, a ring, a jewel. But as soon as we’ve pictured that, gleaming and sparkling, the sea becomes much more akin to actual sea, a defensive wall (and we might imagine mighty sea walls, as well as tossing waves—this is less than a decade after the defeat of the Spanish Armada). This movement ends, or at least pauses, with another version of the earlier device of short clauses followed by a more extended, enjambed formulation: which serves it in the office of a wall or as a moat defensive to a house against the envy of less happier lands. The sea acts like a wall, or—changing scale again—a moat defensive to a house. (An Englishman’s house is his castle.) And so the sense of being under attack, or under siege, of separateness, and exceptionalism. Everyone wants what we’ve got, don’t they? Those less happier lands, they’re less blessed, less fortunate; they’re just jealous.
Much more to say about this (and this) as it continues. But a few thoughts along the way. First, its lack of specificity: it’s a mood-board, not a manifesto, this cascade of resonant, often quite abstract terms gilded (literally) with the specifics of silver, stone, moat, house. The repeated, incantatory this, which will continue, and gives the effect of ritual, which seems to promise specificity, a clear referent, but withholds it. (The stage is almost certainly static; all we have to do is focus on the words.) And those shifting conceits, which are vivid and clearly related one to another, give us a particular kind of interpretative work to do. It’s not as baroquely dizzying as Mercutio’s Queen Mab speech in Romeo and Juliet, in its cognitive effects (picture this! now picture this!)—but a spell is being cast, not ‘just’ in language, but in syntax and grammar.