GIFT OF 
 Professor G. R* Noyes 
 
I 
 
 FAMILIAR TALKS 
 
 ON SOME OF 
 
 SHAKSPEARE'S COMEDIES. 
 
Digitized by Jiie Internet Arciiive 
 
 in 2007 witii funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 littp://www.arcliive.org/details/familiartalksonsOOIatiricli 
 
FAMILIAR TALKS 
 
 ON SOME OF 
 
 Shakspeare's Comedies. 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH WORMELEY LATIMER. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 TAMING OF THE SHREW. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 CYMBELINE. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS. 
 
 1886. 
 
?3^ 
 
 Copyright^ i88b, 
 
 By Roberts Brothers. 
 
 
 
 Santfteraftg ^rcss: 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THESE Parlor Lectures were given in Balti- 
 more, to a large and appreciative class of 
 ladies. In examining great masses of Shakspearian 
 criticism during their preparation, I was surprised 
 to find how little of the same kind of work has been 
 done. We have (besides Hudson and Dowden) 
 Hazlitt's characters, which are very brief; Coleridge's 
 inestimable notes, which too often are mere jottings ; 
 Maginn's papers, which I find a little strained ; Ger- 
 vinus, who writes with Teutonic care, insight, and 
 heaviness ; Richard Grant White, whose most fin- 
 ished essay is on a play not included in this volume; 
 Christopher North, whose sparklets of Shakspearian 
 criticism are scattered up and down old volumes of 
 Blackwood ; Mrs. Jameson's most excellent •" Char- 
 acteristics of Women ; " Lady Martin's recent letters 
 on some of Shakspeare's female characters; and a 
 series of papers, still incomplete, in the English 
 "Monthly Packet" (edited by Miss Yonge), called 
 " Shakspeare Talks with Uncritical People," by Con- 
 stance O'Brian. There are also notes to all editions 
 
 8R41 P3 
 
vi Preface. 
 
 of the plays ; besides which a great deal of fugitive 
 Shakspearian criticism — of the kind I wanted — can 
 be found in magazines, inaccessible for the most part 
 to the general reader. To all these I acknowledge 
 the greatest obligations, in trying to do for each play 
 as a whole what Mrs. Jameson and Lady Martin have 
 done for its heroine. To the erudite who write for 
 University men, I leave all points of what is called 
 Shakspearian criticism. I have attempted nothing 
 but to bring out obvious points of dramatic interest, 
 and to enable those whom I addressed to get a clear 
 view of the story and the characters. 
 
 If I can do anything towards opening the " mighty 
 book " for those who have not time or facilities for 
 searching out what I have done from various sources, 
 I shall feel very glad that I undertook a task which 
 at first I shrank from as beyond my powers. 
 
 I found however, that my habit, as a novelist, of 
 studying characters, and, as it were, working in fic- 
 tion, gave me a certain insight even into Shakspeare's 
 mind. I feel very sure that his characters started 
 from some germ, and evolved themselves as he 
 wrote ; that they grew, in short, beneath his hand, 
 and were not laid down by line and rule beforehand. 
 He had an inner sense which made it impossible for 
 him to make any of his creatures (unless it may be 
 Oliver, in **As You Like It") act *' oul of character." 
 
 Lord Tennyson is reported to have said, in the 
 course of some discussion on the recent abuses of 
 
Preface, vii 
 
 biography, that the world should be thankful there 
 are but five facts absolutely known to us about 
 Shakspeare. These five indisputable facts are, the 
 date of his birth, — St. George's Day, April 23, 1564, 
 six years after the accession of Queen Elizabeth ; his 
 marriage when he was only nineteen to Anne Hath- 
 away; his connection with the Globe Theatre, and 
 with Blackfriars; his retirement from theatrical life, 
 with a competency, to Stratford-upon-Avon ; and the 
 date of his death, which took place upon the anni- 
 versary of his birth, 161 6, five years after the publi- 
 cation of King James' translation of the English Bible. 
 Knight's bulky and interesting life of Shakspeare 
 contains but these five facts ; the rest of the book 
 consists of guess-work and side-shows. 
 
 There are five portraits of Shakspeare, two of which 
 may possibly be genuine ; and recently in Germany 
 a death-mask has been found, marked 1616, which is 
 supposed to have been taken from his dead face. 
 The evidence is curious, but not conclusive ; it may 
 be found in a paper by Dr. Ingleby and in *' Scrib- 
 ner's Monthly." 
 
 His name he spelled Shakspere. His arms were 
 given to his family for services rendered to Henry VH. 
 on Bosworth-field. He had two daughters, Susanna 
 and Judith. Susanna married a somewhat learned 
 physician and strict Puritan, — Dr. Hall. They 
 had one little daughter, Elizabeth, a great pet with 
 her grandfather. She was twice married, but was 
 
viii Preface, 
 
 childless. She lived to a good old age, and died in 
 the reign of Charles II. Judith married a citizen of 
 Stratford, whose name was Quimby. She had no 
 children. She and her brother Hamet (born before 
 their father was twenty-one) were twins. Hamet 
 died in early boyhood, to the great grief of his 
 father. 
 
 Shakspeare had brothers, though little is known of 
 them ; he had also uncles of the same name. From 
 one of these the Shakspeares in America claim to be 
 descended. 
 
 When Dante found himself in that outer circle of 
 the Inferno where poets and their dramatis personcB 
 lived in honor and great glory, deprived of heavenly 
 light, but illuminated by artificial brilliancy, Virgil 
 introduced him to the company of the five great poets 
 of the world, under the captaincy of Homer, who 
 admitted him (the sixth) into their company. I 
 never read this passage in the " Inferno " without 
 thinking how time has altered the rank of these six 
 great ones. Homer retains his sovereignty, but next 
 to him stands Shakspeare; Dante ranks the third. 
 The three other places may be still matter of dispute. 
 We shall surely not elect to them Lucan, Horace, and 
 Ovid, — perhaps even Virgil may not be one. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Pagb 
 
 The Winter's Tale 3 
 
 The Tempest . . \^^,^^"". 55 
 
 Midsummer Night's Dream , , . 91 
 
 Taming of the Shrew , . . 131 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing 181 
 
 As You Like. It , ... 231 
 
 Twelfth Night; or, What You Will ..... 291 
 
 The Merchant of Venice 339 
 
 Cymbeline 393 
 
 INDEX 441 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
FAMILIAR. TALKS, ..,,..,. 
 
 ON SOME OF 
 
 SHAKSPEARE'S COMEDIES. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 " 'THHIS name," says Coleridge, " is admirably adapted 
 X to the Play throughout." Shakspeare makes little 
 Mamillius say, " A sad tale *s best for winter ; " and this play 
 is more properly a dramatic tale than a drama, for it does 
 not respect dramatic proprieties, but is in two parts, — as 
 much so as " Henry IV. " is in two parts, or " Henry VI. " in 
 three. The first part is in three acts ; then an interval of 
 fifteen years occurs between that part and the last two acts, 
 which form a sequel to the first play or part, with different 
 dramatis personcB. 
 
 The story is taken from a novel by Richard Greene, a 
 gentleman and scholar, who first published his story in 1588, 
 the year of the Armada. From internal evidence Shak- 
 speare seems to have written " The Winter's Tale " six 
 years before his death, in 16 10; and it is known to have 
 been performed in 161 3, for we have a report of the play, 
 as minute as the work of a dramatic critic in our news- 
 papers, preserved in the diary of an old gentleman who was 
 present at the performance. It was first published in the old 
 " Folio" of 1623 ; had this not been the case it would have 
 been lost to us, for no earlier copy has been preserved. 
 
The Winter ^s Tale. 
 
 The critics 'in 'the' Cetitury that succeeded that of Shak- 
 'Hpp^rb's .'d^atji ,'ftpfeak of. it '^Hghtingly. Horace Walpole, not 
 knowing the date ' of its composition or first performance, 
 makes a long argument to prove that it was a sequel, or 
 second-part, to "Henry VHL," and that it was written in 
 the reign of Queen Elizabeth, being the history of her 
 mother, Anne Boleyn, in a sort of allegory. This criticism 
 is very queer and ingenious, proving how interpretations the 
 most plausible can go astray. 
 
 It has been considered a particularly good acting-play, 
 though there are no star-parts in it. A few years ago it 
 was revived in New York as a kind of spectacular drama, 
 everything being subordinated to the mise e?i scene, I heard 
 one gentleman who was present regretting that Shakspeare 
 could not have seen all the surroundings of his drama real- 
 ized ; but I heard another remark that it was painful to him 
 to have Shakspeare's poetry and Shakspeare's characters 
 crowded out, as it were, to give place to materialism. I 
 suppose the effect produced depended on the personal 
 temperament of the beholder. In Greene's novel the con- 
 clusion of the story is painful and disgusting. There is no 
 return of Hermione, and the Leontes of the play commits 
 suicide. Antigones, Paulina, and Autolycus are characters 
 entirely added by Shakspeare. 
 
 The scene of the play is first in Sicily, then in Bohemia. 
 As the eldest daughter of King James, the beautiful Eliza- 
 beth, was aspiring to the crown of Bohemia at the time 
 Shakspeare was writing "The Winter's Tale," he must have 
 been perfectly familiar with its surroundings and geography ; 
 nevertheless, no end of fun has been made out of the fact 
 that Bohemia in the play is a maritime kingdom. In the 
 
The Winter^ s Tale, 5 
 
 first place, no author is responsible for the geography of fairy- 
 land. Secondly, Shakspeare took Bohemia for the locality 
 of his story because Greene did so before him. Thirdly, 
 it may have been a joke ; for in a burlesque book of travels 
 of that day, a London alderman is represented as asking if 
 the British fleet had arrived in Bohemia ! Fourthly, Shak- 
 speare and Greene may have been in the right ; for the Goths 
 who settled in Bohemia were part of a tribe — the Boli — 
 half of which established itself on the northwestern coast 
 of Italy. Out of all these explanations we are at liberty to 
 choose. I prefer the first one ; but the case is much like the 
 defence of the Irishman who stole the gridiron : i . That 
 he had never seen it. 2. That it was good for nothing 
 when he got it. 3. That he had carried it home again. 
 
 Coleridge says of this Play that " its idea is a genuine 
 jealousy of disposition, and that it should be immediately 
 followed by the perusal of Othello, which is the direct con- 
 trast to it in every particular. For jealousy," he continues, 
 " is a vice of the mind, a culpable tendency of temper, hav- 
 ing certain well-known and well-defined defects and con- 
 comitants, all of which are visible in Leontes, and not one, 
 I boldly say, in Othello ; such as, first, an excitability for 
 the most inadequate causes, and an eagerness to snatch at 
 proofs ; secondly, a grossness of conception, and a dispo- 
 sition to degrade the subject of the passion; thirdly, a 
 sense of shame in the jealous man for his own feelings, — 
 betrayed in moodiness and solitariness ; which nevertheless 
 is forced to utter itself, and therefore catches at hints and 
 ambiguities, and goes on talking to those who cannot under- 
 stand, — in short, in a soliloquy in the form of dialogue, 
 confused, broken, fragmentary ; fourthly, a dread of vulgar 
 
The Winter's Tale, 
 
 ridicule, distinct from a high sense of honor ; and fifthly, 
 selfish vindictiveness. Shakspeare has displayed jealousy 
 as acting on four different minds. In Ford, in * The Merry 
 Wives of Windsor ' it is ridiculous ; in Leontes it is, as it were, 
 pur et simple, acting on a wayward and inferior character ; 
 in Othello, a noble but impulsive nature is goaded by the 
 basest arts into a jealous rage, — the more easily that Othello 
 is always conscious of not being to the ' manner born,' in the 
 society and position he is placed in; he fancies therefore 
 that others must know better than himself. In Posthumus 
 jealousy is an error of judgment ; his understanding has 
 been cheated by the most damning evidence, and it is due 
 to his own honor to punish Imogen's supposed infidelity; 
 but in Leontes jealousy is part of his disposition ; he sus- 
 pects without cause, condemns without proof, is mean, 
 insulting, and cruel. Hermione, his wife, is a matron, 
 queen, and mother. Her character is one of Shakspeare 's 
 noblest. Her distinguishing characteristics are self-restraint 
 and dignity. She is shown less perhaps in what she says 
 herself than in the impression she never fails to produce on 
 others." 
 
 " Her composure of temper never forsakes her," says Mrs. 
 Jameson, **and yet it is so delineated that the impression is 
 that of grandeur, and never borders upon pride or coldness. 
 It is the fortitude of a clear but strong mind conscious of its 
 innocence." Mrs. Jameson thinks also that the character 
 of Hermione is conceived upon the principles of ancient art, 
 where grace is combined with strength. " In Hermione," 
 she says, " we have the same largeness of conception and 
 delicacy of execution, the same effect of suffering without 
 passion, and grandeur without effort, as in the highest works 
 
The Winter'' s Tale. 
 
 of Grecian art." Shakspeare seems to have felt in himself, 
 and by intuition, what art-students study all their lives ; and 
 " the classic beauty of Hermione is heightened by the pas- 
 toral sweetness of Perdita, and a certain Gothic savagery in 
 her surroundings." 
 
 Act I. Scene i. 
 
 The play opens in an ante-room in Leontes' palace in 
 Sicily. Polixenes, the former schoolmate of Leontes, and 
 King of Bohemia, has been paying his old friend a long visit. 
 The speakers are two noblemen, — one of Bohemia, the other 
 of Sicily, — who out-do each other in polite compliments. 
 The Sicilian, Camillo, is an old and trusty counsellor of King 
 Leontes, a good man but a weak one, wholly unfitted to 
 cope with the difficulties into which he is drawn by the 
 wayward temper of the King his master. Coleridge bids us 
 remark how easy is the style of the chit-chat between these 
 noblemen, as contrasted with the elevated diction of the 
 Kings and Hermione in the second scene. They end by 
 both breaking into praises of the only child of Leontes, 
 the heir of Sicily, — poor little Prince Mamillius. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 This scene is in a room of state, into which enter Leontes, 
 Polixenes, Hermione, Mamillius, attendants, and Camillo. 
 Polixenes is talking of the length of time he has been 
 absent from Bohemia and the necessity of his return. To- 
 morrow, he says, he must take his farewell of his friends. 
 He has presentiments that he is needed in his kingdom. 
 Leontes, from pure wilfulness apparently, and a desire to get 
 his own way even in trifles, presses his guest to stay, with a 
 
8 The Winter's Tale. 
 
 persistence that is far beyond the rules of hospitality. Polix- 
 enes behaves with great politeness, but he is firm. No 
 tongue, he says, could move him sooner than his ft-iend's, 
 but he must go. Then Leontes turns to Hermione and 
 asks her why she does not second his request ? Willing to 
 please her husband even in his whim, she joins in the dis- 
 cussion. She does not, however, address Pohxenes himself, 
 but her husband. " Tell him you are sure all in Bohemia 's 
 well." Her husband being pleased with this remark, she 
 goes further. She recognizes the reasonableness of Polix- 
 enes' wish to be gone, but begs for one week more, adding : 
 " When my lord returns your visit next year, in Bohemia, I '11 
 give him leave to stay a month " beyond the time fixed for his 
 departure j '' and yet," she adds at once, knowing her hus- 
 band's disposition, and seeing a frown gathering upon his 
 forehead, " yet in good deed, Leontes, I love thee not one 
 atom [one tick of the clock] less than the most loving lady 
 loves her lord." Most charmingly she prays Polixenes to 
 consent ; and he, not proof against the persuasions of a 
 queen and lady, gives in. " Then come," replies Hermione 
 in triumph, " I '11 question you of my lord's tricks and 
 yours when you were boys." 
 
 She then goes on (while Leontes turns aside) with pretty 
 badinage, such as a charming woman might well use to her 
 husband's friend. Leontes interrupts them with, " Is he 
 won yet? " Hermione replies, " He '11 stay, my lord." In- 
 stantly a jealous thought flashes 'into Leontes' mind. He 
 has not yet any fancy, I think, concerning guilt between his 
 friend and wife, but has a jealous dislike to having any one 
 succeed where he has failed. Those who have had to soothe 
 minds liable to jealousy know how true is all this scene, — 
 
 i 
 
The Winter'' s Tale, 
 
 the ^ash of suspicion that another is preferred ; the shame 
 felt for it ; the effort to recover himself in the next words ; 
 then the attempt to draw from Hermione something flattering 
 to his own self-love, to soothe the sting; while Hermione, 
 in glad spirits, well pleased with her own success and at the 
 evident admiration of the two men, goes on to be more 
 charming and more gracious to Polixenes than it is wise to 
 have been, — all the time thinking that she is gratifying her 
 husband. She even gives her hand to Polixenes; seeing 
 which, the very fiend of jealousy enters into Leontes, and 
 he breaks out into a speech vulgar, abusive, coarse, such 
 as only a man with a tainted mind, I think, would have 
 thought of. 
 
 I conceive of Leontes as le mart difficile. It seems to me 
 that Hermione is under the constant fear of offending him ; 
 that he is a man whose behavior is guided not by principles 
 but moods, — the hardest of all men to deal with, because 
 a wife never knows " where to find " such a husband. When 
 Hermione has succeeded, as she thinks, in pleasing him, a 
 weight is lifted off her heart ; she has stepped into sunshine, 
 — the last and only gleam of sunshine in the rest of her sad 
 life ; for it is a "Winter's Tale " so far as Hermione is con- 
 cerned. All pretty graces and sweet coquetries peep out, and 
 she is charming with Pohxenes to her own destruction. 
 
 Then Leontes, baser and baser, " beset with doubts and 
 fears, and entangled more and more " in the labyrinth of 
 thorns he has created for himself, turns to his boy. He 
 wishes to make sure, he says, that he is like him — his father. 
 The likeness is too unmistakable for jealousy itself to deny. 
 The whole address to the child — to whom happily its insinu- 
 ations must have been incomprehensible — is disgusting. 
 
lO The Winter's Tale, 
 
 The "rough pash " means a rough head of hair. The ** wel- 
 kin eyes " are blue eyes. The endearments are all coarse 
 and disagreeable. 
 
 As Leontes continues his broken soliloquy Polixenes begins 
 to perceive that something has gone wrong, and he and 
 Hermione knowing the disposition of the moody friend and 
 husband, unite to smooth the "raven down of darkness." 
 Leontes turns off their inquiries, and continues toying with 
 his son. "Mine honest friend, wilt thou take eggs for 
 money?" is a proverbial expression equal to our saying 
 now-a-days : Would you exchange a good horse for a gross 
 of green spectacles ? 
 
 Pleased with the boy's answer the father says : " May his 
 life be a happy one — Happy man be his dole ! " Alas ! poor 
 child, that father's jealousy was to extinguish that bright young 
 life in a few days. 
 
 Polixenes is induced to speak of his son Florizel, the future 
 hero of the second part of the play, the spring-time of the 
 "Winter's Tale." With fresh exhortations to Hermione to be 
 courteous to his friend and brother-king, Leontes walks off 
 with Mamillius ; but Hermione's brief time of happiness and 
 brightness is over. She is doubtless taking counsel with 
 Polixenes how Leontes may be soothed back to good humor, 
 while Leontes goes on with his conversation with his boy, or 
 rather his soliloquy addressed to him in innuendoes. Mamil- 
 lius, though not understanding the foul talk, has wit enough 
 to see that the one reflection that seems to soothe his father 
 is the recollection of the striking likeness that exists between 
 them. 
 
 Then having sent the child to play, Leontes calls Camillo, 
 and bewilders that good councillor (used as he has long been 
 
The Winter 's Tale. 1 1 
 
 to his master's moods) by the staggering intensity of feeling 
 in the speeches he makes him. Camillo does not seem to 
 understand how to answer him. In the course of the talk 
 we gather that Leontes has been at some time in his career 
 a man of loose life, which accounts for his vulgar insinuations 
 and his base ideas of women. 
 
 Camillo, finding himself mysteriously accused, makes a 
 dignified defence, and asks what is his trespass : — 
 
 My gracious lord, 
 I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful ; 
 In every one of these no man is free. 
 But that his negligence, his folly, fear, 
 Among the infinite doings of the world 
 Sometimes puts forth, \xiyour affairs, my lord, 
 If ever I were wilful-negligent, 
 It was my folly ; if industriously 
 I played the fool, it was my negligence, 
 Not weighing well the end; if ever fearful 
 To do a thing, where I the issue doubted, 
 Whereof the execution did cry out 
 Against the non-performance, 't was a fear 
 Which oft infects the wisest : these, my lord, 
 Are such allowed infirmities that honesty 
 Is never free of But, beseech your grace, 
 Be plainer with me ; let me know my trespass 
 By its own visage : if I then deny it 
 'T is none of mine. 
 
 Leontes in answer breaks out into an incoherent speech, 
 calling his wife the worst of names. Camillo's indignation is 
 not only noble in itself, but it shows the opinion entertained 
 of Queen Hermione by all the court. 
 
 Camillo. I would not be a stander-by to hear 
 My sovereign mistress clouded so, without 
 My present vengeance taken : 'shrew my heart. 
 You never spoke what did become you less 
 
12 The Winter's Tale, 
 
 Than this ; which to reiterate were sin 
 As deep as that — 'though true. 
 
 Then Leontes raves like a madman, and without any 
 diplomatic preparation, proposes to Camillo to poison Polix- 
 enes. Camillo tries to temporize, — to make terms for 
 Hermione, — to let this storm blow over. He has no inten- 
 tion, I am sure, of murdering Polixenes, though he is sorely 
 perplexed as to how he ought to act, being a good man 
 rather than a quick-witted one. He speaks of Leontes as 
 one " who in rebellion with himself would have all that are 
 his so too." 
 
 I have dwelt long on this scene because it seems to me a 
 very wonderful one, and I have never known it commented 
 upon. Leontes, promising Camillo to seem friendly to his 
 guest, goes out, and in a few moments Polixenes enters. He 
 has encountered Leontes, who, instead of keeping his, 
 promise to Camillo, has not been willing to speak to him! -lai 
 
 Polixenes cannot understand what is going on, and is 
 anxious to get some light upon the mystery from Camillo. 
 By degrees he draws the truth from the old Councillor, who 
 is willing, yet ashamed to tell it, — conscious, too, that he is 
 sacrificing his own prospects in life, but faithful to his duty 
 and his Queen. The amazement of Polixenes at the revela- 
 tion is great, and his repudiation of the baseness attributed 
 to him is more in sorrow than in anger. Camillo says truly 
 that the sea might as soon be forbidden to obey the moon 
 as Leontes be by any means convinced of his own folly. 
 The only thing to be done is for Polixenes, accompanied by 
 Camillo, to put to sea immediately. In Polixenes' last speech 
 you will observe that he expresses no amazement at the 
 monstrous wickedness of Leontes. He has known his way 
 
 :h 
 
 J 
 
The Winter's Tale. 
 
 13 
 
 wardness of old. He thinks that when he himself is out of 
 the way his friend will recover his temper and his senses. 
 
 Polixenes. . . . Give me thy hand ! 
 Be pilot to me, and thy places shall 
 Still neighbor mine. My ships are ready 
 And my people did expect my hence departure 
 Two days ago. This jealousy 
 Is for a precious creature ; as she 's rare 
 Must it be great ; and, as his person 's mighty 
 Must it be violent ; and, as he does conceive 
 He is dishonored by a man which ever 
 Professed to love him, his revenges must 
 In that be made more bitter. Fear o'ershades me : 
 Good expedition be my friend, and comfort 
 The gracious Queen ! . . . Come, Camillo ; 
 I will respect thee as a father if 
 Thou bear'st my life off hence. . . . 
 
 Camillo. It is in mine authority to command 
 The keys of all the posterns. Please your highness 
 To take the urgent hour : come, sir, away ! 
 
 Act II. Scene i. 
 
 This act opens in Hermione's apartments. She is pre- 
 occupied, anxious, and far from well ; her little son worries 
 her, and she asks the ladies round her to take him for a time 
 away from her. They try to excite the boy's jealousy by 
 predicting that his mother will soon have a fine new prince, 
 and will not care for him ; but Mamillius has not his father's 
 disposition. His mother, returning, asks him to sit by her 
 and tell her a fairy story. " Come on, and do your best 
 to fright me with your sprites ; you 're powerful at it ! " 
 But the story gets no further than " There was a man 
 dwelt by a church-yard," when it is interrupted by the 
 itrance of Leontes and his courtiers. He is furious at 
 
14 The Winter's Tale, 
 
 the escape of Polixenes and Camillo, and, with dogged 
 determination to turn every circumstance to evil account, 
 he insists that Camillo was the confederate of Polixenes. 
 Then he snatches his son away from his astonished wife. 
 The scene is a very painful one. You will remark Her- 
 mione's sweet dignity. Long ago, probably, she had learned 
 to bear unreasonable fault-finding from her husband. She 
 knows that in his present mood no reasoning would move 
 him; she simply makes her protest to the lords, who are 
 all upon her side ; she has not an enemy in her husband's 
 court except the man who had vowed to love, cherish, 
 and honor her. 
 
 Leontes. Give me the boy ! I am glad you did not nurse him. 
 Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you 
 Have too much blood in him. 
 
 Hermione. What is this ? — sport ? 
 
 Leofites. Bear the boy hence, he shall not come about her. 
 Away with him ! . . . you, my lords, 
 Look on her, mark her well. But be about 
 To say : " She is a goodly lady," and 
 The justice of your hearts will thereto add, 
 " 'T is pity she 's not honest — honorable." 
 Praise her but for this, her without-door form, 
 Which on my faith deserves high speech, and straight 
 The shrug — the hum — or ha — those petty brands 
 That calumny doth use, — O, I am wrong ! — 
 That mercy does ; for calumny will fear 
 Virtue itself, — these shrugs, these hums and ha's, 
 When you have said, *' She 's goodly," come between 
 Ere you can say, " She 's honest." But be it known 
 From him that has most cause to grieve it should be. 
 She 's an adulteress. 
 
 Hermione. Should a villain say so — 
 
 The most replenished villain in the world — 
 He were as much more villain ! you, my lord. 
 Do but mistake. 
 
The Winter^ s Tale. 
 
 15 
 
 Leontes. You have mistook, my lady, 
 
 Polixenes for Leontes. ... I have said 
 She 's an adulteress ; I have said with whom ; 
 More ! she 's a traitress, and Camillo is 
 Confederate with her, and one that knows, 
 "What she should shame to know herself, 
 That she 's a perjured woman, e'en as bad as those 
 That vulgars give bold titles ; ay, and privy 
 To this their late escape. 
 
 Hertnione. No ! by my life 
 
 Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you, 
 When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that 
 You thus have published me ! Gentle my lord, 
 You scarce can right me throughly then to say 
 You did mistake. 
 
 Leontes. No, no ; if I mistake 
 
 In those foundations which I build upon. 
 The centre is not big enough to bear 
 A schoolboy's top. Away with her to prison ! 
 He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty 
 For even speaking. 
 
 Hermiojie. There 's some ill planet reigns. 
 
 I must be patient, till the heavens look 
 With an aspect more favorable. Good my lords, 
 I am not prone to weeping, as our sex 
 Commonly are ; the want of which vain dew 
 Perchance shall dry your pities : but I have 
 That honorable grief lodged here which burns 
 Worse than tears drown. Beseech you all, my lords, 
 With thoughts so qualified as your charities 
 Shall best instruct you, measure me ; and so 
 The King's will be performed ! 
 
 Leontes [to the guards']. Shall I be heard } 
 
 Herniione. Who is it goes with me ? Beseech your highness 
 My women may be with me ; for you see 
 My plight requires it. Do not weep, good fools, 
 There is no cause. When you shall know your mistress 
 Has deserved prison, then abound in tears. 
 Adieu, my lord. I never wished to see you sorry ; 
 Now I trust I shall. My women, come ; 
 You have leave. \Exeicnt Queen and Ladies. 
 
1 6 The Winter's Tale, 
 
 I Lord. Beseech your highness, call the Queen again. 
 
 Antigoiius. Be certain what you do, sir, lest your justice 
 Prove violence ; in the which three great ones suffer, — 
 Yourself, your queen, your son. 
 
 I Lord. For her, my lord, 
 
 I dare my life lay down, and will do 't, sir, 
 Please you to accept it, that the Queen is spotless 
 In the eyes of heaven, and to yoa. I mean 
 In this which you accuse her. 
 
 Antigonus. Ay! every drachm of woman's flesh is false 
 If she be. 
 
 Leontes. Hold your peace. 
 
 I Lord. Good my lord — 
 
 Antigonus. It is for you we speak, not for ourselves. 
 You are abused, and by some putter-on 
 That will be damned for it. Would I knew the villain ; 
 I would land-damn him ! 
 
 Leojttes. Cease — no more. 
 
 You smell this business with a sense as cold 
 As is a dead man's nose. I see 't and feel 't. . . . 
 We need no more of your advice ; the matter, 
 The loss, the gain, the ordering on 't, is all 
 Properly ours. 
 
 Antigonus. And I wish, my liege, 
 You had only in your silent judgment tried it. 
 Without more overture. 
 
 Leontes. . . . For fuller confirmation, — 
 For in an act of this importance 't were 
 Most piteous to be wild, — I have despatched in post 
 To sacred Delphos, to Apollo's temple, 
 Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know 
 Of stuffed sufficiency. Now from the oracle 
 They will bring all ; whose spiritual counsel had 
 Shall stop or spur me. Have I done well } 
 
 I Lord. Well done, my lord. 
 
 Leontes. Though I am satisfied, and need no more 
 Than what I know, yet shall the oracle 
 Give rest to the minds of others : such as he 
 Whose ignorant credulity will not 
 Come up to the truth. So we have thought it good 
 From our free person she should be confined, 
 
The Winter's Tale, 17 
 
 Lest that the treachery of the two fled hence 
 Be left her to perform. Come, follow us ; 
 We are to speak in public, for this business 
 Will raise us all. 
 
 Atitigonus [aside]. To mockery, as I take it, 
 If the good truth were known. 
 
 Sceue 2. 
 
 We have a new character in this second scene, — Her- 
 mione's good friend Paulina, who is striving to make her 
 way into her lady's prison. "The character of Paulina," 
 says Mrs. Jameson, "though it has obtained little notice 
 and no critical remark that I have seen, is yet one of the 
 striking beauties of the play, and it has its moral too. 
 Shakspeare puts his characters in contrast, — Emilia beside 
 Desdemona, the Nurse beside Juhet, the clowns and merry 
 pedler-thief beside Perdita ; so Paulina is the friend of 
 Hermione.^ Paulina does not fill any ostensible office 
 near the person of the Queen, but is a lady of high rank 
 in the court, — the wife of the Lord Antigonus. She is 
 a character strongly drawn from real and common life, — 
 a clever, generous, strong-minded, warm-hearted woman, 
 fearless in asserting the truth, firm in her sense of right, 
 enthusiastic in all her affections, quick in thought, reso- 
 lute in word, and energetic in action ; but heedless, hot- 
 tempered, impatient, loud, bold, voluble, and turbulent of 
 tongue, regardless of the feehngs of those for whom she 
 would sacrifice herself, and injuring from excess of zeal 
 
 1 We may remark here how different are the confidantes of the French 
 stage from those of Shakspeare. No foreigner probably enjoys Comeille and 
 Racine more than I do, — but these people are terrible. There is not one 
 shade of difference among them; they are simply put into the play to be 
 talked to. 
 
The Winter's Tale, 
 
 those she would most wish to serve. The manner in 
 which all the evil and dangerous tendencies of such a 
 temper are placed before us, even while the individual 
 character preserves the strongest hold upon our respect and 
 admiration, forms an impressive lesson as well as a natural 
 and delightful portrait. In the scene (act ii., scene 3), 
 for instance, in which she brings the infant before Leontes 
 with the hope of softening him to a sense of his injustice, 
 — ' an office ' which, as she observes, ' becomes a woman 
 best,' — her want of self-government, and her bitter, incon- 
 siderate reproaches only add, as we might easily suppose 
 they would, to his fury." 
 
 The scene is in the outer room of a prison. Paulina, as 
 befits a great lady, comes in with her attendants. 
 
 Paulina. The keeper of the prison ! — call for him. 
 Let him^ have knowledge who I am. Good lady ! 
 No court in Europe is too good for thee ; 
 What dost thou then in prison ? \Here enters the Keeper. 
 
 Now, good sir, 
 You know me — do you not ? 
 
 Keeper. For a worthy lady, 
 
 And one whom I much honor. 
 
 Paulina. Pray you, then. 
 
 Conduct me to the Queen. 
 
 Keeper. I may not, madam. To the contrary 
 I have express commands. 
 
 Paulina. Here 's ado 
 
 To lock up honesty and honor from 
 The access of gentle visitors ! Is it lawful, 
 Pray you, to see her women .? — any of them ? — 
 Emilia? 
 
 Keeper. So please you, madam, to put 
 Apart these your attendants, I shall bring 
 Emilia forth. 
 
 Paulina. I pray you now call her. 
 Withdraw yourselves. {Exeunt Attendants. 
 
The Winter's Tale, 19 
 
 Keeper. And, madam, 
 
 I must be present at your conference. 
 
 Paulina. Well, be it so, prithee. \Exit Keeper. 
 
 Here 's such ado to make no stain a stain 
 As passes coloring. \Re-enter Keeper, with Emilia. 
 
 Dear gentlewoman, how fares our gracious lady ? 
 
 Emilia. As well as one so great and so forlorn 
 May hold together. On her frights and griefs 
 (Which never tender lady hath borne greater) 
 She is, something before her time, delivered. 
 
 Paulina. A boy ? 
 
 Emilia. A daughter, and a goodly babe, 
 
 Lusty and like to live. The Queen receives 
 Much comfort in it ; says : " My poor prigpner, 
 I am innocent as you." 
 
 Paulina. I dare be sworn. These dangerous 
 Insane furies of the King, beshrew them. 
 He must be told on 't, and he shall. The office 
 Becomes a woman best ; I '11 take 't upon me. 
 If I prove honey-mouthed, let my tongue blister. 
 
 . . . Pray you, Emilia, 
 Commend my best obedience to the Queen. 
 If she dares trust me with her little babe, 
 I '11 show 't the King, and undertake to be 
 Her advocate to the loudest. We do not know 
 How he may soften at the sight o' the child. 
 The silence often of pure innocence 
 Persuades, when speaking fails. . . . 
 
 Keeper. Madam, if 't please the Queen to send the babe, 
 I know not what I shall incur to pass it, 
 Having no warrant. 
 
 Paulina. Do not you fear ; upon 
 
 Mine honor I will stand 'twixt you and danger. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 With the baby in her arms Paulina forces her way into 
 Leontes' presence, and wakes him from his slumber. Exas- 
 perated by her reproaches, he orders the infant to be burned, 
 
20 The Winter 's Tale, 
 
 and turns upon Antigonus, Paulina's husband. All present 
 join in entreating him to have mercy. The babe Hes at his 
 feet, where it has been placed by Paulina. 
 
 I Lord. Beseech your highness, 
 
 We have truly served you : on our knees we beg, 
 As recompense for our dear services 
 Past and to come, that you do change this purpose, 
 Which, being so horrible, so bloody, must 
 Lead on to some foul issue. We all kneel. 
 
 Leontes. I am a feather to each wind that blows ; 
 Shall I live on to see this bastard kneel 
 And call me father ? Better burn it now 
 Than curse it then. But be so. Let it live. . . . 
 It shall not neither. . . . 
 
 [To Antigoniis.'] You, sir, come you hither ; 
 
 You that have been so tenderly officious 
 With Lady Margery, your midwife there. 
 To save this bastard's life, — for Vw a bastard. 
 So sure as this beard 's gray, — what will you adventure 
 To save this brat's life ? 
 
 Antigonus. Anything, my lord. 
 
 That my ability may undergo 
 And nobleness impose ; at least thus much : 
 I '11 pawn the little blood which I have left 
 To save the innocent, — anything possible. 
 
 Leontes. It shall be possible. Swear by this sword 
 Thou wilt perform my bidding. 
 
 Antigonus. I will, my lord. 
 
 Leontes. Mark and perform it (see'st thou ?) ; for the fail 
 Of any point in 't shall not only be 
 Death to thyself, but to thy loud-tongued wife, 
 Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee, 
 As thou art liegeman to us, that thou carry 
 This female bastard hence ; and that thou bear it 
 To some remote and desert place, quite out 
 Of our dominions ; and that there thou leave it. 
 Without more mercy, to its own protection 
 And favor of the climate. As by strange fortune 
 
The Winter's Tale, 2i 
 
 It came to us, I do in justice charge thee — 
 On thy soul's peril, and thy body's torture — 
 That thou commend it strangely to some place 
 Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up. 
 
 Antigomcs [lifimg the bal>e\. I swear to do this, though a present 
 death 
 Had been more merciful. Come on, poor babe ! 
 Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens 
 To be thy nurses ! Wolves and bears, they say, 
 Casting their savageness aside, have done 
 Like offices of pity. 
 
 Act III. Scene i. 
 
 The messengers, returning from Delphos after a prosperous 
 and delightful journey, are shocked to find Hermione's guilt 
 set forth on all the walls by proclamation. How natural it 
 is that, their heads being full of what they have enjoyed and 
 seen, they cannot at once adjust their minds to the things 
 around them. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 This is in a so-called court of justice, but Leontes means 
 to have everything his own way. The court must find 
 against his wife; the oracle must condemn her. 
 
 See the queenly dignity of Hermione. She will not break 
 out into reproaches against her king and husband, but one 
 is conscious she is feeling contempt for him ; and one sees 
 how a sense of her great wrongs has entered into her soul. 
 
 Hermione. Since what I am to say must be but that 
 Which contradicts my accusation, and 
 The testimony on my part no other 
 But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me 
 To say, Not guilty. Mine integrity. 
 Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it, 
 
22 The Winter's Tale, 
 
 Be so received. But thus : If powers divine 
 
 Behold our human actions (as they do), 
 
 I doubt not then but innocence shall make 
 
 False accusation blush, and tyranny 
 
 Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know, 
 
 Who least will seem to do so, my past life 
 
 Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true, 
 
 As I am now unhappy. . . . Behold me now, 
 
 A fellow of the royal bed, which owns 
 
 A moiety of the throne, a great king's daughter, 
 
 The mother to a hopeful prince, — here standing 
 
 To prate and talk for life and honor, 'fore 
 
 Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it 
 
 As I weigh grief, which I would spare ; for honor — 
 
 'Tis a derivative from me to mine 
 
 And only that I stand for. I appeal 
 
 To your own conscience, sir, — before Polixenes 
 
 Came to your court, how was I in your grace.'* 
 
 How merited to be so .? 
 
 Since he came if I have ever stepped beyond 
 
 The bound of honor, or, in act, or will 
 
 That way inclined me, hardened be the hearts 
 
 Of all that hear me, and my nearest kin 
 
 Cry, Fie upon my grave ! 
 
 Leontes. I ne'er heard yet 
 
 That any of the bolder vices wanted 
 Less impudence to gainsay what they did. 
 Than to perform it first. 
 
 Hermione. That 's true enough , 
 
 Though 't is a saying, sir, not due to me. 
 For Polixenes, 
 
 With whom I am accused, I do confess 
 I loved him as in honor he required, 
 With such a kind of love as might become 
 A lady like me, — with a love even such, 
 So and no other, as yourself commanded. 
 Which not to have done I think had been in me 
 Both disobedience and ingratitude, 
 To you, and toward your friend, whose love had spoke. 
 E'en since it could speak, from an infant, freely. 
 
The Winter's Tale, 23 
 
 That it was yours. Now, for conspiracy, 
 
 All that I know of it 
 
 Is that Camillo was an honest man ; 
 
 And why he left your court, the gods themselves, 
 
 Wotting no more than I, are ignorant. 
 
 Leontes. You knew of his departure. 
 You are past all shame ; those of your sort are so. 
 Thy brat hath been cast out, like to itself 
 No father owning it (which is indeed 
 More criminal in thee than it) : so thou 
 Shalt feel our justice, — in whose easiest passage 
 Look for no less than death. 
 
 Hermione. Sir, spare your threats ; 
 
 The bug 1 which you would fright me with I seek. 
 To me can life be no commodity ; 
 The crown and comfort of my life, your favor, 
 I do give lost, — for I do feel it gone. 
 But know not how it went ; my second joy 
 And first-fruits of my body, from his presence 
 I am barred like one infectious ; my third comfort. 
 Starred most unluckily, is from my breast — 
 The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth — 
 Haled out to murder. Myself on every post 
 Proclaimed a strumpet ; with immodest hatred 
 The child-bed privilege denied, which 'longs 
 To women of all fashion ; lastly, hurried 
 Here to this place i' the open air, before 
 I have regained my strength. Now, good my liege. 
 Tell me what blessings I have here alive 
 That I should fear to die ! Therefore proceed ; 
 But yet hear this, — mistake me not ; no ! life, 
 I prize it not a straw, — but for mine honor 
 Which I would free, if I shall be condemned 
 Upon surrnises — all proofs sleeping else 
 But what your jealousies awake — I tell you 
 'T is rigor, and not law ! Your honors all, 
 
 1 The Elizabethan word for terror. The verse in King James' Bible 
 which reads : " Thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night " — 
 stands in an earlier version: "Thou shalt not be afraid for any bug by 
 night," etc. 
 
24 The Winter's Tale. 
 
 I do refer me to the oracle ; 
 Apollo be my judge. 
 
 I Lord. This your request 
 
 Is altogether just : therefore bring forth. 
 And in Apollo's name, his oracle. 
 
 \Exeunt certain officer s.\ 
 
 Hermione. The Emperor of Russia was my father ; 
 
 that he were alive, and here beholding 
 His daughter's trial ! that he did but see 
 The flatness of my misery ; yet with eyes 
 Of pity, not revenge ! 
 
 The oracle returns this answer : *' Hermione is chaste, 
 Polixenes blameless, Camillo a true subject, Leontes a 
 jealous tryant, his innocent babe truly begotten ; and the 
 King shall live without an heir if that which is lost be not 
 found." 
 
 Leontes. Hast thou read truth ? 
 
 Officer. Ay, my lord, even so 
 
 As it is here set down. 
 
 Leontes. There is no truth at all i' the oracle ! 
 The sessions shall proceed ; this is mere falsehood. 
 
 At this moment arrives news that Mamillius, the pretty 
 boy torn from his mother's side, who has been ailing ever 
 since he lost her care, is dead. Hermione faints away. 
 Leontes is suddenly struck with the idea that he may have 
 been unjust. He orders his wife's removal, and that care 
 shall be taken of her, but he does not spring to her side. 
 He cannot yet forgive her his own fault, but as he thinks 
 over the matter his senses return to him, and he says : — 
 
 Apollo pardon 
 My great profaneness 'gainst thine oracle ! — 
 
 1 '11 reconcile me with Polixenes, 
 
 New woo my Queen, recall the good Camillo, 
 Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy. 
 
The Winter's Tale. 25 
 
 For, being transported by my jealousies 
 
 To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose 
 
 Camillo for the minister, to poison 
 
 My friend Polixenes ; which had been done 
 
 But that the good mind of Camillo tardied 
 
 My swift command ; though I, with death and with 
 
 Reward, did threaten and encourage him. 
 
 He, most humane 
 And filled with honor, to my kingly guest 
 Unclasped my practice; quit his fortunes here, 
 Which you knew great, and to the certain hazard 
 Of all uncertainties himself commended. 
 No richer thaii his honor. How he glisters 
 Thorough my rust ! And how his piety 
 Does my deeds make the blacker ! 
 
 In this speech the more Leontes says, the more he works 
 himself up to a sense of the blackness of his injurious 
 suspicions. 
 
 In this stage of his repentance Paulina rushes in with news 
 of Hermione's death, and assuredly does not spare her royal 
 master. A sentence in her speech bears out my description 
 of Leontes as a difficult husband , — " Thy bygone fooleries 
 were but spices to it ! " 
 
 O thou tyrant I 
 Do not repent these things, for they are heavier 
 Than all thy woes can stir ; therefore betake thee 
 To nothing but despair. A thousand knees, 
 Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting, 
 Upon a barren mountain, and still winter, 
 In storm perpetual, could not move the gods 
 To look that way thou wert ! 
 
 Leontes. Go on, go on ! 
 
 Thou canst not speak too much ; I have deserved 
 All tongues to talk their bitterest. 
 
 I Lord \to Patdina] . Say no more ; 
 
 Howe'er the business goes, you have made fault 
 I' the boldness of your speech. 
 
26 The Winter's Tale. 
 
 Paulina. I am sorry for 't. 
 
 All faults I make, when I shall come to know them, 
 I do repent. Alas ! I have showed too much 
 The rashness of a woman. He is touched 
 To the noble heart. 
 
 \She turns to Leontes.] What 's gone and what 's past help 
 Should be past grief. Do not receive affliction 
 At my petition, I beseech you ; rather 
 Let me be punished that have reminded you 
 Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege, 
 Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman ; 
 The love I bore your queen, — lo, fool again ! — 
 I '11 speak of her no more, nor of your children. 
 I '11 not remember you of my own lord, 
 Who is lost too. Take your patience to you, 
 And I '11 say nothing. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Antigonus, with the babe, has reached the sea-coast of 
 Bohemia. The babe is laid upon the grass, and Antigonus 
 is chased away by a bear. Then a shepherd comes upon 
 the scene, followed by his clownish boy. He begins grum- 
 bling at some hunters who have driven off two of his sheep. 
 He will never find them, he says ; or if he does, it will be by 
 the sea-shore, browsing upon ivy. How Shakspeare knew 
 the secrets of nature ! A great many years ago I heard a 
 gentleman in Virginia remark that sheep were often poisoned 
 by eating shoots of ivy. 
 
 The babe is picked up by the old man and his son, 
 together with gold for its keeping ; and the half-eaten re- 
 mains of poor Antigonus (who has been killed by the 
 bear) are piously committed to the earth by the two 
 shepherds. One is very sorry for Antigonus, but his dis- 
 appearance from the scene is essential to the after-part of 
 the story. 
 
The Winter's Tale, 27 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 Time enters and informs the audience concerning the 
 events of the past fifteen years. 
 
 We are told that Leontes grieves for the effects of his rash 
 jealousies. 
 
 Some people have wondered why Hermione, who is still 
 alive, should have excluded herself all these years from her 
 husband. Surely, patient Grizzel or Enid might have felt all 
 wifely ^legiance to Leontes dissolved by his behavior. 
 Hermione was a queen and mother, as well as a wife. As 
 queen, she had borne degradation; as mother, one child 
 had died through the tyranny of her husband, the other had 
 been cast away. To have condoned all this would have 
 been to lower the character of Hermione. She cannot 
 properly forgive Leontes till one child is restored to her. 
 Remember that if Desdemona — if Imogen — could forgive, 
 they could, through all their wrongs, respect their husbands. 
 The murder of no children lay at Othello's or Posthumus' 
 doors. Hermione as a wife has been repeatedly and pub- 
 licly insulted. He to whom she gave herself has stooped to 
 baseness and cruelty inconceivable. She knows the inmost 
 nature of the man. Even if she could bring herself to return 
 to him as his wife, it is doubtful whether she could possibly 
 make him happy. She had failed in the pride of her youth, 
 her beauty, and her unsmirched purity; since he has dis- 
 solved the bands that bound her to him, she accepts her 
 release, — and in my opinion justly. As to repentance — she 
 has known him repent a hundred times. Nothing, it seems 
 to me, need constrain her again to take on her his yoke, but 
 the welfare of her child. 
 
28 The Winter's Tale. 
 
 Scene i. 
 
 This new part of the play opens with a scene between 
 Polixenes and Camillo. The latter has been the faithful 
 prime councillor of the King of Bohemia these fifteen years. 
 He is getting anxious to return to his own country. " The 
 penitent King " whom he still calls " master " has sent for 
 him, and he thinks he might comfort him in his loneliness 
 and old age. For Leontes is old now ; he was a gray-beard 
 sixteen years before. He can hardly be far short of seventy. 
 But it is now Polixenes' turn to press his guest to stay with 
 him. There is a gentlemanliness and kindliness about Pol- 
 ixenes which are very attractive. "Of that fatal country, 
 Sicily," he says, " prithee speak no more. Its very naming 
 punishes me with the remembrance of that ^penitent,' as 
 thou callest him, and reconciled king, my brother, whose loss 
 of his most precious queen and children are even now to be 
 fresh-lamented." Then he turns to a family trouble, in which 
 he thinks Camillo may advise him. Prince Florizel absents 
 himself from Court. His father has heard he haunts a 
 shepherd's hut, and that the shepherd has grown rich myste- 
 riously. Camillo helps him in his confidence. The father 
 has not liked to touch on the most delicate point, but 
 Camillo goes straight to it : the shepherd has a daughter 
 of most rare loveliness. "Yes — that is what troubles me," 
 says Polixenes in substance. "Let us disguise ourselves, 
 my best Camillo, and go and investigate this matter for 
 ourselves." 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 This next scene is in the road near the cottage of the 
 shepherd. In comes the gypsy scamp Autolycus. He is 
 
The Winter'' s Tale. 29 
 
 now in rags. Once he had been serving-man to Prince 
 Florizel, and worn a velvet livery. He boldly avers that he 
 lives by thieving. In his own words, he is " a snapper-up of 
 unconsidered trifles." His principal revenue, however, comes 
 from stealing linen spread out to bleach upon the grass or on 
 the hedges. In Shakspeare's time, it seems, such thefts 
 were punished by whipping and the stocks ; later there came 
 to be so many Autolycuses that to steal hnen put out to 
 bleach was made a capital crime. I have some volumes of 
 the Annual Register in George II. 's time, and it is frightful 
 to read the record of poor wretches hung at Tyburn for this 
 offence. As women spun their own linen on hand-looms in 
 their own cottages, of course their " webs " were often laid 
 out to bleach upon the hedges, and the loss was a very 
 serious one to them. Autolycus avows himself a " prig " — 
 the meanest kind of thief. He has not courage to be a high- 
 wayman, indeed he dreads all hardships and all punishment. 
 As to everlasting punishment he puts the thought of it aside 
 as inconvenient. At this point in his soliloquy there passes 
 by the kindly shepherd-clown, brother by adoption to Per- 
 dita. He is taking money to the market-town to buy good 
 things for the sheep-shearing feast, — sugar, currants, nutmegs, 
 ginger, prunes, raisins, and coloring for stewed pears. He 
 is startled, as he endeavors to make some mental calcula- 
 tions, by seeing a man grovelling in a ditch, uttering piercing 
 cries for help. It is Autolycus. He says he has been 
 robbed and beaten, and that he thinks his shoulder-blade 
 is broken. 
 
 Clown. What manner of fellow was he that robbed you ? 
 Autolycus. A fellow, sir, that I have known in the worst company. 
 I knew him once a servant of the Prince. He hath been since an 
 
30 
 
 The Winter's Tale. 
 
 ape-bearer ; then a process-server, a bailifif; then he compassed a 
 motion of the prodigal son, and married a tinker's wife within a mile 
 where my land and living lies ; and having flown over many knavish 
 professions, he settled only on rogue : some call him Autolycus. 
 
 Clown. Out upon him ! Prig, for my life, prig. He haunts wakes, 
 fairs, and bear-baitings. 
 
 Autolycus. Very true, sir, he, sir, he. That 's the rogue that put 
 me into this apparel. 
 
 Clown. Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia. If you had 
 but looked big and spit at him, he 'd have run. 
 
 Autolycus. I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter. I am false 
 of heart that way, and that he knew, I warrant him. 
 
 The extreme kindliness and gullibility of the shepherd- 
 lad are delightful. Autolycus takes advantage of his chari- 
 table assistance to pick his pocket. Hazlitt dwells with 
 delight on his remembrance of Bannister's acting in this 
 scene, on a night when Mrs. Siddons played Hermione, 
 Kemble Leontes, and Mrs. Jordan Perdita. Strange to say, 
 we are fiot very sorry for the clown's disappointment when 
 he misses his purse, knowing that somehow there was 
 " plenty of spice and all that 's nice " at the sheep-shearing 
 supper. 
 
 Scene 2,' 
 
 We are now in the cottage of the shepherd, with Prince 
 Florizel and Perdita. 
 
 " The distinguishing traits of Perdita," says Mrs. Jameson, 
 "are sentiment and elegance. She is the union of the pas- 
 toral and romantic with the classical and poetical, — as if a 
 dryad of the woods had turned shepherdess. The perfec- 
 tions with which Shakspeare has so lavishly endowed her 
 sit on her with a certain picturesque grace." We first meet 
 her dressed as Flora for the sheep-shearing — I think by 
 Prince Florizel's suggestion. Not for one moment have we 
 
The Winter s Tale. 31 
 
 any fears for Perdita, nor has she for herself. She may be 
 heart-broken by separation from her lover, but her honor is 
 safe in Prince Florizel's hands. He is dressed like a shep- 
 herd, and delights in her adornments as making her tem- 
 porarily above him. She is comparing, when we see her first, 
 her own lowliness of station with his princely rank (for 
 even as to his rank in life he has not deceived her), and 
 expresses fears that their marriage cannot turn out happily. 
 "But with all her timidity, and her sense of the distance 
 which separates her from her lover, she breathes not a 
 single word which could lead us to impugn either her 
 delicacy or her dignity." Indeed, her dignity is enhanced 
 by her hesitations. 
 
 Perdita. Sir, my gracious lord, 
 
 To chide at your extremes it not becomes me ; 
 O, pardon that I name them. Your high self. 
 The gracious mark of the land, you have obscured 
 With a swain's wearing ; and me, poor lowly maid, 
 Most goddess-like pranked up. But that our feasts 
 In every mess have folly, and the feeders 
 Digest it with a custom, I should blush 
 To see you so attired. 
 
 Florizel. I bless the time 
 
 When my good falcon made her flight across 
 Thy father's ground. 
 
 Perdita. Now Jove afford you cause I 
 
 To me the difference forges dread. Your greatness 
 Hath not been used to fear. E'en now I tremble 
 To think your father, by some accident. 
 Should pass this way, as you did. O, the Fates ! 
 How would he look to see his work, so noble, 
 Vilely bound up ? What would he say ? Or how 
 Should I, in these my borrowed flaunts, behold 
 The sternness of his presence ? 
 
 Florizel, Apprehend 
 
 Nothing but jollity. 
 
32 
 
 The Winter s Tale. 
 
 And so with tender words, and reiterations of his vows of 
 love and marriage, he entreats her to cheer up, and look 
 
 as if it were the day 
 Of celebration of that nuptial, which 
 We two have sworn shall come. 
 
 Here the good shepherd enters, with PoHxenes and Camillo, 
 so disguised that Florizel does not recognize them ; they are 
 followed by a crowd of rustic shepherd-girls, foils to fair Per- 
 dita. When she presents the flowers to PoHxenes and 
 Camillo, she is charming ! Camillo is as much impressed 
 by her as is his master, but he leaves admiring words to 
 Polixenes. In the passage where Polixenes, forgetful that 
 the theory he is advancing about grafts bears on his son's 
 case and her own, argues with her about gillyflowers, how 
 charming and how womanly she is ! " She is not convinced, 
 but she does not attempt to answer his reasoning. Woman- 
 like, she gives up the argument, but woman-like retains her 
 own conviction, her sense of right, unshaken by his sophis- 
 try." " She goes on talking to Florizel in a strain of poetry 
 which comes over the soul like music and fragrance mingled. 
 We seem to inhale the blended odors of a thousand flowers, 
 till the sense faints with their sweetness." We cannot afford 
 to miss a hne of this sweet scene. 
 
 Florizel. See, your guests approach ; 
 
 Address yourself to entertain them sprightly, 
 And let's be red with mirth. 
 
 Shepherd. Fie, daughter ! When my old wife lived, upon 
 This day she was both pantler, butler, cook, — 
 Both dame and servant; welcomed all, served all; 
 Would sing her song, or dance her turn : now here, 
 At upper end o' the table, now i' the middle ; 
 On his shoulder and his, — her face afire 
 With labor ; and the thing she took to quench it, 
 
The Winter^ s Tale, 33 
 
 She would to each one sip. You are retired, 
 As if you were a feasted one, and not 
 The hostess of the meeting. Pray you, bid 
 These unknown friends to us welcome ; for it is 
 A way to make us better friends — more known. 
 Come, quench your blushes, and present yourself, 
 That which you are, mistress o' the feast. Come on, 
 And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing, 
 As your good flock shall prosper. 
 
 Perdita \to Polixenes\. Welcome, sir ! 
 
 It is my father's vyill I should take on me 
 The hostess-ship o' the day. 
 
 \To Camillo.] You 're welcome, sir ! 
 
 Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. Reverend sirs, 
 For you there 's rosemary and rue. These keep 
 Seeming and savor all the winter long. 
 Grace and remembrance be to you both, 
 And welcome to our shearing. 
 
 Polixenes. Shepherdess, 
 
 A fair one are you, well you fit our ages 
 With flowers of winter. 
 
 Perdita. Sir, the year growing ancient, — 
 
 Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth 
 Of trembling winter, — the fairest flowers o' the season 
 Are our carnations, and streaked gillyflowers, 
 Which some call Nature's bastards. Of that kind 
 Our rustic garden 's barren ; and I care not 
 To get slips of them. 
 
 . Polixettes. Wherefore, gentle maiden. 
 
 Do you neglect them ? 
 
 Perdita. For I have heard it said 
 
 There is an art which, in their piedness, shares 
 With great creating Nature. 
 
 Polixenes. Say there be — 
 
 Yet nature is made better by no mean 
 But nature makes that mean. So o'er that art 
 Which you say adds to nature, is an art 
 Which nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry 
 A gentler scion to the wildest stock, 
 And make conceive a bark of baser kind 
 
34 The Winter's Tale. 
 
 By bud of nobler race. This is an art 
 
 Which does mend nature — change it rather, but 
 
 The art itself is nature. 
 
 Perdita. So it is. 
 
 Polixenes. Then make your garden rich in gillyflowers, 
 And do not call them bastards. 
 
 Perdita. I'll not put 
 
 The dibble in earth to set one slip of them, 
 No more than, were I painted, I would wish 
 This youth should say 't were well — 
 
 \To the rest.] . Here 's flowers (or you. 
 
 Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram. 
 The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun. 
 And with him risds weeping. These are flowers 
 Of middle summer, and I think are given 
 To men of middle age. 
 
 {Receiving thanks.] You are very welcome. 
 
 Camillo. I should leave grazing were I of your flock, 
 And live by gazing. 
 
 Perdita. Out ! — alas, 
 
 You 'd be so lean that blasts of January 
 Would blow you through and through. 
 
 \She turns to others?^ Now, my fairest friend, 
 I would I had some flowers o' the spring, that might 
 Become your time of day — and yours — and yours. 
 O Proserpina ! 
 
 For the flowers now that, frighted, thou letst fall 
 From Dis's wagon, — daffodils, 
 That come before the swallow dares, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty ; violets, dim. 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, 
 Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses, 
 That die unmarried ere they can behold 
 Bright Phoebus in his strength, — a malady 
 Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips, and 
 The crown-imperial ; lilies of all kinds, 
 , The flower-de-luce being one. Oh ! these I lack 
 xTo make you garlands of 
 
 [ Then turning to FlorizeL] And, my sweet friend, 
 To strew him o'er and o'er. 
 
The Winter's Tale. 35 
 
 Florizel. What ? — like a corse ? 
 
 Perdita, No — like a bank, for love to lie and play on ; 
 Not like a corse, or if, — not to be buried. 
 But living in mine arms. 
 
 \To others^ Come, take your flowers. 
 
 ITo Florizel.^ Methinks I play as I have seen them do 
 In Whitsun pastorals ; sure, this robe of mine 
 Doth change my disposition. 
 
 Florizel. What you do 
 
 Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, 
 I 'd have you do it ever ; when you sing, 
 I 'd have you buy and sell so, so give alms, 
 Pray so ; and for the ordering your affairs, 
 To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you 
 A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do 
 Nothing but that, — move still, still so, and own 
 No other function. 
 
 Perdita. O Doricles ! 
 
 Your praises are too large. But that your youth 
 And the true blood which fairly peeps through it 
 Do plainly give you out an unstained shepherd, 
 With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles, 
 You wooed me the false way. 
 
 Florizel. I think you have 
 
 As little skill to fear as I have purpose 
 To put you to it. But come, one dance I pray ; 
 Your hand, my Perdita. So turtles pair 
 That never mean to part 
 
 Perdita. I '11 swear for them. 
 
 Polixenes. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
 Ran on the green-sward. Nothing she does or seems 
 But smacks of something greater than herself, — 
 Too noble for this place. 
 
 Camillo. He tells her something 
 
 That makes her blood look out. Good sooth, she is 
 The queen of curds and cream. 
 
 As the shepherd is conversing with Polixenes during the 
 pauses of the dance, telling him how Doricles (the alias 
 of Florizel) is in love with his daughter, and how, if he 
 
36 The Winter's Tale. 
 
 marries her, she shall bring him that he little dreams of, a 
 servant comes in announcing a pedler. His speech gives us 
 a peep into English rural life, rather than that of Bohemia. 
 Points are colored laces (that is, like shoe-laces or corset- 
 laces), with tags to them ; they were used for lacing up men's 
 clothes. Inkles are tapes. Caddisses, what we now call 
 skirt-braids. A smock is an under-garment, either shirt or 
 chemise ; the sleeve-hand is the cuff, the square the shirt- 
 bosom. It is a sweet trait of Perdita's native delicacy that, 
 as mistress of the feast, she charges her foster-brother to 
 forewarn the ballad-singer to use no scurrilous words in his 
 tunes. 
 
 Servant. O masters, if you did but hear the pedler at the door 
 you would never dance again after a pipe and tabor. No! the bag- 
 pipe would not move you. He sings several tunes faster than you can 
 tell money. He utters them as he had eaten ballads, and men's ears 
 grew to his tunes ! 
 
 Clcwn. He could never come better ; he shall come in. I love a 
 ballad even too well, — if it be a doleful matter-merrily set down, or a 
 very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably. 
 
 Servant. He hath songs, for man or woman, of all sizes. No 
 milliner can so fit his customers with gloves. He has the prettiest 
 love-songs for maids, all without ribaldry, which is strange. . . . He 
 hath ribands of all colors of the rainbow ; points more than all the 
 lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle, though they come to him 
 by the gross ; inkles, caddisses, cambrics, lawns, — why, he sings them 
 over as they were gods and goddesses ; you would think a smock were 
 a she-angel, he so chaunts to the sleeve-hand and the work about the 
 square on 't. 
 
 Clown. Prithee bring him in, and let him approach singing. 
 Perdita. Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in his tunes. 
 Enter Autolycus, singing. 
 Lawn as white as driven snow ; 
 Cyprus black as e'er was crow ; 
 Gloves as sweet as damask roses ; 
 Masks, for faces or for noses j 
 
The Winter's Tale. 37 
 
 Bugle bracelets, necklace amber j 
 Perfume for a lady's chamber ; 
 Golden coifs and stomachers, 
 For my lads to give their dears ; 
 Pins, and poking-sticks of steel ; 
 What maids lack from head to heel. 
 Come buy of me ; come buy, come buy ! 
 Buy, lords, or else your lasses cry ; 
 Come buy, come buy ! 
 
 Meantime Camillo and Polixenes are talking with the 
 shepherd, who apparently has let fall some hints of Perdita's 
 history which strike Camillo, and make him have vague sus- 
 picions of the truth. 
 
 Twelve rustics habited as satyrs come in and dance. Then 
 Polixenes, having found out all he came to learn, thinks it 
 is time to part the lovers. But first he turns to Florizel. 
 
 Polixenes. How now, fair shepherd ? 
 
 Your heart is full of something that does take 
 Your mind from feasting. Sooth when I was young, 
 And handed love, as you do, I was wont 
 To load my girl with knacks. I would have ransacked 
 The pedler's silken treasury, and have poured it 
 To her acceptance. You have let him go, 
 And nothing marted with him. 
 
 Florizel. Old sir, I know 
 
 She prizes not such trifles as these are. 
 The gifts she seeks from me are packed and locked 
 Up in my heart ; which I have given already 
 But not delivered. 
 
 Then there comes the thought that now is a fit occasion 
 for a betrothal before witnesses, such a betrothal as, though 
 not a marriage, was deemed the sure pledge of the future 
 ceremony. He turns from the two old men, men evidently 
 of higher standing than the shepherds, to Perdita, and taking 
 her hand says : — 
 
38 The Winter's Tale, 
 
 O ! hear me breathe my life 
 Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem, 
 Hath sometime loved. I take thy hand, this hand. 
 As soft as dove's down, and as white as it. . . . 
 
 Polixenes. What follows this? 
 How prettily the young swain seems to wash 
 The hand was fair before ! I have put you out. 
 But to your protestation. Let me hear 
 What you profess. 
 
 Florizel. Do, and be witness to 't. 
 
 Polixenes. And this my neighbor too .'* 
 
 Florizel. And he, and more 
 
 Than he — or men ; the earth, the heavens, and all, 
 That were I crowned the most imperial monarch, 
 Thereof most worthy ; were I the fairest youth 
 That ever made eye swerve ; had force and knowledge 
 More than were ever man's, — I would not prize them 
 Without her love ; for her employ them all, 
 
 Polixenes. Fairly offered. 
 
 Camillo. This is a sound affection. 
 
 Shepherd. But, my daughter, say you the like to him ? 
 
 Perdita. I cannot speak 
 
 As well, nothing so well, — no, nor mean better. 
 By the pattern of my own thoughts I cut out 
 The purity of his. 
 
 Shepherd. Take hands ; a bargain. 
 
 And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to 't. 
 I give my daughter to him, and will make 
 Her portion equal his. 
 
 Florizel. O ! that must be 
 
 I' the virtue of your daughter. Some one being dead, 
 I shall have more than you can dream of yet, — 
 Enough then for your wonder. But come on ; 
 Contract us 'fore these witnesses. 
 
 Shepherd. Come, your hand. 
 
 And, daughter, yours. 
 
 Polixenes. Soft swain, a while, beseech you. 
 Have you a father ? 
 
 Florizel. I have ; but what of him "> 
 
 Polixenes. Knows he of this } 
 
 Florizel. He neither does, nor shall. 
 
The Winter's Tale, 39 
 
 Then Polixenes reasons with the young man, pointing 
 out that if the father be neither imbecile, very aged, nor 
 unreasonable, it is his duty to consult him as to his mar- 
 riage. This reasoning having failed, Polixenes condescends 
 to plead : " Prithee, tell him." The shepherd joins in 
 the entreaty : " He shall not need to grieve as knowing of 
 thy choice." Then Florizel impatiently exclaims : " Come, 
 come. He must not mark our contract." " Mark your 
 divorce, young sir," exclaims the father, discovering him- 
 self. Exasperated beyond all bounds of pity, the first words 
 of Polixenes are cruel threats against the shepherd and 
 his daughter. He repents, and revokes his sentence almost 
 as soon as it is out of his mouth ; perchance he remembers 
 what followed the rashness of his friend Leontes. But he 
 peremptorily forbids the lovers ever to meet again, and 
 quits the scene at once, leaving them in the presence of 
 Camillo to say their parting words. 
 
 " Perdita under his threats had shown no fear whatever 
 for herself, but her natural loftiness of spirit makes her 
 resent menaces and revilings. She bears the royal frown 
 without quailing, but the moment the King is gone, the 
 immediate recollection of herself, and of her low estate, 
 and of her hapless love is full of beauty, tenderness, and 
 nature." "How more than exquisite," says Coleridge, "is 
 her speech ! And that profound touch of noble pride and 
 grief venting themselves in a momentary peevishness of 
 resentment against Florizel, — ' Will 't please you, sir, be 
 gone?'" 
 
 All having quitted the scene but Camillo and the lovers, 
 Florizel tries to cheer his Perdita by protesting, " What I 
 was, I am." 
 
40 The Winter's Tale, 
 
 Camillo then interposes, reminding Florizel of his father's 
 quick temper, and recommending him, till the storm is 
 over, to keep out of his sight. 
 
 Poor Perdita pays little heed ; but says : — 
 
 How often have I told you 't would be thus, — 
 How often said my dignity would last 
 But till 't were known. 
 
 But Florizel, imploring her to "lift up her looks," makes 
 
 his manly confession of an unaltered purpose before old 
 
 Camillo. 
 
 Camillo ! 
 Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may 
 Be thereat gleaned ; for all the sun sees 
 Or the close earth wombs, or the profound seas hide 
 In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath 
 To this my fair beloved. Therefore I pray you, 
 As you have been my father's honored friend, 
 When he shall miss me (as, in faith, I mean not 
 To see him any more,) cast your good counsels 
 Upon his passion. Let myself and fortune 
 Tug for the time to come. This you may know 
 And so deliver, — I am put to sea 
 With her whom here I cannot hold on shore ; 
 And opportunely in our need, I have 
 A ship that rides hard by, but not prepared 
 For this design. What course I mean to hold 
 Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor 
 Concern me the reopening. 
 
 Florizel is justified in holding fast by Perdita in spite of 
 his father's prohibition, that father having permitted him to 
 betroth — or almost to betroth himself to her in his pres- 
 ence, and to receive her open avowal of her love. Camillo 
 proposes they should make for Sicily, — Florizel presenting 
 himself there under his own name, as ambassador for his 
 
The Winter s Tale. 41 
 
 father. The old man has an unexpressed vague hope that 
 Perdita may prove the lost daughter of his old master, — 
 not hope enough to communicate, yet hope enough to 
 frame his advice upon. Courtier-like he adds, — 
 
 Besides, you know, 
 Prosperity 's the very bond of love, 
 Whose fresh complexion, and whose heart together 
 Affliction alters. 
 
 Perdita replies with sincerity and her sweet wisdom : — 
 
 One of these is true : 
 I think affliction may subdue the cheek, 
 But not lake in the mind. 
 
 As Camillo and the young prince talk apart, Autolycus 
 comes in. By peddling and by pickpocketing he has emptied 
 nearly every purse at the sheep-shearing. He would have 
 had them all, he says, but that his trade was stopped by 
 the old man, "who came in with a whoo-bub against his 
 daughter and the King's son." 
 
 Camillo perceiving Autolycus, and not imagining that he 
 recognizes Prince Florizel, gets him to change clothes with 
 the Prince. To Perdita these shifts and disguises are very 
 painful, yet she subdues herself. She will not stand in the 
 way of her lover's plans. She says, — 
 
 I see the way so lies 
 That I must bear a part. 
 
 " No remedy," replies Camillo. 
 
 When they are all gone away Autolycus debates whether 
 to betray the Prince, "with his clog at his heels," — for so 
 he designates sweet Perdita, — or keep his secret; and 
 concludes that by doing the last he may *' help forward the 
 more knavery." 
 
42 The Winter's Tale. 
 
 Temptation to the latter is at hand. As Autolycus re- 
 flects that " Every lane's end, every shop, session, or hanging, 
 yields a careful man work," the shepherd and his son* are 
 deploring what has happened. PoHxenes indeed had 
 promised to spare the old man's life, but he had been 
 too frightened to understand his words. The son argues 
 that if the King is told that Perdita is no kin of theirs 
 he will spare them. Having overheard their talk, Autolycus 
 comes forward, and being in Florizel's clothes and without 
 his false beard, he passes himself off on the two simple 
 men for one of the king's courtiers. In this character 
 he commands the pair to open their suit to him. The 
 young man is greatly impressed by the new " advocate's " 
 air, but the old man has more penetration, and says : 
 "His garments are rich but he wears them not hand- 
 somely." Having learned that the matters that they 
 wish to lay before the King are in a box and fardel, he 
 proceeds to tell them that the king is not in the palace, 
 he has taken ship under the influence of his grief, — and 
 thence proceeds to discourse on the awful fate awaiting 
 the shepherd whose daughter has aspired to wed the King's 
 son. " Has the old man e'er a son, sir ? " asks the young 
 shepherd, trembling. And then Autolycus draws upon his 
 invention for a list of most awful pains and penalties 
 awaiting that unfortunate. He succeeds in getting large 
 sums of money out of the terrified rustics to stand their 
 friend, and promises to put them on board the King's 
 vessel, — meaning really to embark them on that of the 
 Prince. The last touch in the conversation, where Autoly- 
 cus lingers behind to see what article he can steal from a 
 hedge, is delightful. 
 
The Winter'' s Tale. 43 
 
 Act V. Scene i. 
 
 The scene now shifts to Sicily, and we begin to pity old 
 Leontes, childless and wifeless, penitent and desolate. To 
 be sure, his penitence has a certain selfishness in it. We 
 hear from him no grieving for the sorrows of Hermione. 
 "The wrong I did myself" is the burden of his plaint; 
 "my sweet'st companion" is the thing he mourns for. 
 
 Again we see Paulina's want of tact, her habit of bearing 
 hard on the bruised reed. 
 
 Leontes. Whilst I remember 
 
 Her and her virtues, I cannot forget 
 My blemishes in them ; and so still think of 
 The wrong I did myself, which was so much 
 That heirless it hath made my kingdom, and 
 Destroyed the sweet'st companion that e'er man 
 Bred his hopes out of. 
 
 Paulina. True, too true, my lord. 
 
 If one by one you wedded all the world, 
 Or from the all that are took something good 
 To make a perfect woman ; she you killed 
 Would be unparalleled. 
 
 Leontes. I think so. Killed .'' 
 
 She that I killed ? I did so, but thou strik'st me 
 Sorely to say I did. It is as bitter 
 Upon thy tongue as in my thought. Now, good now, 
 Say so but seldom. 
 
 Cleomenes. Not at all, good lady. 
 
 You might have spoken a thousand things that would 
 Have done the time more benefit, and graced 
 Your kindness better. 
 
 Many of Leontes' courtiers desire he should wed again, 
 that the kingdom may, if possible, have an heir. There is 
 good in the man at bottom, in spite of all his faults, for the 
 people round him love and pity him. It is affecting where 
 
44 The Winter's Tale, 
 
 Paulina's grief breaks out in little yearnings for her lost hus- 
 band. She is strongly opposed, of course, to any plans for 
 marrying Leontes, and easily induces him to swear that he 
 will make no second choice till she provides a wife for 
 him. 
 
 Then news comes that Prince Florizel of Bohemia, with 
 his Princess have landed in Sicily. The gentleman who 
 brings the news describes her as " the most peerless piece of 
 earth, I think, that e'er the sun shone bright on." Paulina 
 at once reproves him for seeming to forget the perfections of 
 Queen Hermione. The gentleman excuses himself, and 
 Paulina, whose heart is ever full of old remembrances, says : 
 
 Had our Prince, 
 Jewel of children, seen this hour, he had paired 
 Well with this lord. There was not a full month 
 Between his birth and that of Florizel. 
 
 Leontes. Prithee, no more. Thou knowest 
 He dies to me again when talked of. Sure, 
 When I shall see this gentleman thy speeches 
 Will bring me to consider that which may 
 Unfurnish me of reason. 
 
 Here Florizel and Perdita are introduced. Florizel makes 
 up a little fiction of his imaginary adventures, and Leontes 
 listens, divided between feelings of remorse, interest in the 
 story, the desire to show hospitality to Polixenes' son, and 
 admiration of Perdita. But Perdita's love of truth, which 
 mingles with her picturesque delicacy a certain firmness and 
 dignity, makes her unable in this interview to utter a word. 
 In the strait in which they are placed she cannot deny the 
 story Florizel relates ; she will not confirm it. Her silence, in 
 spite of all the compliments and greetings of Leontes, has a 
 peculiar and characteristic grace, and at the conclusion of 
 
The Winter's Tale, 45 
 
 the scene, when they are betrayed, the truth bursts from her 
 as if instinctively, and she exclaims with emotion, — 
 
 The heavens set spies upon us ! — will not have 
 Our nuptials celebrated ! "* 
 
 For a messenger from Polixenes has entered to denounce the 
 runaways. That monarch, with Camillo, has put to sea in 
 chase, has landed in Sicily, and fallen in with the two 
 shepherds. During the voyage the foster-father and brother 
 of Perdita have had no chance to communicate with Florizel, 
 though in the same ship with him ; indeed, they may have 
 thought their errand was only to the King, his father. Be- 
 fore him at the first chance they open their " fardel." 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Here is the account, that a gentleman, deceived by Au- 
 tolycus' rich clothes, gave to him. 
 
 1 Gent. I was by at the opening of the fardel, heard the old shep- 
 herd deliver how he found it, whereupon, after a little amazedness, we 
 were all commanded out of the chamber ; only this, methought I heard the 
 shepherd say he found the child. . . . But the changes I perceived in 
 the King (Polixenes) and Camillo were very notes of admiration ; they 
 seemed almost with staring at each other to tear the cases of their 
 eyes. There was speech in their dumbness, language in their very 
 gesture. . . . 
 
 2 Gent, [entering]. Nothing but bonfires! The oracle is fulfilled. 
 The King's daughter is found. Such a deal of wonder is broken out 
 within this hour that ballad-makers cannot be able to express it. 
 
 3 Gent. Did you see the meeting of the two Kings ? 
 
 2 Gent. No. 
 
 3 Gent. Then you have lost a sight which was to be seen — cannot 
 be spoken of. There might you have beheld one joy crown another ; 
 so and in such manner that their joy waded in tears. Our King being 
 ready to leap out of himself for joy of his found daughter, as if that 
 joy were now become a loss, cries " O, thy mother, thy mother 1 " then 
 
46 The Winter's Tale, 
 
 asks Bohemia forgiveness, then embraces his son-in-law, then again 
 worries he his daughter with caressing her, now he thanks the old 
 shepherd, which stands by like a weather-beaten conduit of many 
 kings' reigns. . . . Then, O ! the noble combat that 'twixt joy and 
 sorrow was wrought in Paulina ! She had one eye cast down for 
 the loss of her husband, the other elevated that the oracle was fulfilled. 
 She lifted up the Princess from the earth, and so locks her in embrac- 
 ing as if she would pin her to her heart, that she might be no more in 
 danger of losing. But one of the prettiest touches of all was when at 
 the relation of the Queen's death, with the manner how she came to it, 
 bravely confessed and lamented by the King, how attentiveness 
 wounded his daughter, till from one sign of dolor to another, she did 
 with an " alas ! " I would fain say, bleed tears, for I am sure my heart 
 wept blood. 
 
 This scene is followed by a soliloquy in which Autolycus 
 laments that he had not discovered the secret and revealed 
 it to the Kings of Sicily and Bohemia. He comforts himself, 
 however, by the reflection that his loss of character would 
 have stood in the way of his court preferment. At this 
 moment the shepherd and his son come in, spoilt, alas ! 
 (though let us hope only for a time) by their new honors. 
 The scene is very amusing, and yet for human nature's sake 
 we find it painful. The young shepherd boasts that he has 
 been a gentleman born these four hours, — that he was a 
 gentleman born before his father, that the King's son took 
 him by the hand and called him brother, then the two Kings 
 had called his father brother ; then the Prince, his brother, 
 and the Princess, his sister, called his father, father. " And 
 so we wept," he adds, " and these were the first gentleman- 
 like tears we ever shed." 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 We like Leontes now for the appreciation he shows of 
 Paulina. The statue she has invited him and all his court- to 
 
The Winter's Tale. 47 
 
 see is a painted statue, — frequent among the Greeks and 
 not uncommon in the Middle Ages. This one, she says, is a 
 masterpiece, a statue of Hermione painted by Julio Romano. 
 You will notice that Hermione and Paulina, being such dif- 
 ferent women, are never brought together till this scene. 
 The scene is in Paulina's house, with the court and all the 
 dramatis personce assembled. 
 
 Leontes. O grave and good Paulina, the great comfort 
 That I have had of thee ! 
 
 Paulina. What, sovereign sir, 
 
 I did not well, I meant well. 
 
 Leontes. O Paulina, we came to see the statue 
 Of our queen. But we have seen not 
 That which my daughter came to look upon, 
 The statue of her mother. 
 
 Paulina. But here it is. Prepare 
 
 To see the life as lively mocked as ever 
 Still sleep mocked death. Behold, and say *t is well. 
 
 Leontes. Her natural posture ! 
 
 Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed 
 Thou art Hermione. Or rather, thou art she 
 In thy not chiding ; for she was as tender 
 As infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina, 
 Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing 
 So aged as this seems. 
 
 Polixenes. O, not by much ! 
 
 Leontes, . . . O ! thus she stood , . . when first I wooed her ! 
 I am ashamed. Does not the stone rebuke me 
 For being more stone than it .? O I royal piece. 
 There 's magic in thy majesty, which has 
 My evils conjured to remembrance ; and 
 From thine admiring daughter ta'en the spirits. 
 Standing like stone before thee ! 
 
 Perdita. And give me leave, 
 
 And do not say 't is superstition, that 
 I kneel and then implore her blessing. Lady, 
 Dear Queen, that ended when I but began, 
 Give me that hand of vours to kiss. 
 
48 The Winter's Tale, 
 
 Paulina. O, patience ! 
 
 The statue is but newly fixed, the color 's 
 Not yet dry. 
 
 Perdita in this scene says very little ; but she stands, as 
 we have heard her father say, gazing on the statue of her 
 mother, fixed in wonder, admiration, sorrow. It is Hermione's 
 consistent self-restraint that enables her to go through the 
 statue scene, though several times Paulina is on the point 
 of drawing the curtain before her, — dreading her emotion. 
 Hermione was the daughter of an emperor of Russia. In 
 Elizabeth's time the first Enghsh embassy was sent to the 
 Russian court, where Sir Thomas Randolph was entertained 
 with barbaric splendors by Ivan the Terrible. But Her- 
 mione has none of the characteristics of a Russian woman. 
 Russian women are sensuous and passionate to a high 
 degree. 
 
 " The statue scene " says Mrs. Jameson, " is not only one 
 of the most picturesque and striking instances of stage effect 
 to be found in the ancient or modern drama, but by the skil- 
 ful manner in which it is prepared it has (wonderful as it 
 appears) all the merit of consistency and truth. The grief, 
 the love, the remorse, the impatience of Leontes, are finely 
 contrasted with the astonishtnent and admiration of Perdita, 
 who, gazing on the statue of her mother as one entranced, 
 looks as if she also were turned to marble. There is one 
 little instance of tender remembrance in Leontes which adds 
 to the charming impression of Hermione's character : — 
 
 Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed 
 Thou art Hermione. Or rather, thou art she 
 In thy not chiding ; for she was as tender 
 As infancy or grace. 
 
The Winter's Tale, 49 
 
 And again : — 
 
 Thus she stood, 
 E'en with such life of majesty — warm life, 
 As now it coldly stands — when first I wooed her. 
 
 The effect produced on the different persons of the drama 
 by this living statue, — an effect which at the same moment is 
 and is not illusion ; the manner in which the feelings of the 
 spectators become entangled between the conviction of death 
 and the impression of life ; the idea of a deception, and the 
 feeling of a reality ; and the exquisite coloring of poetry and 
 touches of natural feeling with which the whole is wrought 
 up, till wonder, expectation, and intense pleasure hold 
 our pulse and breath suspended on the event, — are quite 
 inimitable." 
 
 Then comes the close. Paulina, who is speaking when 
 Hermione descends from her pedestal, continues her speech. 
 Hermione had held her hands out. Leontes, in his awe, 
 had shrunk from her. Paulina says to him: — 
 
 Start not: her actions shall be holy as. 
 
 You hear, my spell is lawful. Do not shun her, 
 
 Until you see her die again ; for then 
 
 You kill her double. Nay, present your hand ; 
 
 "When she was young you wooed her, now in age 
 
 Is she become the suitor. 
 
 Leontes {embracing her\ 0> she's warm I 
 If this be magic, let it be an art 
 Lawful as eating. 
 
 Polixenes. She embraces him ! 
 
 Camillo. She hangs about his neck I 
 If she pertain to life let her speak too. 
 
 Paulina. It appears she lives, 
 
 Although she speaks not. Mark a little while — 
 
 \To Perdita.\ Please you to interpose, fair madam. Kneel 
 4 
 
50 The Winter's Tale. 
 
 And pray your mother's blessing. Turn, good lady j 
 Our Perdita is found. ^ 
 
 Hermione. You gods, look down, 
 
 And from your sacred vials pour your graces 
 Upon my daughter's head ! Tell me, mine own, 
 "Where hast thou been preserved ? — where lived ? — how found 
 Thy father's court ? For thou shalt hear that I — 
 Knowing by Paulina that the oracle 
 Gave hope thou wast in being — have preserved 
 Myself to see the issue. 
 
 Mrs. Jameson says: "The moment when Hermione de- 
 scends from her pedestal, to the sound of soft music, and 
 throws herself without speaking into her husband's arms is 
 one of inexpressible interest." 
 
 "It appears to me," she adds, "that her silence during 
 this whole scene (except where she invokes a blessing on her 
 daughter's head) is in the finest taste as poetical beauty, be- 
 sides being an admirable trait of character. The misfortunes 
 of Hermione, her long religious seclusion, the wonderful and 
 almost supernatural part she has just enacted, have invested 
 her with such a sacred and awful charm that any words put 
 into her mouth must I think have injured the solemn and 
 profound pathos of the situation." 
 
 Observe that after she descends from the pedestal Polix- 
 enes addresses neither her nor Leontes. Before she stirs he 
 has been forward to comfort her husband. As they turn 
 away, neither she nor Polixenes will cast a glance at the 
 other. Leontes observes it, and exclaims : — 
 
 What ? Look upon my brother : both your pardons, 
 That e'er I put between your holy looks 
 My ill suspicion. 
 
 The only heavy heart is poor Paulina's. She had evi- 
 dently cherished the hope that when the princess was 
 
The Winter's Tale. 51 
 
 restored according to the oracle, her husband might come 
 back to her. Now she says : — 
 
 Go together, 
 You precious winners all ; your exaltation 
 Partake with every one. I, an old turtle, 
 Will wing me to some withered bough, and there 
 My mate, that 's never to be found again, 
 Lament till I am lost. 
 
 I hardly think it could be any present consolation that 
 royalty provides her with a husband in Camillo; but let 
 us hope she was the happier for it in the long run. 
 
THE TEMPEST. 
 
THE TEMPEST. 
 
 " 'T^HE TEMPEST " is usually placed first in our edi- 
 X tions of Shakspeare, but it is really in all probability 
 one of the last of his plays. 
 
 The first representation of " The Tempest " was in 1 6 1 3. It 
 was one of the novelties produced during the rejoicings over 
 the marriage of the good and beautiful Elizabeth, the eldest 
 daughter of King James, with Frederick, the Elector Palatine. 
 Among the various absurd comments of commentators is one 
 which finds in Prospero King James himself, in Miranda 
 Elizabeth, in Ferdinand the Elector Palatine, and in Caliban 
 the new Province of Virginia ! 
 
 For many years commentators could not imagine where 
 Shakspeare got his story of " The Tempest." For he never 
 invented plots ; he took material from a ballad, from history, 
 or from some old story-book, and inspired it. His charac- 
 ters are all his own, his plots never. At last an old Ger- 
 man play turned up, — " Die Schone Sidea ; " and it was also 
 discovered that in 161 2 some of Shakspeare's friends and 
 fellow-actors went over to Germany on a professional visit, 
 and were at Nuremburg when the *' Schone Sidea " was per- 
 formed. Germany and England were at that day far more 
 in sympathy than they have been at any time since Elizabeth 
 Stuart's great-grandson came to the English throne. 
 
56 The Tempest, 
 
 The author of " The Fair Sidea/' Jacob Ayrer, died in 1605, 
 and the points of resemblance are close between the two 
 dramas. Ludolph is Ayrer's Prospero, Sidea his Miranda; 
 Ludolph and Sidea live apart in a desert place (not on an un- 
 inhabited island), and are served by two spirits, Runciter and 
 Molitor, the latter of whom is coarse and brutal, like Caliban. 
 By help of Runciter (Ariel) a handsome young prince, 
 Engelbrecht, and the Sage's hereditary enemy, are delivered 
 into his power. The story proceeds as in " The Tempest," 
 even to the carrying of the wood ; but all the glow and poetry 
 and grace and loveliness are Shakspeare's own, " ' The Tem- 
 pest ' is one of those works for which no previous produc- 
 tion of the author could have prepared the reader ; it is of a 
 wholly different cast of temper from what is conspicuous in 
 his gayer comedies. It is solemn and grand, unrivalled in 
 harmony and grace, and in grave beauty." The other fairy 
 drama, " The Midsummer Night's Dream," is essentially 
 different from " The Tempest," being indeed a contrast rather 
 than a counterpart. " The one, is all joy and sparkle and 
 brilliancy ; the other is poetry pervaded by philosophy." The 
 one has been compared to spring, the other to the Indian sum- 
 mer. " The Tempest," though not rising as high as some of 
 the tragedies, is perhaps Shakspeare's most perfect work of art. 
 Hazlitt says of it : " The human and imaginary characters, the 
 dramatic and the grotesque, are blended together with the 
 greatest art. As the preternatural part has the air of reality, 
 and haunts the imagination with a sense of truth, the real 
 characters and events partake of the wildness of a dream." 
 
 If not, as it probably is, Shakspeare's latest work, it is at 
 least one of the four last, — the others being " The Winter's 
 Tale," " Cymbeline," and " Coriolanus." 
 
The Tempest, 57 
 
 "i 
 
 We all know the story of " The Tempest/' — how Prosper©, 
 Duke of Milan, was a dreamer, given over to scientific 
 studies, which included (even in Shakspeare's day) alchemy 
 and astrology. Antonio, his wicked brother, having secured 
 the connivance of the King of Naples by an engagement to 
 submit Milan to his suzerainship, making it a fief of the 
 Neapolitan crown, succeeded, while Prospero remained blind 
 to his proceedings, in winning the hearts of the Milanese 
 people, and effecting a revolution. Prospero and his little 
 daughter were put afloat in a leaky boat to perish in the first 
 tempest that assailed them ; but Gonzalo, a good old coun- 
 cillor, supplied them with books, garments, and provisions. 
 Father and child landed on an island, — probably a desert 
 island (if we must place it geographically) in the Mediter- 
 ranean. The description of the island is taken partly from 
 a pamphlet by a Virginian adventurer, who lived in Black- 
 friars, near Shakspeare's theatre. It was published in 161 2, 
 and is called " A true repertory of the wracke and redemp- 
 tion of Sir Thomas Gates, Knight, upon and from the 
 Islands of the Bermudas ; his comeing to Virginia, and the 
 state of the Colonic there, and after, under the Government 
 of the Lord de la Warre. July 15. 16 10. Written by Wil- 
 liam Strachey Esquire." 
 
 In the island they found two spirits, — the one all sloth, 
 earthliness, and sensuality ; the other all that was airy, grace- 
 ful, tender; one with the power to hate, the other with 
 almost the power to love, — by that I mean as high a power 
 to love as can be possessed without a soul. 
 
 Caliban was son of the^witch_^ycQmXr who worshipped a 
 god, Setebos, on whom a poem has been written by Mr. 
 Browning. 
 
58 Th( Tempest 
 
 Ariel, the spirit of the island when Sycorax landed upon 
 it, was imprisoned by her in a cleft tree, and released by 
 Prospero. 
 
 These beings wait on him and on his daughter. At first 
 the new comers were disposed to be kind to Caliban, but the 
 devil in him getting the upper hand, he offered violence and 
 insult to Miranda, after which he was kept down in his place 
 with an almost cruel hand. This made him ripe for revolu- 
 tion. It has always seemed to me that Caliban, dangerous, 
 vicious, with sufficient suffering to excuse himself in his own 
 eyes for his desire to retaliate, was the Mob incarnate. 
 
 At last, after a lapse of about twelve years, a ship con- 
 taining the King of Naples, on his way from Tunis, where 
 he had married his daughter to a Moorish prince, is driven 
 by stress of weather near the enchanted island. Prospero, 
 who sees the laboring vessel has on board, besides the King 
 of Naples (now Milan's feudal chief), his brother Antonio, 
 old Gonzalo, and young Prince Ferdinand, the heir of Naples, 
 directs Ariel to raise a tempest, to make the ship founder off 
 shore, and bring her passengers safe into his power. Here the 
 
 play opens. 
 
 Act I. Scene i. 
 
 You are aware that in Shakspeare's time there was no stage 
 scenery. So, on a board, when the tempest was represented, 
 was chalked up : " On a Ship at sea. A storm, with thunder 
 and light?iingy The captain, the boatswain, and the sailors, 
 come tumbling up on deck. All is hurry and confusion. To 
 their amazement, they find themselves among breakers. The 
 honest boatswain whistles shrilly with his silver whistle, and 
 gives a multitude of orders, striving to keep up the hearts of his 
 men, when up the companion-way comes, what a sailor dreads 
 
The Tempest. 59 
 
 most in foul weather, a meddlesome crowd of passengers. 
 The King of Naples and his courtiers address the boatswain, 
 forgetting that on board-ship in a storm ranks are reversed ; 
 the real king at such moments is he who commands the ship- 
 men. The boatswain very shortly orders them all below. In a 
 storm he respects no man. His rough absorption in his duty, 
 and the vain efforts of the courtiers to make him show some 
 respect to the King he has on board, are marvellously true to 
 nature. My sympathy is all for the boatswain, though even the 
 good Gonzalo cannot take a sailor's view of the subject, and 
 thinks he deserves hanging ; indeed, he makes a little joke on 
 the subject, to keep up the spirits of his companions. But as 
 the storm grows worse, and more courtiers come on deck, 
 increasing the confusion and bothering the sailors, the boat- 
 swain gets more and more exasperated, and Sebastian and 
 Antonio, the bad men of the drama, grow coarsely abu- 
 sive. It is the sailors, not tlje landsmen, who first cry to 
 prayers. Gonzalo keeps on reiterating his little joke about 
 the boatswain being born to be hanged, to call off the atten- 
 tion of the courtiers. It has been his office for so many 
 years to be a go-between and peace-maker, that even in the 
 presence of death the passion for directing away the inten- 
 tions of the wicked from evil is strong within him. 
 
 The subsequent exclamations, after the direction " a con- 
 fused noise within^'' are, I think, the cries of other passengers 
 in the cabin, and no part of the speech spoken by old 
 
 Gonzalo. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 In this scene, before the cave that serves Prospero for his 
 study, we are introduced to Miranda. Miranda's character 
 is composed of the simplest elements of ideal womanhood ; 
 
6o The Tempest, 
 
 she is beautiful, modest, and tender. These elements com- 
 prise her whole character, — she is these alone. Brought up 
 with no mother, with no knowledge of persons of her own 
 sex, she knows nothing of the conventional rules of society ; 
 she is the brightest possible ideal of a child of nature, — not 
 rude, ignorant nature, but nature with some intellectual culti- 
 vation. She knows nothing that should prevent her carrying 
 wood for a human being who is weary ; she has no conven ■ 
 tionalities of princesshood, nor traditions of a lady ; she is 
 "pure womanly," but has native dignity, and an intuitive 
 sense of all that is most proper, while guided chiefly by her 
 sense of what is kind. 
 
 " Miranda," says Mrs. Jameson, " possesses the merely 
 elementary attributes of womanhood, but each of these 
 stands out in her with a distinct grace. She resembles 
 nothing upon earth, and yet we never compare her with 
 dryads or sea-maids, or such creatures of the fancy. 
 Miranda is a consistent, natural human being. Our im- 
 pression of her nymph -like beauty, her peerless grace, and 
 purity of soul, has a distinct and individual character. 
 Not only is she exquisitely lovely, being what she is, but 
 we are made to feel she coidd not possibly be otherwise 
 than as she is portrayed. She has never beheld one of her 
 own sex," — although one of her first speeches is in 
 defence of that sex, which she knew only through history 
 or poetry ; but Coleridge says, in effect, that a sense of an- 
 cestry and maternity are strong instincts in untutored 
 womanhood. "She has never caught from society ^ne 
 imitated or one artificial grace. The impulses which have 
 come to her enchanted solitude are of heaven and nature, 
 not of the world and its vanities. She has sprung up into 
 
The Tempest, 6i 
 
 beauty beneath the eye of her father, the princely magician. 
 Her companions have been the rocks and woods, the many- 
 tinted clouds, the silent stars; Ariel and his attendant 
 spirits hovered over her, ministering duteous to her every 
 wish, and presented before her pageants of beauty and 
 grandeur. The very air, made vocal by her father's art, 
 floated in music round her. She retains her woman's heart, 
 for that is unalterable, inalienable, as part of her being ; but 
 her deportment, her looks, her language, her thoughts, — 
 these, from the supernatural and poetical circumstances 
 around her, assume a cast of the pure ideal. All who 
 approach her seem to see in her something celestial." 
 In this scene in which she comes before us first we see 
 her anxiety, sorrow, and uneasiness, the first time that she 
 is brought face to face with others' suffering, — "suffering 
 with those whom she saw suffer." When her father goes 
 on to tell her of her own lost inheritance, the secret of 
 her fife, of their exile, of all that we should suppose would 
 have been most interesting to her, he can hardly keep her 
 attention, so anxiously is she watching for some confirma- 
 tion of his assurance that the poor souls that she has seen 
 sink in the beautiful great ship are safe on land. Only 
 once is her soul moved during his tale, — when she thinks 
 what trouble she must have been in her infant helplessness to 
 her poor father. She does not sit down quietly to hear his 
 tale till he commands her, and at every pause he has to ask 
 if she is really listening. Coleridge remarks that Prospero's 
 speeches in this scene are the finest examples he remembers 
 of " retrospective narrative, told for the purpose of exciting 
 immediate interest and putting the audience in possession of 
 all the information necessary for understanding the plot." 
 
62 The Tempest, 
 
 Miranda. If by your art, my dearest father, you have 
 Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. 
 The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, 
 But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek, 
 Dashes the fire out. O ! I have suffered 
 With those that I saw suffer, — a brave vessel. 
 Who had no doubt some noble creatures in her. 
 Dashed all to pieces ! O ! their cry did knock 
 Against my very heart. Poor souls ! they perished. 
 Had I been any god of power, I would 
 Have sunk the sea within the earth or e'er 
 It should the good ship so have swallowed, and 
 The freighting souls within her. 
 
 Prospero. Be collected. 
 
 No more amazement. Tell your piteous heart 
 There 's no harm done 
 
 Miranda. O ! woe the day. 
 
 Prospero. No harm. 
 
 Then he goes on, often pausing to comfort her and re- 
 assure her, to tell her their sad history. Before he does 
 so he takes off his magic garment, and speaks only in the 
 character of an exiled prince and father. 
 
 After questioning his daughter concerning the earliest 
 recollections of her infancy, he proceeds : — 
 
 Twelve years since, 
 Miranda, twelve years since, thy father was 
 The Duke of Milan, — thou, his only heir, 
 A princess ; no worse issued. 
 
 Miranda. O, the heavens ! 
 
 What foul play had we, that we came from thence ? — 
 Or blest was it we did .? 
 
 Prospero. Both, both, my girl. 
 
 By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved thence, 
 But blessedly holp hither. 
 
 Miranda. O ! my heart bleeds 
 
 To think of the teen that I have turned you to, 
 Which is from my remembrance. 
 
The Tempest. 63 
 
 Prospero proceeds with his narrative, but ever and anon 
 her attention is distracted by distant sounds. She fancies 
 that she hears the cries of the poor creatures she had seen 
 engulfed, or something that confirms her father's assurance 
 of their safety. 
 
 When he tells her, however, how in the dead of darkness 
 the ministers of Antonio hurried to the strand " me and thy 
 crying self," her attention is fully roused, and she exclaims : 
 
 Alack, for pity ! 
 I, not remembering how I cried out then, 
 Will cry it o'er again. 
 
 When he tells her of the pity and kind thoughtfulness of 
 good Gonzalo she exclaims : — 
 
 Would I might 
 But ever see that man I 
 
 "Alack ! what trouble was I then to you ! " is her thought 
 throughout, and Prospero's answer is : " O ! a cherubim, 
 that did preserve me ! " 
 
 And then at last he gives his reasons "for raising this 
 sea-storm." 
 
 Prospero. Know thus far forth : 
 
 By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune, 
 Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies 
 Brought to this shore ; and by my prescience 
 I find my zenith doth depend upon 
 A most conspicuous star ; whose influence 
 If now I court not but omit, my fortune 
 Will ever after droop. Here cease thy questions. 
 
 And thus having told Miranda all that he thinks fit, he 
 lays a sleep-spell on her, and summons Ariel. For the pas- 
 sage in which Ariel describes the shipwreck Shakspeare is 
 
64 The Tempest. 
 
 supposed to have received some hints from Ariosto in Ruggi- 
 ero's shipwreck, and some from Strachey's " Narrative," which 
 has much to say about the St. Hermus light, the death- 
 fears of the sailors off Bermuda, etc. I am very sure Shaks- 
 peare had read Ariosto, either in the original or in the 
 translation made by Sir John Harrington at the command 
 of Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 Ariel also makes allusion to Bermuda as a little group of 
 enchanted isles. He says : — 
 
 Thou calledst me up at midnight to fetch dew 
 From the still vexed Bermoothes. 
 
 Ariel has fulfilled his lord's commands by dispersing sailors 
 and passengers about the island. Prospero seems in this 
 scene a little stern with his sweet airy spirit, but I suppose 
 with soulless beings it was necessary to keep them well in 
 subjection. " Ariel," says Coleridge, " has in everything the 
 airy tint that gives his name. Miranda is never brought 
 into comparison with Ariel, lest the natural and human of 
 the one, and the supernatural of the other, should tend to 
 neutralize each other. Caliban, on the other hand, is all 
 earth and condensed * brulishhess.'" ^ He has the dawnings 
 of understanding without moral sense, and in him, as in some 
 brute animals (or more notably in savages), this advance to 
 intellectual faculties without moral sense is marked by the 
 appearance of vice." Caliban has a case which he can make 
 out against Prospero, and yet we feel, and know, that Prospero 
 is in the right, and that nothing but threats and brute force 
 will keep him or his daughter, in their intercourse with 
 Caliban, in safety. Still, a philanthropist might have taken up 
 the cause of the " poor monster.^' 
 
The Tempest. 65 
 
 Caliban being gone to carry wood, Ariel re-enters, singing, 
 and drawing after him Prince Ferdinand. The song is one 
 of the loveliest of Shakspeare's lyrics. Whenever he writes a 
 song there is music in the words. 
 
 Come unto these yellow sands, 
 
 And there take hands. 
 Courtesied when you have, and kissed 
 
 (The wild waves whist), 
 Foot it featly here and there, 
 And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. 
 Hark! Hark! 
 [Bur.] Bow-wow. 
 The watch dogs bark ; 
 [Bur.] Bow-wow. 
 Hark, hark! I hear 
 The strain of strutting chanticleer, 
 Cry, Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 
 
 Ferdinand. Where should this music be ? I' the air — 
 Or on the earth t It sounds no more, and sure 
 It waits upon some god o' the island. 
 
 Sitting on a bank, 
 Weeping again the king my father's wreck, 
 This music crept by me upon the waters, — 
 Allaying both their fury and my passion 
 With its sweet air. Thence I have followed it. 
 Or it hath drawn me, rather. . . . But 't is gone. 
 No ! it begins again. 
 
 Ariel. Full fathom five thy father lies ; 
 Of his bones are coral made ; 
 Those are pearls that were his eyes ; 
 
 Nothing of him that doth fade, 
 But doth suffer a sea-change 
 Into something rich and strange ; 
 Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell ; 
 Hark ! now I hear them — ding-dong bell ! 
 
 Ferdinand. The ditty does remember my drowned father ; 
 This is no mortal business, nor no sound 
 That the earth owns. I hear it now above me. 
 
 S 
 
66 The Tempest. 
 
 Thus impressed by the idea that he may be surrounded 
 by the local divinities of the island, Ferdinand stands without 
 the cave, while within Prospero wakes Miranda, and notes 
 the effect of the first man she sees upon her. Then sud- 
 denly Ferdinand catches sight of Miranda, and doubting 
 whether she be woman or spirit or goddess, kneels and 
 addresses her as " O you wonder ! " — asking if she " be maid 
 or no." Miranda replies, " No wonder, sir, but certainly a 
 maid." Hearing her speak his own tongue, Ferdinand has- 
 tens to intimate his rank. His genuine grief for his father, 
 and regret at his own elevation to the throne, are in marked 
 contrast with the subsequently expressed feelings of Sebastian 
 and Antonio on the same subject, and predispose us at once 
 in favor of the young man. The whole scene is very beauti- 
 ful, too beautiful to be omitted. 
 
 Prospero [within the cave, to Mi7'anda\. The fringed curtains of 
 thine eyes advance, 
 And say what seest thou yonder ? 
 
 Miranda. What is 't ? — a spirit "i 
 
 Lord ! how it looks about ! Believe me, sir, 
 It carries a brave form. But is 't a spirit ? 
 
 Prospero. No, girl ; it eats and sleeps, and hath such senses 
 As we have — such. This gallant whom thou seest 
 Was in the wreck ; and, but he 's something stained 
 With grief that 's beauty's canker, thou might'st call him 
 A goodly person. He hath lost his fellows, 
 And strays about to find them. 
 
 Miranda. I might call him 
 
 A thing divine ; for nothing natural 
 I ever saw so noble. 
 
 Prospero [aside, as he goes apart]. It goes on 
 As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit, 
 I 'H free thee within two days for this. 
 
 Ferdinand [seeing Miranda]. Most sure, the goddess 
 
 On whom these airs attend ! [Kneels.] Vouchsafe my prayer 
 May know if you remain upon this island ; 
 
The Tempest. 67 
 
 And that you will some good instruction give 
 How I may bear me here. My prime request, 
 Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder 1 
 If you be maid or no ? 
 
 Miranda. No wonder, sir ; 
 
 But certainly a maid. 
 
 Ferdinand [rising]. My language? Heavens! — 
 I am the best of them that speak this speech. 
 Were I but where 't is spoken. 
 
 Prospero \conting forward]. How ! — the best ? 
 What wert thou if the King of Naples heard thee ? 
 
 Ferdinand. A single thing, as I am now, that wonders 
 To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me, 
 And, that he does, I weep. Myself am Naples, 
 Who with mine eyes, ne'er since at ebb, beheld 
 The king my father wrecked. 
 
 Miranda. Alack, for mercy ! 
 
 Ferdinand. Yes, faith, and all his lords, — the Duke of Milan 
 And his brave son being twain. 
 
 Prospero. The Duke of Milan 
 
 And his more braver daughter could control thee 
 If now 't were fit to do it. 
 
 [Aside.] At the first sight 
 
 They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel, 
 I '11 set thee free for this. 
 
 [Aloud to Ferdinand.] A word, good sir ; 
 I fear you have done yourself some wrong ; a word. 
 
 Miranda. Why speaks my father so ungently ? This 
 Is the third man that e'er I saw; — the first 
 That e'er I sighed for. Pity move my father 
 To be inclined my way ! 
 
 Ferdinand. O ! if a virgin, 
 
 And your affection not gone forth, I '11 make you 
 The Queen of Naples ! 
 
 Prospero. Soft, sir ; one word more. 
 
 [Aside.] They are both in cither's powers ; but this swift business 
 I must uneasy make, lest too light winning 
 Make the prize light. 
 
 [To Ferdinand.] One word more ; I charge thee 
 That thou attend me. Thou dost here usurp 
 
68 The Tempest. 
 
 The name thou own'st not ; and hast put thyself 
 Upon this island as a spy, to win it 
 From me, the lord on't. 
 
 Ferdinand. No ! as I am a man. 
 
 Miranda [pleading]. There 's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple. 
 If the ill spirit have so fair a house, 
 Good things will strive to dwell in 't. 
 
 Prospero \to Ferdinatid]. Follow me ! — 
 
 {To Miranda.'] Speak not you for him ; he 's a traitor. 
 
 [To Ferdinand.] I '11 manacle thy neck and feet together ; 
 Sea-water shalt thou drink ; thy food shall be 
 The fresh-brook muscles, withered roots, and husks 
 Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow ! 
 
 Ferdinand. No ! 
 
 I will resist such entertainment, till 
 Mine enemy has more power. [Draws his s7uord.] 
 
 Miranda. O ! dear father, 
 
 Make not too rash a trial of him, for 
 He 's gentle, and not fearful. 
 
 Prospero. What, I say, — 
 
 My foot my tutor ! 
 
 [Paralyzes his arm.] Put thy sword up, traitor, 
 Who mak'st a show, but dar'st not strike, thy conscience 
 Is so possessed by guilt. Come from thy ward ; 
 For I can here disarm thee with this stick, 
 And make thy weapon drop. 
 
 Miranda. Beseech you, father ! 
 
 Prospero. Hence ! hang not on my garments ! 
 
 Miranda. Sir, have pity. 
 
 I '11 be his surety ! 
 
 Prospero. Silence ! one word more 
 
 Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What ! 
 An advocate for an impostor ? Hush ! 
 Thou think'st there are no more such shapes as he, — 
 Having seen but him and Caliban. Foolish wench ! 
 To most of men this is a Caliban, 
 And they to him are angels. 
 
 Miranda. My affections 
 
 Are then most humble. I have no ambition 
 To see a goodlier man. 
 
The Tempest, 69 
 
 Prospero \to Ferdinand\. Come on ; obey. 
 Thy nerves are in their infancy again, 
 And have no vigor in them. 
 
 Ferdinand. So they are. 
 
 My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up. 
 My father's loss, the weakness which I feel. 
 The wreck of all my friends, or this man's threats 
 By which I am subdued, are but light to me 
 Might I but through my prison once a day 
 Behold this maid. All corners else o' the earth 
 Let liberty make use of; space enough 
 Have I in such a prison. 
 
 Prospero \aside\. It works. [To Ferdinand. 1 Come on. 
 
 [Aside to Ariel.] Thou hast done well, my Ariel. 
 
 [ To Ferd. and Mir.] Follow me ! 
 
 [Aside to Ariel.] Hark, what thou else shalt do me. 
 
 Miranda [to Ferdinand], Be of comfort, 
 
 My father *s of a better nature, sir. 
 Than he appears by speech. This is unwonted 
 Which now came from him. 
 
 Prospero [to Ariel]. Thou shalt be as free 
 
 As mountain winds ; but then exactly do 
 All points of my command. 
 
 Ariel. To the syllable. 
 
 Prospero [to Mir.]. Come, follow ! speak not for him. 
 
 Prospero has spoken roughly to the youth, and the pity 
 akin to love is roused in sv^^eet Miranda. Prospero, reflect- 
 ing truly that there is danger in light winning, has made 
 believe to abuse and insult Ferdinand, who draws his sword ; 
 but Prospero, lifting up his wand, paralyzes his arm, — 
 Miranda, meantime, hanging on the skirts of her father's 
 magic robe, and entreating him for pity. Prospero silences 
 her peremptorily ; but, even then, her dawning love for Fer- 
 dinand, combining with her sense of justice and her pity, 
 make her hold firmly to her point, though all she can do is 
 to whisper to Ferdinand that her father is of better nature 
 
70 The Tempest, 
 
 than he appears by speech, and that his conduct is "un- 
 wonted." 
 
 Act II. Scene i. 
 
 Here we are introduced to a new set of characters, — 
 Alonzo, King of Naples; Sebastian, his wicked brother; 
 Antonio, the coarse, bad brother of Prospero ; good old 
 Gonzalo ; Francisco, a young nobleman, — possibly the brave 
 young cousin of Miranda, — and Adrian. 
 
 Gonzalo, ever bent upon his task of turning other people's 
 thoughts away from their own troubles, or from designs of in- 
 iquity, implores his master to look on the bright side, and to be 
 thankful for his preservation. The bereaved man — for 
 the father of Ferdinand believes his son is drowned — will 
 not listen to his kind old councillor, of whom the heartless 
 courtiers make fun. Indeed, Sebastian and Antonio are in 
 high spirits; for if Ferdinand be dead, Sebastian may be 
 considered the next heir to Naples. Then Adrian tries, as 
 it were, to second old Gonzalo, not very wisely perhaps, 
 (few consolatory speeches are wise), and Sebastian and An- 
 tonio find more matter for mirth. The comforters' speeches, 
 however, are rather made with the kind intention of diverting 
 their master's thoughts, and drawing his attention to the 
 beauties of the enchanted island, than to offer balm to his 
 wound. The whole scene is more pathetic than comic ; the 
 efforts of Gonzalo, Adrian, and Francisco, are so piteously 
 persevering and unavailing. 
 
 Then breaks in Sebastian, with a brutal " I told you so ! " 
 to his brother, and makes the worst of the bad business, — 
 as Gonzalo tells him, "rubbing the sore where you should 
 bring the plaster." Here, by way of diverting his master's 
 thoughts, Gonzalo applies to the imaginary government of 
 
The Tempest. 71 
 
 the desert isle a passage translated from Montaigne's Essays. 
 Notice, too, how amiably Gonzalo takes the failure of his 
 efforts, — with the unselfishness of a man bent wholly on a 
 charitable purpose. 
 
 It is always interesting to me to look closely into what 
 one may call the minor scenes of Shakspeare's plays, and see 
 how carefully he discriminates his less important characters. 
 
 The joking, gibing, and consoling are interrupted by Ariel 
 and his spirits playing solemn music, which puts to sleep 
 Gonzalo, Adrian, and Francisco, leaving the two bad men 
 alone with their King. Soon he becomes drowsy, and they 
 remain awake to plot against his life. "The scene of the 
 intended assassination of Alonzo," says Coleridge, "is the 
 exact counterpart of the scene between Macbeth and his 
 lady, only pitched in a lower key throughout, as designed to 
 be frustrated and concealed, and exhibiting the same pro- 
 found management in the manner of familiarizing a mind 
 not immediately recipient, to the suggestion of guilt, by asso- 
 ciating the proposed crime with something ludicrous, or out 
 of place, — something not habitually matter of reverence. 
 By this kind of sophistry the imagination and fancy are first 
 bribed to contemplate the suggested act, and at length to 
 become acquainted with it." 
 
 The two men Sebastian and Antonio are about to kill the 
 King of Naples and Gonzalo, when Ariel, sent by Prospero, 
 wakens the latter, who perceives the conspirators with drawn 
 swords in their hands. They make plausible excuses, and 
 Gonzalo, too good himself to cherish suspicion, is persuaded 
 that strange noises have been heard in the enchanted island. 
 Therefore, refreshed by sleep, and with their swords drawn, 
 they all set out to make further search for Ferdinand. 
 
72 The Tempest. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 In this second scene we have Caliban, bearing logs of 
 wood, ripe for rebellion against his master. As he grumbles, 
 there enters Trinculo, the jester of the King of Naples. 
 Hazlitt has remarked upon the entire absence of vulgarity 
 in Caliban, in contrast with the sea-wit of the jester, butler, 
 and sailors. He says : " Shakspeare has described the brutal 
 mind of Caliban in contrast with the pure and original forms 
 of nature ; the character grows out of the soil where it is 
 rooted, uncontrolled, uncouth, and wild, uncramped by any 
 of the meannesses of custom ; it is * of the earth, earthy.' 
 It seems almost to have been dug out of the ground, with 
 mental powers instinctively superadded to it, answering to 
 its wants and origin." Schlegel observes that Caliban is a 
 poetical character, and always speaks in blank verse. 
 
 The part of Trinculo 's speech which describes the English 
 as eager to rush after any kind of monstrosity is still true to 
 the letter. Soon after, enters Stephano, a drunken steward 
 or butler, with a bottle in his hand. The whole scene 
 speaks for itself. Note in it one touch which shows Mi- 
 randa's kindness to her father's brutish servant, and another 
 which proves that the jester was somewhat dwarfish. 
 
 Caliban. All the infections that the sun sucks up 
 From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him 
 By inch-meal a disease ! His spirits hear me, 
 And yet I needs must curse. But they '11 not pinch. 
 Fright me with urchin shows, pitch me i' the mire, 
 Nor lead me, like a fire-brand in the dark, 
 Out of my way, unless he bid them. But 
 For every trifle are they set upon me ; 
 Sometimes like apes, that mow and chatter at me, 
 And after bite me ; then like hedge-hogs, which 
 
The Tempest, 73 
 
 Lie tumbling in my bare-foot way, and mount 
 Their pricks at my foot-fall. Sometimes am I 
 Wounded with adders, who, with cloven tongues, 
 Do hiss me into madness. Lo ! now, lo ! \Enter Trinculo. 
 Here comes a spirit of his, — and to torment me 
 For bringing wood in slowly. I '11 fall flat ; 
 Perchance he will not mind me. 
 Tnnculo. Here 's neither bush nor shrub to bear off any weather 
 at all, and another storm brewing! I hear it sing i' the wind. If it 
 should thunder as it did before, I know not where 'to hide my head. 
 Yond' same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we 
 here ? a man, or a fish .? dead, or alive t A fish ; he smells like a 
 fish, — a very ancient and fish-like smell; a kind of (not of the 
 newest) Poor- John. A strange fish! Were I in England now, — as 
 once I was, — and had but this fish painted, not a holiday-fool there 
 but would give a piece of silver. There would this monster make a 
 man! When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they 
 will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legged like a man ! — and his 
 fins like arms ! Warm, o' my troth ! I do now let loose my opinion, 
 and hold it no longer ; this is no fish, but an islander that hath lately 
 suffered by a thunder-bolt. \Thunder.\ Alas! the storm is come 
 again ; my best way is to creep under his gaberdine ; there is no 
 other shelter hereabout ; misery acquaints a man with strange bed- 
 fellows ! I will here shroud till the drench of the storm be past. 
 
 \Enter Stephana, singing, — a bottle in his hand.\ 
 
 Stephana. A very scurvy time to sing, at a man's funeral. Well, 
 here 'j my comfort. \Drinks\ 
 
 Caliban. Do not torment me ! Oh ! '* 
 
 Stephana. What's the matter? Have we devils here.? Do you 
 put tricks upon us with savages and men of Ind ? Ha! I have not 
 escaped drowning to be afeard now of your four legs. [Pulls at the legs.] 
 
 Caliban. The spirit torments me ! Oh ! 
 
 Stephana. This is some monster of the isle, with four legs ; who hath 
 got, as I take it, an ague. Where the devil should he learn our lan- 
 guage ? I '11 give him some relief^ if it be but for that. If I can re- 
 cover him, and keep him tame, and get to Naples with him, he is a 
 present for any emperor that ever trod on neat's leather. 
 Caliban. Do not torment me, prithee ! 
 I '11 bring my wood home faster. 
 
74 The Tempest, 
 
 _ j 
 
 Stephana. He' s in his fit now, and does not talk after the wisest' 
 He shall taste of my bottle. If he have never drunk wine before, it wil 
 go near to remove his fit. If I can recover him and keep him tame, 
 he shall pay for him that hath him, and that soundly. 
 
 Caliban. Thou dost me yet but little hurt. Thou wilt anon, 
 
 I know it by thy trembling. Now Prosper works upon thee. 
 
 Stephana. Come on your ways ! open your mouth ! Here is that 
 which will give language to you, cat ! open your mouth ! You cannot 
 tell who 's your friend. Open your chaps again ! 
 
 Trinculo. I should know that voice ! It should be — but he 's 
 drown'd, and these are devils. O ! defend me ! . . . 
 
 Stephana. Four legs, and two voices! — a most delicate monster! 
 If all the wine in my bottle will recover him, I will help his ague. 
 Come ! — Amen. I will pour some in thine other mouth. 
 
 Trincula. Stephano ! — 
 
 Stephana. Doth thine other mouth call me ? Mercy ! Mercy ! 
 Thi^ is a devil, and no monster ! 
 
 Trincula. Stephano! — if thou beest Stephano, touch me, speak 
 to me ; for I am Trinculo. Be not afraid, — thy good friend Trinculo. 
 
 Stephana. If thou beest Trinculo, come forth. I '11 pull thee by 
 the lesser legs. If any be Trinculo's legs, these are they. Thou art 
 very Trinculo indeed. How camest thou to be the siege of that moon- 
 calf.? 
 
 Trinculo. I took him to be killed with a thunder-stroke. But art 
 thou not drown'd, Stephano } I hope now thou art not drown'd. Is 
 the storm over-blown ? I hid me under the dead moon-calfs gaber- 
 dine for fear of the storm. And art thou living, Stephano? O Steph- 
 ano, two Neapolitans 'scaped ! 
 
 Stephano. Prithee, do not turn me about. My stomach is not con- 
 stant. 
 
 Caliban. These be fine things, an' if they be not sprites. 
 That 's a brave god, — and bears celestial liquor. 
 I '11 kneel to him. 
 
 Stephano. How did'st thou 'scape ? How cam'st thou hither ? 
 
 Swear by this bottle how thou cam'st hither. / escaped upon a butt 
 
 of sack which the sailors heaved overboard, by this bottle ! which I 
 
 made of the bark of a tree, with my own hands since I was cast ashore. 
 
 Caliban. I '11 swear upon that bottle to be thy 
 
 True subject ; for the liquor is not earthly. 
 
 Stephano [to Trinculo]. Here ! swear, then, how thou escaped'st. 
 
The Tempest 75 
 
 Trinculo. Swam ashore, man, like a duck ; I can swim like a duck, 
 I '11 be sworn. 
 
 Stephano, Here ! kiss the booL Tho' thou canst swim like a duck, 
 thou art made like a goose. 
 
 Trinculo. O Stephano, hast any more of this .? 
 
 Stephano. The whole butt, man ! My cellar is in a rock by the sea- 
 side. How now, moon-calf } How does thine ague } 
 
 Caliban. Hast thou not dropped from heaven ? 
 
 Stephano. Out of the moon, I do assure thee. I was the man i' the 
 moon when time was. 
 
 Caliban. I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee. 
 My mistress showed me thee, thy dog, and bush. 
 
 Stephano. Come ! swear to that. Kiss the book. I will furnish it 
 anon with new contents. Swear ! 
 
 Trinculo. By this good light, this is a very shallow monster. 1 
 afeard of him ? — a very weak monster. The man i' the moon ! — a 
 most poor, credulous monster ! 
 
 Caliban. I '11 show thee every fertile inch o' the island. 
 And kiss thy foot. I prithee, be my god. 
 
 Trinculo. By this light, a most perfidious and drunken monster! 
 When his god 's asleep he '11 rob his bottle. 
 
 Caliban. I '11 kiss thy foot. I '11 swear myself thy subject. 
 
 Stephano. Come on, then ; down, and swear ! 
 
 Trinculo. I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed mon- 
 ster. A most scurvy monster ! I could find it in ray heart to beat 
 him — 
 
 Stephano. Come, kiss. 
 
 Trinculo. — but that the poor monster 's in drink. An abominable 
 monster ! 
 
 Caliban. I '11 show thee the best springs ; I '11 pluck thee berries ; 
 I '11 fish for thee, and get thee wood enough. 
 A plague upon the tyrant that T serve ! 
 I '11 bear him no more sticks, but follow thee, 
 Thou wondrous man. 
 
 Trinculo. A most ridiculous monster ! — to make a wonder of a 
 poor drunkard I 
 
 Caliban. I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow; 
 And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts. 
 Show thee a jay's nest, and instruct thee how 
 To snare the nimble marmozet. I '11 bring thee 
 
76 The Tempest, 
 
 To clustering filberts, and sometimes I '11 get thee 
 Young sea-mells from the rock. Wilt thou go with me ? 
 Stephana. I prithee now, lead the way, without any more talking. 
 Trinculo, the king and all our company else being drowned, we will 
 inherit here. [ To Caliban.] Here ! bear my bottle 1 Fellow Trinculo, 
 we '11 fill him by-and-by again. 
 
 Caliban [sings drunkenly\. Farewell, master ; farewell, farewell. 
 Trinculo. A howling monster ! A drunken monster ! 
 Caliban. No more dams I '11 make for fish ; 
 Nor fetch in firing 
 At requiring ; 
 Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish ; 
 'Ban 'Ban Ca— Caliban 
 Has a new master, — get a new man I 
 Freedom ! hey-day ! freedom ! freedom ! 
 Stephano. O brave monster I lead the way. 
 
 Act III. Scene i. 
 
 This scene between Ferdinand and Miranda is the great 
 scene of the play. " In Ferdinand, who is a noble creature," 
 says Mrs. Jameson, " we have all the chivalrous magnanimity 
 with which man, in a high state of civilization, disguises his 
 real superiority, and does humble homage to the being of 
 whose destiny he disposes ; while Miranda, the mere child of 
 nature, is struck with wonder at her own new emotions. Only 
 conscious of her weakness as a woman, and ignorant of those 
 usages of society which teach us to dissemble the real pas- 
 sion, and assume, nay, sometimes abuse, an unreal and tran- 
 sient power, she is equally ready to place her life, her love, 
 her service, at his feet." 
 
 *' This courting scene," says Coleridge, " is a masterpiece ; 
 and the first dawn of disobedience in the mind of Miranda 
 to the command of her father is very finely drawn, so as to 
 seem the working of the Scriptural commandment : * Thou 
 shalt leave father and mother and cleave unto thy wife ' — or 
 
The Tempest, 77 
 
 husband. Oh, with what exquisite purity this scene is con- 
 ceived and executed ! Shakspeare may sometimes be gross 
 (according to his times) but I boldly say he is always moral 
 and modest. Alas ! in our day decency of manners is too 
 often preserved at the expense of morality of heart." 
 
 The scene is before the cell of Prospero. Ferdinand enters, 
 bearing a log. 
 
 Ferdinand. There be some sports are painful, but their labor 
 Delight in them sets off. Some kinds of baseness 
 Are nobly undergone, and most poor matters 
 Point to rich ends. This, my mean task, would be 
 As heavy to me as 't is odious, but 
 The mistress which I serve quickens what 's dead, 
 And makes my labors pleasures. O ! she is 
 Ten times more gentle than her father 's crabbed, 
 And he 's composed of harshness. I must remove 
 Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up, 
 Upon a sore injunction. My sweet mistress 
 Weeps when she sees me work, and says such baseness 
 Had ne'er like executor. — I forget ; 
 But these sweet thoughts do e'en refresh my labors. 
 Most busy — blest when I do it. 
 
 \Enter Miranda, — Prospero watching at a distance?^ 
 
 Miranda. Alas! now I pray you, 
 
 Work not so hard. I would the lightning had 
 Burnt up those logs that you 're enjoined to pile. 
 Pray set it down, and rest you. When this burns 
 'T will weep at having wearied you. My father 
 Is hard at study ; rest yourself. 
 He 's safe for these three hours. 
 
 Ferdinand. O most dear mistress, 
 
 The sun will set before I shall discharge 
 What I must try to do. 
 
 Miranda. If you'll sit down, 
 
 I '11 bear your logs the while. Pray give me that ; 
 I '11 carry it to the pile. 
 
 Ferdinand. No ! precious creature, 
 
 I 'd rather crack my sinews, break my back, 
 
yS The Tempest. 
 
 Than you should such dishonor undergo, 
 While I sit lazy by. 
 
 Miranda. It would become me 
 
 As well as it does you, and I should do it 
 With much more ease, for my good-will is to it, 
 And yours against it. 
 
 Prospero [aside]. Poor worm, thou art infected; 
 This visitation shows it. 
 
 Miranda. You look wearily. 
 
 Ferdinand. No, noble mistress, 't is fresh morning with me 
 When you are by at night. I do beseech you. 
 Chiefly that I may set it in my prayers, 
 What is your name ? 
 
 Miranda. Miranda, — O my father, 
 
 I have broke your hest to say so .' 
 
 Ferdinand. Admired Miranda ! 
 
 Indeed the top of admiration, worth 
 What 's dearest in the world ! Full many a lady 
 I have eyed with best regard, and many a time 
 The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage 
 Brought my too diligent ear. For several virtues 
 Have I liked several women ; never any 
 With so full soul but some defect in her 
 Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owned, 
 And put it to the foil. But you — O ! you — 
 So perfect and so peerless, are created 
 Of every creature's best. 
 
 Miranda. I do not know 
 
 One of my sex ; no woman's face remember. 
 Save from my glass mine own ; nor have I seen 
 More that I may call men than you, good friend, 
 And my dear father. How features are abroad, 
 I am skill-less of; but by my modesty, 
 The jewel in my dower, I would not wish 
 Any companion in the world but you ; 
 Nor can imagination form a shape, 
 Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle 
 Something too wildly, and my father's precepts 
 Therein forget. 
 
 Ferdinand. I am in my condition 
 A prince, Miranda ; I do think, a king, — 
 
The Tempest. 79 
 
 I would, not so ! — and would no more endure 
 
 This wooden slavery than I would suffer 
 
 The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak ! — 
 
 The very instant that I saw you, did 
 
 My heart fly to your service ; and for your sake 
 
 Am I this patient log-man. 
 
 Miranda. Do you love me ? 
 
 Ferdinand. O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound, 
 And crown what I profess with kind event 
 If I speak true ; if hollowly, invest 
 What best is boded me to mischief! I, 
 Beyond all limit of what else i' the world, 
 Do love, prize, honor you. 
 
 Miranda. I am a fool 
 
 To weep at what I 'm glad of 
 
 Prospero [aside]. Fair encounter 
 
 Of two most rare affections. Heaven rain grace « 
 
 On that which breeds between them ! 
 
 Ferdinand. Wherefore weep you ? 
 
 Miranda. At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer 
 What I desire to give, and much less take 
 What I shall die to want. But this is trifling ; 
 And all the more it seeks to hide itself, 
 The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning 1 
 And prompt me, plain and holy innocence ! 
 I am your wife if you will marry me. 
 If not, I '11 die your maid. To be your fellow, 
 You may deny me ; but I '11 be your servant, 
 Whether you will or no. 
 
 Ferdinand \kneeling\. My mistress, dearest. 
 And I thus humble ever. 
 
 Miranda. My husband, then ? 
 
 Ferdinand. Ay, with a heart as willing 
 As bondage aye of freedom. Here 's my hand. 
 
 Miranda. And mine, with my heart in it. Now farewell. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 In this scene Stephano and Trinculo, prompted by Caliban, 
 plan the destruction of Prospero. "In it," says Coleridge, 
 
8o The Tempest 
 
 "the effect of the previous conspiracy scene (to murder 
 
 Alonzo) is heightened by this counterpart in low Hfe, in 
 
 which are the same general characteristics. Here are also 
 
 shown," he adds, " the springs of the vulgar in pohtics, — of 
 
 that kind of politics interwoven in human nature. Note the 
 
 good-humored way in which Shakspeare, indulgent to the 
 
 passions and folHes of a mob, describes Stephano passing 
 
 from the most hcentious freedom to absolute despotism over 
 
 Trinculo and Caliban." The three actors in the scene are 
 
 all drunk, and drunkenness brings out each man's individual 
 
 characteristics. Stephano is boastful. He swam five and 
 
 thirty leagues, off and on, before he reached the island. 
 
 Calib^in is abject, servile, full of spitefulness, — like a cross 
 
 dog who snarls at every one but him whom he acknowledges 
 
 to be his master. When Caliban complains of Trinculo, who 
 
 has simply laughed at him, " King " Stephano says magnilo- 
 
 quently : " Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head. If 
 
 you prove a mutineer — the next tree ! " 
 
 Then Caliban makes his suit that they shall murder his late 
 
 master, — Ariel, invisible, interrupting him ; and some very 
 
 funny by-play is made by the persuasion of Caliban and 
 
 Stephano that it is Trinculo who disturbs them. The hatred 
 
 evinced by the monster for Trinculo promises great discord 
 
 in Stephano's new dominions. Here is what is said by 
 
 Caliban : — 
 
 As I told thee before, 
 I am subject to a tyrant — a sorcerer — 
 That by his cunning hath cheated me 
 Of this island. ... 
 I say by sorcery he got this isle, — 
 From me he got it. If thy greatness will, 
 Revenge it on him, — for I know thou dar'st, 
 But this thing dare not. . . . 
 
The Tempest. 8 1 
 
 Thou shalt be lord of it, and I '11 serve thee. . . . 
 
 I '11 yield him thee asleep 
 
 Where thou mayst knock a nail into his head. 
 
 For as I told thee, 't is a custom with him 
 
 r the afternoon to sleep : there thou may'st brain him, 
 
 Having first seized his books ; or with a log 
 
 Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake, 
 
 Or cut his weasand with thy knife. Remember 
 
 First to possess his books, for without them 
 
 He 's but a sot, as I am, nor hath not 
 
 One spirit to command. They all do hate him 
 
 As rootedly as I. Burn but his books ; 
 
 And that most deeply to consider is 
 
 The beauty of his daughter. He himself 
 
 Calls her a non-pareil. I ne'er saw woman. 
 
 But only Sycorax, my dam, and she ; 
 
 But she as far surpasses Sycorax 
 
 As greatest does the least. 
 Stephana. Monster, I will kill this man. His daughter and I will 
 be king and queen (save our Graces !) ; and Trinculo and thyself shall 
 be viceroys. Dost thou like the plot, Trinculo .? 
 Trinculo. Excellent. 
 
 Stephana. Give me thy hand. I am sorry I beat thee, but then 
 while thou livest keep a good tongue in thy head. 
 
 Again, when the jester and butler are frightened out of 
 their wits by the music of Ariel in the air, Caliban reassures 
 them by his superior knowledge : — 
 
 Be not afeard ; the isle is full of noises, 
 
 Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not. 
 
 Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments 
 
 Will hunt about mine ears ; and sometimes voices, 
 
 That if I then had waked after long sleep 
 
 Would make me sleep again ; and then, in dreaming, 
 
 The clouds methought would open and shew riches 
 
 Ready to drop upon me, — that when I waked 
 
 I cried to dream again. 
 
 Stephana. This will prove a brave kingdom to me, 
 Where I shall have my music for nothing. 
 
 Caliban, When Prospero is destroyed. 
 6 
 
82 The Tempest. 
 
 We may remark the absence of profanity in these speeches 
 of the drunken sailors. Shakspeare did not feel it necessary 
 to shock the ears of his audience by the realism of oaths and 
 curses. But, as Hazlitt remarks, " from Caliban have been 
 drawn off the elements of whatever is ethereal and refined, to 
 compound them in the unearthly mould of Ariel." 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Here we again see the King of Naples and his party, 
 searching for Prince Ferdinand. Poor old Gonzalo is 
 wearied out. The King, now that his old comforter has 
 ceased to play Mark Tapley, loses heart also. The conspira- 
 tors whisper together. Then comes soft music, and spirits 
 by order of Prospero bring in a banquet. The good see in 
 it the hand and the protection of heaven ; the bad make a 
 mock at it. Alonzo declines to eat, and good Gonzalo, lean- 
 ing tenderly over him, tries to persuade him, reminding him 
 of tales of their youth. 
 
 Then Ariel, who is " the swiftness of thought personified," 
 says Hazlitt, bears off the feast, and denounces the wicked. 
 Two of them, the King and Sebastian, are overwhelmed by a 
 sense of their past guilt. Antonio, impenitent, becomes des- 
 perate. Sebastian, Antonio, and Alonzo rush from the spot 
 where their sin has found them out, and Gonzalo and the 
 younger courtiers follow them. 
 
 Act IV. Scene i. 
 This scene is before Prospero's cell. The trial of Ferdi- 
 nand is over ; the father of Miranda has accepted him as her 
 suitor, and thus speaks to him : — 
 
 If I have too austerely punished you, 
 Your compensation makes amends ; for I 
 
The Tempest. 83 
 
 Have given^ou^erejjhread of my own life, 
 
 Or that for which I live ; whom once~again 
 
 I tender to thy hand. All thy vexations 
 
 Were but my trial of thy love, and thou 
 
 Hast strangely stood the test. Here, afore Heaven, 
 
 I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand, 
 
 Do not smile at me that I boast her off, 
 
 For thou wilt find she will outstrip all praise 
 
 And make it halt behind her. 
 
 Ferdinand. I do believe it 
 
 Against an oracle. 
 
 Prospero. Then as my gift and thine own acquisition 
 Worthily purchased, take my daughter. 
 Sit, then, and talk with her ; she is thine own. 
 
 Next, led by the delicate Ariel, follows a masque, — such 
 a one as was in fashion in the time of Shakspeare. The per- 
 formers are Iris, Ceres, Juno, and nymphs. This masque is 
 founded upon one represented at Sterling, before King James 
 and his court in 1594, at the baptism of Prince Henry. It 
 contains some lovely poetry, and blessings appropriate for a 
 marriage occasion. In the midst of the performance Pros- 
 pero recollects that his life is threatened by the vile trio, 
 Stephano, Trinculo, and Caliban. Much excited, he answers 
 Ferdinand's inquiring looks by one of the noblest passages 
 in all poetry : — 
 
 /Oujjieyeh now.are ended. The se our a ctorsX 
 j As I foretold you, were all spirits^_and I 
 
 j Are melted into air — into thin air. ' 
 
 ( And like the baseless fabric of this vision, 
 \ The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
 \ The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 
 Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve ; 
 f And, like this unsubstantial pageant faded, 
 
 Leave not a wrack behind. We are such stuflF 
 
 As dreams are made of, and our little life 
 
 Is rounded with a sleep. 
 
84 The Tempest. 
 
 Meantime Stephano, Trinculo, and Caliban are splashing 
 and floundering near by in a dirty pool ; emerging from the 
 pool, they spy rich clothing which Prospero has sacrificed to 
 be a bait for them. In vain Caliban urges them on to the 
 deed of most importance, the murder of Prospero. What 
 with the wine and the wet and the gay clothes, they are 
 quite beyond his management. Stephano, seeing the clothes 
 on a line, revives some of his nautical experiences about the 
 equatorial line, and the old saying that the hair comes off 
 those who pass under it. As they are engaged in robbery, 
 Prospero sends spirits like a pack of dogs, to hunt and 
 rend them. 
 
 Act V. Scene i . 
 
 Prospero has now all his enemies in his power. He 
 seats himself in his magic robes, attended by Ariel. " As 
 Miranda," says Mrs. Jameson, "being what she is, could 
 only have had an enchanted island for her abode, a Ferdi- 
 nand for her lover, an Ariel for her attendant, — so she could, 
 with propriety, have had no other father than the majestic 
 and gifted being who fondly claims her as a thread of his 
 own life, — nay, that for which he Hves. Prospero, with 
 his magical powers, his superhuman wisdom, his moral worth 
 and grandeur, and his kingly dignity, is one of the most sub- 
 lime visions that ever swept before the eye of fancy. He 
 controls the invisible world, and works through the agency 
 of spirits ; not by any evil and forbidden compact, but solely 
 by superior might of intellect, — by potent spells gathered 
 from the lore of ages, and abjured when he mingles again 
 as a prince among men." 
 
 I do not think we commonly estimate the esteem in which 
 astrology and its kindred studies were held in Shakspeare's 
 
The Tempest. 85 
 
 age. Some of the greatest men in that day dabbled in such 
 sciences. " Lord Bacon, Archbishop Ussher, Milton, Dry- 
 den, Bishop Hall, Sir Matthew Hale, Sir Richard Steele, — 
 some of them hving in Shakspeare's time, and some later, — 
 had dealings with astrology." Queen Elizabeth kept her 
 own astrologer. Dr. Dee. He was made Chancellor of St. 
 Paul's, and drew up many important state papers. Shak- 
 speare was no astrologer himself, for he ridicules it in " King 
 Lear ; " but there was nothing degrading to a great man in his 
 day in making him a first-class wizard. 
 
 Being sure of the happiness of Miranda and Ferdinand, 
 and of Prospero's triumph over his enemies, what we most 
 wish for, in the fifth act, is the release of dainty Ariel. Th& 
 King of Naples and his attendants are brought into a magic 
 circle, that Prospero has drawn around him ; there the King 
 of Naples and Sebastian are overcome and conscience- 
 stricken ; while Ariel sings his loveHest song. 
 
 "It has been observed," says Hazlitt, "that there is a 
 peculiar charm in the songs introduced in Shakspeare, which, 
 without conveying any very distinct images, seem to recall 
 all the feelings connected with them, — like snatches of half- 
 forgotten music heard indistinctly, and at intervals. There 
 is this effect produced by Ariel's songs, which seem to 
 sound in the air, as if the person playing them were 
 invisible." 
 
 Thus he sings, while helping to divest Prospero of his 
 magic robe, and attire him as Duke of Milan : — 
 
 Where the bee sucks, there suck I, 
 In a cowslip's bell I lie ; 
 There I couch when owls do cry. 
 On the bat's back do I fly, 
 After summer, merrily ; 
 
86 The Tempest, 
 
 Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, 
 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 
 
 Even in this hour of happiness, the Master sighs to think 
 how he shall miss his dainty spirit. 
 
 Then, to the consternation of all, even the good Gonzalo, 
 who has no wrongs to Prospero upon his soul, the banished 
 Duke steps forth in his own person, and confronts his 
 enemies. Alonzo welcomes him with penitence and curiosity. 
 Gonzalo believes not for joy, when he beholds him ; Sebastian 
 cries, " The devil speaks in him ; " Antonio stands dumb- 
 founded. 
 
 Then Alonzo, in his contrition and bereavement, hearing 
 that Prospero has a daughter, bethinks him of his lost Fer- 
 dinand, and cries : — 
 
 O heavens ! that they were living both in Naples, 
 The king and queen there I 
 
 At this Prospero invites him to look into his cell, where 
 they discover Ferdinand and Miranda playing at chess. 
 
 Miranda. Sweet lord, you play me false. 
 
 Ferdinand. No, my dearest love, 
 I would not for the world. 
 
 Miranda. Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle, 
 And I would call 't fair play. 
 
 Alonzo. If this prove but 
 
 A vision of the island, one dear son 
 Shall I twice lose. 
 
 Sebastian. A most high miracle ! 
 
 Ferdinand [perceiving his father and kneeling to him]. 
 Though the seas threaten, they are merciful ; 
 I have cursed them without cause. 
 
 Alonzo. Now all the blessings 
 
 Of a glad father compass thee about ! 
 Arise, and say how thou camest here. 
 
 Miranda. O, wonder ! 
 
 How many goodly creatures are there here I 
 
The Tempest. 87 
 
 How beauteous mankind is ! O, brave new world ! 
 That has such people in it. ~ 
 
 Trospero. ~ ■"- 'T is. new to thee. 
 
 Alonzo. What is this maid with whom thou wast at play ? 
 Your eld'st acquaintance cannot be three hours. 
 Is she the goddess that hath severed as, 
 And brought us thus together ? 
 
 Ferdinand. Sir, she 's mortal ; 
 
 But, by immortal Providence, she 's mine ! 
 I chose her when I could not ask my father 
 For his advice, nor thought I had one. She 
 Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan, 
 Of whom so often I have heard renown, 
 But never saw before. Of whom I have 
 Received a second life ; and second father, 
 This lady makes him to me. 
 
 Alonzo. I am hers. 
 
 But O ! how oddly will it sound, that I 
 Must ask my child forgiveness ! 
 
 Prosper o. There, sir, stop ; 
 
 Let us not burthen our remembrance 
 With a heaviness that 's gone. 
 
 And in furtherance of this generous sentiment, none of the 
 wicked, in this play, are any longer punished. Indeed, we 
 may be sure that even their just punishment would have 
 marred the felicity of tender-hearted Miranda. 
 
 The captain and the boatswain of the wrecked ship come 
 in to report that she is riding safely at anchor in the road- 
 stead. Then Caliban, with Stephano and Trinculo, in their 
 stolen apparel, are driven into the presence of the King, 
 Duke, and Princes, by Ariel. The drunken butler, and the 
 drunken jester are recognized by their masters, and the 
 worst punishment they meet with is a io.^ cramps, and 
 separation from their stolen goods and butt of sack; for 
 they are ordered at once on board. Caliban, with the 
 reflection, — 
 
88 The Tempest. 
 
 What a thrice double ass 
 Was I to take this drunkard for a god ! 
 
 is sent at once to deck the cell for all the company, — and 
 so earn pardon ; while the last words of the play are those 
 of Prospero : — 
 
 I promise you calm seas, auspicious gales, 
 And sail so expeditious that shall catch 
 Your royal fleet far off. My Ariel, — chick, — 
 That is thy charge, — then to the elements 
 Be free, and fare thou well. 
 
 n 
 
MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 NO Play was ever named more appropriately than this ; it 
 is a "Dream," — a dream composed of elves, mis- 
 takes, wild fantasies, and the grotesque. Its time is night. 
 When the day dawns the shadows flee away, the dramatis 
 personcB awake, and all comes right again. Shakspeare may 
 have dreamed it, lying on some cowslip bank. And, what is 
 most remarkable in this play, written by a master of charac- 
 ter, there are almost no human characters in it that we can 
 take an interest in. We care little for Helena, or Hermia ; 
 Lysander, or Demetrius ; Theseus, or Hippolyta : our inter- 
 est is in the loveliness, and gracefulness, and grotesqueness of 
 the dream. Speaking of Shakspeare as a master of character, 
 I should like to quote to you a passage from Coleridge, 
 which applies with equal force to him who, I think, most 
 nearly approached Shakspeare, — I mean Balzac. Coleridge 
 says : " The characters of Shakspeare's dramatis personcBy 
 like those in real life, are to be inferred by the reader, — 
 they are not told him. Like characters in real life, they 
 are very commonly misunderstood, and almost always under- 
 stood by different persons in different ways ; . . . even the 
 character himself sees himself through the medium of his 
 character, and not exactly as he is. . . . You may know 
 whether you h^ve, in fact, discovered the poet's own idea, 
 
92 Midsttmmer Nighfs Dream. 
 
 by all the speeches receiving light from it. . . . You must not 
 suppose a pressure and a passion always acting on, or in, 
 the character. Passion, in Shakspeare, is that by which the 
 individual is distinguished from others, not that which makes 
 a different kind of man of him. Shakspeare followed the 
 main march of human affections. He entered into no anal- 
 yses of the passions and faiths of men, but assured himself 
 that such and such passions and faiths were grounded on our 
 common nature, and not on the mere incidents of ignorance 
 or disease. This is an important consideration, and con- 
 stitutes our Shakspeare the morning-star — the guide and 
 pioneer — of true philosophy. ... In his mode of drawing 
 characters there are no pompous descriptions of a man by 
 himself; his character is to be drawn, as in real life, from 
 the whole course of the play, or out of the mouths of friends 
 or enemies." 
 
 Perhaps this passage seems inappropriate as an opening to 
 a drama in which there are no carefully delineated char- 
 acters ; but even here, Shakspeare could not create hu- 
 man beings without enduing them with life. We have the 
 good-natured, appreciative Theseus, who makes the best of 
 everything; the proud, fastidious Hippolyta; the tall, fair, 
 spiteful, cowardly, exasperated Helena ; the petite^ sprighdy, 
 dark, confiding, outraged Hermia, — brave, but with a will and 
 temper of her own ; Lysander, the true gentleman and lover ; 
 Demetrius, who was no gentleman, but at once hot-tempered 
 and a sneak. Just as in newspaper illustrations, a French 
 artist, with half a dozen random scratches of the pen, makes 
 his sketch instinct with life and meaning, so Shakspeare, in 
 his merest sketches, gives the spirit of a finished and elabo- 
 rated portrait ; and nowhere do we see this more plainly than 
 
Midsummer Night's Dream. 93 
 
 in the " Midsummer Night's Dream." Observe, in con- 
 trast, that the fairies, and the clown-fairy. Puck, have no 
 cliaracters at all. Oberon is possessed by the spirit of 
 jealousy ; Titania, by a spirit of tormenting ; Puck delights 
 in putting his finger into every pie, for froHc's sake, be 
 it to mar or mend; but we do not feel in the least that 
 Oberon is of a jealous disposition, or that Titania is a 
 fairy Cressida, or that Puck is steeped in malignity. Their 
 jealousy, their caprices, or their mischief, are mere surface 
 qualities. 
 
 The Gods of Hellas, as we find them in the Iliad, were 
 of various origins. Besides the Olympian divinities, there 
 were the adopted gods of Asia, — the gods, Saturn, and 
 others, who preceded the Olympians, and who seem a survi- 
 val of the light from Paradise ; there were also deified quali- 
 ties, as Rumor, Discord, etc. ; and there were the gods native 
 to the soil, — dryads, and nereids, the wood-nymphs, water- 
 nymphs, and sea-nymphs, of antiquity. In like manner, 
 everywhere that the Celts settled, — or those Indo-Aryan 
 tribes who were our ancestors, — they made, or they found, 
 the earth peopled with elves, fairies, and nixies. The elves, 
 or gnomes, lived under the earth ; the fairies above ground ; 
 the nixies in the water. The monks of the tenth, eleventh, 
 and twelfth centuries — chiefly men of peasant birth — 
 carried their belief in these beings into their cells. " They 
 adopted the popular traditions, and turned them into Saints' 
 legends. Indeed, a more extensive knowledge of the Anglo- 
 Saxon fairies," says Mr. Thomas Wright, the antiquary, " may 
 perhaps be gathered from the legends of the Anglo-Saxon 
 Saints than from all other sources. Only remembering that 
 in the transformation, the elves, when mischievously inclined, 
 
 V 
 
94 Midsummer Nighfs Dream. 
 
 became devils ; and when beneficent, angels." The familiar 
 name of Old Nick, popularly applied to the great spirit of 
 Evil, is borrowed from the vocabulary of Paganism, — the 
 nickers, or nixies, being water-fairies, who not only dwelt like 
 kelpies in the lakes and rivers, but had their habitation in the 
 sea. There is nothing that commends itself to our fancy in 
 any of the popular stories of little black elves, hatched out 
 of an incubus, who spent their time in alternately persecuting 
 and assisting the human race. The Pucks, follets, and 
 brownies, of domestic life, " generally haunted the houses 
 of country people, whence neither holy water, nor exorcism, 
 could expel them. They were invisible, but made known 
 their presence by throwing about stones and wood, and even 
 the pots and kettles." Our devil derived from them his 
 honis, his hoofs, and tail. They were the devils who held 
 intercourse with witches. In an old manuscript in Vienna, 
 written before such familiarity with the world of spirits was 
 considered to deserve the extreme pains of heresy, we find 
 penances imposed on those who " had thrown little bows, 
 and small shoes into their cellars and barns, in order that 
 the hobgoblins might come thither to play with them, and 
 might in return, bring them other people's goods." The same 
 class of stories is still popular in Brittany. But as we read 
 of these coarse goblins, lubber-fiends, or changeling elves, 
 our minds reject them either as fairies or as devils. These 
 thoughts become rebuked when we see how Shakspeare has 
 evoked the richest poetry out of what seemed to us unpromis- 
 ing material. Fairies, long since, would have faded from our 
 literature, had not Shakspeare, seizing on the traditions of an 
 ignorant and semi-pagan people, embalmed them, to be the 
 delight of the civilized world. 
 
Midsummer Night's Dream, 95 
 
 The only poetical notion which we find in ancient chroni- 
 cles concerning elves professes to be given on the authority 
 of one of themselves. He said that they were a portion of 
 the angels who fell with Lucifer, but inasmuch as, having 
 been deluded and seduced, they were not so criminal as 
 their fellows, their sentence had been less severe ; they were 
 allowed to live on earth, — some of them having their peculiar 
 dwelling-place in the air, others in the waters, some again in 
 trees and fountains, and many in the caverns of the earth. The 
 elfin informant went on to confess that " as Christianity spread 
 over the earth they had much less power than formerly." 
 
 Shakspeare has given_ us five^sppejes of these supernatural 
 being s, -— the spirit of the air, who is Ariel ; the fairies proper, 
 who dance in their rings and enjoy themselves by moonlight ; 
 the dreamland fairy (Queen Mab) in " Romeo and Juliet ; " 
 the elfin Puckj and perhaps we may add that he has 
 drawn the "lubber-fiend," all corporeality, in Caliban. These 
 differ from one another as star from star. Drayton, Shaks- 
 peare's contemporary, wrote a beautiful, and little appreciated 
 poem upon Queen Titania. The ballad of " Robin Good- 
 fellow," to be found in our collections of ballad poetry is 
 attributed to Ben Jonson, but there were earlier ballads on 
 the same subject. Some trace the name of Puck to an 
 old fashioned name for the devil, derived from the same 
 word as our Americanism " spook," which is of Low-Dutch 
 origin. 
 
 The " Midsummer Night's Dream " was first printed in 
 1598. It seems to have been an object of care to Shaks- 
 peare, as the earliest printed copies are more carefully cor- 
 rected than usual. It went early into two editions. Theseus 
 and Hippolytahad their origin in Chaucer's " Knight's Tale." 
 
96 Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 The scene is supposed to be laid in Athens, in which case 
 Athens must have been a mediaeval principality as to man- 
 ners and customs. Theseus, having conquered the Queen 
 of the Amazons, is about to wed her when the action opens. 
 He shows himself at once kindly and jovial. The Amazo- 
 nian lady is matter-of-fact and business-like. I see reason to 
 fear he got the worst share in his matrimonial bargain. 
 
 Act I. Scene i. 
 
 As usual, the opening scene gives the keynote of the drama. 
 Theseus and Hippolyta are speaking of the moon, the hours 
 of night, the time of dreams, when we first see them ; as 
 they are talking they are interrupted by an Athenian pater 
 familias, who comes to complain to his sovereign that his 
 daughter Hermia declines to marry Demetrius, the husband 
 he has chosen for her, and wilfully persists that she will wed 
 Lysander. Theseus, thus appealed to, addresses some 
 commonplace remarks to Hermia as to a daughter's duty, 
 but in the flush of his own prosperous wooing he is evidently 
 disposed to help and pity the poor girl, who modestly asks 
 what is the legal penalty of disobedience. Theseus answers 
 her: — 
 
 Either to die the death, or to abjure 
 
 Forever the society of men. 
 
 Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires, 
 
 Know of your youth, examine well your blood 
 
 Whether if you yield not to your father's choice 
 
 You can endure the livery of a nun, 
 
 For aye to be in shady cloister mewed, — 
 
 To live a barren sister all your life, 
 
 Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. 
 
 Thrice blessed they that master so their blood 
 
 To undergo such maiden pilgrimage ; 
 
 But earthlier happy is the rose distilled 
 
Midsummer Night's Dream, 97 
 
 Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn, 
 Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness. 
 
 Hermia. So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord, 
 Ere I will yield my virgin patent up 
 Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke 
 My soul consents not to give sovereignty. 
 
 Theseus. Take time to pause ; and by the next new moon 
 (The sealing day between my love and me, 
 For everlasting bond of fellowship), 
 . Upon that day either prepare to die. 
 For disobedience to your father's will, 
 Or else, to wed Demetrius as he would. 
 Or on Diana's altar to protest. 
 For aye, austerity and single life. 
 
 Demetrius, at the close of this speech, is insolent and 
 peremptory with Lysander, and pitiless to Hermia. Lysander, 
 as a gentleman, could not yield up the woman who had just 
 made a declaration of her love for him. He answers old 
 Egeus with self-constraint and dignity, bringing however, a 
 perfectly true accusation against Demetrius, that he had, while 
 courting Hermia, made love to Nedar's daughter Helena, and 
 " won her soul ; " which accusation has considerable effect 
 on Theseus, who, notwithstanding his stern words, contrives 
 that the lovers shall have an uninterrupted interview. He 
 leads off Hippolyta, saying, " What cheer, my love ? " At first 
 sight it seems as if this question indicated that Hippolyta was 
 saddened by Hermia's sad case, but as we come to know 
 her better I think we shall conclude that she was simply 
 vexed at having her lord's time and attention drawn away 
 from her by a matter of business. 
 
 Lysander and Hermia being left alone, here is what they 
 say to each other. I have omitted the interruptions made 
 by Hermia to her lover's speech; they are considered in- 
 terpolations by some commentators. 
 
 7 
 
98 Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 Lysander. How now, my love ? "Why is your cheek so pale ? 
 How chance the roses there do fade so fast ? 
 
 Hermia. Belike for want of rain ; which I could well 
 Beteem them from the tempest of mine eyes. 
 
 Lysander. Ah me ! for aught that I could ever read, 
 Could ever hear by tale or history, 
 The^ourse of true iov e Jiever did run smooth ; 
 But either it was different in blood, 
 — Or else misgrafted with respect of years, 
 
 Or else it stood upon the choice of friends, « 
 
 Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, 
 
 War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, 
 
 Making it as momentary as a sound. 
 
 Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, 
 
 Brief as the lightning in the collied night, 
 
 That in a spleen unfolds both heaven and earth, 
 
 And ere a man has time to say. Behold ! 
 
 The jaws of darkness do devour it up ; 
 
 So quick bright things come to confusion. 
 
 Hermia. If then true lovers have been ever crossed, 
 It stands as an edict in destiny ; 
 Then let us teach our trial patience, 
 Because it is a customary cross, 
 As due to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs. 
 Wishes, and tears, — poor Fancy's followers. 
 
 Lysander. A good persuasion. Therefore hear me, Hermia. 
 I have a widowed aunt, a dowager. 
 Of great revenue, and she hath no child. 
 From Athens is her house remote seven leagues, 
 And she respects me as her only son. 
 There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee ; 
 And to that place the sharp Athenian law 
 Cannot pursue us. If thou lov'st me, then, 
 Steal forth thy father's house to-morrow night. 
 And in the wood a league without the town, 
 Where I did meet thee once with Helena, ■ 
 
 To do observance to a morn of May, 
 There will I stay for thee. 
 
 Hermia. My good Lysander ! 
 
 I swear to thee by Cupid's strongest bow, 
 
Midsummer Night's Dream. 99 
 
 By his best arrow with the golden head. 
 By the simplicity of Venus' doves, 
 By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves, 
 And by that fire which burned the Carthage queen, 
 When the false Trojan under sail was seen, 
 By all the vows that ever men have broke, 
 In number more than ever women spoke, 
 In that same place thou hast appointed me 
 To-morrow truly will I meet with thee. 
 
 • Lysander. Keep promise, love. Look ! here comes Helena. 
 Hermia. Good speed, fair Helena. "Whither away .? 
 
 Helena is not disposed to receive her rival's courtesy with 
 any amiability. Demetrius had won her heart, while earnest 
 only in pursuit of Hermia. She was a shrew by nature, 
 and is now petulant and soured by jealousy and misfortune. 
 Why Lysander and Hermia thought it best to tell her, as 
 they do, their plan for elopement I cannot imagine. The 
 speeches are very pretty in which they announce it to her. 
 
 Lysander. Helen, to you our minds we will unfold ; 
 To-morrow night when Phoebe doth behold 
 Her silvery visage in the watery glass, 
 Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass, — 
 A time that lover's flights doth still conceal, — 
 Through Athens' gates we have devised to steal. 
 
 Hermia. And in the wood where often you and I 
 Upon faint primrose beds were wont to lie, 
 Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet, 
 There my Lysander and myself shall meet ; 
 And thence from Athens turn away our eyes 
 To seek new friends and stranger companies, 
 Farewell, sweet playfellow ; pray thou for us, 
 And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius ! 
 
 After receiving this kindly sweet farewell Helena resolves 
 to make mischief by telling Demetrius the lovers' plans. 
 Perhaps she thinks he will be pleased with her for telling 
 
lOO Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 him, perhaps that he will turn in disgust from Hermia; 
 anyhow, she will enjoy the highly indecorous privilege of 
 following him by night into the wood. We may mark here 
 the difference shown throughout the play in the sense of 
 modesty between Helena and Hermia. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 U This is one of Shakspeare's most inimitable comic scenes, 
 and on it the whole play turns. Shakspeare's vulgar folk 
 have none of the exaggeration of those of Dickens ; 
 they are like Hardy's or George EHot's, — comic because 
 they are simply themselves. Shakspeare was no lover of 
 mobs, nor of " mechanicals," — he was not imbued with 
 our modern spirit of democracy ; but the English vulgar 
 now, and still more in Shakspeare's time, were not like the 
 great body of the American working- classes, with whom 
 stupidity is not the danger, but such a keen sense of class 
 interests as will make them easy' to be led by demagogues 
 or bosses, while all the time they flatter themselves they 
 rule. It is a crude intelligence, combined with self-will and 
 a litde knowledge (just enough to mislead the judgment), 
 that is the danger with our working-classes. In Shaks- 
 peare's day (and with the ordinary English mob) the danger 
 lay in brutishness, and a sort of impassive stupidity. A 
 French mob may be led by a sentiment ; an English mob 
 is blind, and fierce, and brutal; an American mob means 
 business, and in all its excitement, keeps its own self- 
 interest — the main chance it has in contemplation — well 
 in mind. 
 
 There is a double satire in these scenes with the play- 
 acting mechanics. First, they are satirized as a class, and 
 
Midsummer Nighfs Bream,, ' y \ /iW, 
 
 secondly, there is a satire on the goings-on in a dramatic 
 company. 
 
 Observe how Bottom — Bully Bottom — takes everything 
 that he can out of Quince's hands. Note his desire to 
 act every character himself. He is ready to squeak in a 
 woman's voice or to roar you like a lion. His forthputting 
 is exactly what might be expected from a man of his station, 
 accustomed to be looked up to by his fellows. " Humility," 
 said old Bishop Griswold of Massachusetts, "is a virtue I 
 have seen occasionally among the rich, but have never 
 observed among the poor." 
 
 Then, too, it is delicious to see how Quince is driven to 
 flatter Bottom ; and who, in private theatricals, does not 
 know the pother often made by some fussy performer about 
 Ats beard, or Aer lace, or some point that is of compara- 
 tively no importance whatever to the other actors ? 
 
 Quince. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus. 
 ' Bottom. What is Pyramus .? — a lover, or a tyrant ? 
 
 Quince. A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for love. 
 
 Bottom. That will ask some tears in the true performing of it: If 
 I do it let the audience look to their eyes. I will move storms. I will 
 condole in some measure. . . . Yet my chief humor is for a tyrant. 
 I could play Ercles rarely ; or a part to tear a cat in, to make all 
 split. . . . 
 
 Quince. No, no ; you must play Pyramus, and. Flute, you Thisbe. 
 
 Bottom. An I may hide my face, let me play Thisbe too. I' 11 
 speak in a monstrous little voice. 
 
 Quitice. No, no ; you viust play Pyramus. . . . Snug, the joiner, 
 you, the lion's part ; myself, Thisbe's father ; and now, I hope, here 
 is a play fitted. 
 
 Snug. Have you the lion's part written ? If it be, give it me, 
 for I am slow of study. 
 
 Quince. You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring. 
 
 Bottom. Let me play the lion too. I will roar that it will do any 
 man's heart good to hear me. I will roar that I will make the duke 
 say. Let him roar again. 
 
I02 Midsummer Night 's Dream, 
 
 Qui7ice. An you should do it too terribly, you would fright the 
 duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek ; and that were enough 
 to hang us all. 
 
 Bottom. I grant you, friends, that if you should fright the ladies 
 out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang us ; 
 but I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any 
 sucking dove ; I will roar you an 't were any nightingale. 
 
 Quince. You can play no part but Pyramus, for Pyramus is a 
 sweet-faced man ; a proper man as one shall see in a summer's day ; 
 a most lovely gentlemanlike man ; therefore yott must needs play 
 Pyramus. 
 
 Bottom. Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best to 
 play it in ? . . . 
 
 Quince. Well, masters, here are your parts, and I am to entreat 
 you, request you, and desire you to con them over, and meet me in 
 the palace wood, a mile without the town, by moonlight ; there will 
 we rehearse. ... At the Duke's Oak we meet. 
 
 Act it. Scene i. 
 
 To the first scene of this second act, Hazlitt's words are 
 especially appropriate. He says : " The reading of this play 
 is like wandering in a grove by moonlight ; the descriptions 
 breathe a sweetness like odors thrown from beds of flowers." 
 Observe, too, the sweetness and harmony of the words of 
 the fairy's song. All Shakspeare's songs have music in their 
 words, and were probably intended to be sung with very 
 little orchestral accompaniment. Many years ago, in Lon- 
 don, I used sometimes to attend a madrigal club, where 
 about twenty ladies and gentlemen met once a week to sing 
 madrigals and catches, and these old Shakspeare songs, to 
 music of the days of Queen Elizabeth. They sang without 
 accompaniment, and the effect was charming. 
 
 Over hill, over dale. 
 
 Thorough bush, thorough brier, 
 Over park, over pale. 
 
 Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
 
Midsummer Night's Dream. 103 
 
 I do wander everywhere, 
 
 Swifter than the moones sphere ; 
 
 And I serve the fairy queen, 
 
 To dew her orbs upon the green ; 
 
 The cowslips tall her pensioners be, 
 
 In their gold cups spots you see ; 
 
 These be rubies, fairy favors ; 
 
 In those speckles live their savors ; 
 
 I must go seek some dewdrops here, 
 
 And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 
 
 Farewell, thou lob of spirits, I '11 be gone ; 
 
 Our queen and all her elves come here anon. 
 
 Before leaving, Puck charges the fairy to keep her mistress 
 from the sight of Oberon. She has refused perversely to 
 give up to him her pretty changeling boy. 
 
 And now they never meet, in grove or green. 
 By fountain clear, or spangled star-light sheen, 
 But they do square, that all their elves do fear, — 
 Creep into acorn cups, and hide them there. 
 
 " If," says Gervinus, " Shakspeare wished us to con- 
 ceive of fairies as personified dreams, he carried out this 
 object in wonderful harmony, both as regards their ac- 
 tions and their condition. Their kingdom is placed in 
 the aromatic, flower-scented Indies, where mortals live in 
 a half-dreamy state. From thence they came, * following 
 darkness,' as Puck says, ' like a dream.' Airy, and swift, 
 like the moon they circle the earth; they avoid the sun- 
 light, without fearing it, and seek the darkness; they love 
 the moon, and dance in 'her beams ; and above all, they 
 delight in the dusk and twilight, — the very season for 
 dreams." Dreams and moonlight are words that recur 
 again and again, on every page of the " Midsummer Night's 
 Dream." 
 
I04 Midsummer Night'' s Dream, 
 
 " The fairy people, lords of a kingdom in which all ideas 
 come only through the senses, as in dreams, lead a luxu- 
 rious, merry life; the secrets of nature, and the powers 
 of flowers and herbs are confided to them. . . . Their life 
 ~foi sense and nature is seasoned by the power of fancy, 
 and by desires after all that is most choice, most beautiful, 
 most agreeable. They harmonize with nightingales and 
 butterflies; they wage war with all ugly creatures, — with 
 hedgehogs, spiders, and bats. Dancing, play, and song 
 are their greatest pleasures ; they steal lovely children, and 
 substitute changehngs ; they torment decrepit old age, 
 toothless gossips, elderly aunts, and the awkward per- 
 formers of * Pyramus and Thisbe.' " Puck is, as it were, 
 the clown among these dainty creatures. The fairy thus 
 addresses him : — 
 
 Either I mistake your shape and making quite, 
 Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite 
 Called Robin Goodfellow. Are you not he 
 That fright the maidens of the villag'ry, 
 Skim milk, and sometimes labor in the quern, 
 And bootless make the breathless housewife churn ; 
 And sometimes make the beer to bear no balm ; 
 Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm ? 
 Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck, 
 You do their work, and they shall have good luck ; 
 Are you not he ? 
 
 Puck. Thou speak'st aright ; 
 
 I am that merry wanderer of the night. 
 
 And then, brimming over with delight at the recollection of 
 his mischief, he proceeds to tell divers of his pranks played 
 in farm-houses on old women. When the poor old aunt 
 slips off her stool, and cries " Tailor ! " it is because she finds 
 herself sitting tailor-fashion on the floor. 
 
Midsummer Night's Dream, 105 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 The fairy wife and husband having met, they at once begin 
 to reproach each other. Titania starts off by accusing 
 Oberon of admiring Hippolytaj he retorts by bringing up 
 her admiration for Theseus. Titania answers him in a 
 lovely speech describing the terrible floods and the abnormal 
 conditions of the seasons in England, in 1595. 
 
 Then, as Titania flits away with her train of fairies, Oberon 
 addresses Puck in a speech which is believed to contain 
 allusions to the Virgin Queen Elizabeth, and to the glorious 
 fete given her at Kenilworth, by her lover, the Earl of Leices- 
 ter, in 1575. The mermaid on the dolphin's back in the 
 lake, singing dulcet songs to welcome Ehzabeth's arrival at the 
 Castle, was part of the pageantry. Till Elizabeth put Essex 
 to death, Shakspeare loved and reverenced her, though he 
 never addressed to her the fulsome adulation common 
 among courtiers in that day. He was summoned to act 
 before her only three weeks before her death, but though 
 called upon repeatedly by brother bards to sing her praises 
 after death, he could not bring himself to lay one flower of 
 his verse upon the tomb of her who had signed the death- 
 warrant of the friend, kinsman, and general of Lord South- 
 ampton, — the man whom of all others Shakspeare most loved, 
 and most delighted to honor. Stratford was near Kenil- 
 worth, and Shakspeare, a boy of nine, may well have sat 
 upon a promontory and seen what Oberon describes here. 
 
 Oberon. My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou remembrest 
 How once I sat upon a promontory, 
 And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back, 
 Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, 
 That the rude sea grew civil at her song. 
 
io6 Midsummer Nighfs Dream. 
 
 And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, 
 
 To hear the sea-maid's music. 
 
 That very time I saw, — but thou could'st not, — 
 
 Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 
 
 Cupid all armed. A certain aim he took 
 
 At a fair vestal throned by the West, 
 
 And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, 
 
 As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. 
 
 But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft 
 
 Quenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon j 
 
 And the imperial vot'ress passed on, 
 
 In maiden meditation, fancy-free. 
 
 Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell. 
 
 It fell upon a little western flower, — 
 
 Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, — 
 
 And maidens call it love-in-idleness. 
 
 Fetch me that flower, — the herb I showed thee once. 
 
 The juice of it, on sleeping eyelids laid. 
 
 Will make or man or woman madly dote 
 
 Upon the next live creature that is seen. 
 
 Fetch me this herb ; and be thou here again 
 
 Ere the leviathan can swim a league. 
 
 Puck. I '11 put a girdle round about the earth 
 In forty minutes. 
 
 As Oberon soliloquizes on the trick he means to play with 
 pansy, juice (one of the pansy's many names is love-in- 
 idleness) upon perverse Titania, Demetrius and Helena come 
 upon the scene. Demetrius is as little like a gentleman in his 
 conduct to the poor girl as he can well be. He is harsh, 
 rude, cruel. She repels us by the want of self-respect she 
 shows, and her lack of modesty. With this want of mod- 
 esty, even Demetrius reproaches her, — a lesson out of 
 Shakspeare to any girl whom any young man, rightly or 
 wrongly, supposes to be "running after him." And yet 
 Helena can theorize well enough upon this subject. Per- 
 haps her own sad experience had taught her that "we 
 
Midsummer Night's Dream. 107 
 
 should be wooed, and were not ^ made to woo." But in 
 the very next breath the infatuated girl declares : " I '11 
 follow thee — and make a heaven of hell." Somebody- 
 has said that to spare a lover the pleasure of pursuit is 
 to defraud him of one of his masculine privileges ; for men 
 were meant for hunters. 
 
 Oberon, having observed this scene, takes compassion 
 upon Helena, and Puck entering as the pair disappear deeper 
 into the greenwood, he says : — 
 
 I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, 
 
 Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, 
 
 Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine, 
 
 With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine ; 
 
 There sleeps Titania some time of the night, 
 
 Lulled in those flowers with dances and delight, 
 
 And there the snake throws her enamelled skin, 
 
 Robe wide enough to wrap a fairy in. 
 
 And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes 
 
 And make her full of hateful fantasies. 
 
 Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove. 
 
 A sweet Athenian lady is in love 
 
 With a disdainful youth ; anoint his eyes, 
 
 But do it when the next thing he espies 
 
 May be the lady. Thou shalt know the man 
 
 By the Athenian garments he has on. 
 
 Effect it with some care, that he may prove 
 
 More fond on her than she upon her love. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 This is a most charming fairy scene of dance and music. 
 
 Titania. Come, now a roundel and a fairy song ! 
 Then for the third part of a minute, hence ; 
 Some, to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds, 
 Some, war with rear-mice for their leathern wings, 
 To make my small elves coats ; and some, keep back 
 
io8 Midsummer Night's Dream, 
 
 The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders 
 At our quaint spirits. Sing me now to sleep. 
 
 Song. 
 You spotted snakes with double tongue, 
 
 Thorny hedge-hog, be not seen ; 
 Newts and blind worms, do no wrong j 
 
 Come not near our fairy queen. 
 Chorus. Philomel, with melody, 
 
 Sing in our sweet lullaby; 
 Lulla, lulla, lullaby ; lulla, lulla, lullaby; 
 Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, 
 Come our lovely lady nigh ; 
 So good-night, with lullaby. 
 \Exeunt fairies. Titania sleeps. Enter Oberon. Squeezes the flower 
 on Titania* s eyelids^ 
 What thou seest when thou dost wake, 
 Do it for thy true love take ; 
 Love and languish for his sake. 
 Be it ounce, or cat, or bear, 
 Pard, or boar with bristled hair. 
 In thine eye that shall appear 
 When thou wak'st, it is thy dear. 
 Wake when some vile thing is near. 
 
 Next, Lysander and Hermia, having lost their way in the 
 dark, wander in this direction. They contrast most favor- 
 ably with Demetrius and Helena. Lysander is a gentleman 
 by nature, and Hermia is charming in her tenderness, and 
 trust, and modesty. Sleeping upon a bank at some distance 
 apart, Puck finds them, and with a speech which is a song, 
 drops the juice of enchantment into Lysander's eyes. No 
 sooner is this done than Demetrius and Helena come upon 
 the scene. Demetrius succeeds in shaking off Helena, who 
 alone, jealous of Hermia, and afraid of wild beasts, suddenly 
 sees Lysander sleeping. He wakes as she bends over him ; 
 the charm works, and he begins to make violent love to her- 
 
Midsummer Night's Dream. 109 
 
 She deems it cruel mockery, and runs away. Lysander, pre- 
 paring to pursue her, takes leave of sleeping Hermia with 
 words that utter a truth well known in our own day, but not 
 generally acknowledged, we should think, in Shakspeare's, — 
 namely, that the bitterest opponents of any opinion are those 
 who have ceased to believe it. 
 
 Hermia, sleep thou there ; 
 And never may'st thou come Lysander near. 
 For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things 
 The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, 
 Or as the heresies that men do leave 
 Are hated most of those they did deceive, 
 So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, 
 Of all be hated, — but the most of me ! 
 
 Soon after, Hermia wakes in sudden fright, having had an 
 evil dream, and calls upon Lysander. No Lysander answers. 
 He is gone, — he must be dead ! Her terrors are very 
 pathetic, very touching. She never dreams of doubting him. 
 
 Lysander! What, removed ? Lysander! lord! 
 What, out of hearing ? — gone ? — no sound ? no word ? 
 Alack, where are you ? Speak, an if you hear ; 
 Speak, of all loves. I swoon almost with fear. 
 No ! then I well perceive you are not nigh ; 
 Either death or you I '11 find immediately. 
 
 Act in. Scetie i. 
 
 In this scene we have Titania lying asleep beside the 
 Duke's Oak, the meeting-place decided on by the players 
 for their rehearsal. Again let me remark how much of sleep 
 there is throughout this " Dream." 
 
 The players arrive, all true to their appointments. Bottom, 
 having thought the matter over, is ready with a new device, 
 that may enable him to monopolize another part in the per- 
 
no Midsummer Night's Dream, 
 
 formance. He wants to be Prologue. Again he insists on 
 making further suggestions about the Hon. Poor Quince, 
 willing so far as he can to keep everybody in good humor, 
 and anxious above everything to have the play go on, at 
 once accepts Bottom's suggestions, in order that he may 
 bring forward his own difficulties. How about moonshine ? 
 How about the wall ? Bottom is all ready with suggestions. 
 Quince thinks moonshine might be represented by a man 
 with a thombush and a lantern. Cain with his thornbush 
 and his lantern figures as the man in the moon in Dante's 
 Paradiso. Then the wall? Bottom again suggests how the 
 wall may be represented. Quince again is acquiescent, ad- 
 miring Bottom as cock of the walk among his fellows, and 
 being anxious to get his players to their work without any 
 more discussion. 
 
 Snug. You never can bring in a wall. What say you, Bottom ? 
 
 Bottom. Some man or other must present wall ; and let him have 
 some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast about him to signify 
 wall. Or let him hold his fingers thus, and through that cranny let 
 Pyramus and Thisbe whisper. 
 
 Quince. If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit down, every 
 mother's son, and rehearse your parts. Pyramus, you begin. When 
 you have spoken your speech, enter into that brake ; and so every one 
 according to his cue. 
 
 Then the rehearsal begins ; Puck, entering, lingers in the 
 shadows of the Duke's Oak as a spectator. When, after 
 some difficulty, Bottom gets through his first speech, he 
 retires into the covert, where immediately Puck pops over 
 him an ass's head. 
 
 One reason why the " Midsummer Night's Dream " must 
 be always more charming to read than it can be to see, is 
 that in acting, its graceful fantasies have to be reduced to 
 
Midsummer Night 'i* Dream, 1 1 1 
 
 materialism. Flesh-and-blood ballet-girls are poor repre- 
 sentatives of elves who dined on honey-bags, crept into 
 snake-skins, and made doublets out of bats' wings ; and 
 whereas this head of Bottom's was doubtless a magical 
 contrivance, we are forced to represent it by a donkey's 
 head. "No doubt," says Maginn, "it had expressions of 
 mirth and tenderness and self-importance, which no crea- 
 tion of hair and pasteboard can ever set forth." 
 
 Bottom is wholly unconscious of his transformation, and 
 is unspeakably astonished when, coming forth from the 
 covert on hearing his next cue, all the party shriek and 
 run away from him. He believes that they are playing 
 him a trick, and while they run away as fast as their legs 
 can carry them, he walks up and down, singing, that they 
 may know he is not afraid ! Luckily, he chooses no ribald 
 song, but one fitting for the ear of a fairy. 
 
 The ousel-cock, so black of hue, 
 With orange-tawny bill, 
 . The throstle with his note so true, 
 The wren with little quill. . . • 
 
 In the scene that follows when Titania wakes and falls in 
 love with the transmogrified Bottom " we feel the delicious 
 incongruity between the attentions that she lavishes upon 
 the hairy boor, and his real nature. Bottom accepts the 
 situation without difficulty. In his own opinion nothing 
 can be too good for him. He enters into it all as he 
 might have done in a dream." Cobwebs are still applied 
 in country places to cut fingers. Their threads are also 
 used in telescopes to mark out distances between the stars. 
 A squash has no relation to our vegetable; it was old 
 English for a budding pea. 
 
1 1 2 Midsummer Night 's Dream, 
 
 Titania. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again ; 
 
 Mine ear is much enamoured of thy note, 
 
 So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape. 
 
 And thy fair virtues' force perforce doth move me 
 
 On the first view to say — to swear, I love thee. 
 Bottom. Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that ; 
 and yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together 
 now-a-days. The more the pity that some honest neighbors will not 
 make them friends. . . . 
 
 Titania. Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful. 
 Bottom. Not so neither. But if I had wit enough to get out of 
 this wood I have enough to serve mine own turn. 
 
 Titania. Out of this wood do not desire to go ; 
 
 Thou shalt remain here whether thou wilt or no. 
 
 I am a spirit of no common rate, 
 
 The summer still doth tend upon my state, 
 
 And I do love thee. Therefore go with me. 
 
 I *11 give thee fairies to attend on thee, 
 
 And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep. 
 
 And sing while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep, 
 
 And I will purge thy mortal grossness so 
 
 That thou shalt like an airy spirit go. 
 
 Peas-blossom ! Cobweb ! Moth ! and Mustard-seed I 
 
 Be kind and courteous to this gentleman ; 
 
 Hop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes, 
 
 Feed him with apricocks and dewberries, 
 
 With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries ; 
 
 The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees, 
 
 And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs, 
 
 And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes, 
 
 To have my love to bed and to arise. 
 
 And pluck the wings from painted butterflies, 
 
 To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes, 
 
 Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies. 
 
 Then, as the fairies do him reverence, Bottom inquires 
 
 their names. 
 
 Bottom. I shall desire of you more acquaintance, Master Cobweb. 
 If I cut my finger I shall make bold with you. Your name, honest 
 gentleman ? 
 
Midsummer Night 's Dream, 113 
 
 Peas-blossom. Peas-blossom. 
 
 Bottom. I pray you commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, 
 and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Peas-blossom, I 
 shall desire you of more acquaintance, too. Your name, I beseech 
 you, sir ? 
 
 Mustard-seed. Mustard-seed. 
 
 Bottom. Good Master Mustard-seed, I know your patience well. 
 That same cowardly, giant-like ox-beef hath devoured many a gen- 
 tleman of your house. I promise you, your kindred have made my 
 eyes water ere now. I desire your more acquaintance, good Master 
 Mustard-seed. 
 
 Titania. Come! wait upon him; lead him to my bower. . . . Tie 
 up my love's tongue ; bring him silently. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Puck relates to Oberon that Titania is in love with " the 
 shallowest thick-skin " of the mechanical actors, with an 
 ass's head upon his shoulders ; that his companions are 
 scampering through bushes and briers (Puck's elfin nature 
 enjoys the mischief he has created) ; and that he has also 
 put juice into the eyes of the Athenian. 
 
 Then come in Demetrius and Hermia. She is accusing 
 him of having murdered her missing Lysander. The scene 
 on Hermia's part, — her alternate reproaching and pleading, 
 — is very pretty. Demetrius behaves with selfish brutality ; 
 but his reflection that — 
 
 Sorrow's heaviness doth heavier grow 
 
 For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe, 
 
 is one that comes so home to our personal experience of 
 insomnia that I am surprised it is not more often quoted. 
 When Demetrius, having chased away Hermia, lies down 
 and sleeps, Oberon reproaches Puck for his mistake, and 
 sends him off to lure thither Helena. Puck is gone but a 
 moment, and then re-enters, singing, with true elfin malice, — 
 
 8 
 
114 Midsummer Night's Dream, 
 
 Captain of our fairy band, 
 
 Helena is here at hand ; 
 
 And the youth mistook by me, 
 
 Pleading for a lover's fee. 
 
 Shall we their fond pageant see ? 
 
 Lord ! what fools these mortals be ! 
 
 Oberon. Stand aside ; the noise they make 
 Will cause Demetrius to awake. 
 
 Puck. Then will two at once woo one ; 
 That must needs be sport alone. 
 And those things do best please me 
 That befall prepostrously. 
 
 Here enter Lysaiider and Helena. He is endeavoring to 
 persuade her of the reality of his passion ; she is not to be 
 persuaded, but treats him throughout the scene with petulant 
 derision. Her jealous hatred of Hermia peeps through all 
 she says to him. The scene is in two six-lined verses, a 
 metre unusual in a play. Then Demetrius awakening sees 
 Helena, loves her, and urges his passion. Oberon and Puck 
 stand by invisible, enjoying the perplexities they have 
 created. 
 
 Helena's protest against the way she supposes herself 
 to be now treated is the best thing we have yet had 
 from her. 
 
 Helena. O spite ! O hell ! I see you are all bent 
 To set against me for your merriment. 
 If you were civil, and knew courtesy, 
 You would not do me so much injury. 
 Can you not hate me, — as I know you do, --^ 
 
 at you must join in souls to mock me too ? 
 loxx. were men — as men you are in showj 
 u would not use a gentle lady so. 
 vow, to swear, to superpraise my parts, 
 When I am sure you hate me in your hearts. 
 You both are rivals, and love Hermia; 
 
Midsummer Night j Dream. 115 
 
 And now both rivals to mock Helena, — 
 
 A trim exploit, a manly enterprise, 
 
 To conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes 
 
 With your derision ! None of noble sort 
 
 Would so offend a virgin, and extort 
 
 A poor soul's patience, all to make you sport! 
 
 As each rival is protesting that he renounces Hermia, that 
 forsaken damsel enters, guided thither by the voice of her 
 Lysander. She cannot believe her ears when Lysander gives 
 up all claim to her in the presence of Helena, who, too jeal- 
 ous to admit any virtue in her rival, accuses her of being in 
 the conspiracy. The speech in which she reproaches her late 
 friend is very celebrated : — 
 
 Injurious Hermia ! most ungrateful maid I 
 
 Have you conspired, have you with these contrived 
 
 To bait me with this foul derision ? 
 
 Is all the counsel that we two have shared, 
 
 The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent. 
 
 When we have chid the hasty-footed time 
 
 For parting us, — O, and is all forgot ? 
 
 All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence ? 
 
 We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, 
 
 Have with our neelds created both one flower, 
 
 Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, 
 
 Both warbling of one song, both in one key. 
 
 As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds 
 
 Had been incorporate. So we grew together, 
 
 Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, 
 
 But yet a union in partition, — 
 
 Two lovely berries moulded on one stem j 
 
 So with two seeming bodies, but one heart ; 
 
 Two of the first, like coats in heraldry 
 
 Due but to one, and crowned with one crest. 
 
 And will you rend our ancient love asunder, 
 
 To join with men in scorning your poor friend ? 
 
 It is not friendly ; 't is not maidenly ; ■ 
 
ii6 Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 Our sex as well as I may chide you for it, 
 Though I alone do feel the injury. 
 
 Hermia. I am amazed at your passionate words : 
 I scorn you not ; it seems that you scorn me. 
 
 Helena. Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn, 
 To follow me, to praise my eyes and face ? 
 And made your other love, Demetrius, 
 Who e'en but now did spurn me with his foot. 
 To call me goddess, nymph, divine and rare. 
 Precious, celestial ? Wherefore speaks he this 
 To her he hates ? And wherefore doth Lysander 
 Deny your love, so rich within his soul. 
 And tender me forsooth, affection, 
 But \yj your setting on — \i^ your consent ? 
 What though I be not so in grace as you. 
 So hung upon with love, so fortunate. 
 But miserable most, to love unloved ? 
 This you should pity rather than despise. 
 
 Hermia. I understand not what you mean by this. 
 
 Helena. Ay, do persever, counterfeit sad looks, 
 Make mows upon me when I turn my back, 
 Wink at each other, hold the sweet jest up ; 
 This sport well carried shall be chronicled. 
 If you have any pity, grace, or manners, 
 You would not make me such an argument. 
 But fare ye well. 'T is partly mine own fault. 
 Which death or absence soon shall remedy. 
 
 Helena becomes shrewish in her excitement. Hermia 
 cannot think Lysander's love for Helena is anything but a 
 cruel jest, and turns to him with an entreaty : " Sweet, do 
 not scorn her so." Then the two rivals, Lysander and De- 
 metrius, quarrel with each other. Hermia, growing alarmed, 
 clings to Lysander, who, in his passion and excitement, 
 speaks to her the crudest words : — 
 
 Hands off, thou cat, thou burr ! Vile thing ! let loose. 
 Or I will shake thee from me as a serpent I 
 
Midsummer Night 's Dream, 117 
 
 She loosens her hold, and then Demetrius taunts him with 
 not having repulsed her with sufficient ferocity. " What ! " 
 cries Lysander, " should I hurt her ? — strike her ? — kill her 
 dead? Although I hate her, I '11 not harm her so." 
 
 Then Hermia begins to believe that something is wrong. 
 The scene is piteous. Puck, who had no human sympathy, 
 may have enjoyed it, but there is not much fun in it to us 
 mortals. 
 
 Hermia. Hate me ? "Wherefore ? O me ! what news, my love ? 
 Am I not Hermia ? Are not you Lysander ? 
 I am as fair now as I was erewhile. 
 Since night you loved me ; yet since night you left me. 
 Why, then, you left me — O, the gods forbid 1 — 
 In earnest, shall I say ? 
 
 Lysander. Ay, by my life ! 
 And never did desire to see thee more. 
 Therefore be out of hope, of question, doubt. 
 Be certain — nothing truer ; 't is no jest 
 That I do hate thee, and love Helena. 
 
 Hermia \to Helena]. O me ! you juggler ! you canker-blossom! 
 You thief of love ! What ! have you come by night 
 And stolen my love's heart from him ? 
 
 Helena. Fine, i' faith ! 
 
 Have you no modesty — no maiden shame — 
 No touch of bashfulness ? What ! will you tear 
 Impatient answers from my gentle tongue ? 
 Fie I Fie ! You counterfeit, you puppet you ! 
 
 Hermia. Puppet ? Why so >. Ay, that way goes the game ? 
 
 \To Demetrius?^ Now I perceive that she hath made compare 
 Between our statures ; she hath urged her height; 
 And with her personage — her tall personage, 
 Her height, forsooth — she hath prevailed with him. 
 
 [ To Helena-I And are you grown so high in his esteem 
 Because I am so dwarfish and so low ? 
 How low am I ? thou painted Maypole, speak I 
 How low am I .'' I am not yet so low 
 But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes. 
 
ii8 Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 Helena. I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen, 
 Let her not hurt me. I was never curst ; 
 I have no gift at all in shrewishness ; 
 I am a right maid for my cowardice ; 
 Let her not strike me. You perhaps may think 
 Because she 's something lower than myself 
 That I can match her. 
 
 Hermia. Lower 1 Hark again ! 
 
 Helena. Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me. 
 I evermore did love you, Hermia ; 
 Did ever keep your counsels, never wronged you. 
 Save that in love unto Demetrius 
 I told him of your stealth into this wood. 
 He followed you. For love I followed him. 
 But he hath chid me hence, and threatened me 
 To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too; 
 And now, so you will let me quiet go 
 To Athens, I will bear my folly back 
 And follow you no further. Let me go. 
 You see how simple and how fond I am. 
 
 Hermia. Why, get you gone ! Who is 't that hinders you ? 
 
 The girls endeavor to fly at each other, but are held back 
 by the men, the tall Helena proving herself an arrant coward. 
 Demetrius challenges Lysander for taking the part of Helena, 
 and all is wild confusion. It gives me a bewildering conception 
 of Shakspeare's mighty power of creation when I think that 
 the same hand that made Portia, Imogen, Perdita, and Mi- 
 randa, fashioned these two commonplace excitable girls. Yet, 
 ill as they behave, neither quite loses our sympathy, and un- 
 ladylike as much of their conduct is, we do not lose all sense 
 of their being ladies. Very litde comment, so far as I know, 
 has been bestowed on Hermia and Helena. To me the skill 
 that wove their flimsiness seems wonderful. Many writers 
 seem to look on Helena as the most wronged, and the most 
 worthy; in which estimate of their characters I cannot 
 
Midsummer Night's Dream. 119 
 
 myself agree. Helena from the first was mean, cowardly, 
 treacherous, and lacking in modesty. In the end, Hermia, 
 aggravated and excited, turns upon her, and when both have 
 lost their tempers and their dignity there is little to choose 
 between them. 
 
 While all the lovers rush deeper into the wood Oberon 
 desires Puck to follow them, to anoint Lysander's eyes 
 with the magic pansy juice, and lead them back to 
 Athens. 
 
 At the close .of the conference between Puck and Oberon, 
 we are made to see the difference between ghosts and 
 fairies. The former must troop back to their graves at 
 cock-crow, but fairies may tread the groves till dawn. Puck 
 says : — 
 
 Yonder shines Aurora's harbinger ; 
 
 At whose approach ghosts, wandering here and there, 
 
 Troop home to churchyards ; damned spirits all, 
 
 That in cross-ways and floods have burial, 
 
 Already to their wormy beds have gone ; 
 
 For fear lest day should look their shames upon, 
 
 TheyVillingly themselves exile from light. 
 
 And must for aye consort with black-browed night. 
 
 Oberon. But we are spirits of another sort \ 
 I, with the morning's love have oft made sport, 
 And like a forester the groves may tread, 
 E'en till the eastern gate, all fiery red, 
 Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams, 
 Turns into yellow gold his salt-green streams. 
 
 Puck, having succeeded in drawing all four lovers under 
 
 the Duke's Oak, and putting them to sleep, applies his 
 
 remedy for the imbroglio to Lysander's eyes. As he does so 
 
 he sings thus : 
 
 On the ground 
 Sleep sound. 
 
I20 Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 I '11 apply 
 To your eye, 
 Gentle lover, remedy. 
 
 When thou wak'st 
 
 Thou tak'st 
 
 True delight 
 
 In the sight 
 Of thy former lady's eye. 
 And the country proverb known, 
 That every man shall take his own. 
 In your waking shall be shown. 
 
 Jack shall have Jill, 
 
 Naught shall go ill. 
 The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well. 
 
 Act IV. Scene i. 
 
 This act opens with the court of Titania, who is enamoured 
 of her Bottom. Oberon is watching them, invisible. Observe 
 that Titania's infatuation for Bottom is all purity. It is the wild- 
 est folly, but fairy nature admits no thought of grosser evil. 
 
 Maginn says of the scene that follows : " It was necessary 
 for the drama that Shakspeare should introduce among his 
 fairy party a creature of earth's mould ; and he has done it 
 so as, in the midst of his mirth, to convey a picturesque satire 
 on the fortune that governs the world, and upon those passions 
 which elsewhere he had with agitating pathos to depict. As 
 Romeo, the gentleman, is the unlucky man of Shakspeare, so 
 does he here exhibit [Bottgnij^the blockhead, as the lucky 
 man, — one on whom. Fortune showers her favors beyond 
 measure. . . . He, the most unfitted for the fairy scene beyond 
 all conceivable personages, makes his appearance, not as 
 one to be expelled with loathing and derision, but to be 
 instantly accepted as the chosen lover of the Queen of the 
 
Midsummer Night's Dream, 121 
 
 Fairies. Oberon, angry as he is with the caprices of his 
 queen, did not anticipate any such object for her charmed 
 affections. He did not dream that under the superintend- 
 ence of Puck — his spirit of mischief — she is to be enam- 
 oured of the head of an ass, surmounting the body of a 
 weaver. Bottom is an angel that awakes her from her 
 flowery bed ; a gentle mortal, whose enchanting note wins 
 her ear, while his beauteous shape enthralls her eye, — one 
 who is as wise as he is beautiful ; one for whom all the magic 
 treasures of the fairy kingdom are to be with surprising pro- 
 fusion dispensed. For him she gathers whatever wealth and 
 delicacies the Land of Faery can boast. Her most airy 
 spirits are ordered to be kind and courteous to this gentle- 
 man, — for into that impossible character has the blindness 
 of her love transmuted the clumsy and conceited clown. Apri- 
 cocks, and dewberries, purple grapes, green figs, and mul- 
 berries are to feed his coarse palate ; the thighs of bees, 
 kindled by the light of fiery glow-worms, are to light him to 
 his flower-decked bed j wings, plucked from painted butter- 
 flies are to fan the moon-beams from him as he sleeps, and 
 in the very desperation of her intoxicating passion she feels 
 that there is nothing that should not be yielded to the strange 
 idol of her soul. Bottom, during the time he attracts the 
 attentions of Titania, never for a moment thinks there is 
 anything extraordinary in the matter. He takes the love of 
 the Queen of the Fairies as a thing of course ; orders about 
 her tiny attendants as if they were so many apprentices at 
 his loom, and dwells in Fairyland unobservant of its won- 
 ders, as quiedy as if he were still in his workshop. Theseus 
 wpuld have bent in reverence before Titania : great is the 
 courage and self-possession of an ass-head ! " 
 
122 Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 Titania, Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bank, 
 While I thine amiable cheeks do coy, 
 And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head, 
 And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. 
 Bottom. Where 's Monsieur Cobweb ? Good monsieur, get your 
 weapons in your hand, and kill me a red-hipped humble-bee on the 
 top of a thistle ; and, good monsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do 
 not fret yourself too much in the action, monsieur ; and, good mon- 
 sieur, have a care the honey-bag break not ; I would be loth to have 
 you overflown with a honey-bag, signor. 
 
 And then, when his head has been scratched, — for his 
 "face feels marvellous hairy," — and when he has divulged 
 his taste in music by a desire for the tongs and bones, and 
 his appreciation of good hving, by his appetite for oats and 
 good sweet hay, Titania, perplexed by these unwonted 
 tastes, answers him : — 
 
 I have a venturous fairy that shall seek 
 The squirrel's hoard, and fetch for thee new nuts. 
 Bottom. I 'd rather have a handful or two of dried peas. But I 
 pray you, let none of your people stir me ; I have an exposition of 
 sleep come on me. 
 
 Titania, Sleep, then, and I will wind thee in my arms. . . . 
 O ! how I love thee ! How I dote on thee ! 
 
 This sight moves Oberon to pity his deluded love, whom 
 his charm has so degraded, — the more readily, no doubt, 
 because, infatuated with this new caprice, she has given 
 up to him the changeling boy. He bends over her and 
 touches her eyelids with his disenchanting herb. Awaking 
 she exclaims : — 
 
 My Oberon ! what visions have I seen ! , 
 Methought I was enamoured of an ass. 
 
 Oberon. There lies your love. 
 
 Titania. How came these things to pass ? 
 
Midsummer Night's Dream, 123 
 
 Again and again we may remark how much sleep has to 
 do wltlTthis play. Titania even believes her experience has 
 been all a dream. As the reconciled fairy husband and wife 
 take hands in the delight of their reunion and dance around 
 the Duke's Tree, Hippolyta and Theseus, early afoot for the 
 pleasures of the chase, come on the scene. Wondrous 
 Shakspeare, who knows everything, gives us the best descrip- 
 tion in all literature of the baying of a pack of hounds. 
 Hippolyta says : — 
 
 I was with Hercules and Cadmus once, 
 When m a wood of Crete they bayed the bear 
 With hounds of Sparta : never did I hear 
 Such gallant chiding ; for besides the groves, 
 The skies, the fountains, every region near 
 Seemed all one mutual cry. I never heard 
 So musical a discord, — such sweet thunder. 
 
 Theseus. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, 
 So flewed, so sanded ; and their heads are hung 
 With ears that sweep away the morning dew. 
 Crook-kneed, and dew-lapped like Thessalian bulls, 
 Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells 
 Each under each. A cry more tuneable 
 Was never hollaed to, nor cheered with horn, 
 In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly. 
 Judge when you hear. 
 
 Lover as he is, he does not like this Amazonian lady 
 should praise the hounds of Hercules at the expense of his 
 own kennel. 
 
 The lovers sleeping underneath the oak are roused by the 
 horns and music of the hunting-party ; and Demetrius having 
 declared his love for Helena, Theseus over-rules the parental 
 authority of Egeus, and appoints the nuptials of both 
 couples — Demetrius with Helena, and Hermia with Lysan- 
 der — to take place together with his own. To the lovers 
 
124 Midsummer Night^s Dream. 
 
 likewise the adventures of the night seem to have been 
 a dream. 
 
 Meantime in Quince's house the players are all bewaiUng 
 the mysterious absence of Bottom. " His return being con- 
 sidered hopeless, the production of the play has been given 
 up as utterly impossible." But suddenly he arrives blowing 
 and domineering after his own fashion. There is little time 
 for talk. He says hurriedly : — 
 
 All that I will tell you is that the Duke hath dined. Get your 
 apparel together ; good strings to your beards, new ribbons to your 
 pumps. Meet presently at the palace ; every man look o'er his part ; 
 for the long and the short is, our play is preferred. In any case, let 
 Thisby have clean linen; and let not him that plays the lion pare his 
 nails, for they shall hang out for the claws. And, most dear actors, 
 eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath ; and I do 
 not doubt but to hear them say it is a sweet comedy. No more words ; 
 away ! Go ; away ! 
 
 Act v. Scene i. 
 
 The scene is a hall in the Duke's palace. The words that 
 Theseus addresses to Hippolyta are closely associated with 
 Shakspeare himself in every mind : — 
 
 The lunatic, the lover, and the poet 
 
 Are of imagination all compact. 
 
 One sees more devils than vast hell can hold ; 
 
 That is the madman. The lover, all as frantic, 
 
 Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt. 
 
 The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling. 
 
 Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven ; 
 
 And, as imagination bodies forth 
 
 The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
 
 Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
 
 A local habitation and a name. 
 
 I never thought Milton half understood or appreciated 
 Shakspeare when he said of him, — 
 
Midsummer Nighfs Dream, 125 
 
 " Sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child, 
 Warbles his native wood-notes wild ; '* 
 
 but the " native wood-notes " are heard sweetest in the 
 " Midsummer Night's Dream." 
 
 The subjects of Duke Theseus offer him his choice of four 
 performances, — A song concerning the Battle of the Centaurs ; 
 a procession of tipsy Bacchanals ; the Muses mourning for 
 the death of learning ; and " a tedious, brief scene of young 
 Pyramus and his love Thisbe ; very tragical mirth." This 
 title attracts Theseus. He exclaims : — 
 
 Merry and tragical ? Tedious and brief ? 
 That is, hot ice, and wondrous strange snow. 
 
 A courtier standing by says he has seen the rehearsal 
 of it. 
 
 In all the play 
 There is not one word apt, one player fitted. 
 And tragical, my lord, it is ; 
 For Pyramus therein doth kill himself. 
 Which, when I saw rehearsed, I must confess 
 Made mine eyes water ; but more merry tears 
 The passion of loud laughter never shed. 
 
 Theseus. What are they that do play it ? 
 
 Courtier. Hard-handed men that work in Athens here, 
 Which never labored in their minds till now; 
 And now have toiled their unbreathed memories 
 With this same play, again«^t your nuptial. 
 
 Theseus. And we will hear it. 
 
 Courtier. No, my noble lord, 
 
 It is not for you. I have heard it over 
 And it is nothing — nothing in the world; 
 Unless you can find sport in their intents, 
 Extremely stretched, and conned with cruel pain 
 To do you service. 
 
 Theseus. I will hear that play, 
 
 For never anything can be amiss 
 When simpleness and duty tender it. 
 
126 Midsummer Night's Dream, 
 
 Hippolyta, who has no taste for being bored, objects, and 
 Theseus answers her : — 
 
 Our sport shall be to take what they mistake ; 
 And what poor duty cannot do, 
 Noble respect takes it in might, not merit. 
 "Where I have come, great clerks have purposed 
 To greet me with premeditated welcomes ; 
 But I have seen them shiver and look pale. 
 Make periods in the midst of sentences. 
 Throttle their practised accent in their fears, 
 And in conclusion dumbly have broke off. 
 Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet. 
 Out of this silence yet I picked a welcome ; 
 And in the modesty of fearful duty 
 I read as much as from the rattling tongue 
 Of saucy and audacious eloquence. 
 Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity, 
 In least, speak most, to my capacity. 
 
 Theseus' courteous patience, Hippolyta's scarcely sup- 
 pressed weariness, and Bottom's fearless desire of putting 
 himself forward, are all things to be obser\'ed, as the royal 
 audience comments on the tragical- comical play. 
 
 Bottom has his own way, and speaks the prologue, in- 
 troducing all the characters, except Wall, who speaks for 
 himself. 
 
 Then Pyramus and Thisbe converse in rhymed, disjointed 
 lines, through Wall's fingers, and separate to meet again 
 at "Ninny's tomb." 
 
 " This," says Hippolyta, " is the silliest stuff that ever I 
 heard ! " 
 
 " The best of this kind are but shadows," replies Theseus ; 
 " and the worst are no worse, if imagination mend them." 
 
 *' It must be your imagination, then, and not theirs," she 
 answers. 
 
Midsummer Night's Dream. 127 
 
 " The meaning of the Duke is, that however we may laugh 
 at the silHness of Bottom and his companions in their ridic- 
 ulous play, they do but labor under disadvantages common 
 to all dramatists. ' All are but dealers in shadowy represen- 
 tations of life,' and their great aim must be to set the mind 
 of the spectator to work out their conceptions." Shakspeare 
 felt this deeply for himself, and alludes to it at length, in the 
 opening address of the chorus of " Henry V." Whether 
 he would have been gratified by the elaborate settings of his 
 plays upon the modern stage, may be doubted. Imagina- 
 tion that is satisfied to repose itself on pasteboard will 
 hardly soar into the highest realms of fancy. We may yet 
 have to echo the grown man's complaint in Campbell's poem 
 of " The Rainbow." 
 
 The play ends with the death of all the dramatis per sonce^ 
 — Moonshine and the Lion alone being left to bury the dead. 
 But Bottom, rising to his feet again, has nearly the last word, 
 setting the Duke right upon some point in the tragedy with 
 unruffled self-complacency. 
 
 *' Adieu, Bottom, the weaver," cries Maginn, " and long 
 may you go onward prospering in your course ! But the 
 prayer is needless, for you carry about with you the infallible 
 talisman of success, the ass's head ! " 
 
 The revels are concluded by Puck's song, of which Cole- 
 ridge says : " It is Anacreon himself, in perfectness, pro- 
 portion, grace, and spontaneity ; " and then he adds, " Oh, 
 what wealth, what wide ranging, and yet what compression, 
 and condensation of Enghsh fancy ! These thirty lines form 
 a speckless diamond ! " 
 
 Now the hungry lion roars, 
 
 And the wolf behowls the moon ; 
 
128 Midsummer Night's Drea^n. 
 
 While the heavy ploughman snores, 
 
 All with weary task fordone. 
 Now the wasted brands do glow, 
 
 Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud, 
 Puts the wretch that lies in woe 
 In remembrance of a shroud. 
 Now it is the time of night 
 
 That the graves, all gaping wide, 
 Every one lets out his sprite. 
 
 In the church-way paths to glide ; 
 And we fairies that do run 
 
 By the triple Hecate's team, 
 From the presence of the sun, 
 
 Following darkness like a dream, 
 Now are frolic; not a mouse 
 Shall disturb this hallowed house. 
 I am sent with broom before 
 To sweep the dust behind the door. 
 
 Obcron. Through this house give glimmering light, 
 By the dead and drowsy fire. 
 Every elf and fairy sprite. 
 
 Hop as light as bird from brier ; 
 And this ditty, after me, 
 
 Sing and dance it trippingly. 
 Puck. If our shadows have offended 
 /^^^ Think but this, and all is mended, — ^ 
 \ That you have but slumbered here \^ 
 
 \ While these visions did appear ; 
 
 1 And this weak and idle theme, 
 \ No more yielding than a dream, 
 \ Gentles, do not reprehend. 
 
TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 "^T^AMING OF THE SHREW " was founded on an old 
 X play published in 1594, called "The Taming of a 
 Shrew." Probably, Shakspeare, while theatrical manager, 
 wished to adapt it for acting at his theatre, and revised and 
 largely rewrote it ; but inasmuch as such a man as Shakspeare 
 could not have satisfied himself without doing his best in any 
 work he put his hand to, he so changed and improved it as to 
 make a very ordinary acting-play into what we now find it. 
 He took other people's plots and characters, and breathed 
 into them the breath of life, so that each character became a 
 living soul. In the course of his labors he wove into the 
 plot some scenes, relating to Bianca's marriage, from a play 
 by Ariosto. "Taming of the Shrew" is a play within a play; 
 and the Induction, which is entirely Shakspeare's work, though 
 founded on the old comedy, is one of his best pieces of farce. 
 
 The idea of the Induction comes probably from the East, 
 like many another fairy tale brought back from the Crusades. 
 It is the same as that in the charming story of the " Sleeper 
 Awakened," told by Queen Scheherezade to her fiction- 
 loving lord. 
 
 The characters of the Induction are : A Lord ; Chris- 
 topher Sly, a drunken tinker; Hostess; Page; Players; 
 Huntsmen; etc. 
 
132 Taming of the Skrezu. 
 
 Scene i. Of the Induction. 
 
 In a lonely village ale-house, Sly, in his cups, gets into a 
 quarrel with the landlady. Sly is a braggart, who by dint 
 of travel, possibly of soldiering, — he may have served under 
 Essex at Cadiz, or perhaps, under Drake, against the Dons 
 of the Spanish Main, — has picked up some disjointed 
 Spanish words, and some vague notions of history. So 
 when the landlady asks payment for his drink, he answers 
 her : " Ye 'r a baggage. The Slys are no rogues. Look in 
 the Chronicles. We came in with Richard Conqueror. 
 Therefore, paucas pallabriSy — let the world slide. Sessa ! " 
 As the landlady goes off to fetch the local guardians of 
 the peace. Sly falls asleep on the floor. Soon after, a 
 lord enters, weary with hunting, and full of solicitude about 
 his dogs. 
 
 He stumbles over Sly in his drunken sleep, exclaiming : 
 
 O, monstrous beast ! How like a swine he lies ! 
 Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image ! 
 
 Then a thought strikes him. He will have the man 
 put in his own state bed, and when he wakes make him 
 fancy himself a nobleman. Having asked his head hunts- 
 man whether such a joke would be fair fun, he goes on 
 thus : — 
 
 Then take him up, and manage well the jest. 
 Carry him gently to my fairest chamber. 
 And hang it round with all my wanton pictures ; 
 Balm his foul head with warm distilled waters, 
 And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet ; 
 Procure me music, ready when he wakes 
 To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound ; 
 And if he chance to speak be ready straight, 
 
Taming of the Shrew. 133 
 
 And, with a low submissive reverence, 
 
 Say, What is it your honor will command? 
 
 Let one attend him with a silver basin 
 
 Full of rose-water, and bestrewed with flowers ; 
 
 Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper, 
 
 And say. Will 't please your lordship cool your hands ? 
 
 Some one be ready with a costly suit 
 
 And ask him what apparel he will wear ; 
 
 Another tell him of his hounds and horse, 
 
 And that his lady mourns at his disease ; 
 
 Persuade him that he hath been lunatic ; 
 
 When he says what he is, say that he dreams, 
 
 For he is nothing but a mighty lord. 
 
 This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs, 
 
 It will be pastime passing excellent 
 
 If it be husbanded with modesty. 
 
 I Huntsman. My lord, I warrant you we '11 play our part 
 As he shall think, by our true diligence. 
 He is no less than what we say he is. 
 
 Lord. Take him up gently, and to bed with him ; 
 And each one to his office when he wakes. 
 
 \Some bear out Sly. A trumpet sounds. 
 
 The lord sends at once to see what is the meaning of the 
 trumpet, and finds it announces some players, who, according 
 to an English custom surviving to Mr. Crummies' and Miss 
 Snivellici's day, had come to offer their services to perform 
 before the chief man of the neighborhood. 
 
 The courtesy of the lord to these players is very pleasing. 
 He remembers several of them, and commends their former 
 acting. Then, before sending them to the buttery, there to 
 receive friendly welcome, he says : — 
 
 Well, you are come to me in happy time, 
 The rather for I have some sport in hand 
 Wherein your cunning can assist me much. 
 There is a lord will hear you play to-night; 
 But I am doubtful of your modesties, 
 
134 Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 Lest, over-eyeing of his odd behavior 
 (For yet his honor never heard a play). 
 You break into some merry passion 
 And so oflfend him. For I tell you, sirs, 
 If you should smile he grows impatient. 
 
 I Player. Fear not, my lord. We can contain ourselves, 
 Were he the veriest antic in the world. 
 
 Then, the players being dismissed to take refreshment, 
 the lord sends orders to Bartholomew, his page, to dress him- 
 self as a lady. He is to bear himself towards the drunkard 
 with " honorable action, such as he hath observed in noble 
 ladies unto their lords, — with soft low tongue, and lowly 
 courtesy," and say : — 
 
 What is 't your honor would command 
 
 Wherein your lady, and your humble wife 
 
 May show her duty, and make known her love ? 
 
 And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses, 
 
 And with declining head into his bosom, 
 
 Bid him shed tears ; as being overjoyed 
 
 To see her noble lord restored to health, 
 
 Who for twice seven years hath esteemed him 
 
 No better than a poor and loathsome beggar ; 
 
 And if the boy have not a woman's gift 
 
 To rain a shower of commanded tears, 
 
 An onion will do well for such a shift ; 
 
 Which, in a napkin being close conveyed, 
 
 Shall in despite enforce a watery eye. 
 
 Then, in soliloquy, — 
 
 I know the boy will well usurp the grace, 
 
 Voice, gait, and action of a gentlewoman ; 
 
 I long to hear him call the drunkard, husband. 
 
 And how my men shall stay themselves from laughter 
 
 When they do homage to this simple peasant. 
 
 I '11 in to counsel them. Haply my presence 
 
 May well abate the over-merry spleen 
 
 Which otherwise would grow into extremes. 
 
Taming of the Shrew. 135 
 
 Scene 2. Of the Induction. 
 
 Accordingly, Sly is next exhibited in a bed-chamber in the 
 lord's house, in a rich night-gown, with attendants ; the lord 
 himself (a true gentleman, who will not have the fun carried 
 too far) is waiting upon him. The servants succeed in per- 
 suading Sly that he has been out of his mind, or in a 
 dream, for fourteen years. It is worth remarking that the 
 people Sly mentions, John Naps, Cicely Hacket of Wincot, 
 Peter Turf, and Henry Pimpernell, were real persons whose 
 names have been preserved in Stratford and Wincot records. 
 Through all the scene Christopher is anxious to feel assured 
 of his identity by testing it by his relish for a pot of Warwick- 
 shire beer. 
 
 It seems to me this introduction is as much as to say to 
 the audience, the reader, or posterity, that the play it intro- 
 duces does not "hold the mirror up to nature;" it is a 
 farce. 
 
 Act I. Scene i. 
 
 The original scene of the play was laid in Greece ; Shaks- 
 peare shifts it to Padua. The stage father, the stage lover, 
 the stage young lady, the stage confidant, and the opening 
 scene are all conventional. I think this is designed as a 
 background to bring out Petruchio, Katharine, and Grumio, 
 who are the furthest remove from commonplace. 
 
 Lucentio, the stage hero, is a young man on his travels, 
 just arrived in Padua. He converses in the public street 
 with his servant Tranio. His father, Vincentio, is a rich 
 merchant of Pisa. Tranio — a sort of bear-leader, and 
 something of a toady — urges his young lord to study only 
 as much as he may find agreeable. His argument consists 
 
1 36 Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 of the schoolboy's logic. Duty is a pleasure; therefore 
 where there is pleasure none, there is duty none. We see 
 from Tranio's first speech that he is a man who will will- 
 ingly help his master's son into or out of any scrape or 
 folly. 
 
 As they are talking, there appear Baptista, a rich gen- 
 tleman of Padua, his two daughters, Katharine and Bianca, 
 and two gentlemen, — Gremio, an elderly man, and Hor- 
 tensio. 
 
 Old Baptista is a miserable old selfish father ; no wonder 
 he bred Katharine to scorn him, and Bianca to deceive him. 
 He is talking to the gentlemen, who are both suitors for 
 Bianca, and, — without a thought for Bianca's happiness or 
 Katharine's honor, but solely because he wants to get rid 
 of a troublesome daughter, — he refuses them Bianca, and 
 throws Katharine at their heads. In spite of her high spirit, 
 the girl, who can scarcely believe her own ears, turns quietly 
 to her father, and asks, can he really mean what he says ? 
 The two men, in spite of her father's presence, — that father 
 in whom Katharine finds no protector, — openly scoff at her, 
 and at her reputation. She turns upon them, coarsely and 
 rudely, it is true, but with an instinct of self-defence. A 
 woman left to fight her own battles, with even those of her 
 own household against her, can hardly fail to be rough and 
 rude. 
 
 Common opinion, we see, admires the stage heroine 
 Bianca ; Lucentio at first sight falls in love with her ; and yet 
 half a dozen Biancas are not worth that shrewish Katharine. 
 
 Then Gremio takes it on himself to plead for Bianca, that 
 he may make his suit acceptable to her, I suppose ; for 
 Bianca, as he speaks, is still within hearing. 
 
Taming of the Shrew. 137 
 
 Gremio. Why, will you mew her up, 
 Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell, 
 And make her bear the penance of her tongue ? 
 
 Baptista. Gentlemen, content ye. I am resolved. 
 Go in, Bianca. 
 
 And, for I know she taketh most delight 
 In music, instruments, and poetry, 
 Schoolmasters will I keep within my house 
 Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio, 
 Or, Signior Gremio, you, know any such. 
 Prefer them hither ; for to cunning men 
 I will be very kind, — and liberal 
 To mine own children in good bringing up. 
 And so farewell. Katharina, you may stay ; 
 For I have more to commune with Bianca. \Exit. 
 
 Katharine. Why, and I trust I may go too, may I not "i 
 What ! shall I be appointed hours, as though, belike 
 I knew not what to take, and what to leave ? Ha I \Exit. 
 
 This speech is wrung from Katharine by the painfulness 
 of her position, and the coarse impertinence of the men 
 around her. She flounces off the stage with a sore heart. 
 
 Then comes a scene in which Gremio, the old suitor, and 
 Hortensio, the commonplace young man, make a compact 
 to do their best to get a husband for Katharine, — Hortensio 
 remarking that there were men who " would take her with all 
 faults, were there money enough, " and, as Gremio says, "so 
 rid the house of her." Tranio and his young master have over- 
 heard all this, and being left upon the street alone, the latter 
 breaks out into schoolboy expressions of rapturous love for 
 Bianca, and they enter into a plot that Lucentio shall offer to 
 become one of her teachers, while Tranio, nothing loath, keeps 
 house in Padua, and passes for the son of his master, old 
 Vincentio. He does this with a toadyish declaration that it is 
 all out of obedience to Vincentio, and love for Lucentio. Bion- 
 dello, the lackey, is instructed to wait on Tranio as his master. 
 
138 Taming of the Shrezv. 
 
 Here Sly breaks in: "Is there any more of it?" "My 
 lord," is the reply, " 't is but begun." " 'T is a very excel- 
 lent piece of work, madam lady," says Sly to his pretended 
 wife : " would it were done ! " 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Now enters Petruchio, come to Padua to see Hortensio. 
 Petruchio is a witty, wilful, and eccentric gentleman, — a true 
 gentleman in spite of his assumed roughness, which is more 
 than can be said for sleek Gremio and Hortensio. If he 
 does pull his servants' ears when inclined for horse-play, 
 they all love him. We are sure Tranio would betray his 
 masters if any one would make it worth his while to do so ; 
 but old Grumio would be faithful on the rack to Petruchio. 
 By the way, we owe Shakspeare a grudge for having two 
 names so much alike in this play, though their wearers are 
 so different, — Gremio and Grumio. 
 
 Grumio, Petruchio's servant, is as eccentric as his master. 
 He began the quips that ended in his thrashing ; he would 
 rather any time take a cuff than miss a joke ; but Hortensio 
 cannot take a joke ; all with him is dead commonplace, 
 and au grand serieux. Petruchio, flushed with his new 
 wealth, and possibly by his new li^jerty (for somehow one 
 fancies his father had been a curmudgeon), is " up to any- 
 thing." 
 
 Crowns in my purse I have, and goods at home, 
 And so am come abroad to see the world. 
 
 He is no fortune-hunter. He is above suspicion on that point, 
 and therefore he can afford to make merry and to declare 
 that above all things in a wife he is going to look out for 
 money, — fanfaron des vices qu'll n^avait pas, like Byron. 
 
Taming of the Shrew, 139 
 
 But unlike poor Byron, Petruchio's boasts are in sheer frolic 
 and high spirits. The world is smiling on Petruchio; 
 it never smiled on Byron. Besides, I think he knows the 
 somewhat horrified Hortensio to be a real fortune-hunter. 
 Hortensio, without perceiving any allusion to himself, re- 
 plies : — 
 
 Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee 
 And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favored wife ? 
 Thou 'd'st thank me but a little for my counsel. 
 And yet I '11 promise thee she shall be rich, 
 And very rich ; — but thou 'rt too much my friend. 
 And I '11 not wish thee to her. 
 
 Petruchio enters at once into the thing as a joke, and 
 declares that no matter how ugly, how old, how curst, or 
 shrewish she may be, so long as she has money, she will 
 suit him. 
 
 How often have we heard the same kind of jesting decla- 
 ration made ; but never by man or maid in earnest. 
 
 Grumio takes up the joke, partly out of ill-humor at his 
 recent beating; but Hortensio, taking all in solemn .part, 
 goes on : — 
 
 I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife 
 With wealth enough, and young, and beauteous, 
 Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman ; 
 Her only fault is that she is intolerably curst; 
 /would not wed her for a mine of gold. 
 
 Poor Katharine ! brought up amongst such a set as those 
 who surround her, — Baptista, "the affable and courteous 
 gentleman" as Hortensio calls him, who is in reality, calculat- 
 ing, selfish, unfatherly, and indelicate ; the sly Bianca ; the 
 fortune-hunting suitors, — universally unpopular, and mis- 
 trusted, — no wonder she is a grown-up spoilt child, and she 
 
140 Taming of the Shrew, 
 
 thoroughly acts up to her reputation. She — so far more 
 highly endowed intellectually and in heart than these arti- 
 ficial, selfish, commonplace people — is yet conscious of 
 having won their scorn by her want of self-control ; and 
 they are rather pleased to find themselves on some points 
 her superiors, and are ready enough to thrust the conviction 
 home upon her. " For," says the author of " Shakspeare 
 Talks with Uncritical People," in the "Monthly Packet," 
 " everything, is upside down with her ; and to her feeling 
 nothing can happen rightly, as she has got out of her own 
 control, and that of everybody else. . . . She is not able 
 to manage herself, and is too strong for those about her. 
 Baptista has no authority and Bianca no influence over 
 her; so there is no check to her wild passion. ... In 
 fact, Katharine does not know what to do with her unhappy, 
 irritable self, she is half-crazy with long-indulged temper, 
 and while she is in this condition nothing can please or 
 soothe her. In her rages one is half sorry for her, as one is 
 for a child, or an animal in a passion ; it is so much worse 
 for her than for the objects of the storm." Petruchio, eager 
 to be doing something, is piqued and amused by Hortensio's 
 account of this spoilt beauty whom nobody can tame. 
 He was joking at first, but soon begins to take an interest 
 in Kate, and, finding Baptista was an old friend of his father, 
 he presses Hortensio to introduce him to her family. Hor- 
 tensio is quite honest, — he has conscientiously warned his 
 friend, — but as he will run into danger, he begs him to in- 
 troduce him in his turn into the house, disguised as a music- 
 teacher offering his services to the young ladies. 
 
 Before Petruchio can give any answer (and ten to one he 
 would have refused, for he was a man who liked everything 
 
Taming of the Shrew. 141 
 
 open and above board) Gremio came in, with Lucentio 
 disguised as a classical professor. 
 
 Grumio instantly, as if in answer to his master's thought, 
 cries out : " This is no knavery ! See j to beguile the old 
 folks how the young folks lay their heads together ! Master, 
 master, look about you. Who goes there? ha? " 
 
 He has recognized Lucentio. Hortensio, mistaking him, 
 thinks he is alluding to old Gremio, and says, " Peace, Grumio, 
 't is the rival of my love." To which Grumio replies, ironi- 
 cally, " A proper stripling, and an amorous ! " 
 
 Then comes a scene where Gremio, who is to introduce 
 Lucentio to Baptista, instructs him how he may dispose 
 Bianca in his favor ; and thinking only of money, imagines 
 well-bound books will have an effect upon her. Grumio 
 standing by grumbles at Gremio as "an old ass," and can 
 hardly be persuaded to keep a civil tongue. When Gremio 
 perceives his rival Hortensio, he boasts that he has stolen a 
 march on him by having provided a teacher for Bianca ; but 
 Hortensio, assures him he has met a gentleman who has 
 promised to provide her with a music-master ; and then goes 
 on to say he thinks he has also found a suitor for Katharine. 
 " Hortensio, have you told him all her faults? " says Gremio. 
 Here Petruchio, without introduction, breaks in impatiently. 
 I think he is beginning to feel sorry for Kate, surrounded as 
 she is by a set of fools. " I know," he says, " she is an irk- 
 some, brawling scold ; if that be all, masters, I hear no harm." 
 And indeed, Petruchio is right ; there are worse faults by far 
 than a quick temper. Then, too, he is pleased to think there 
 is a task before him, — and he feels equal to it. Imagination 
 has a great deal to do with a man's love, and Petruchio is 
 beginning to think fair Kate " a foeman worthy of his steel." 
 
142 Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 Grumio too, who has unbounded faith in his master's abihty 
 to get his own way, begins to be of the same opinion. Rich, 
 beautiful, well-nurtured, and subdued by Petruchio, why 
 should not the lady prove a blessing to the family ? — ay, 
 more of a blessing than one who had Petruchio under her 
 thumb, if that were possible ; as it might be if the match 
 were made purely for love. Petruchio ends a speech about 
 the impotency of a woman's tongue with " Tush, tush, fright 
 boys with bugs ! " — that is, bug-bears. Hortensio, stupidly 
 honest, here remarks to Gremio that he had promised 
 they should together bear all the courting expenses of Petru- 
 chio. "Ay," says Gremio cautiously, *' provided he win 
 her." Petruchio says nothing. We may be sure he was too 
 much a gentleman to accept the proposition. 
 
 Here enters Tranio, dressed up splendidly as Lucentio, and 
 attended by the lackey Biondello. He inquires the way to 
 Baptista Minola's house — "he that has two fair daughters." 
 Gremio pricks up his ears and fears another suitor to 
 Bianca. Petruchio cries out, " Not her that chides, at any 
 hand I pray." Then ensues a wrangle between the suitors 
 of Bianca, in the course of which something disparaging is 
 said of Kate. But Kate is no longer defenceless ; Petruchio 
 stands up for her, and once more comes from Bianca's suitors 
 an offer of pecuniary compensation, should he succeed in 
 getting Katharine out of their way. To which offer Petruchio, 
 disgusted, says never a word. 
 
 Act H. Scene i. 
 
 We next find ourselves in Baptista's house ; and here Katha- 
 rine, fretted and humiliated, gives way to one of her worst 
 tantrums. Bianca is completely cowed. I think it is not so 
 
Taming of the Shrew. 143 
 
 much amiability as thorough fear of rousing the vexed devil in 
 Kate, which makes her so mealy-mouthed and submissive. 
 Kate is bent on finding out which suitor Bianca cares the 
 most for, and is carrying out her purpose with a JiiglT" 
 hand. 
 
 In the midst of the brawl Baptista enters with, as usual, 
 gibes for the elder sister, pity for the younger one. It is 
 perfectly true that a " soft answer turnetli away wrath ; " but 
 there are also times, when, as Katharine says : " Silence and 
 patience seem to flout the wrong-doer," — especially when 
 the offender feels well assured they spring from fear. Then 
 Katharine turns upon her father : Yes, he cares to provide 
 a husband for Bianca ! She, Katharine, his eldest, will 
 "dance barefoot on her sister's wedding day, and so lead 
 apes in hell " (signs of old maidenhood). Not that Katha- 
 rine would bear to be bartered away by Baptista like Bianca. 
 
 In her wrath, which Baptista's scolding only makes worse, 
 Kate is utterly unreasonable, for her father had really set 
 aside Bianca's suitors for her sake ; but she is so beside her- 
 self, poor girl, that she does not pause for reason, and 
 Baptista, at his wits' ends, can only wring his hands. 
 
 " There is something very funny," says the writer in the 
 "Monthly Packet," "in the way Petruchio marches in upon 
 him, saying, as it were, 'Good morning; I wish to marry 
 your daughter,' even before telling his own name. Baptista, 
 we know, is not sentimental, but he seems startled at this 
 way of going to work ; and fussy old Gremio is quite aghast 
 at the new comer's coolness, not only in his abrupt proposals, 
 wherein Tranio (the false Lucentio) promptly imitates him, 
 but in introducing a tutor for the young ladies before he has 
 been two minutes in the house. However, Baptista gladly 
 
144 Taming of the Shrew, 
 
 catches at any suitor for Katharine, and would doubtless 
 have treated the proposal with dignified consideration had 
 not the irrepressible Petruchio cut in with the bluntest ques- 
 tions as to the lady's dowry, and expressed his wish to get to 
 the point at once." Indeed, I fancy he wanted to have as 
 little as possible to do with Katharine's relations, especially 
 her father. But though Petruchio is mercenary in his talk, 
 it is in talk only. * He instantly proposes to settle on his 
 wife an equivalent for her dowry, — a matter that Bianca's 
 suitors haggle over. 
 
 When Baptista doubts if Petruchio can win his daughter's 
 love, he replies confidently : — 
 
 I am as peremptory as she proud-minded ; 
 And when two raging fires meet together, 
 
 They do consume the thing that feeds their fury. 
 
 * 
 
 At this moment Hortensio rushes in with his head broken. 
 Katharine, who, I think, recognized him under his disguise, 
 had flown out at him. She *' owed him one," and more than 
 one, for his insolence to her in the first scene of the first 
 act ; and she pays it with interest. I am inclined to think 
 she hated and despised Hortensio, even more than she did 
 old Gremio. 
 
 This scene only quickens Petruchio's desire to get to work 
 at his task of subjugation; and he gladly accepts Baptista* s 
 proposal to send his daughter to confer with him. 
 
 Baptista. Signior Petruchio, will you go with us, 
 Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you ? 
 
 Petruchio. I pray you, do; I will attend her here, 
 
 \Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, and Hortensio. 
 And woo her with some spirit when she comes. 
 Say that she rail ; why, then I '11 tell her plain, 
 
Taming of the Shrew. 145 
 
 She sings as sweetly as a nightingale ; 
 
 Say that she frowns ; I '11 say she looks as clear 
 
 As morning roses newly washed with dew. 
 
 Say she be mute, and will not speak a word ; 
 
 Then I '11 commend her volubility, 
 
 And say she uttereth piercing eloquence. 
 
 If she do bid me pack, I '11 give her thanks, 
 
 As though she bid me stay by her a week. 
 
 If she deny to wed, I 'II crave the day 
 
 When I shall ask the banns, and when be married. 
 
 But here she comes ; and now, Petruchio, speak. 
 
 \Enter Katharine. 
 Good morrow, Kate ; for that 's your name, I hear. 
 
 Katharine. Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing. 
 They call me Katharine, that do talk of me. 
 
 Petruchio. You lie, in faith, for you are called plain Kate, 
 And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst ; 
 But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom, 
 Kate of Kate-hall, my super-dainty Kate, 
 For dainties are all 9ates ; and therefore, Kate, 
 Take this of me. Kate of my consolation. 
 Hearing thy mildness praised in every town, 
 Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded 
 (Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs), 
 Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife. 
 
 Katharine. Moved ! in good time ; let him that moved you hither 
 Remove you hence. 
 
 The scene that follows is capital. At every point Kate 
 finds herself checkmated. Hitherto, her quick wit had 
 given her the advantage, in every encounter with the com- 
 monplace simpletons about her, whom she cowed with her 
 words, yet who stung and galled her. Moreover, every one 
 was as insolent to her as he dared to be ; reproaches and bad 
 words had all her life been heaped upon her; and here 
 indeed is a contrast, — a gentleman whose wits are keener 
 than her own ; one not only not afraid of her, but bent on 
 making her fear him ; and further, one who treats her, not 
 
 10 
 
1 46 Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 with contumely, but with deference and admiration. No 
 wonder, as sailors say, he takes the wind out of her sails. It 
 is also certain that any treatment that is new to an habitual 
 offender has the greatest effect on him. Thus, kindness, to 
 those used to be treated brutally ; sharpness, to those habitu- 
 ally indulged and spoiled ; boldness, with those accustomed 
 to domineer, almost always prevail. All these novelties 
 Petruchio tries with Katharine. He begins with sharp con- 
 tradiction, and she cannot stop him ; with flattery, to which 
 she is all unused ; with an interchange of wits, in which he 
 conquers ; with a soiip^on of brute force, when he seizes her 
 wrist and kisses her. He thinks, perhaps, he has gone too far, 
 and calls her, — " Come back, good Kate. I am a gentle- 
 man." At this she boxes his ears. He wins, however, even in 
 this challenge, declaring, " I swear I '11 cuff you if you strike 
 again ! " Then off he goes again in a quick interchange of 
 wits, which Kate, although the loser, enjoys as something to 
 which she is unaccustomed; so that, when he puts, his arm 
 around her again, she only cries : " I chafe you if I tarry, — 
 let me go ! " The spell has begun to work. Then he breaks 
 forth with flatteries, and ends by making believe that tlie world 
 had reported her to be slightly lame. With that she sweeps 
 across the stage, in all her queenliness, bent upon showing 
 herself to him at her best, and he breaks forth in genuine 
 admiration. Then, pressing his advantage, he announces 
 that she is as good as his wife already ; that the dowry is 
 agreed upon ; and that, will she, nill she, he who is born to 
 tame her means to be married on Sunday. 
 
 Katharine. I chafe you if I tarry, — let me go. 
 Petrtuhio. No, not a whit ; I find you passing gentle. 
 'T was told me you were rough, and coy, and sullen, 
 
Taming of the Shrew. 147 
 
 And now I find report a very liar, 
 For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous, 
 But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers ; 
 - Thou canst not frown ; thou canst not look askance, 
 Nor bite the lip as angry wenches will, 
 Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk ; 
 But thou with mildness entertain'st thy wooers. 
 With gentle conference, soft and aifable. 
 Why does the world report that Kate doth limp ? 
 O, slanderous world ! Kate, like the hazel twig. 
 Is straight and slender, and as brown in hue 
 As hazel nuts, and sweeter than the kernels. 
 
 ! let me see thee walk. Thou dost not halt. 
 Katharine. Go, fool ! and whom thou keep'st command. 
 Petruchio. Did ever Dian so become a grove 
 
 As Kate this chamber with her princely gait ? 
 
 O ! be thou Dian, and let her be Kate, 
 
 And then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sportful ! 
 
 Katharine. Where did you study all this goodly speech .? 
 
 Petruchio. It is extempore, from my mother-wit. 
 
 Katharine. A witty mother ! witless else her son. 
 
 Petruchio. Am I not wise ? . . . But, Kate, 
 Thus in plain terms : Your father hath consented 
 That you shall be my wife ; your dower 's agreed on ; 
 And, will you, nill you, I will marry you. 
 Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn. 
 For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty 
 (Thy beauty, that doth make me like thee well), 
 Thou must be married to no man but me. 
 , For I am he am born to tame you, Kate, 
 And bring you from a wild-cat to a Kate 
 Conformable, as other household Kates. 
 Here comes your father. Never make denial ; 
 
 1 must and will have Katharine for my wife. 
 
 Here enters Baptista, with Gremio and Tranio. Kate, 
 hotly displeased at hearing that all has been settled without 
 her consent, gives a very false account of the interview, 
 declaring Petruchio had behaved "like one half-lunatic, a 
 
148 Taming of the Shrew, 
 
 mad-cap ruffian, and a swearing Jack." Then Petruchio 
 pays her off with a still falser account of her own be- 
 havior : — 
 
 Father, 't is thus. Yourself and all the world 
 
 That talked of her, have talked amiss of her. 
 
 If she be curst it is for policy. 
 
 For she 's not froward, but modest as the dove ; 
 
 She is not hot, but temperate as the morn ; 
 
 For patience she will prove a second Grizzel ; 
 
 And Roman Lucrece for her chastity. 
 
 And to conclude, — we 've 'greed so well together 
 
 That upon Sunday is the wedding-day. 
 
 Then, while Kate is still bewildered by the audacity 
 of his assertions, he seizes her hand, and by way of giv- 
 ing her to understand he is no fortune-hunter, and also 
 to get rid of her relations, and avoid occasions of dis- 
 pute, he announces his intention of going at once to 
 Venice, and bringing such things as women love, to deck 
 his bride. 
 
 To some gibes on the part of Gremio and Tranio, he 
 replies : — 
 
 Be patient, gentlemen ; I choose her for myself. 
 
 If she and I be pleased, what 's that to you } 
 
 'T is bargained 'twixt us twain, being alone, 
 
 That she shall still be curst in company. 
 
 I tell you, 't is incredible to believe 
 
 How much she loves me. O ! the kindest Kate ! — 
 
 She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss 
 
 She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath, 
 
 That in a twink she won me to her love. 
 
 O ! you are novices. 'T is a world to see 
 
 How tame, when men and women are alone, 
 
 The veriest wretch can make the curstest shrew. 
 
 Give me thy hand, Kate. I will unto Venice 
 
 To buy apparel 'gainst the wedding-day. 
 
Taming of the Shrew, 149 
 
 Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests ; 
 I will be sure my Katharine shall be fine. 
 
 Baptista. I know not what to say. But give me your hands ; 
 God send you joy, Petruchio ! *t is a match. 
 
 Gremio and Tranio. Amen, say we ; we will be witnesses. 
 
 Petruchio. Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu. 
 I will to Venice ; Sunday comes apace. 
 We will have rings, and things, and fine array ; 
 And kiss me, Kate, we will be married o' Sunday. 
 
 Then Kate and Petruchio having left the chamber, there 
 ensues a wholly different scene, — the suit of Bianca's wooers. 
 She is not consulted even as much as Katharine, but " he 
 who bids highest shall have her," says her father. Gre- 
 mio, who is really very rich, gives an inventory of his 
 valuables : — 
 
 First, as you know, my house within the city 
 Is richly furnished with plate and gold, — 
 Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands. 
 My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry. 
 In ivory coffers I have stufied my crowns ; 
 In cypress chests my arras, counterpoints. 
 Costly apparel, tents, and canopies, 
 Fine linen, Turkey cushions, bossed with pearl, 
 Valance of Venice gold in needlework. 
 Pewter and brass, and all things that belong 
 To house or housekeeping. Then at my farm 
 I have a hundred milch kine to the pail, 
 Six score fat oxen standing in my stalls, 
 And all things answerable to this portion. 
 Myself am struck in years, I must confess ; 
 And if I die to-morrow, this is hers 
 If, while I live, she will be only mine. 
 
 Then Tranio caps every one of Gremio 's propositions, 
 drawing the long bow even as regards the wealth of Vincentio, 
 Lucentio's father. But Gremio hesitates as to his wife's join- 
 ture. Baptista accepts Tranio as the highest bidder, on 
 
150 Taming of the Shrew, 
 
 condition that his (supposed) father, Vincentio, ratifies his 
 promises ; which Gremio is certain no old Italian fox will 
 ever do. 
 
 Act III. Scene i. 
 
 Bianca is alone with her two lovers, Lucentio and Hor- 
 tensio, disguised as teachers. Lucentio knows Hortensio, 
 but Hortensio is in the dark concerning Lucentio. The 
 lesson scene is a very pretty one. The two tutors each want 
 the exclusive attention of their charming scholar, who puts 
 them in their proper places with pretty resolution. Hortensio 
 is set to tune his lute, while Lucentio reads out lines of Virgil, 
 and construes them in her ear with love-making, as : " Hac 
 ibai, as I told you before ; Simois, I am Lucentio ; hie est, son 
 of Vincentio of Pisa ; Sigeas tellus, disguised thus to get your 
 love." ** Bianca has a turn for contrivance," says the writer 
 in the " Monthly Packet j " "and we can fancy her sitting 
 with a perfectly demure face while Lucentio rolls out the sound- 
 ing Latin, and whispers his much more interesting construing 
 of the same. The impatient musician meanwhile fumes to and 
 fro, causing Lucentio to come out with edifying scraps of 
 classical information (such as, 'Sure, ^acides was Ajax, — 
 called so from his grandfather'), — which do not, however, 
 throw his rival off the scent of his secret. Hortensio cannot 
 get anything but mere civility from Bianca ; even his original 
 ' gamut ' does not make any impression upon her, and he is 
 considerably disgusted and disenchanted." 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 This next scene brings us to Sunday, the wedding-day. 
 All is ready in Baptista's house, but Petruchio has not arrived. 
 
Taming of the Shrew. 1 5 1 
 
 Katharine is bitterly mortified and disappointed. She had 
 really liked her bridegroom, and now endeavors to salve over 
 the affront by declaring he was mad, — she had said so from 
 the first. But she is more dignified and reasonable than 
 could have been expected. There is all the woman in her 
 exclamation, as she weeps, " Would Katharine had never seen 
 him, though ! " 
 
 At this point in rushes Biondello, the lackey, with news 
 that signior Petruchio is at hand, and in this fashion, — 
 
 In a new hat and an old jerkin ; a pair of old breeches, thrice 
 turned ; a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled, the 
 other laced ; an old rusty sword ta'en out of the town armory, with a 
 broken hilt ; and two broken points, — his horse hipped with an old 
 mothy saddle, the stirrups of no kindred ; besides, possessed with the 
 glanders, troubled with the lampas, full of wind-galls, sped with spavins, 
 rayed with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the 
 staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed in the back, and shoulder- 
 shotten, ne'er-legged before, and with a half-checked bit, and a head- 
 stall of sheep's leather, which being restrained to keep him from 
 stumbhng hath been often burst, and now repaired with knots ; one 
 girth six times pieced, and a woman's crupper of velours, which hath 
 two letters left of her name fairly set down in studs, and here and 
 there pieced with packthread ! 
 
 Baptista. Who comes with him ? 
 
 Biondello. O, sir, his lackey, for all the world caparisoned like the 
 horse, — with a linen stock on one leg, and a kersey boot-hose on the 
 other, gartered with a red and blue list; an old hat and the "Amours 
 in Forty Fancies " pricked in it like a feather. A monster, a very 
 monster in apparel, and not like a Christian foot-boy, or a gentleman's 
 lackey. 
 
 The very sound of this speech is breathless. We see Bi- 
 ondello, as we read it, with his eyes popping out of his head. 
 In old editions the paper book which Grumio has twisted up 
 and stuck into his old hat like a feather, is called The Hu- 
 mor of Forty Fancies, and it has puzzled commentators. By 
 
152 Taming of the Shrew, 
 
 help of the strange, unknown manuscript corrector of the old 
 Folio, that title is now supposed to be a misprint. Drayton, 
 the author of the noble ballad of Agin court, and the Poly- 
 Olbion from which Shakspeare drew passages in " Midsum- 
 mer Night's Dream," mysteriously quarrelled with Shakspeare, 
 and it is conjectured that he may have been affronted by the 
 dishonorable use to which his brother author, for a joke, put 
 his " Amours in Quatorzains." 
 
 Petnichio makes his blustering appearance as if he had 
 never even heard of the wedding. His first question is, 
 " Who 's at home ? " Tranio, who is not a gentleman, com- 
 ments at once on his apparel. *' Were it better, then," cries 
 Petruchio, dashing across the stage, "that I should rush in 
 thusV 
 
 Mark throughout this scene the dignity and courtesy of 
 Baptista, old mercenary fool as he is, and the upstart inter- 
 ference of Tranio, and observe how in matters of social in- 
 tercourse breeding and blood tell. 
 
 There is a touch of real feehng — a feeling that I should 
 think might rise in the heart of every bridegroom who had 
 the right stuff in him — in Petruchio's wish that the rents 
 that marred his life were all repaired for the sake of the 
 woman who was henceforth to wear him. 
 
 Petruchio. Come, where be those gallants ? who 's at home ? 
 
 Baptista. You are welcome, sir. 
 
 Petruchio. And yet I come not well. 
 
 Baptista. And yet you halt not. 
 
 Tranio. Not so well apparelled 
 
 As I wish you were. 
 
 Petruchio. Were it better I should rush in thus ? 
 But where is Kate ? where is my lovely bride ? 
 How does my father } Gentles, methinks you frown ; 
 
Taming of the Shrew, 153 
 
 And wherefore gaze this goodly company, 
 As if they saw some wondrous monument, 
 Some comet, or unusual prodigy ? 
 
 Baptista. Why, sir, you know this is your wedding-day. 
 First we were sad, fearing you would not come ; 
 Now sadder that you come so unprovided. 
 Fie ! doff this habit, shame to your estate, 
 An eye-sore to our solemn festival. 
 
 Tranio. And tell us what occasion of import 
 Hath all so long detained you from your wife, 
 And sent you hither so unlike yourself. 
 
 Petruchio. Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear. 
 Sufficeth I am come to keep my word, 
 Though in some part enforced to digress; 
 Which at more leisure I will so excuse 
 That you shall all be satisfied withal. 
 But where is Kate .? I stay too long from her. 
 The morning wears ; 't is time we were at church. 
 
 Tranio. See not your bride in these irreverent robes. 
 Go to my chamber ; put on clothes of mine. 
 
 Petruchio. Not I, believe me ; thus I '11 visit her. 
 
 Baptista. But thus, I trust, you will not marry her. 
 
 Petruchio. Good sooth, e'en thus ! therefore have done with words ; 
 To me she 's married, not unto my clothes. 
 Could I repair what she will wear in me 
 As I can change these poor accoutrements 
 *T were well for Kate, and better for myself, — 
 But what a fool I am to chat with you 
 When I should bid good-morrow to my bride, 
 And seal the title with a loving kiss. 
 
 When Baptista, Petruchio, Grumio, and the lackey go out, 
 Tranio (vi^hom I detest) has a few words apart with Lucentio 
 about their plans. He proposes to substitute a false Vincentio, 
 and actually to swindle Baptista out of his Bianca. Lucentio, 
 we are happy to find, prefers an honest runaway marriage. 
 
 Tranio. But, sir, to her love concerneth us to add 
 Her father's liking. Which to bring to pass. 
 
154 Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 As I before imparted to your worship, 
 
 I am to get a man, — whate'er he be 
 
 It skills not much, we '11 fit him to our turn, — 
 
 And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa, 
 
 And make assurance here in Padua 
 
 Of greater sums than I have promised. 
 
 So shall you quietly enjoy your hope, 
 
 And marry sweet Bianca with consent. 
 
 Lucentio, Were it not that my fellow-schoolmaster 
 Doth watch Bianca's steps so narrowly, 
 'T were good, methinks, to steal our marriage ; 
 Which once performed, let all the world say — No ! 
 I '11 keep mine own despite of all the world. 
 
 While they converse comes in old Gremio. He has 
 been present at the mad-cap wedding. Here is the scene. 
 Mark still the impudence and want of courteous feeling in 
 Tranio. 
 
 Tranio. Signior Gremio ! came you from the church "i 
 
 Gremio. As willingly as e'er I came from school. 
 
 Tranio. And is the bride and bridegroom coming home ? 
 
 Gremio. A bridegroom, say you ? 'T is a groom indeed ; 
 A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find. 
 
 Tranio. Curster than she ? Why! 't is impossible. 
 
 Gremio. Why he 's a devil — a devil, the very fiend. 
 
 Tranio. Why she 's a devil — a devil, the devil's dam. 
 
 Gremio. Tut ! she 's a lamb, a dove, a fool to him. 
 I '11 tell you, sir Lucentio : When the priest 
 Should ask if Katharine should be his wife, 
 "Ay ! by gogs- wounds ! " quoth he, and swore so loud 
 That, all amazed, the priest let fall the book ; 
 And as he stooped again to pick it up, 
 The mad-brained bridegroom took him such a cuff 
 That down fell priest and book, and book and priest. 
 " Now take them up," quoth he, " if any list." 
 
 Tranio. What said the wench when he arose again ? 
 
 Gremio. Trembled and shook, for why, he stamped and swore. 
 As if the vicar meant to cozen him. 
 But after many ceremonies done. 
 
Taming of the Shrew. 155 
 
 He calls for wine : " A health," quoth he, as if 
 He had been aboard, carousing to his mates 
 After a storm, — quaffed off the muscadel, 
 And threw the sops all in the sexton's face, 
 Having no other reason, so he said. 
 But that his beard grew thin and hungerly, 
 And seemed to ask him sops as he was drinking. 
 This done, he took the bride about the neck. 
 And kissed her lips with such a clamorous smack 
 That at the parting all the church did echo. 
 I, seeing this, came hence for very shame, 
 J And after me I know the rout is coming ; 
 Such a mad marriage never was before. 
 Hark ! hark ! I think I hear the minstrels play. 
 
 The "rout," as Gremio calls it, comes in, and we may 
 remark Petruchio in the character of a gentleman; for a 
 moment he lays aside his foolery. It is really necessary 
 he should carry off Katharine at once ; and though we are 
 sorry he should refuse her first request, asked mildly, we see 
 that he has reason on his side. We may note too that 
 Baptista, the real host, does not join in Tranio's officious 
 invitation to stay to dinner. I think he was glad to be rid of 
 the incomprehensible, disorderly pair. But Katharine, the 
 wife, makes her first effort at self-assertion, and is utterly 
 foiled. Under a mask of boundless devotion to her interests, 
 exacting for his wife a deference and attention she is little 
 accustomed to, and with words of lover's fondness, Petruchio 
 insists on having his own way — ay, and on his right to have 
 it too. He has right and power on his side, and treats his 
 wife to a burlesque assertion of that right, till Katharine is 
 utterly bewildered, and Baptista is thankful to be left in peace. 
 " We may remark," says the writer in the " Monthly Packet," 
 " that this is the only time that Petruchio distinctly claims 
 authority to force Kate to do what she dislikes. When once 
 
156 Taming of the Shrew, 
 
 he has so far mastered her, all his future operations are veiled 
 under the appearance of considering her wishes, and what 
 is good for her. He knows that to lose his temper would 
 be to give her an advantage over him, and besides, being a 
 good fellow and a gentleman, he would never dream of really 
 hurting her." 
 
 Petruchio. Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains. 
 I know you think to dine with me to-day, 
 And have prepared great store of wedding cheer ; 
 But so it is, my haste doth call me hence, 
 And therefore here I mean to take my leave. 
 
 Baptista. Is 't possible you will away to-night ? 
 
 Petruchio. I must away to-day, before night comes. 
 Make it no wonder ; if you knew my business 
 You would entreat me rather go than stay. 
 And, honest company, I thank you all 
 That have beheld me give myself away 
 To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife. 
 Dine with my father, drink a health to me. 
 For I must hence ; and farewell to you all. 
 
 Tranio. Let us entreat you stay till after dinner. 
 
 Petruchio. It may not be. 
 
 Gremio. Let me entreat you. 
 
 Petruchio. It cannot be. 
 
 Katharine. Let me entreat you. 
 
 Petruchio. I am content. 
 
 Katharine. Are you content to stay ? 
 
 Petruchio. I am content you should entreat me stay, 
 But yet not stay, entreat me how you can. 
 
 Katharine. Now, if you love me, stay. 
 
 Petruchio. Grumio ! My horses. 
 
 Katharine. Nay, then. 
 Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day ; 
 No, nor to-morrow, nor till I please myself. 
 The door is open, sir, — there lies your way. 
 For me, I '11 not be gone 'till I please myself. 
 'T is like you '11 prove a jolly surly groom, 
 That take it on you at the first so roundly. 
 
Taming of the Shrew, 157 
 
 Petruchio. O, Kate, content thee ; prithee, be not angry. 
 
 Katharine. I will be angry ! What hast thou to do ? 
 Father, be quiet ! he shall stay my leisure. 
 
 Gremio. Ay, marry, sir ; now it begins to work ! 
 
 Katharine. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner ; 
 I see a woman may be made a fool 
 If she had not the spirit to resist. 
 
 Petruchio. They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command. 
 Obey the bride, you that attend on her. 
 Go to the feast, revel and domineer. 
 Be mad and merry — or go hang yourselves ; 
 But for my bonny Kate, she must with me. 
 Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret ; 
 I will be master of what is mine own. 
 She is my goods, my chattels ; she 's my house, 
 My household stuff, my field, my barn. 
 My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything. 
 And here she stands ; touch her whoever dare ! 
 I '11 bring my action on the proudest he 
 That stops my way in ?adua. Grumio ! 
 Draw forth thy weapon ; we 're beset with thieves ! 
 Rescue thy mistress if thou be'st a man ! 
 Fear not, sweet wench ; they shall not touch thee, Kate ; 
 I '11 buckler thee against a million. 
 
 \Exeunt Petruchio^ Katharine, and Grumio. 
 
 Act IV. Scene i. 
 " The wit and spirit of the play increase perceptibly after 
 we leave Padua and go home with the bridal paii." Grumio 
 is the kind of old servant we have all seen in the Uncle 
 Remus days on southern plantations, — an inveterate grum- 
 bler, but absolutely identified with his master and all his 
 master's interests, except when those interests interfere with 
 Grumio's own notions of what is due to himself. Kate, being 
 his master's wife, is now a part of his master, and as such is 
 entitled to all reasonable consideration. Grumio never com- 
 plains of hery and doubtless all his life Katharine was faithful 
 
158 Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 to him, and he loyal to his mistress. Nevertheless, it is she 
 who will have to put up with his sulks and his tantrums, not 
 he with hers. But here is the scene, with the story Grumio 
 refused to tell, but told, pretending not to tell it. I am 
 sure Petruchio knew his Katharine was all safe before he 
 fell to beating Grumio because her horse stumbled. Notice 
 the fun the elder servant makes of Curtis for using pompous 
 words. 
 
 Grumio [entering a hall in Petruchio' s country-house]. Fie, fie, on 
 all tired jades ! on all mad masters ! and all foul ways ! was ever man 
 so beaten ? was ever man so weary ? I am sent before to make a 
 fire, and they are coming after to warm them. Now, were not I 
 
 A little pot, 
 And soon hot, 
 
 my very lips might freeze to my teeth, and my tongue to the roof of my 
 mouth, my heart in my belly ere I should come by a fire to thaw me. 
 But I with blowing the fire shall warm myself, for, considering the 
 weather, a taller man than I will take cold. Holla ! Ho. . a ! Curtis ! 
 
 Curtis. Who is that, calls so coldly ? 
 
 Grumio. A piece of ice. If thou doubt it thou mayst slide from 
 my shoulder to my heel. A fire, good Curtis ! 
 
 Curtis. Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio ? 
 
 Grumio. O ! ay, Curtis, and therefore, fire — fire ! 
 
 Curtis. Is she so hot a shrew as she 's reported ? 
 
 Grumio. She was, good Curtis, before this frost. But thou 
 knowest winter tames man, woman, and beast ; for it hath tamed my 
 old master, and my new mistress, and myself, fellow Curtis. 
 
 Curtis. I prithee, good Grumio, tell me — how goes the world ? 
 
 Grumio. A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine, and there- 
 fore, fire ! Do thy duty, and have thy duty, for my master and mistress 
 are almost frozen to death. 
 
 Curtis. There's fire ready; and therefore, good Grumio, the 
 news? 
 
 Grumio. But where 's the cook ? Is supper ready, the house 
 trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept, the serving-men in their 
 new fustian, and every officer his wedding-garment on ? Be the jacks 
 
Taming of the Shrew. 159 
 
 fair within, the jills fair without, the carpets laid, and everything 
 in order ? 
 
 Curtis. All ready ; and therefore, I pray thee, news. 
 
 Grumio. First, know my horse is tired, and my master and mis- 
 tress fallen out. 
 
 Curtis. How ? 
 
 Grumio. Out of their saddles into the dirt ; and thereby hangs 
 a tale. 
 
 Curtis. Let 's ha' it, good Grumio. 
 
 Grumio. Lend thine ear. 
 
 Curtis. Here. 
 
 Grumio. There! {Strikes him.] This cuff was but to knock at 
 your ear and beseech listening ; now I '11 begin : Imprimis, we 
 came down a foul hill, my master riding behind my mistress. . . . 
 
 Curtis. Both on one horse ? 
 
 Grumio. Tell thou the tale ! — But hadst thou not crossed me, 
 thou shouldst have heard how her horse fell, and she under her horse. 
 Thou shouldst have heard in how miry a place ; how she was be- 
 moiled ; how he left her with the horse upon her ; how he beat 
 me because her horse stumbled; how she waded through the dirt 
 to pluck him off me ; how he swore ; how she prayed, that never 
 prayed before ; how I cried ; how the horses ran away ; how my 
 bridle was burst ; how I lost my crupper, — with many things of 
 worthy memory ; which now shall die in oblivion, and thou return in- 
 experienced to thy grave. 
 
 Curtis. By this reckoning he is more shrew than she. 
 
 Grumio. Ay ; and that you and the proudest of you all shall find 
 when he comes home. But what talk I of this ? Call forth Nathaniel, 
 Joseph, Nicholas, Philip, Walter, Sugarsop, and the rest. Let their 
 heads be sleekly combed, their blue coats brushed, and their garters 
 of an indifferent knit. Let them courtesy with their left legs, and not 
 presume to touch a hair of my master's horse-tail till they kiss their 
 hands. Are they all ready ? 
 
 Then enter Katharine and Petruchio. The poor girl is cold, 
 weary, draggled, hungry, frightened. Petruchio begins by 
 storming at the servants, whom he expected to meet him in 
 the park, and Grumio, who has really wasted his time telling 
 his story to Curtis, bursts forth with a string of false excuses. 
 
i6o Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 It is a handsome house, with a park, and retainers in abun- 
 dance, that the bridegroom has brought his Kate to. She 
 has married a good fellow and a gentleman, — a rich man, 
 well considered, and a man of wit and parts fully equal to her 
 own. She has made an excellent match, when she could 
 not have expected it, and had almost made up her mind 
 that she was to die single ; and now he is going to show her 
 how ill-temper can mar everything. He loses no time in 
 calling for supper, over which (though she is to eat none 
 of it) poor Kate is invited to say grace. 
 
 Petruchio. Go rascals, go, and fetch my supper in 
 
 \Sings:\ Where is the life that late I led ? 
 Where are those — Sit down, Kate, and welcome. 
 
 [Re-enter servants, with supper. 
 Nay, good, sweet Kate, be merry. 
 Off with my boots, you rogues ! you villains ! When .-' 
 
 [Sings.'] It was the friar of orders gray, 
 
 As he forth walked upon his way — 
 Out ! out ! you rogue, you pluck my foot awry. 
 
 [Strikes him.'] Take that, and mend the pluckmg off the other. 
 Be merry, Kate. Some water here ! What, ho ! 
 Where's my spaniel, Troilus .? Sirrah, get you hence, 
 And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither, — 
 One, Kate, that you must kiss, and be acquainted with. 
 Where are my slippers ? Shall I have some water ? 
 Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily. 
 
 [Servant lets the ewer fall. Strikes him. 
 
 Katharine. Patience, I pray you ; 't was a fault unwilling. 
 
 Petruchio. A careless, beetle-headed, flap-eared knave. 
 Come, Kate, sit down ; I know you have a stomach. 
 Will you give thanks, sweet Kate, or else shall I ? 
 What is this — mutton ? 
 
 I Servant, Ay. 
 
 Petruchio. Who brought it ? 
 
 I Servant. I. 
 
 Petruchio. 'T is burnt ; and so, I swear, is all the meat ! 
 What dogs are these t — where is the rascal cook ? 
 
Taming of the Shrew, i6i 
 
 How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser, 
 And serve it thus to me who love it not ? 
 There \ take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all 1 
 
 [ Throws the meat, etc., about the stage. 
 You heedless jolt-heads and unmannered slaves ! 
 What, do you grumble ? I '11 be with you straight ! 
 
 Katharine. I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet ; 
 The meat was well, if you were so contented. 
 
 Petriichio. I tell thee, Kate, 't was burnt, and dried away, 
 And I expressly am forbid to touch it ; 
 For it engenders choler, planteth anger. 
 And better 't were that both of us did fast, — 
 Since of ourselves, ourselves are choleric, — 
 Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh. 
 Be patient ; to-morrow it shall be mended. 
 And for this night we '11 fast for company. 
 Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber. 
 
 \Exeunt Fetruchio, Kathariney and Curtis. 
 
 Nathaniel [advancing]. Peter, didst ever see the like ? 
 
 Peter. He kills her in her own humor. 
 
 {^Re-enter Curtis. 
 
 Grumio. Where is he .? 
 
 Curtis. In her chamber, making a sermon to her. 
 And rails and swears and rates, that she, poor fool, 
 Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak. 
 And sits as one new-risen from a dream. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Now we return to Padua, to Baptista's house, where Tranio 
 (the false Lucentio) brings Hortensio to hear the real Lu- 
 centio making love to Bianca. Hortensio, disgusted at her 
 carrying on a flirtation with a mere music master, swears to 
 give her up if Tranio (the false Lucentio) will too. The 
 littleness of Hortensio comes out at every word, as the want 
 of the true gentleman does in Tranio. After Hortensio goes 
 out the whole party seem to be in league with one another. 
 Biondello rushes in with news that he has seen an old travel- 
 
1 62 Taming of the Shrew, 
 
 ler coming into town who will do to personate Vincentio, 
 Lucentio's father ; and Tranio carries out his lackey's plot, 
 persuading an old pedant, on his way to Tripoli (where much 
 Arab learning was to be acquired in those days), to come to, 
 his house and to personate Vincentio. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 We go back to Petruchio's country-seat, and find poor 
 Katharine beseeching Grumio to get her a morsel to eat ; but 
 she is in a house where all are faithful to the master. It was 
 cruel to mock her with the mustard, but let us hope Grumio 
 knew that her dinner was soon coming. 
 
 Grumio. No, no, forsooth ; I dare not, for my life. 
 
 Katharine. The more my wrong, the more his spite appears. 
 What ! did he marry me to famish me "i 
 Beggars that come unto my father's door 
 Upon entreaty have a present alms ; 
 If not, elsewhere they meet with charity. 
 But I — who never knew how to entreat, 
 Nor never needed what I should entreat — 
 Am starved for meat, giddy for lack of sleep. 
 With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed. 
 And that which spites me more than all these wants, 
 He does it under name of perfect love ; 
 As who should say, if I should sleep or eat 
 'T were deadly sickness, or 't were present death. 
 I prithee go and get me some repast, — 
 I care not what, so it be wholesome food. 
 
 Grumio. What say you to a neat's foot ? 
 
 Katharine. 'T is passing good. I pray you let me have it. 
 
 Grumio. I fear it is too choleric a meat, — 
 How say you to a fat tripe finely broiled .>* 
 
 Katharine. I like it well ; good Grumio, fetch it me. 
 
 Grumio. I cannot tell ; I fear 't is choleric. 
 What say you to a piece of beef and mustard ? 
 
 Katharine. A dish that I do love to feed upon. 
 
Taming of the Shrew, 163 
 
 — — % 
 
 Grumio. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little. 
 
 Katharine. Why, then, the beef, and let the mustard rest. 
 
 Grumio. Nay, then, I will not ; you shall have the mustard, 
 Or else you get no beef from Grumio. 
 
 Katharine. Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt. 
 
 Grumio. Why, then, the mustard without the beef. 
 
 Katharine [beating him\. Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding 
 knave, 
 That feed'st me with the very name of meat. 
 Sorrow on thee, and all the pack of you. 
 That triumph thus upon my misery ! 
 Go ! get thee gone, I say. 
 
 \Enter Petruchio, with a dish of meat, and Hortensio. 
 
 Petruchio. How fares my Kate .'' What, sweeting, all amort .-* 
 
 Hortensio. Mistress, what cheer } 
 
 Katharine. Faith, as cold as can be. 
 
 Petruchio. Pluck up thy spirits, look cheerfully upon me. 
 Here, love, thou seest how diligent I am, 
 To dress the meat myself, and bring it thee. 
 I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks. 
 What, not a word .'' Nay, then, thou lov'st it not ; 
 And all my pains is sorted to no proof; 
 Here ! take away this dish. 
 
 Katharine. Pray you, let it stand. 
 
 Petruchio. The poorest service is repaid with thanks ^ 
 And so shall mine, before you touch the meat. 
 
 Katharine. I thank you, sir. 
 
 Hortensio. Signior Petruchio, fie ! — you are to blame ; 
 Come, Mistress Kate, I '11 bear you company. 
 
 Petruchio [aside]. Eat it all up, Hortensio, if you love me. 
 Much good do it,- Kate, to thy gentle heart, 
 But eat apace. And now, my bonny love, 
 Will we return unto thy father's house, 
 And revel it as bravely as the best, — 
 With silken coats, and caps, and golden rings ; 
 With ruflfs, and cuffs, and fardingales, and things ; 
 With scarfs, and fans, and double change of bravery ; 
 With amber bracelets, beads and all this knavery. 
 What, hast thou dined ? The tailor stays thy leisure, 
 To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure. 
 
164 Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 One hardly knows what brought Hortensio to that country 
 place, unless it were that, wanting to draw off from Bianca, he 
 sought Petruchio as one who was under obligation to him. 
 He was petty enough, too, to be willing to indulge a prying 
 curiosity. Now comes the inimitable scene with the tailor 
 and haberdasher. Kate is not wholly tamed. Two things 
 embolden her, — the dinner she has eaten, and the presence 
 of Hortensio. It is wonderful how the presence of one who 
 we are sure must be thinking us ill-used will give us courage. 
 Observe, Petruchio will wrong no man by his capers ; the tai- 
 lor is to be assured at once he will be fully paid. Haber- 
 dasher, by the way, is a term still used in England for 
 one who sells silk goods, ribands, etc. ; but it appears in 
 Shakspeare's time to have been the synonyme for a man- 
 milliner. 
 
 Haberdasher. Here is the cap your worship did bespeak. 
 
 Petruchio. Why, this was moulded on a porringer I 
 A velvet dish ! Fie, fie. . . . 
 Why, 't is a cockle, or a walnut-shell, 
 A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby's cap ; 
 Away with it ; come, let me have a bigger. 
 
 Katharine. I '11 have no bigger ; this doth fit the time, 
 And gentlewomen wear such caps as these. 
 
 Petruchio. When you are gentle you shall have one too, 
 And not till then. 
 
 Here breaks in Hortensio, with an aside, " That will not 
 be in haste." A few days before he would have spoken this 
 aloud, with a sneer ; now Katharine is protected from imperti- 
 nence. 
 
 Katharine. Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak ; 
 And speak I will. I am no child, no babe ; 
 Your betters have endured me say my mind, 
 And if you cannot, best you stop your ears. 
 
Taming of the Shrew. 165 
 
 My tongue will tell the anger of my heart ; 
 Or else my heart concealing it, will break. 
 And rather than it shall, I will be free, 
 E'en to the uttermost — as I please — in words. 
 
 Petruchio. Why, thou say'st true ; it is a paltry cap, 
 A custard coffin, a bauble, a silken pie ; 
 I love thee well in that thou lik'st it not. 
 
 Katharine. Love me, or love me not, I like the cap, 
 And I will have it, or I will have none. 
 
 Petruchio. Thy gown ? why, ay. Come, tailor, let us see it. 
 
 ! mercy ! heavens ! what masking stuff is here t 
 What 's this "i — a sleeve ? 't is like a demi-cannon. 
 What ! up and down, carved like an apple-tart ! 
 Here 's snip, and nip, and cut, and slish, and slash, 
 Like to a censer in a barber's shop. 
 
 Why, what o' devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this ? 
 
 Tailor. You bid me make it orderly and well. 
 According to the fashion and the time. 
 
 Petruchio. Marry, I did ; but if you be remembered, 
 
 1 did not bid you mar it to the time. 
 Go ! hop me over every kennel home. 
 For you shall hop without my custom, sir ; 
 
 I '11 none of it. Hence, make the best of it ! 
 
 Katharine. I never saw a better-fashioned gown, — 
 More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable. 
 Belike you mean to make a puppet of me ? 
 
 Petruchio. Why, true ; he means to make a puppet of thee. 
 
 Tailor. She says your worship means to make a puppet of her. 
 
 Petruchio. O ! monstrous arrogance ! Thou liest, thou thread. 
 Thou thimble. 
 
 Thou yard, three quarters, half yard, quarter, nail, — 
 Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter cricket thou, — 
 Braved in mine own house with a skein of thread I 
 Away, thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant, 
 Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard 
 As thou shalt think on prating while thou Hvest. 
 I tell thee, I, that thou hast marred her gown. 
 
 Tailor. Your worship is deceived ; the gown is made 
 Just as my master had direction. 
 Grumio gave order how it should be done. 
 
1 66 Taming of the Shrew, 
 
 Grumio. I gave him no order ; I gave him the stuff. 
 
 Tailor. How did you desire it should be made ? 
 
 Grumio. Marry, sir, with needle and thread. 
 
 Tailor. But did you not request to have it cut ? 
 
 Grumio. I bid thy master cut out the gown, but I did not bid 
 him cut it to pieces. 
 
 Tailor. Why, here is the note of the fashion to testify. 
 
 Petruchio. Read it. 
 
 Tailor. Imprimis^ a loose-bodied gown. . . . 
 
 Grumio. Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, sew me in 
 the skirts of it, and beat me to death with a hank of brown thread ; I 
 said a gown. 
 
 Petruchio. Proceed. 
 
 Tailor. With a small compassed cape. . . . 
 
 Grumio, I confess the cape. 
 
 Tailor. With a trunk sleeve. . . 
 
 Grumio. I confess two sleeves. 
 
 Tailor. The sleeves curiously cut. . . . 
 
 Petruchio. Ay, there 's the villany ! 
 
 Grumio. Error in the bill, sir — error in the bill. I commanded 
 the sleeves should be cut out and sewed up again, and that I '11 prove 
 upon thee, tailor's boy, though thy little finger be armed with a 
 thimble. . . . 
 
 Petruchio [aside], Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid. — 
 [Aloud.] Go ! take it hence ; begone, and say no more. 
 Well, come, my Kate, we will unto your father's 
 E'en in these honest, mean habiliments. 
 Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor ; 
 For 't is the mind .that makes the body rich ; 
 And, as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, 
 So honor peereth in the meanest habit. 
 What, is the jay more precious than the lark 
 Because his feathers are more beautiful ? 
 Or is the adder better than the eel 
 Because his painted skin contents the eye ? 
 O, no, good Kate. Neither art thou the worse 
 For this poor furniture and mean array. 
 If thou account'st it shame lay it on me ; 
 And therefore, frolic. We will hence forthwith, 
 To feast and sport us at thy father's house. 
 
Taming of the Shrew. 167 
 
 Go call my men, and let us straight to him. 
 And bring our horses unto Long-lane end ; 
 There will we mount, and thither walk afoot. 
 Let 's see. I think 't is now some seven o"'clock, 
 And well we may come there by dinner-time. 
 
 Katharine. I dare assure you, sir, 't is almost two, 
 And 't will be supper-time ere you come there. 
 
 Petricchio. It shall be seven ere I go to horse. 
 Look ! what I speak, or do, or think to do, 
 You are still crossing it. Sirs, let't alone; 
 I will not go to-day. And ere I do, 
 It shall be what o'clock I say it is. 
 
 Hortensio. Why, so ! this gallant will command the sun ! 
 
 And on this hint does Petruchio subsequently act. Ob- 
 serve throughout his speech he makes points on which he 
 expects Katharine will oppose him. They will go in shabby 
 clothes, — she says nothing; fine clothes are no better 
 than mean ones, — she does not contradict him ; she must 
 frolic, though little inclined for it, — she accepts the sugges- 
 tion ; they will walk through the mud to Long-lane's end, 
 — she makes no objection ; nor does she speak till she gently 
 sets him right as to the clock, and then he turns upon her 
 with the only unkind thing he has ever said to her, — putting 
 himself so glaringly and unmistakably in the wrong that she 
 has the comfort of now perceiving the drift of all his former 
 unaccountable behavior. 
 
 Sce7ie 4. 
 
 This scene discloses a plot for Bianca's betrothal to the 
 false Lucentio, and suggests to the real Lucentio a plan for 
 carrying her off. But for that I strongly suspect Tranio 
 would have out-witted his young master in their "httle 
 game." 
 
1 68 Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 This scene takes place upon a public road, on which are 
 travelling Petruchio, his wife, and Hortensio. 
 
 Petruchio. Come on, o' Heaven's name ; once more toward 
 our father's. 
 Good Lord ! how bright and goodly shines the moon ! 
 
 Katharine. The moon ? — the sun. It is not moonlight now. 
 
 Petruchio. I say it is the moon that shines so bright. 
 
 Katharine. I know it is the sun that shines so bright. 
 
 Petruchio. Now, by my mother's son, and that 's myself, 
 It shall be moon or star, or what I list. 
 Or e'er I journey to your father's house. 
 Go on, and fetch our horses back again. 
 Evermore crossed and crossed, — nothing but crossed ! 
 
 Hortensio. Say as he says, or we shall never go. 
 
 Katharine. Forward, I pray, since we have come so far, — 
 And be it moon, or sun, or what you please ; 
 And if you please to call it a rush-candle 
 Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me. 
 
 Petruchio. I say it is the moon. 
 
 Katharine. I know it is. 
 
 Petruchio. Nay, then you lie ; it is the blessed sun. 
 
 Katharine. Then, Heaven be blest ; it is the blessed sun, — 
 But sun it is not when you say it is not ; 
 And the moon changes even as your mind. 
 What you will have it named, e'en that it is, 
 And so it shall be so for Katharine. 
 
 By this time I think Katharine has comprehended the 
 situation, and has grown ready to play her part in it. She 
 has begun to love and trust her husband, and gives in to his 
 humor. As Petruchio says, " now the ball (or bowl) does 
 not run against the bias ; " Kate is entering into the fun of 
 the thing. 
 
 The writer in the *' Monthly Packet " says : " It is all non- 
 sense to talk as if this bit of merry comedy expresses Shaks- 
 
Taming of the Shrew. 169 
 
 peare's serious ideas of the proper relations between husband 
 and wife ; for when both are drawn in exaggerated style 
 throughout how can we be expected to take their sayings 
 literally? Petruchio's comic demands are matched by 
 Katharine's comic submission, and there is consistency in 
 making her go to the furthest extreme. When once she 
 gives in at all she is just the creature to have no medium. 
 Besides, she has learned to take a joke by this time, and in- 
 stead of getting angry, she meets her mad-cap husband on 
 his own ground, and gayly tells him she will call the sun a 
 rush-candle rather than fight about it j which is surely a for- 
 cible way of expressing that she has recovered control of the 
 temper which has so long run riot, and has begun to love the 
 man who forced her to conquer that fiend. After having 
 managed herself so badly Kate seems to find a relief in let- 
 ting herself drop completely into Petruchio's rough, but not 
 unkindly hands." 
 
 Thus, when old Vincentio appears, travelling on the high- 
 way, Petruchio accosts him : — 
 
 Good morrow, gentle mistress. Whither away ? 
 Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too, 
 Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman ? 
 Such war of white and red within her cheeks ! 
 What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty 
 As those two eyes become that heavenly face ! 
 Fair, lovely maid, once more good-day to thee ; 
 Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake. 
 
 Hortensio, utterly incapable of a joke, is aghast at this 
 proposition. But Kate smilingly takes it up, saying :* — 
 
 Young, budding virgin, fair, and fresh, and sweet. 
 Whither away, or where is thy abode } 
 Happy the parents of so fair a child, — 
 
170 Taming of the Shrew, 
 
 Happier the man whom favorable stars 
 Allot thee for his lovely bed-fellow. 
 
 Petruchio. Why, how now, Kate ? I hope thou art not mad! 
 This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, withered, 
 And not a maiden, as thou sayest he is. 
 
 Katharine. Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes. 
 That have been so bedazzled with the sun 
 That everything I look on seemeth green. 
 M ow I perceive thou art a reverend father ; 
 Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking, 
 
 Petruchio. Do, good old grandsire, and withal make known 
 Which way thou travellest. If along with us 
 We shall be joyful of thy company. 
 
 /' To please Petruchio, Katharine has caught up his wild 
 jest on Vincentio, startling the good old man with her strange 
 salutation, and then apologizing neatly and prettily. Indeed, 
 from this point a gentler grace comes over the young beauty, 
 as if her whole nature had become refined by the removal 
 of the one blot, till we hardly recognize the virago of the 
 first scenes." But now her surroundings are so different. 
 Instead of being with people who misunderstand her, and 
 are always ready to deprecate and to depreciate her, she 
 is freed from them, and subject only to a man whom she 
 can thoroughly trust, and with whom she is rapidly becom- 
 ing in harmony. Compare Petruchio with Mr. Rochester 
 (at one time the model hero of women novelists). The one 
 is wholly selfish, playing upon Jane for his own sake, forget- 
 ful of others' claims and rights, brutal in his strength, un- 
 certain in his disposition, — nay, not sure of his own mind, 
 and, to my thinking, no gentleman, — drawn, indeed, by one 
 who when she wrote never had had the opportunity to 
 study a gentleman. Is he like our Petruchio? See how, 
 the moment Petruchio is assured of victory (a victory he 
 has won for Kate's best good), he " drops his fantastic 
 
Taming of the Shrew, 171 
 
 behavior, and treats Vincentio with a frank courtesy, contrast- 
 ing strongly with his assumed violence." 
 
 Act V. Scene i. 
 
 All the threads of the story are drawing together. Lu- 
 centio and Bianca creep down the street to get married, 
 having been warned by Biondello against Tranio, who gives 
 his master his advice in these quaint words : " I knew a 
 wench married in an afternoon as she went to the garden 
 for parsley to stuff a rabbit, and so may you, sir." On their 
 way to the church they pass Gremio in the darkness. The 
 sham Vincentio, an old pedant, is engaged with Baptista in 
 drawing up the marriage-contract in the house of Tranio ; 
 while the party of Petruchio, with the real Vincentio in com- 
 pany, come along the street, and Petruchio courteously 
 points out to the old man where he whom he believes to 
 be Lucentio, lives. 
 
 Then comes a complication ; for when Vincentio knocks at 
 his son's door and announces himself as his father, the 
 pedant looks out of the window, utterly denies that he has 
 any claim to such relationship, and desires to have him 
 arrested. " Now we are undone," cries the lackey Bion- 
 dello, recognizing his master. A flat lie being a menial's 
 easiest way out of a scrape, Biondello sticks to it that he 
 never in his life had seen his old master, and the scene 
 grows so comical that Petruchio says : " Prithee, Kate, let 's 
 stand aside and see the end of this controversy." 
 
 Then comes forward Tranio, and old Vincentio, seeing his 
 fine dress, bursts out upon him : — 
 
 O immortal gods I O fine villain I A silken doublet ! a scarlet 
 cloak! a conical hatl Ol I am undone, I am undone I While I 
 
172 Taming of the Shrew, 
 
 play the good husband [care-taker] at home, my son and my servant 
 spend all at the university. 
 
 Tranio brazens it out. He asserts that old Vincentio is 
 mad. Bianca and Lucentio come in as Vincentio is being 
 carried off to prison, Biondello, the lackey, seeing his young 
 master, cries to him in mortal terror, " O ! we are ruined ! — 
 and yonder there he is ! Deny him, forswear him, or else 
 we are all undone ! " 
 
 But Lucentio does not this time heed his advice. He 
 rushes to Vincentio and kneeling down before him, prays his 
 pardon. An explanation ensues all round, but Vincentio is 
 furious against that " damned villain Tranio," son of a sail- 
 maker, a fellow brought up in his house ever since he was 
 three years old. 
 
 Next follows a pretty little scene, almost a love-scene, 
 between Petruchio and his Kate : — 
 
 Kathariru. Husband, let 's follow to see the end of this ado. 
 
 Petruchio. First kiss me, Kate, and we will. 
 
 Katharine. What ! in the midst of the street ? 
 
 Petruchio. What ! art thou ashamed of me ? 
 
 Katharine. No, sir, God forbid ; but ashamed to kiss. 
 
 Petruchio. Why, then let 's home again. Come, sirrah, let 's away. 
 
 Katharine. Nay, I '11 give thee a kiss ; now, prithee, love, stay. 
 
 Petruchio. Is not this well ? Come, my sweet Kate, 
 Better once than never, for never too late. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Then comes the banquet scene at Baptista's house. 
 Hortensio's " widow " is a low-minded, vulgar, impudent 
 woman, who is going entirely to govern her weak husband, 
 and who seeks the earUest opportunity of making herself 
 disagreeable to his friend Petruchio. Her first gibe at 
 the bride, who is supposed to be going to lead her hus- 
 
Taming of the Shrew. 173 
 
 band a rough road, rouses Katharine. She had been ac- 
 customed to such speeches all her life, but in her new 
 home she had almost forgotten them. Now she has a 
 husband by her side to take her part, to stand by and 
 strengthen her. The widow is afraid of the combination 
 and gives in. Then follows the famous wager. The ladies 
 having retired to the withdrawing-room, Tranio turns to 
 Petruchio, and with unblushing impudence makes a jest 
 about his choice of a wife : — 
 
 'T is well, sir, that j(7« hunted for yourself, 
 
 'T is thought your deer does hold you at a bay. 
 
 Petruchio receives this impertinence outwardly unruffled. 
 Baptista, very indifferent about his daughter's honor, 
 breaks in : — 
 
 ho, Petruchio, Tranio hits you now. 
 
 Lucentio. I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio. 
 
 Hortensio. Confess, confess, hath he not hit you here ? 
 
 Petruchio. 'A has a little galled me, I confess. 
 And as the jest did glance away from me, 
 'T is ten to one it maimed you two outright. 
 
 Baptista. Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, 
 
 1 think thou hast the veriest shrew of all. 
 
 Petruchio. Well, /say, No; and therefore, for assurance, 
 Let 's each one send unto his wife, 
 And he whose wife is most obedient 
 To come at first when he doth send for her, 
 Shall win the wager which we shall propose. 
 
 The wager is settled at one hundred crowns, — Petruchio 
 declaring that though he might venture a small sum upon 
 hawk or hound, he is willing to stake twenty times so much 
 upon his wife. Lucentio first sends for Bianca; Biondello 
 returns with the answer, " My mistress sends you word that 
 she is busy." Hortensio then sends to his wife, "the 
 
174 Taming of the Shrew, 
 
 widow." The messenger reports, "She says you have some 
 goodly jest in hand. She will not come, she bids you go to 
 her." Then Petruchio despatches Grumio with his message 
 to Katharine. To the amazement of the other husbands, 
 Katharine comes in promptly with, " What is your will, sir, 
 that you send for me?" Petruchio requires her to go back 
 to where Bianca and Hortensio's wife are sitting by the fire, 
 and bring them with her. 
 
 Lucentio. Here is a wonder, if you talk of wonder. 
 
 Hortensio. And so it is ; I wonder what it bodes. 
 
 P^ruchio. Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life, 
 And awe-full rule, and right supremacy : 
 And, to be short, all that is sweet and happy. 
 
 It is to be hoped that Lucentio and Hortensio, stimulated 
 by the example of Petruchio, did not attempt to imitate him. 
 As Bro' Terrapin says to Bro' Fox, " Yo' has n't de wisdom 
 — no, an' yo' hasn't de strength," — no, and they hadn't 
 the same fine material to work upon. Katharine was made 
 of very different stuff from their coarser women. 
 
 When Katharine enters, bringing "the froward wives as 
 prisoners to her womanly persuasion," Petruchio's first com- 
 mand to her is to fling off her cap. She knows some jest 
 must be afoot, she knows too there are other caps where that 
 came from, she is pleased to please Petruchio, and to second 
 him in his new fancy. She flings her cap upon the floor. 
 The widow cries, — 
 
 Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh, 
 Till I be brought to such a silly pass I 
 
 And Bianca exclaims, "Why, what a foolish duty call you 
 this ? " Her husband answers her : — 
 
Taming of the Shrew. 175 
 
 I would your duty were as foolish too ; 
 The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, 
 Hath cost me a hundred crowns since supper-time. 
 
 Then Petruchio desires Katharine to instruct these brides 
 in their duty to their husbands out of her new experience. 
 Katharine turns to Hortensio's wife, who is glaring at her 
 lord with angry eyes. 
 
 Katharine. Fie, fie ! unknit that threatening, unkind brow 
 And dart not scornful glances from those eyes, 
 To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor. 
 It blots thy beauty, as frosts bite the meads ; 
 Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds ; 
 And in no sense is meet or amiable. 
 A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, 
 Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty; 
 And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty 
 Will deign to sip, or touch one drop of it. 
 Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, 
 Thy head, thy sovereign, — one that cares for thee 
 And for thy maintenance ; commits his body 
 To painful labor, both by sea and land, 
 To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, 
 While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe ; 
 And craves no other tribute at thy hands 
 But love, fair looks, and true obedience, — 
 Too little payment for so great a debt. 
 Such duty as the subject owes the prince, 
 E'en such a woman oweth to her husband. 
 And when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour, 
 And not obedient to his honest will, 
 What is she but a foul, contending rebel, 
 And graceless traitor to her loving lord ? 
 I am ashamed that women are so simple 
 To offer war where they should kneel for peace ; 
 Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway. 
 Where they are bound to serve, love, and obey. 
 Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth, 
 Unapt to toil and trouble in the world, 
 
176 Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 But that our soft conditions, and our hearts, 
 Should well agree with our external parts ? 
 Come, come, you froward and unable worms ! 
 My mind hath been as big as one of yours. 
 My heart as great, my reason haply more. 
 To bandy word for word, and frown for frown; 
 But now I see our lances are but straws ; 
 Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare, 
 That seeming to be most, which we least are. 
 Then vail your prides, for know it is no boot ; 
 And place your hands below your husband's foot ; 
 In token of which duty, if he please. 
 My hand is ready, may it do him ease. 
 
 It is plain that after the wedding-party reached Baptista's 
 house, Petruchio had refrained from parading his power over 
 Katharine, and in the general bustle of the feast the change 
 in her has escaped the observation of the others. Indeed, 
 she is surrounded by unobservant people. In the judgment 
 of her former friends she is still the " shrew " she used to be, 
 " and her husband a fit object of sarcastic pity." 
 
 What honors the wife honors the husband, all that degrades 
 the wife dishonors him ; but the converse is not always part 
 of the proposition. Of the lady in Proverbs it is said that 
 she increases her husband's honor by the honor all men bear 
 to her : " Her husband is known in the gates when he sit- 
 teth with the elders of the land." 
 
 If it had not been for the impertinence of Hortensio and 
 Tranio, which Petruchio feels it incumbent on him to put 
 a stop to, he might not have contrived the litde scene to 
 show them the real new Kate. 
 
 The " Monthly Packet's" closing observations on this play 
 shall end our own : — 
 
 " Bianca's petulance and the widow's imperiousness are 
 excellent foils for Kate's new-found sweet temper ; and how 
 
Taming of the Shrew, 177 
 
 prettily she begins with them, slyly hinting that they look 
 ugly when they are cross. Of course the vehement girl goes 
 right to the utmost extreme of submission, and pushes her 
 doctrine of the inequahty of the sexes as far as it will possibly 
 go. This is just what we might expect from her. And then 
 her fair picture of a man toiling, fighting, enduring, for the 
 woman's safety and comfort, readily leads to the idea of 
 woman's willing tribute of '■ love, fair looks, and true obedience 
 to his honest will' For Kate has no idea of making all 
 the sacrifice come from either side, or of erecting her hus- 
 band into an Eastern Sultan. ... If Kate gives in to her 
 husband because she loves him, she is careful to show that 
 it is not because she is inferior to the women she is speaking 
 to. She asserts herself with a delightful little flash of energy, 
 to let them see they need not hope to succeed where she has 
 failed, — in the bad old path of violence and temper. One 
 can fancy the pride with which Petruchio would take her by 
 the hand to lead her away, throwing a merry gibe at the 
 other two bridegrooms." 
 
 After the first scene in the first act, Sly and his company 
 cease to make remarks on the performance. It is probable 
 they were allowed to extemporize, and their outside com- 
 ments and criticisms on the story must have added to the 
 comedy a great deal of rough fun. 
 
 There is a mystery in this play which no commentator has 
 thrown light upon : When did Hortensio get married ? and 
 why is his bride known to us only under the name of the 
 "Widow"? 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 THIS is one of Shakspeare's Italian stories, with Italian 
 names and an Italian setting; possibly, too (for 
 Shakspeare rarely invented his plots, reserving his invention 
 for all that gives life to them), it had an Italian origin. 
 There is an episode in Ariosto, ^'Ariodante and Ginevra," 
 a little like it ; but there is also a story of Bandello's, with 
 the scene laid in Messina, and Leonato, Don Pedro, and 
 Borachio among the names of the personages, that more 
 probably gave rise to this comedy. Beatrice and Benedick 
 are Shakspeare's pure invention. Hero, in Bandello's story, 
 is called Firminia, and there are no prototypes of Dogberry 
 and Verges. 
 
 " Much Ado about Nothing " is remarkable among Shaks- 
 peare's plays for what the French call the unities. The 
 scene is all in, or very near, Leonato's house, and the events 
 flow naturally one from another. The author in the 
 " Monthly Packet " who writes " Shakspeare Talks with 
 Uncritical People " says of it : " Less profound than the 
 * Merchant of Venice,* less passionate than ' All 's well 
 that ends Well,' it has a place of its own, bewitching us 
 by the spell of its warm human interest, by the bright life 
 which glows through it, and the flashing fire which en- 
 livens it." 
 
1 82 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 The character of Beatrice has been frequently, I think, 
 misunderstood. She has been condemned as pert and 
 unfeminine ; whereas I think, with Lady Martin (Miss Helen 
 Faucit), that she is simply a girl bubbling over with merri- 
 ment. She is briUiantly quick-witted^ and lives among 
 persons of no pretension to intellectual powers. They love 
 her, and admire her sallies much as devoted parents do 
 those of a precocious and somewhat forward child. But 
 Beatrice is a lady, every inch of her. The moment she 
 awakens to a perception that there may possibly be people 
 in the world who take a diiferent view of her " playful light- 
 ning of sarcasm and repartee," how immediately she draws 
 back, with gentle dignity, and without affront ! Lady Martin 
 says : " She simply rejoices in the keen sword-play of her 
 wit, as she would in any other exercise of her intellect, or 
 sport of her fancy ; " and, " up to the time the play opens, 
 her life has been one of pure sunshine. Sorrow or wrong 
 have been unknown to her ; there has been no call on the 
 deeper and finer qualities of her nature." But loving the 
 exercise of her gift of briUiant repartee (a gift not honored 
 now-a-days as it was in the reign of Queen Elizabeth), she 
 has found in the little court surrounding her uncle, the Gov- 
 ernor, no "foeman worthy of her steel," save the Signior 
 Benedick. In " maiden meditation " how she may make her 
 next attack upon him, and how he will parry it by some 
 equally brilliant trick of fence, her fancy has come to dwell 
 a great deal on Signior Benedick. He is her own property 
 among the courtiers, her natural prey, — a kind of foe who 
 cannot pass her without giving or taking a thrust. She 
 gets impatient when they are within speaking distance if 
 he does not notice her. "The train is laid," says Lady 
 
Much Ado about Nothing. 183 
 
 Martin, " and it only requires a spark to have it burst into 
 flame." 
 
 Contrast Beatrice with poor Katharine, in the "Taming 
 of the Shrew." Katharine has lived all her life among 
 people who despised her, — people who rasped her quick 
 temper by their meanness, insincerity, dulness, and want of 
 kindliness. Beatrice has lived a great lady in a charming 
 court, — loved, honored, wooed, petted, caressed, looked up 
 to, trusted, and admired. Her people are the perfection 
 of goodness and high-breeding; she the spoilt child of 
 the court, and the dearly loved friend of her pretty, gentle, 
 timid littie cousin Hero, who in general suffers her to do 
 what she pleases with her. Beatrice has a temper, quick 
 as a flash ; but Katharine's, until it meets heroic treat- 
 ment under Petruchio, has been kept in a perpetual state 
 of irritation, her own fine qualities themselves assisting to 
 exasperate her with the people round her. 
 
 Act I. Scene i. 
 
 When " Much Ado about Nothing " opens, the Governor 
 and his family are standing in the open square before the 
 Governor's house (Sicily being at that time a dependency 
 of Aragon), and the little court is receiving a messenger. 
 
 Don Pedro of Aragon has been warring against foes who 
 were assisted by his illegitimate brother, Don John. The 
 foes have been defeated, and Don John has come back to 
 his allegiance, soured, sullen, and bent on mischief, — partly 
 for mere mischiefs sake, and partly for revenge. The man 
 who has most distinguished himself in the war is a young 
 Florentine, who has an uncle settled in Messina, Don 
 Claudio, — a brave but commonplace young man, whose 
 
184 Much Ado about Nothing, 
 
 distinguishing characteristic is his incapacity for entertaining 
 more than one idea at a time. Before he went to the war 
 he had the dawnings of a hking for little Hero, and her 
 father Leonato was not, I think, averse to the match ; but 
 the war put her quite out of his head, and there the matter 
 might have dropped, — with perhaps a httle hurt feeling 
 upon Hero's part, — but for the events that form the drama. 
 
 We will read the first scene, for nowhere does a first scene 
 better bring out the characters that are to make the story. 
 We see Leonato, loyal and courteous, and a little stately. 
 As I said, he is proud of his charming niece, and amused 
 by her gay sallies. Beatrice stands fidgeting till Benedick 
 is brought forward. " Signior Montanto," as she calls him, 
 is a nickname founded on a trick of fence, and carries out 
 the idea of their being perpetually engaged in wordy sword- 
 play. Don Pedro is the courteous prince, not very young, 
 I think, but hardly to be described as middle-aged. Prince- 
 like, he has a fancy for being deus ex machi?ia, — the god 
 who runs the machine. 
 
 Benedick does not show to advantage in the first scene 
 in which we see him. He forgets himself as a gentleman 
 in his speech to Leonato ; but, to do him justice, he is never 
 again guilty of impertinence to the good and stately Gov- 
 ernor, who, so far as we can see, does not even perceive his 
 error ; but Beatrice does, and it puts a little genuine exas- 
 peration into her encounter with her old adversary. Claudio 
 plunges headlong into love with Hero. War paves the 
 way for love. A gallBXit man, and gBMantry are very apt 
 to go together. War being out of his head, Hero comes 
 into it. We are very sure that Benedick says truth when 
 he declares he has personally no liking for httle, quiet, 
 
Much Ado about Nothing. 185 
 
 affectionate Hero. She is not the kind of woman to suit 
 his taste, and I, at least, believe that he had (whether he 
 knew it or not) a tall, brilliant, stately lady for his ideal. 
 
 The messenger in the first scene was evidently a gentle- 
 man-messenger, as Raleigh was when he first attracted the 
 notice of Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 Leonato. I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Aragon comes 
 this night to Messina. 
 
 Messejiger. He is very near by this ; he was not three leagues off 
 when I left him. 
 
 Leoiiato. How many gentlemen have you lost in this action .'' 
 
 Messenger. But few of any sort, and none of name. 
 
 Leonato. A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home 
 full numbers. I find here that Don Pedro hath bestowed much honor 
 on a young Florentine called Claudio. 
 
 Messenger. Much deserved on his part; and equally remembered 
 by Don Pedro. He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, 
 doing in the figure of a lamb the feats of a lion. He hath indeed better 
 bettered expectation than you must expect of me to tell you how. 
 
 But as the kindly Governor and the messenger continue to 
 talk of Claudio, and of the joy of his old uncle at his success, 
 Beatrice grows impatient and says suddenly : — 
 
 I pray you, is Signior Montanto returned from the wars, or no ? 
 
 Messenger. I know none of that name, lady ; there was none such 
 in the army of any sort. 
 
 Leonato. What is he that you ask for, niece ? 
 
 Hero. My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua. 
 
 Messenger. O, he is returned ; and as pleasant as ever he was. 
 
 Beatrice. I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in these 
 wars ? But how many hath he killed "i for, indeed, I promised to eat 
 all of his killing. 
 
 Leonato. Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much; but he '11 
 be meet with you, I doubt it not. 
 
 Messenger. He hath done good service, lady, in these wars. 
 
 Beatrice. You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it. He is 
 a very valiant trencher-man ; he hath an excellent stomach. 
 
1 86 Much Ado about Nothing, 
 
 Messenger. And a good soldier too, lady. 
 
 Beatrice {mimicking]. And a good soldier to a lady. But what is 
 he to a lord } 
 
 Messenger. A lord to a lord ; a man to a man ; stuffed with all 
 honorable virtues. 
 
 Beatrice. He is so indeed ; he is no less than a stuffed man, — but 
 for the stuffing ! Well, we are all mortal. 
 
 Leonato. You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is a kind of 
 merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and her ; they never meet but 
 there is a skirmish of wit between them. 
 
 Beatrice. Alas 1 he gets nothing by that. In our last conflict four 
 of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole man governed 
 with one. So that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him 
 bear it for a difference between himself and his horse ; for it is all the 
 wealth he hath left, to be known a reasonable creature. Who is his 
 companion now .? He hath every month a new sworn brother. 
 
 Messenger. Is it possible ? 
 
 Beatrice. Very easily possible ; he wears his faith but as the fashion 
 of his hat ; it ever changes with the next block. 
 
 Messenger. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books. 
 
 Beatrice. No, an he were, I would burn my library. . . . 
 
 Messenger. I will^hold friends with you, lady. 
 
 Beatrice. Do, good friend. 
 
 Leonato. You will never run mad, niece. 
 
 Beatrice. No, not till a hot January. 
 
 Messenger. Don Pedro is approached. 
 
 The messenger, little as we see of him, is very charming, 
 so courteous, so modest, so anxious to uphold the credit of 
 his officers, so simple-hearted, and so slow-witted ; under fire 
 from Beatrice he is utterly bewildered and confused. She 
 appreciates his excellences and spares him. 
 
 The victorious Prince comes in, attended by his discomfited 
 brother and his chief officers. Courtesies pass between him 
 and the Governor. Benedick, as I have said, breaks a coarse 
 jest on the old man, which Leonato turns aside with courtesy, 
 and then Beatrice bursts upon him. 
 
Much Ado about Nothing. 187 
 
 Beatrice. I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick ; 
 nobody marks you. 
 
 Benedick. What ! my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living ? 
 
 And so they flash back at each other repartee after repartee, 
 till Don Pedro interrupts them by announcing to Benedick 
 the arrangements he has been making with the Governor for 
 their stay at Messina. 
 
 Don Pedro, as I said before, loves to exercise his kind- 
 heartedness, and his princely taste for patronage and inter- 
 ference, by running other people's affairs ; and finding that 
 Claudio is in love with Leonato's short daughter, not only 
 promises to sound the father and promote the suit, but to 
 court the lady himself in behalf of the real lover. Then he 
 and Claudio both proceed to joke Benedick about his disin- 
 clination for the fair sex ; and Benedick having departed on 
 an errand for the Prince, Claudio, who did not dare talk 
 sentiment when he was present, pours out his love-story to a 
 
 more sympathizing listener : — 
 
 • O, my lord, 
 "When you went onward to this ended action 
 I looked upon her with a soldier's eye, 
 That liked, but had a rougher task in hand 
 Than to drive liking to the name of love ; 
 But now I am returned, and that war-thoughts 
 Have left their places vacant, in their rooms 
 Come thronging soft and delicate desires, 
 All prompting me how fair young Hero is, 
 Saying I liked her ere I went to wars. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 In this scene the Governor's household is in a bustle, 
 arranging for the entertainment of the Prince. Antonio, 
 Leonato's brother, thinks he has overheard the Prince, while 
 walking in a " thick-pleached alley " of the fruit-orchard, tell 
 
1 88 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 Count Claudio that he was in love with Hero, and intended 
 that evening in a dance to ask her hand in marriage. It 
 speaks well for the sound hearts of the two old men that 
 while gratified with the honor done their house, they are 
 not elated. Indeed, Antonio says the news will be good 
 news " only as the event may stamp them. But they have 
 a good cover, and show well outward." 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Here we have Don John, and Conrade, one of his followers; 
 and we are told the reason of Don John's sullen behavior. 
 His position is galling to him in every ^vay. Like many 
 another man, he rather prides himself on his ill-temper, as a 
 proof of his sincerity and independence. 
 
 Don John. I cannot hide what I am. I must be sad when I have 
 cause, and smile at no man's jests ; eat when I have stomach, and 
 wait for no man's leisure ; sleep when I am drowsy, and tend on no man's 
 business ; laugh when I am merry, and claw no man in his humor. 
 
 Conrade advises prudence. Don John, the rebel, has but 
 lately been taken back into his brother's grace, where, his 
 adviser hints, it is impossible he should take true root but by 
 help of the fair weather he may make for himself. 
 
 Don John. I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his 
 grace ; and it better fits my blood to be disdained of all, than to fashion 
 a carriage to rob love from any. In this, though I cannot be said to 
 be a flattering honest man, it must not be denied but I am a plain- 
 dealing villain. I am trusted with a muzzle, and enfranchised with a 
 clog ; therefore I have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my 
 mouth I would bite. If I had my liberty I would do my liking. In 
 the mean time let me be that I am, and seek not to alter me. 
 
 At this moment Borachio coming in tells of an intended 
 marriage. 
 
Much Ado about Nothing. 189 
 
 Don John. Will it serve for any model to build mischief on ? 
 What is he for a fool that betroths himself to unquietness ? 
 
 Borachio. Marry, it is your brother's right hand. 
 
 Don John. Who ? — the most exquisite Claudio ? 
 
 Borachio. Even he. 
 
 Don John, A proper squire ! And who, and who .? which way 
 looks he ? 
 
 Borachio. Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of Leonato. 
 
 Don John. How came you by this .? 
 
 Borachio. Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was smoking a 
 musty room, comes me the Prince and Claudio, hand in hand, in sad 
 conference. I whipped me behind the arras, and there heard it agreed 
 upon that the Prince should woo Hero for himself, and having obtained 
 her, give her to Count Claudio. 
 
 Don John. Come, come, let us thither. This may prove food to 
 my displeasure. That young start-up hath all the glory of my over- 
 throw. If I can cross him any way I bless myself every way. You are 
 both sure, and will assist me ? 
 
 Conrade, To the death, my lord. 
 
 Act II. Scene i. 
 
 This act opens with all the bustle of preparation, in the 
 hospitable house of Leonato, for the proper entertainment of 
 Don Pedro, the son of his king. There is to be a masked ball, 
 and the family have come together after supper, discussing 
 what has been observed at the feast, — as we all do after a 
 gathering. Beatrice was no doubt the ruling spirit in her 
 uncle's house ; and now she has paused in her preparations, 
 flashing about her sparks of brilliancy, " a creature," says a 
 chance critic quoted by Lady Martin, " overflowing with 
 joyousness, — raillery itself being in her nothing more than 
 an excess of animal spirits, tempered by passing through 
 a brave and loyal soul." Lady Martin remarks, too, that 
 Shakspeare seems to have taken especial pleasure in the 
 delineation of Beatrice, and more especially in devising 
 
1 90 Muck Ado about Nothing, 
 
 encounters between her and Benedick, — these encounters 
 reminding us of what was once said of Shakspeare himself, 
 in his passages of words with Ben Jonson ; where Jonson is 
 likened to a Spanish galleon, Shakspeare to an English frigate, 
 "lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, tacking about, and 
 taking advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and 
 invention." However, in this scene there is no Benedick, 
 only, as we said before, "the family." Old Leonato — good- 
 ness, hospitality, and gentlemanness incarnate, but not quick 
 of wit — delights in his niece's quaint, daring way of looking 
 at things. He is proud of her, too ; " for with all her sportive 
 and somewhat domineering ways, she is every inch a noble 
 lady, bearing herself in a manner worthy of her high blood 
 and courtly breeding. He knows how good and sound she 
 is at heart, no less than in head, — one of those strong 
 natures which can be counted on to rise up in answer to a 
 call upon their courage and fertility of resource, in any time 
 of difficulty or trouble. Her shrewd, sharp sayings have 
 only a pleasant piquancy for him. Indeed, however much 
 weak, colorless natures might stand in awe of eyes so quick 
 to detect a flaw, and a wit so prompt to cover it with ridicule, 
 there must have been a charm for him, and for all manly 
 natures, in the very peril of coming under the fire of her 
 raillery. A young, beautiful, graceful woman, flashing out 
 brilliant sayings, — charged with no real malice, but with just 
 enough of a sting in them to pique the self-esteem of those 
 at whom they are aimed, — must always, one would fancy, 
 have a peculiar charm for men of spirit. And so, we see at 
 the outset, it was with Beatrice. Not only her uncle, but 
 also Don Pedro and Count Claudio have the highest admi- 
 ration for her." We may remark, too, that she never levels 
 
 I 
 
Much Ado about Nothing, 191 
 
 a shaft of wit directly at her uncle. All her behavior to him 
 is most loving and dutiful ; to her cousin Hero (who is greatly 
 her inferior) she is unfailingly loyal and tender. Don John 
 may deceive his brother, and Count Claudio, and Leonato, 
 and even Benedick, but he does not impose on this sharp- 
 witted girl, who remarks upon his looks at supper. Hero, 
 always considerate, tries to excuse him. Then Beatrice 
 (whose mind is full of Benedick) begins to say of Don John : 
 " What an excellent man would he be that were made just 
 in the midway between him and Benedick ! " and goes on to 
 describe the latter as " always talking, like my lady's [spoilt] 
 eldest son." As she goes on with her quips, Leonato, wholly 
 incapable of answering her back, says, " By my troth, niece, 
 thou wilt never get a husband if so sharp of thy tongue ; " 
 and Beatrice, whose head is running on matrimony (Hero's 
 projected marriage being the exciting event of the day), says 
 promptly : " For that blessing I am on my knees morning 
 and evening. Lord ! I could not endure a husband with a 
 beard on his face;" which is the first intimation we have 
 that Benedick wore one. Antonio, Leonato's brother, a 
 somewhat fussy old gentleman, who took no great delight 
 in plays on words, interrupts Beatrice's jokes about beards 
 and husbands by calling the family as it were " to order," 
 and saying to Hero apropos to Don Pedro's supposed inten- 
 tion to court her in the masquerade, " Well, niece, I trust 
 you will be ruled by your father." But Beatrice breaks in, 
 wilUng to plague Uncle Antonio, with, — 
 
 Yes, faith ; it is my cousin's duty to make a courtesy, and say : 
 " Father, as it pleases you." But yet for all that, cousin, let him be a 
 handsome fellow, or else make another courtesy, and say : " Father, as 
 it please me." 
 
192 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 Leonato. Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a hus- 
 band. 
 
 Beatrice. Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. 
 Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered by a piece of valiant 
 dust ? — to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl ? 
 No, uncle, I '11 none. Adam's sons are my brethren, and truly I hold 
 it a sin to match in my kindred. 
 
 Leonato. Daughter, remember what I told you. If the Prince do 
 solicit you in that kind you know your answer. 
 
 Beatrice. The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed 
 in good time. If the Prince be too importunate, tell him there is 
 measure in everything, and so dance out the answer. But hear me, 
 Hero ; wooing, wedding, and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a measure, 
 and a cinque-pace ; the first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, 
 and full as fantastical ; the wedding mannerly modest, as a measure 
 full of state and ancientry ; and then comes repentance, and with his 
 bad legs falls into the cinque-pace, faster and faster, till he sink a-pace 
 into his grave. 
 
 Leonato. Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly. 
 
 Beatrice. I have a good eye, uncle ; I can see a church by daylight. 
 
 Leonato. The revellers are coming ; brother, make a good room. 
 
 Beatrice's description of Scotch jig, measure, and cinque- 
 pace applies in modern dancing to reel, minuet, and galopade. 
 
 Then the maskers pass before us, and we hear scraps of 
 their conversation. Little Hero, who hardly opens her lips 
 when her cousin is by, but seems all ears for her raillery, 
 plucks up a spirit under her mask, and tries a little coquetry. 
 
 The next lady who passes is Margaret, the lady in waiting, 
 attended by two gentlemen, Signior Benedick and the song- 
 ster Balthazar. Benedick makes haste to shift off Margaret 
 on Balthazar, and escapes to Beatrice. 
 
 Then pass Antonio and Ursula, the gay waiting-woman, 
 trying to befool the old man ; and next comes Benedick, who 
 has found out Beatrice and paired off with the only lady 
 who interests him. They are in high dispute, and Beatrice 
 
Much Ado about Nothing, 193 
 
 knows whom she is walking with, though he speaks in a feigned 
 voice and thinks she is deceived. 
 
 Beatrice. Will you not tell me who told you so ? 
 
 Benedick. No, you shall pardon me. 
 
 Beatrice. Nor will you not tell me who you are ? 
 
 Benedick. Not now. 
 
 Beatrice. That I was disdainful ! — and that I had my good wit 
 out of The Hundred Merry Tales ! Well, this was Signior Benedick 
 that said so. 
 
 Benedick. What 's he ? 
 
 Beatrice. I am sure you know him well enough. 
 
 Benedick. I pray you, what is he ? 
 
 Beatrice. Why, he 's the Prince's jester, — a very dull fool ; only 
 his gift is in devising impossible slanders ; none but libertines delight in 
 him, and the commendation is not in his wit but in his villany. For 
 he both pleases men and angers them ; and then they laugh at him, 
 and beat him. I am sure he is in the fleet ; I would he had boarded 
 me. 
 
 Benedick. When I know the gentleman I will tell him what you 
 say. 
 
 Beatrice. Do, do. He '11 but break a comparison or two on me, 
 which, peradventure not marked, or not laughed at, strikes him into 
 melancholy ; and then there 's a partridge-wing saved, for the fool will 
 eat no supper that night. [Afusic withijt.] We must follow the 
 leaders. 
 
 Benedick. In every good thing. 
 
 Beatrice. Nay, if they lead to any ill I will leave them at the next 
 turning. [Dance. Exennt all. 
 
 In these last words I seem to see Benedick's utter discom- 
 fiture. He has to say something, and all he can find to say- 
 is irrelevant and commonplace. Who cannot see Beatrice, 
 well satisfied with herself, dancing away lightly and joyously? 
 
 As they all pass, dancing, Don John remains with his two 
 confidants, Conrade, a worthless gentleman, and Borachio a 
 ruffian. Don John thinks he has found out that Don Pedro 
 is himself sweet upon Claudio's little love ; and as Claudio 
 
 13 
 
194 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 comes up, endeavoring to pass himself for Signior Benedick, 
 he points out to him the Prince and Hero, saying that he 
 has overheard him making to her a declaration of love. 
 Claudio, ever ready to go off at half-cock, and with apparently 
 no reasoning powers whatever, falls at once into the trap, and 
 begins to be jealous of the Prince, who by agreement is woo- 
 ing for him. In truth, the course of Claudio's love would be 
 smooth as a mill-pond, were it not for his own self-deceptions. 
 He looks so sullen (having resolved to give up Hero) that 
 Benedick, who has come back, cannot resist plaguing him. 
 He is not the man who would have beheved his friend and 
 Prince could have served him thus, but Claudio is as ready 
 to think harm of his friend as afterwards of his love. Not 
 able to bear Benedick's raillery, he soon takes himself away ; 
 and then we see how hurt Benedick has been by the words 
 that have fallen from Beatrice. He began it himself, — as 
 children say, — but Beatrice planted her stings best. What 
 could be more hateful to a gallant gentleman, who had 
 plumed himself upon the superiority of his wit, than to be 
 called the Prince's jester? However (unlike Beatrice, who, 
 in corresponding circumstances, at once lays her own errors 
 to heart), he does what Adam's sons have always done, — 
 he blames the woman. 
 
 But that my lady Beatrice should know me and not know me ! 
 The Prince's fool ! Ha ! it may be that I go under that title because 
 I am merry — yea, but so I am apt to do myself wrong. I am not so 
 reputed ! It is the base, the bitter disposition of Beatrice, that puts 
 the world into her person and so gives me out. Well! I'll be re- 
 venged as I may. 
 
 At this moment comes in Don Pedro, attended by Leonato 
 and his daughter ; and Benedick, who is no time-server, ad- 
 
Much Ado about Nothing, 195 
 
 ministers a reproof, in case (which he does not think possible) 
 the Prince has been playing false to Claudio ; for Benedick 
 does not understand the situation, not having been present 
 when the courting arrangement was made. We see in the 
 scene that follows how furious Benedick (accused of being 
 the Prince's jester) is with Beatrice. Indeed, perhaps her 
 taunt has made him more quick to assert his independence 
 by the reproof he administers, in Hero's presence, to his 
 master and general. I think Benedick is older than Don 
 Pedro. My ideas of their ages are : Benedick, thirty-five ; 
 Don Pedro, thirty ; Claudio, twenty-two. 
 
 The Prince has come in search of Claudio, eager to tell 
 him of the success of his wooing, and cries out to Benedick : 
 
 Now, Signior, where 's the count ? Did you see him ? 
 
 Benedick. Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame. 
 I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a warren. I told him, 
 and I think I told him true, that your grace had got the good-will of 
 the young lady ; and I offered him my company to a willow-tree, either 
 to make him a garland, as forsaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being 
 worthy to be whipped. 
 
 Don Pedro. To be whipped ! What 's his fault .? 
 
 Benedick. The flat transgression of a school-boy, who, being over- 
 joyed with finding a bird's nest, shows it his companion, and he steals 
 it. 
 
 Don Pedro. Wilt thou make a trust a transgression ? The trans- 
 gression is in the stealer. 
 
 Benedick. Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made, and 
 the garland too ; for the garland he might have worn himself, and the 
 rod he might have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stolen his 
 bird's nest. 
 
 Don Pedro. I will but teach them to sing and restore them to the 
 owner. 
 
 Benedick. If their singing answer your saying, by my faith, you say 
 honestly. 
 
 Don Pedro. The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel with you. The 
 gentleman that danced with her told her she is much wronged by you. 
 
196 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 Benedick. O ! she misused ine past the endurance of a block ! 
 An oak with but one green leaf upon it would have answered her. 
 My very visor began to assume life and scold with her. She told me (not 
 thinking I had been myselQ that I was the Prince's jester, that I was 
 duller than a great thaw, — huddling jest upon jest with such impossible 
 conveyance upon me that I stood like a man at a mark, with a whole 
 army shooting at me. She speaks poinards, and every word stabs. • If 
 her breath were as unsupportable as her terminations, there were no 
 living near her; she would infect the north star. I would not marry 
 her though she were endowed with all that Adam had lent him before 
 he transgressed. She would have made Hercules have turned spit ; 
 yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of her ; 
 — you shall find her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God 
 some scholar would conjure her ; for certainly, while she is here, a man 
 may live as quiet in hell as in a sanctuary, and people sin upon pur- 
 pose because they would go thither. So, indeed, all disquiet, horror, 
 and perturbation follow her. 
 
 Remark in Benedick's speech the description of utter lone- 
 liness, — " as melancholy as a lodge in a warren." A warren is 
 waste land devoted to wild rabbits. Of course, it has to be a 
 solitude, that the rabbits may not be disturbed, and with no 
 trees about it, that the warrener may see all that is going on. 
 I have not seen a warren since I was ten years old, but the 
 word brings to my mind recollections of my childhood, — a 
 scene of utter solitude and desolation. 
 
 Remark also that Beatrice had not told the Prince that 
 she had danced with Benedick, but he, in his excitement, at 
 once blurts out the secret. With exaggerated horror Bene- 
 dick, sore from his wounds, declines to meet his adversary. 
 
 Some editions of this play make Hero and her father enter 
 in attendance on Don Pedro ; it seems far more probable 
 that the family party, Leonato with his niece and daughter, 
 came in at this moment with Claudio, who had been in- 
 formed that the Prince was looking for him. 
 
Much Ado about Nothing. 197 
 
 As Beatrice enters, Don Pedro whispers to Benedick, — 
 
 Look, here she comes. 
 
 Benedick. Will your Grace command me any service to the world's 
 end ? I will go on the lightest service now to the Antipodes that you 
 can devise to send me on. I will fetch you a tooth-picker now from 
 the farthest inch of Asia ; bring you the length of Prester John's foot • 
 fetch you a hair off the great Cham's beard ; do you any embassage to 
 the Pygmies, — rather than hold three words conference with this 
 Harpy. You have no employment for me } 
 
 Don Pedro. None, but to desire your good company. 
 
 Benedick, O ! Lord, sir, here 's a dish I love not. I cannot endure 
 my Lady Tongue. \^Exit Benedick. 
 
 Then Don Pedro, turning to Beatrice, reproaches her for 
 losing the good opinion of Benedick. She answers him with 
 merry quips, but is too bright for him ; he cannot cap her, 
 and so turns to Claudio. 
 
 Beatrice, taking pity on her cousin's lover, explains that 
 he is jealous, " civil as a Seville orange." These oranges are 
 sour, and are esteemed in England for preserves and marma- 
 lade. All the scene that succeeds is very pretty. Quiet 
 Hero's fulness of contentment, Beatrice's little interferences, 
 her natural disappointment that when those younger and less 
 popular than herself are being married she should have no 
 wooer, and ihe dignity with which she pulls herself up, con- 
 scious of having gone a little too far with Don Pedro, and 
 answers his half-joking offer of himself as her bridegroom 
 (which a coquette might easily have converted into a real 
 proposal) with dignity, a compliment, and an apology, — may 
 be noted. Note also the pretty way in which when reminded 
 of her household duties by her uncle, she asks his pardon, 
 courtesies to the Prince, and departs 
 
 Don Pedro. Why, how now, Count ? Wherefore are you sad 1 
 Claudio. Not sad, my lord. 
 
1 98 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 Don Pedro. How, then, — sick ? 
 Claudio. Neither, my lord. 
 
 Beatrice. The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well, 
 but civil. Count, — civil as an orange, and something of the jealous 
 complexion of one. 
 
 Don Pedro. V faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true ; though 
 I '11 be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have 
 wooed in' thy name, and fair Hero is won. I have broke with her 
 father, and his good-will is obtained. Name the day of marriage, and 
 God give you joy. 
 
 Leonato. Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my for- 
 tunes. His Grace hath made the match, and all grace say Amen 
 to it. 
 
 Beatrice. Speak, Count, it is your cue. 
 
 Claudio. Silence is the perfectest herald of joy. I were but little 
 happy if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine I am yours. 
 I give away myself for you, and dote in the exchange. 
 
 Beatrice. Speak, cousin, or, if you cannot, stop his mouth with a 
 kiss, and let him not speak neither. 
 
 Don Pedro. In faith, lady, you have a merry heart. 
 
 Beatrice. Yea, my lord, I thank it, poor fool ; it keeps on the 
 windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her 
 heart. 
 
 Claudio. And so she doth, cousin. 
 
 Beatrice. Heigho, for alliance ! Thus goes every one in the 
 world but I, and I am sun-burned ; I may sit in a corner and sing 
 heigh-ho for a husband. 
 
 Don Pedro. Will you have me, lady ? 
 
 Beatrice. No, my lord, unless I might have another for working- 
 days. Your Grace is too costly to wear every day. But I beseech 
 your Grace, pardon me ; I was born to speak all mirth, and no 
 matter. 
 
 Don Pedro. Your silence most offends me, and to be merry 
 best becomes you ; for out of question you were born in a merry 
 hour. 
 
 Beatrice. No, sure, my lord ; but there was a star danced, and 
 under that was I born. Cousins, God give you joy. 
 
 Leonato. Niece, will you look to those things I told you of.? 
 
 Beatrice. I cry your mercy, uncle. By your Grace's pardon. 
 
 \Exit Beatrice. 
 
Much Ado about Nothing. 199 
 
 After Beatrice has left them Don Pedro again plays deus 
 ex machina, and plans to unite Beatrice and Benedick, of 
 whom he says, he is brave, well-born, and reliable. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 In this scene Don John and Borachio plan their wicked 
 plot against Claudio and Hero, in contrast with the playful 
 plot for good that the Prince and his confederates are plan- 
 ning by which to unite Benedick and Beatrice. The one plot 
 in the end defeats the other. Don John, like most men in his 
 unfortunate social position, is sensitive, envious, and suspi- 
 cious; Borachio, the bravo of those times, loves money, 
 and is cunning in evil. He is faithful to his employer, but 
 only so long as that employer seems faithful to him. He 
 is of the stuff out of which was made the landsknecht, the 
 condotiiere, the soldier of fortune. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 This scene in Leonato's garden contains Benedick's solilo- 
 quy about Claudio in love, and we see, in spite of all he says 
 against matrimony, that he has his own marriage in his mind. 
 His wife must be rich, wise, virtuous, fair, mild, noble, witty, 
 and musical; all these things he afterward confesses he 
 has found combined in Beatrice. Seeing Claudio approach, 
 whose bantering, or sentimentality, he feels himself unable 
 to stand, he takes himself away into an arbor. Here is his 
 soliloquy : — 
 
 I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a 
 fool when he dedicates his behaviors to love, will, after he has laughed 
 at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own 
 scorn by falling in love. And such a man is Claudio. I have known 
 
200 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 when there was no music in him but the drum and fife, and now he 
 had rather hear the tabor and pipe. I have known when he would 
 have walked ten mile afoot to see a good armor, and now will he lie 
 ten nights awake carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont 
 to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier, 
 and now is he turned orthographer ; his words are a very fantastical 
 banquet, just so many strange dishes. May / be so converted, and 
 see with these eyes ? I cannot tell. I think not. I will not be sworn 
 but love may transform me to an oyster, but, I '11 take mine oath on 't 
 till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. 
 One woman is fair, — yet I am well; another is wise, — yet I am 
 well ; another virtuous, — yet I am well ; but till all graces be in one 
 woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be — 
 that 's certain , wise, or I 'II none ; virtuous, or I '11 never cheapen her ; 
 fair, or I '11 never look on her ; mild, or come not near me ; noble, or 
 not I for an angel ; of good discourse ; an excellent musician ; and her 
 hair shall be of what color Heaven pleases. Hal — the Prince and 
 Monsieur Love I I will hide me in the arbor ! 
 
 Then come in the Prince and Claudio, both aware that 
 Benedick is within ear-shot ; and Balthazar, with his lute, sings 
 in the warm summer-night a song quoted among us from 
 generation to generation : — 
 
 Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, 
 
 Men were deceivers ever ; 
 One foot on sea and one on shore, 
 To one thing constant never. 
 Then sigh not so, « 
 
 But let them go. 
 And be you blithe and bonny ; 
 Converting all your sounds of woe 
 Into Hey nonny, nonny ! 
 
 Sing no more ditties, sing no mo' — 
 
 Or dumps so dull and heavy ; 
 The frauds of men were ever so. 
 Since summer first was leafy. 
 Then sigh not so, 
 But let them go, 
 
Much Ado about Nothing. 201 
 
 And be you blithe and bonny ; 
 Converting all your sounds of woe 
 Into Hey nonny, nonny I 
 
 Balthazar puts on all the coynesses which especially distin- 
 guish singers, and Benedick, who has great musical taste, 
 growls at his performance, unheard, from his arbor. Then 
 begins the famous scene in which Benedick is made to 
 believe that Beatrice is dying of love for him. Claudio 
 stands where he can watch Benedick, and reports in asides 
 how he takes what is being said of him. The other two, 
 Leonato and the Prince, cannot see their victim. They 
 keep up the conversation with admirable gravity. Benedick, 
 hardly believing his ears at first, is convinced by feeling sure 
 Leonato could not possibly be tricking him; he did not 
 reflect that, as Balzac says, what a man will not do for 
 himself, he will often do for his superior. 
 
 Here is the whole scene, with Benedick's soliloquy, and 
 his remarks when Beatrice, quite cross at being sent to call 
 him to supper, delivers her message : — 
 
 Don Pedro. Come hither, Leonato ; what was it you told me of to- 
 day ? that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick ? 
 
 Claudio \in a whisper]. O ! ay — stalk on ; stalk on ; the fowl sets. 
 
 [Aloud, speaking to Don Pedro.] I did never think that lady would 
 have loved any man. 
 
 Leonato. No, nor I either ; but most wonderful that she should 
 so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behavior 
 seemed ever to abhor. 
 
 Benedick \asidc]. Is 't possible ? Sits the wind in that corner ? 
 
 Leonato. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it • but 
 that she loves him with an enraged affection, — it is past the infinite of 
 thought. 
 
 Don Pedro. Maybe she doth but counterfeit. 
 
 Claudio. Faith I like enough. 
 
 Leonato. O heavens ! counterfeit ! There never was a counterfeit 
 of passion came so near the life of passion, as she discovers it. 
 
202 Miich Ado about Nothing. 
 
 Don Pedro. Why, what effects of passion shows she ? 
 
 Claudio {whispers aside]. Bait the hook well; this fish will bite. 
 
 Leonato. What effects, my lord? She will sit you, — you heard 
 my daughter tell you how. 
 
 Claudio. She did indeed. 
 
 Don Pedro. How, how, I pray you ? You amaze me ! I would 
 have thought her spirit would have been invincible against all assaults 
 of affection. 
 
 Leonato. I would have sworn it had, my lord, especially against 
 Signior Benedick. 
 
 Benedick \aside\, I should think this a gull, but that the white- 
 bearded fellow speaks it. Knavery cannot, sure, hide itself in such 
 reverence. 
 
 Claudio {whispering aside]. He hath taken the infection ; hold it up. 
 
 Don Pedro. Hath she made her affection known to Benedick } 
 
 Leonato. No, and swears she never will. That is her torment. 
 
 Claudio. 'T is true, indeed ; so your daughter says. " Shall I," says 
 she, " that have so oft encountered him with scorn, write to him that I 
 love him ? " 
 
 Leonato. This says she now when she is beginning to write to him ; 
 for she Ml be up twenty times a night. And there will she sit in her 
 smock, till she have writ a sheet of paper full. My daughter tells us 
 that. 
 
 Claudio. After that? 
 
 Leonato. O, she tore the letter into a thousand ha'pence — railed at 
 herself that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew 
 would flout her. " I measure him," says she, " by my own spirit ; 
 I should flout him if he writ to me ; yea, though I love him, I 
 should." 
 
 Claudio. Then down on her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her 
 breast, tears her hair, prays, curses : " O sweet Benedick! God give 
 me patience." 
 
 Leonato. She doth, indeed ; my daughter says so. And the ecstasy 
 has so much overborne her that my daughter is afraid she will do a 
 desperate outrage to herself It is very true. 
 
 Don Pedro. It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, 
 if she will not discover it. 
 
 Claudio. To what end ? He would but make a sport of it, and tor- 
 ment the poor lady worse. 
 
 Don Pedro. An he should, it were an alms-deed to hang him. She 
 is an excellent, sweet lady ; and out of all suspicion, she is virtuous. 
 
Much Ado about Nothing, 203 
 
 Claudio. And she is exceeding wise. 
 
 Don Pedro. In everything but in loving Benedick. 
 
 Then Don Pedro — with the remark that he wishes she 
 had bestowed this dotage upon him ; he would have doffed 
 all other respects, and made her half himself — proposes to 
 tell Benedick. 
 
 The others assure him this will never do, and Don Pedro, 
 upon second thoughts, remarks, "'Tis very possible he'd 
 scorn her love ; for the man, as you know all, hath a con- 
 temptuous spirit." 
 
 Claudio. He is a very [proper] handsome man. 
 
 Don Pedro. He hath indeed a good outward happiness. 
 
 Claudio. 'Fore Heaven and in my mind, he 's very wise. 
 
 Don Pedro. He doth indeed show some sparks that are like 
 wit. 
 
 Leonato. And I take him to be valiant. 
 
 Don Pedro. As Hector, I assure you; . . . and the man doth fear 
 God, howsoever it seems not in him by some of the large jests he will 
 make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go seek Benedick, 
 and tell him of her love ? 
 
 Claudio. Never tell him, my lord. Let her wear it out with good 
 counsel. 
 
 Don Pedro. Well, let it cool awhile. I love Benedick well, and 
 I could wish he would modestly examine himself, and see how much 
 he is unworthy of so good a lady. 
 
 Leonato. My lord, will you walk ? dinner is ready. \Exeunt. 
 
 Benedick {advancing from the arbor^. This can be no trick; the 
 conference was gravely borne. They have the truth of this from Hero. 
 They seem to pity the lady. Love me ! why, it must be requited. I 
 hear how I am censured. They say I will bear myself proudly if I 
 perceive the love come from her. They say too she will rather die 
 than give any sign of affection. I did never think to marry. I must 
 not seem proud. Happy are they that can hear their detractions and 
 put them to mending. They say the lady is fair ; 't is a truth, — I can 
 bear them witness ; and virtuous, — 't is so, I cannot reprove it ; and 
 wise, but for loving me ; by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor 
 no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. 
 
204 Much Ado about Nothing, 
 
 I may chance to have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken 
 on me, because I have railed so long, against marriage ; but doth not 
 the appetite alter ? Shall quips and sentences, and these paper bullets 
 of the brain awe a man from the career of his humor ? No, the world 
 must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think 
 I should live till I were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day, 
 she 's a fair lady. I do spy some marks of love in her. 
 
 Beatrice. Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner. 
 
 Benedick. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. 
 
 Beatrice. I took no more pains for those thanks than you take 
 pains to thank me. If it had been painful I would not have 
 come. 
 
 Benedick. You take pleasure, then, in the message ? 
 
 Beatrice. Yea, just as much as you may take on a knife's point and 
 not choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior; fare you 
 well. \Exit. 
 
 Benedick. Ha ! " Against my will I am sent to bid you come in 
 to dinner ; " there 's a double meaning in that. " I took no more pains 
 for your thanks than you took pains to thank me ; " that 's as much as 
 to say : Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks. If I do 
 not take pity of her I am a villain. If I do not love her I am a Jew. 
 I will go get her picture. 
 
 Shakspeare's wonderful art shows itself conspicuously in 
 this scene. Any other writer would have seized the occasion 
 to draw a poetic picture of a desponding, love-sick maiden, 
 as true to life as his experience enabled him to portray. 
 Shakspeare does no such thing. These three men — the 
 Prince, Claudio, and Leonato set about the task they have 
 assigned themselves so unskilfully that any woman hidden 
 in the arbor would have known at once that, as children 
 say, " they were making it up as they went along." 
 
 Would any Hero have betrayed her cousin to her few-hours- 
 old lover, as sitting in her smock at dead of night writing a 
 questionably-modest love-letter? Would Beatrice, unless 
 transported out of her own character, have invoked any Bene- 
 dick as she is reputed to have done? Would she to any 
 
Much Ado about Nothing. 205 
 
 bedfellow, or cousin, have said anything so stilted and 
 unnatural as " I measure him by my own spirit ; for I should 
 flout him if he writ to me; yea, though I love him, I 
 should"? 
 
 Not, surely, this Beatrice, nor scarcely any woman. Bea- 
 trice would have hidden her wound proudly, have broken jest 
 upon jest upon Benedick to the last, and have died self- 
 martyred with the spirit of a Spartan. But these men know 
 none of these things, and clumsily set to work to the best of 
 their shallow perception to evolve from their inner conscious- 
 ness a proud girl in her love-trouble. They were not poets, 
 nor dramatists, nor novelists, — nor was Benedick ; else, from 
 internal evidence, he would have detected the deception, 
 and convicted them out of their own mouths of leze- 
 chivalry. 
 
 However, they knew no better, nor did he. Ursula and 
 Hero manage their task in a very different fashion. They 
 draw no picture of Benedick in a supposed maudlin state. 
 What a man would do or say, in solitude or among his 
 friends, under such circumstances, was unknown to them, 
 and they let the subject very sensibly alone. 
 
 Act III. Scene i. 
 
 The charm of this scene is that while it repeats the action 
 in the closing part of the last act, we here see women prac- 
 tising upon a woman. Hero, too shy to speak in company 
 or before strange men, now displays wit, sense, and pene- 
 tration, so that we better understand than we have done 
 before, her close intimacy with the brilliant Beatrice. The 
 " pleached " bower is a bower interlaced and intertwined 
 with creepers. 
 
2o6 Much Ado about Nothing, 
 
 Hero. The pleached bower, 
 
 Where honey-suckles, ripened by the sun, 
 P'orbid the sun to enter, — like favorites 
 Made proud by princes, that advance their pride 
 Against the power that bred it, . . . 
 Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come, 
 As we do trace this alley up and down, 
 Our talk must only be of Benedick. 
 When I do name him let it be thy part 
 To praise him more than ever man did merit. 
 My talk to thee must be how Benedick 
 Is sick in love with Beatrice. Of this matter 
 Is little Cupid's crafty arrow made. 
 That only wounds by hearsay. Now begin ; 
 For look where Beatrice, like a lap-wing, runs 
 Close to the ground to hear our conference. 
 
 Ursula. The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish 
 Cut with her golden oars the silver stream, 
 And greedily devour the treacherous bait. 
 So angle we for Beatrice, who even now 
 Is crouched in the woodbine coverture. 
 Fear you not my part of the dialogue. 
 
 Hero. Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing 
 Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it. — 
 No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful ; 
 I know her spirits are as coy and wild 
 As haggards of the rock. 
 
 Ursula. But are you sure 
 
 That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely ? 
 
 Hero. So says the Prince, and my new 'trothed lord. 
 
 Ursula. And did they bid you tell her of it, madam ? 
 
 Hero. They did entreat me to acquaint her of it ; 
 But I persuaded them, if they loved Benedick, 
 To wish him wrestle with affection 
 And never to let Beatrice know of it. 
 
 Ursula. Why did you so ? Doth not the gentleman 
 Deserve as full, as fortunate a bride ? 
 
 Hero. O god of love ! I know he doth deserve 
 As much as may be yielded to a man. 
 But nature never framed a woman's heart 
 
Much Ado about Nothing, 207 
 
 Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice. 
 Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, 
 Mispraising what they look on ; and her wit 
 Values itself so highly that to her 
 All matter else seems weak. She cannot love 
 Nor take no shape nor project of affection. 
 She is so self-endeared. 
 
 Ursula. Sure, I think so. 
 
 And therefore, certainly, it were not good 
 She knew his love, lest she make sport at it. 
 
 Hero. Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man, 
 How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured, 
 But she would spell him backward. If fair-faced, ^ 
 
 She 'd swear the gentleman should be her sister. 
 If black, why, nature, drawing of an antic, 
 Made a foul blot ; if tall, a lance well headed j 
 If low, an agate very vilely cut ; 
 If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds ; 
 If silent, why, a block moved with none. 
 So turns she every man the wrong side out, 
 And never gives to truth and virtue that 
 Which simpleness and merit purchaseth. 
 
 Ursula. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable 
 
 Hero. No, not to be so odd, and from all fashion, 
 As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable. 
 But who dare tell her so .? If I should speak 
 She 'd mock me into air. O ! she would laugh me 
 Out of myself ; press me to death with wit ; 
 Thenceforth let Benedick, like covered fire, 
 Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly ; 
 It were a better death than die with mocks ; 
 Which is as bad as die with tickling. 
 
 Ursula. Yet tell her of it ; hear what she will say. 
 
 Hero. No. Rather will I go to Benedick 
 And counsel him to fight against his passion. 
 And truly I '11 devise some honest slanders 
 To stain my cousin with. One doth not know 
 How much an ill word may empoison liking. 
 
 Ursula. O ! do not do your cousin such a wrong ; 
 She cannot be so much without true judgment 
 
2o8 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 (Having so swift and excellent a wit 
 As she is prized to have) as to refuse 
 So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick. 
 
 Hero. He is the only man of Italy, — 
 Always excepted my dear Claudio. 
 
 Ursula. I pray you, be not angry with me, madam. 
 Speaking my fancy. Signior Benedick, 
 For shape, for bearing, argument, and valor, 
 Goes foremost in report through Italy. 
 
 Hero. Indeed, he hath an excellent good name. 
 
 \Exeunt Hero and Ursula. 
 
 Beatrice [advancing]. What fire is in mine ears ? Can this be true } 
 
 • Stand I condemned for pride and scorn so much .!* 
 Contempt, farewell ! and maiden pride, adieu I 
 
 No glory lives but in the lack of such. 
 And, Benedick, love on ; I will requite thee, — 
 Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand ; 
 If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee 
 
 To bind our loves up in a holy band ; 
 For others say thou dost deserve, and I 
 Believe it better than reportingly. 
 
 Contrast the Beatrice who says this with the imaginary 
 Beatrice Claudio and the Prince drew for her. There is but 
 one point in the conversation between Hero and Ursula 
 which might have led quick-witted Beatrice to suspect collu- 
 sion. Had the conversation been genuine we may be sure 
 that Hero never would have allowed Ursula's speech in which 
 she sets Benedick above the " dear Claudio," to pass without 
 rebuke. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 This scene takes place in Leonato's house. The Prince 
 is in one of the reception-rooms, with Benedick, Claudio, and 
 Leonato for his attendants. Benedick insists he has the 
 tooth-ache, and Claudio and Leonato gibe him, because 
 they will have it that he is in love. We find out he has 
 
Much Ado about Nothing. 209 
 
 shaved off the objectionable beard, and that he looks younger. 
 But he has hardly a word at command with which to parry 
 or return the jokes aimed at him. When Benedick and 
 Leonato retire together to talk of Beatrice, Don John enters 
 and proclaims to the Prince and Claudio that Hero is a 
 worthless woman. He tells them that a man will talk with 
 her that night at her chamber-window. Claudio never 
 pauses to weigh evidence, — to put what he knows of Hero 
 into the balance, and poise it against such charges. He not 
 only believes at once (the coward !) but proposes the most 
 cruel and dishonoring revenge. Nothing will ever reconcile 
 me to Count Claudio. I give my assent to his marrying 
 Hero in the end merely and solely because she wishes it, .just 
 as I give my consent to Will Ladislaw marrying Dorothea 
 Casaubon ; but I never shall be pleased at either match, even 
 if they turned out pretty well (as they very possibly did in 
 both cases). Dorothea may have fitted her elastic ideal 
 upon Will, as she had already fitted it to Casaubon; and 
 Hero was so quiet and gentle fthat I daresay she never found 
 out the deficiencies of her husband, provided he was tolerably 
 kind to her. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 This scene is in a street, where we encounter the immortal 
 Dogberry and Verges. Dogberry, I think, is a bluff constable, 
 about fifty, a well-to-do tradesman of his town (which was 
 never the Sicilian city of Messina, but Stratford-upon-Avon, 
 or some place in its vicinity). Shakspeare greatly disliked 
 beadles and constables, the petty tyrants of a parish ; and in- 
 deed, their rule must have been dreadful, especially as ap- 
 plied to tramps and vagrants in the days of Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 14 
 
2IO Much Ado about Nothing, 
 
 Verges is a superannuated, toothless old man falling into 
 dotage. 
 
 Dogberry \to the watch with their bills and a lantern]. Are you good 
 men, and true ? 
 
 Verges. Yea, or else it were a pity but they should suffer salvation, 
 body and soul. 
 
 Dogberry. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them if they 
 should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the Prince's 
 watch. 
 
 Verges. Well, give them their charge, neighbor Dogberry. 
 
 Dogberry. First, who think you the most desartless man to be a 
 constable ? 
 
 1 Watchman. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal ; for they 
 can read and write. 
 
 Dogberry. Come hither, neighbor Seacoal. God hath blessed you 
 with" a good name. To be a well-favored man is a gift of fortune, but 
 to write and read comes by nature. 
 
 2 Watchman. Both which, master Constable — 
 
 Dogberry. — You have. I knew it would be your answer. Well, 
 for your favor, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of it ; and 
 for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of 
 such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit 
 man for the constable of the watch; therefore bear you the lantern. 
 This is your charge : you shall comprehend all vagrom men ; you are 
 to bid any man stand in the Prince's name. 
 
 2 Watchman. How if he will not stand ? 
 
 Dogberry. Why, then take no note of him, but let him go ; and 
 presently call all the rest of the watch together, and thank God you 
 are rid of a knave. 
 
 Verges. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the 
 Prince's subjects. 
 
 Dogberry. True ; and they are to meddle with none but the 
 Prince's subjects. You shall also make no noise in the streets; 
 for, for the watch to babble and to talk is most tolerable and not 
 to be endured. 
 
 2 Watchma?i. We will rather sleep than talk ; we know what 
 belongs to a watch. 
 
 • Dogberry. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watch- 
 man ; for I cannot see how sleeping should offend ; only have a care 
 
Much Ado about Nothing, 211 
 
 that your bills be not stolen. Well, you are to call at all the alehouses, 
 and bid those that are drunk get them to bed. 
 
 2 Watchman, How if they will not ? 
 
 Dogberry. Why, then let them alone till they are sober. If they 
 make you not then the better answer you may say they are not the 
 men you took them for. If you meet a thief you may suspect him, by 
 virtue of your office, to be no true man ; and for such kind of men the 
 less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your honesty. 
 
 2 Watchman. If we know him to be a thief shall we not lay hands 
 on him "i 
 
 Dogberry. Truly, by your office you may, but I think they that 
 touch pitch will be defiled. The most peaceable way for you, if you 
 take a thief, is to let him show himself what he is, and steal out of 
 your company. 
 
 Verges. You have been always called a merciful man, partner, 
 
 2 Watchman. Well, masters, we hear our charge. Let us go, sit 
 here upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed. 
 
 Dogberry. One word more, honest neighbors. I pray you watch 
 about Signior Leonato's door ; for the wedding being there to-morrow, 
 there is a great coil to-night. Adieu ; be vigilant, I beseech you. 
 
 Then, as these guardians of the night seek the bench in 
 the church-porch, Conrade and Borachio come upon the 
 scene ; the latter is a little drunk, and much elated by the 
 stroke of business he has done that night. As they stand 
 and talk under shelter, out of the rain, the watch, within 
 earshot, learns that Borachio is to receive of Don John a 
 thousand ducats for talking to Margaret the waiting-woman 
 at Lady Hero's window, while the Prince, Claudio, and Don 
 John are watching from the orchard. They also hear some 
 hadifiage about fashion, Borachio saying, " Seest thou not 
 what a deformed thief this Fashion is? " The word " thief*' 
 catches George Seacoal's ear. He instantly cpncludes that 
 Deformed is their accomplice, and when they are arrested 
 they are required to produce Deformed. 
 
212 Much Ado about Nothing, 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 It is the wedding-morning. We are again in Leonato's 
 house. Hero and her waiting-women are holding counsel 
 over the wedding-finery, when in comes Beatrice, very dis- 
 traite and nervous, and runs the gantlet of the jokes of the 
 waiting-maids. Benedick had protested he had tooth-ache ; 
 she declares that she has caught a cold. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 The wedding-hour has arrived, the wedding-party has as- 
 sembled, when the Governor is called out to see two malefac- 
 tors, whom the watch have apprehended. Had he examined 
 them there would have been na further story ; but Dogberry 
 and Verges, who have brought the prisoners for commitment, 
 are sa long in bringing their accusation to a comprehensible 
 point that the Governor cuts the matter short by saying that 
 he delegates his power to examine and commit to, Dogberry, 
 and that they had better deal themselves with the evil-doers. 
 Observe throughout this scene the true, noble, kindly gentle- 
 man in Leonato, giving honor even to his inferiors, and never 
 showing his impatience, though he tries to make them get 
 their business done ! Imagine, too, the swelling importance of 
 Dogberry upon the bench, backed up by his familiar. Verges. 
 
 Leonato. What would you with me, honest neighbors ? 
 Dogberry. Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you that \ 
 decerns you nearly. 
 
 Leonato. Brief, I pray you ; for you see, 't is a busy time with me. \ 
 Dogberry. Marry, that it is, sir. \ 
 
 Verges. Yes, in truth it is, sir. \ 
 
 Dogberry. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter, — an 
 old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt as, God help, I would desire 
 they were ; but, in faith, honest as the skin between his brows. 
 
 
Much Ado about Nothing, 213 
 
 Verges. Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any man living, that 
 is an old man and no honester than I. 
 
 Dogberry. Comparisons are odorous ; palabras, neighbor Verges. 
 
 Leonato. Neighbors, you are tedious. 
 
 Dogberry. It pleases your worship to say so ; but we are the 
 poor Duke's officers. But truly, for mine own part, if I were as 
 tedious as a king, I could find it in my heart to bestow it all of your 
 worship. 
 
 Leotiato. All thy tediousness on me ? Ha ! 
 
 Dogberry. Yea, and 't were a thousand times more than 't is ; for I 
 hear as good exclamation of your worship as of any man in the city. 
 And though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it. . . . 
 
 Leonato. Take the examination yourself, and bring it me. I am 
 now in great haste, as may appear to you. Drink some wine ere you 
 go ; farewell. 
 
 , Act IV. Scene i. 
 
 You will, I am sure, remark that Shakspeare, in that age of 
 speaking evil of the clergy, never mentions them but with 
 respect. Friar Francis, who is to marry Hero and Claudio, 
 is a noble old man. 
 
 In the most brutal manner, at the moment when Claudio 
 should say, " I will," in the marriage ceremony, he flings his 
 bride from him. He spares her nothing. He is not minded 
 to put the hapless girl to whom he is affianced " away privily." 
 And Don Pedro, exasperated by the slight put upon his 
 princely good offices, forgets all that is due to the hon- 
 orable and hospitable Leonato, and is nearly as bad as 
 Claudio. 
 
 Hero is astonished. She is naturally a woman of few 
 words. Now she cannot speak. Even Beatrice is struck dumb, 
 till her cousin faints and falls, when she springs to her assist- 
 ance. Old Leonato, too, not only wavers, but, overwhelmed 
 by this attack upon his honor, deems his Hero guilty. 
 
 When Don Pedro, Don John, and Claudio leave the 
 
214 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 church, Benedick remains. He is not the man to desert the 
 woman he loves, and the woman that she loves, in extremity. 
 He draws near Beatrice, and speaks tenderly and respectfully 
 of Hero. 
 
 Benedick. How doth the lady ? 
 
 Beatrice. Dead, I think. Help, uncle ! Hero ! Why, Hero ? Un- 
 cle ! Signior Benedick ! Friar I 
 
 Leonato. O Fate, take not away thy heavy hand ! 
 Death is the fairest cover for her shame 
 That may be wished for. 
 
 Beatrice. How now, cousin Hero } 
 
 Friar. Have comfort, lady. 
 
 Leonato. Dost thou look up ? 
 
 Friar. Yea ; wherefore should she not .-' 
 
 Leonato. Wherefore ? Why, doth not every earthly thing 
 Cry shame upon her ? Could she here deny 
 The story that is printed in her blood .? 
 Do not live. Hero ; do not ope thine eyes ; 
 For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die, 
 Myself would, on the hazard of reproaches. 
 Strike at thy life. Grieved I I had but one ? 
 Chid I for that at frugal nature's frown ? 
 O, one too much by thee ! Why had I one ? 
 Why wast thou ever lovely in my eyes .? 
 Why had I not, with charitable hand, 
 Took up a beggar's issue at my gates .? — 
 Who smirched thus, and mired with infamy, 
 I might have said. No part of it is mine. 
 But mine I loved, and mine I praised, 
 And mine that I was proud on ! — O, she is fallen 
 Into a pit of ink 1 that the wide sea 
 Hath drops too few to wash her clean again. 
 
 Benedick. Sir, sir, be patient I 
 For my part I am so attired in wonder 
 I know not what to say. 
 
 Beatrice. O, on my soul, my cousin is belied ! 
 
 Benedick. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night ? 
 
 Beatrice. No, truly not ; although, until last night, 
 I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow. 
 
Much Ado about Nothing, 215 
 
 Leonato. Confirmed ! confirmed ! . . . 
 Would the two princes lie ? and Claudio lie ? — 
 Who loved her so that, speaking of her foulness, 
 Washed it with tears ? Hence from her ; let her die. 
 
 Here the Friar interposes. He bids them remark every 
 sign of innocence in her sweet face, and pledges his age, his 
 calling, and his experience, "that the sweet lady doth lie 
 guiltless there under some blighting error." 
 
 " She does not deny her guilt ! " cries Leonato. 
 " Lady," says the Friar, " what man is he you are accused 
 of?" 
 
 Hero. They know that do accuse me. O my father, 
 Prove you that with me any man conversed 
 At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight 
 Maintained the change of words with any creature, — 
 Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death. 
 Friar. There is some strange misprision in the princes. 
 Benedick. Two of them have the very bent of honor, 
 And if their wisdoms be misled in this, 
 The practice of it lives in John the Bastard, 
 Whose spirits toil in fraud and villanies. 
 
 Then in measured words the Friar, with soft persuasion, 
 endeavors to induce Leonato to give out that his child is 
 dead, slain by the shock of so terrible an accusation. Thus 
 she will win the pity of the public, and even that of those 
 who had accused her. Meantime her friends must ferret 
 out evidence on which she may be cleared from foul sus- 
 picion. 
 
 Benedick. Signior Leonato, let the Friar advise you, 
 And though you know my inwardness *nd love 
 Is very much unto the Prince and Claudio, 
 Yet, by mine honor, I will deal in this 
 As secretly and justly as your soul 
 Should with your body. 
 
2i6 Much Ado about Nothing, 
 
 And when the Friar has drawn away poor Hero and her 
 father, Beatrice and Benedick remain alone for their first 
 scene of courting : — 
 
 Benedick. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while ? 
 
 Beatrice. Yea, and 1 will weep a while longer. 
 
 Benedick. 1 will not desire that. » 
 
 Beatrice. You have no reason ; I do it freely. 
 
 Benedick. Surely, I do believe your fair cousin is wronged. 
 
 Beatrice. Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would 
 right her. 
 
 Benedick. Is there any way to show such friendship ? 
 
 Beatrice. A very even way, but no such friend. 
 
 Benedick. May a man do it ? 
 
 Beatrice. It is a man's office, but not yours. 
 
 Benedick. I do love nothing in the world so well as you ; is not 
 that strange .? 
 
 Beatrice. As strange as the thing I know not. ... It were as pos- 
 sible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you. But believe me 
 not. And yet I lie not. I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I 
 am sorry for my cousin. 
 
 Benedick. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me ! 
 
 Beatrice. Do not swear by it and eat it. 
 
 Benedick. I will swear by it — that you love me, and I will make 
 him eat it that says I love ;iot you. 
 
 Beatrice. Will you not eat your word ? 
 
 Benedick. With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I 
 love thee. 
 
 Beatrice. Why then, God forgive me I 
 
 Benedick. What offence, sweet Beatrice ? 
 
 Beatrice. You have stayed me in a happy hour ; I was about to 
 protest I loved you. 
 
 Benedick. And do it with all thy heart. 
 
 Beatrice. I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to 
 protest. 
 
 Benedick. Come, bid me do anything for thee. 
 
 Beatrice. Kill Claudio ! 
 
 This sudden proposition startles Benedick, who is hardly 
 prepared to renounce the friend he loves, and to become 
 
 I 
 
Much Ado about Nothing. 217 
 
 his slayer. But Beatrice pours out her very just opinion of 
 Count Claudio. 
 
 Is he not approved in the height a villain that hath slandered, 
 scorned, dishonored my kinswoman ? Oh that I were a man ! What I 
 bear her in hand till they come to take hands, and then, with public 
 accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancor, — O God, that 
 I were a man ! I would eat his heart in the market-place I 
 
 In vain Benedick tries to get in a few words. Accusa- 
 tions of Claudio, frantic wishes that Heaven had made her 
 a man rush from the lips of Beatrice. At last she stops for 
 want of breath, and bursts into a flood of tears. 
 
 Benedick. Tarry, good Beatrice ; by this hand, I love thee. 
 
 Beatrice. Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it. 
 
 Benedick. Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath 
 wronged Hero ? 
 
 Beatrice, Yea ; as sure as I have a thought or a soul. 
 
 Benedick. Enough ; I am engaged ; I will challenge him. I will 
 kiss your hand, and so leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render 
 me a dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort 
 your cousin. I must say she is dead. And so farewell. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Then ensues the examination of Conrade and Borachio in 
 their prison. Dogberry, swollen with importance, is in the 
 seat of justice. The sexton, who really knows something of 
 the formalities proper on such an occasion, tries to keep up 
 appearances, and confusion worse confounded is the result. 
 Observe that when Conrade replies to Dogberry's " Sirrah " 
 by the words, ''I am a gendeman," he inspires a certain 
 respect which saves him from further brow-beating until they 
 come to bind him. Then Dogberry utters the words which 
 h5ve made him immortal. If we compare this scene with 
 Bunyan's account of his own examination by country jus- 
 
2i8 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 tices, about sixty years later, as recorded in the examination 
 of Christian and Faithful in Vanity Fair we shall see no 
 cause to set aside Verges' opinion of his neighbor Dogberry, 
 that he had "been ever considered a merciful man." 
 
 Dogberry. Is our whole dissembly appeared ? 
 
 Verges. O ! a stool and a cushion for the sexton. 
 
 Sexton. Which be the malefactors ? 
 
 Dogberry. Marry that am I, and my partner. 
 
 Verges. Nay, that 's certain ; we have the exhibition to examine. 
 
 Sexton. But which are the offenders to be examined ? Let them 
 come before master Constable. 
 
 Dogberry. Yea, marry ; let them come before me. What is your 
 name, friend ? 
 
 Borachio. Borachio. 
 
 Dogberry. Pray write down, Borachio. Yours, sirrah ? 
 
 Conrade. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade. 
 
 Dogberry. Write down, master gentleman Conrade. Masters, do 
 you serve God t 
 
 Conrade and Borachio. Yea, sir, we hope. 
 
 Dogberry. Write down that they hope they serve God. And 
 write God first ; for God defend but God should go before such vil- 
 lains. Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than 
 false knaves ; and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How 
 answer you for yourselves .-* 
 
 Conrade. Marry, sir, I say we are none. 
 
 Dogberry. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you ; but I will go 
 about with him. Come you hither, sirrah ; a word in your ear, sir ; I 
 say to you, it is thought you are false knaves. 
 
 Borachio. Sir, I say to you, we are none. 
 
 Dogberry. Well, stand aside. 'Fore God they are both in a tale. 
 Have you writ down that they are none t 
 
 Sexton. Master Constable you go not the way to examine ; you 
 must call forth the watch that are their accusers. 
 
 Dogberry. Yea, marry ; that is the eftest w^ay. Let the watch 
 come forth. Masters, I charge you in the Prince's name, accuse 
 these men. 
 
 I Watchman. This man said, sir, that Don John, the Prince's 
 brother, was a villain. 
 
Much Ado about Nothing, 219 
 
 Dogberry. Write down, Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat 
 perjury, to call a prince's brother a villain 1 
 
 Borachio. Master Constable — 
 
 Dogberry. Pray thee, fellow, peace. I do not like thy look, I 
 promise thee. 
 
 Sexton. What heard you him say else ? 
 
 I Watchman. Marry that he had received a thousand ducats of 
 Don John, for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully. 
 
 Dogberry. Flat burglary, as ever was committed. 
 
 Verges. Yea, by the mass, that it is. 
 
 Sexton. What else, fellow t 
 
 1 Watchman. And that Count Claudio did mean upon his words 
 to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her. 
 
 Dogberry. O villain! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting 
 redemption for this ! 
 Sexton. What else ? 
 
 2 Watchman. This is all. 
 
 Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince 
 
 John is this morning secretly stolen away ; Hero was in this manner 
 
 accused, in this manner refused, and upon the grief of this suddenly 
 
 'died. Master Constable, let these men be bound and brought to 
 
 Leonato's ; I will go before and show him their examination. 
 
 Dogberry. Come, let them be opinioned. 
 
 Sexton. Let them be bound. 
 
 Conrade. Hands off, coxcomb ! 
 
 Dogberry. God 's my life ! where 's the sexton ? Let him write 
 down the Prince's officer, coxcomb! Come, bind them. — Thou 
 naughty varlet ! 
 
 Conrade. Away ! you are an ass ! you are an ass I 
 
 Dogberry. Dost thou not suspect my place ? Dost thou not sus- 
 pect my years ? Oh that he were here to write me down an ass I But 
 masters, remember that I am an ass ! though it be not written down, 
 yet forget not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of 
 piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise 
 fellow ; and which is more, an officer ; and which is more, as pretty 
 a piece of flesh as any in Messina; and one that knows the law, 
 go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath 
 had losses ; and one that hath two gowns and everything hand- 
 some about him I Bring him away. Oh that I had been writ 
 down an ass ! 
 
220 Much Ado about Nothing, 
 
 Act V. Scene i. 
 
 The opening of this first scene is between poor Leonato 
 and his brother Antonio. The old father has recovered 
 himself, and beheves now that his daughter has been belied. 
 It is very affecting when, on the entrance of Don Pedro and 
 Count Claudio, the two old men challenge the redoubtable 
 young soldier, — old Antonio (the younger) thrusting himself 
 forward in his brother's quarrel, choked for want of words, 
 calling Claudio, over and over again, Boy, boy, boy, as a 
 term of reproach, while Leonato tries to pacify him. It 
 makes one furious with Claudio and the Prince to hear, 
 when Benedick comes in after the old men have gone away, 
 how they talk about them. 
 
 Don Pedro. Welcome, signior. You are almost come to part 
 almost a fray. 
 
 Claudio. We had like to have had our two noses snapped off by 
 two old men without teeth. 
 
 Don Pedro. Leonato and his brother. What think'st thou ? had 
 we fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them. 
 
 Benedick. In a false quarrel there is no true valor. I came to 
 seek you both. 
 
 Claudio. We have been up and down to seek thee, for we are high- 
 proof melancholy, and would fain have it beaten away. Wilt thou use 
 thy wit } 
 
 Benedick. It is in my scabbard. Shall I draw it t 
 
 Don Pedro. Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side .'* 
 
 Claudio. Never any did so, though very many have been beside 
 their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do the minstrels. Draw to 
 pleasure us. 
 
 Don Pedro. As I am an honest man, he looks pale. Art thou sick, 
 or angry ? 
 
 Claudio. What, courage, man ! What though care killed a cat, 
 thou hast metal enough in thee to kill care. 
 
 Benedick. Sir, I meet your wit in the career, an you charge it 
 against me. I pray you, choose another subject. 
 
 I 
 
Much Ado about Nothing. 221 
 
 Benedick is admirable in this scene. He strives to keep 
 himself under control. He wants to avoid challenging 
 Claudio in the presence of the Prince. He draws him aside 
 and whispers his challenge. Don Pedro thinks he is giving 
 an invitation to supper, and wants it to include himself. He 
 goes on jesting about Beatrice. The dignity with which 
 Benedick ignores these remarks, and takes leave of the 
 Prince, raises him still higher in our estimation. As to 
 the Prince and Claudio, they sink every moment. One won- 
 ders they could name " the old man's daughter ; " one won- 
 ders that the tragic scenes through which they had just 
 passed had not put the merry plot they had engaged in out 
 of their heads. 
 
 Benedick \to Claudio]. Shall I speak a word in your ear ? 
 
 Clandio. God bless me from a challenge \ 
 
 Beitedick. You are a villain — I jest not. I will make it good how 
 you dare, with what you dare, when you dare. Do me right, or I will 
 protest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet lady, and her death 
 shall fall heavy on you» Let me hear from you. 
 
 Claudio. Well, I will meet you, so I may have good cheer. 
 
 Don Pedro. What, a feast, — a feast ? 
 
 Claudio. V faith, I thank him. He hath bid me to a calf s-head 
 and capers ; the which if I do not carve most curiously, say my knife *s 
 naught. 
 
 Benedick. Sir, your wit ambles well ; it goes easily. 
 
 Don Fed7'o. I '11 tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the other 
 day. I said thou hadst a fine wit ; True, says she, a fine little one. 
 No, said I, a great wit ; Right, says she, a great gross one. Nay, 
 faith, said I, a good wit ; Just so, says she, it hurts nobody. Nay, said 
 I, the gentleman is wise ; Certain, says she, a wise gentleman. Nay, 
 said I, he hath the tongues; That I believe, said she, for he swore a 
 thing to me on Monday night which he forswore on Tuesday morning. 
 There 's a double tongue ! There 's two tongues ! Thus did she an 
 hour together trans-shape thy particular virtues ; yet at last she concluded 
 with a sigh thou wast the properest man in Italy. 
 
 Claudio. For the which she wept heartily, and said she cared not. 
 
222 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 Don Pedro, Yes, that she did. But yet for all that, an if she did 
 not hate him dearly, she would love him dearly. The old man's 
 daughter told us all. 
 
 Claiidio. All, all. . . . 
 
 Benedick. Fare you well, boy ; you know my mind. I will leave 
 you now to your gossip-like humor. You break jests as braggarts do 
 their blades, which, God be thanked, hurt not. My lord, for your 
 many courtesies I thank you ; I must discontinue your company. 
 Your brother, Don John, is fled from Messina ; you have among you 
 killed a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord Lackbeard there, he 
 and I shall meet ; and till then peace be with him. 
 
 At this point the watch bring the prisoners before the 
 Prince. You will observe that, Don John having run away, 
 and not having paid Borachio the reward of his villany, the 
 rascal, dreading torture, and finding himself in a strait, makes 
 a merit of confession. Some touch of remorse may have 
 visited him, too ; for it is a sign of grace in him that he up- 
 holds the innocence of Margaret. 
 
 Don Pedro. How now, two of my brother's men bound.? Borachio 
 one ! Officers, what offence have these men done .-* 
 
 Dogberry. Marry, sir, they have committed false report ; moreover, 
 they have spoken untruths ; secondarily, they are slanders ; sixth and 
 lastly, they have belied a lady ; thirdly, they have verified unjust things ; 
 and, to conclude, they are lying knaves. 
 
 Don Pedro. Whom have you offended, masters, that you are thus 
 bound to your answer ? This learned constable is too cunning to be 
 understood. What is your offence >. 
 
 " Sweet Prince," cries Borachio, and then pours forth his 
 confession, overwhelming with shame and pity Don Pedro 
 and Claudio. Their self-accusations are broken in upon by 
 Dogberry, who insists that when time and place shall serve 
 it must be remembered that he is an ass. 
 
 Then Leonato and his brother enter, with the sexton. 
 By him they have been told the truth. Leonato demands 
 which of the men before him is the slanderer. 
 
Much Ado about Nothing. 223 
 
 Borachio. Even I, alone. 
 
 Leonato. No, not so, villain. Thou beliest thyself. 
 Here stand a pair of honorable men, — 
 A third has fled that had a hand in it ; 
 I thank you, princes, for my daughter's death. 
 Record it with your high and noble deeds ; 
 'T was bravely done, if you bethink you of it. 
 
 The Prince and Claudio hang their heads at this reproof, 
 and (the least they can do under the circumstances) offer to 
 submit to anything the old man may demand by way of 
 expiation. 
 
 Leonato requires of Claudio to make public statement 
 
 of the innocence of Hero, and then to marry his heiress, 
 
 his brother's daughter, who strangely resembles her cousin. 
 
 Borachio, he says, shall be confronted with the wicked 
 
 Margaret, " who, I believe," he adds, " was packed in all this 
 
 wrong." 
 
 Borachio. No, by my soul, she was not ; 
 
 Nor knew she what she did when she spoke to me ; 
 But always hath been just and virtuous 
 In anything that I do know of her. 
 
 Dogberry. Moreover, sir (which indeed is not under black and 
 white), this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass. I beseech you, 
 let it be remembered in his punishment. And also, the watch heard 
 them talk of one Deformed. . . . Pray you, examine him upon that 
 point, 
 
 Leonato. I thank thee for thy care and honest pains. 
 
 Dogberry. Your worship speaks like a most thankful and rev- 
 erend youth ; and I praise God for you. 
 
 Leonato. There 's for thy pains. 
 
 Dogberry. God save the foundation. 
 
 Leonato. Go. I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee. 
 
 Dogberry. I leave an errant knave with your worship, which I be- 
 seech your worship to correct yourself for the example of others. God 
 keep your worship ; I wish your worship well. God restore you to 
 health. I humbly give you leave to depart ; and if a merry meeting 
 may be wished, God prohibit it. Come, neighbor. 
 
224 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 This scene is between Margaret, — quite unabashed, and 
 possibly unsuspicious of what is thought of her behavior, — 
 and Benedick ; the chief point of which is Benedick's total 
 incapacity for poetry, — in those days an essential part of 
 love-making. 
 
 Then enters Beatrice, who is seeking Benedick to learn if 
 he has challenged Claudio. The interview ends in a little of 
 their peculiar form of courtship, of which Benedick says truly, 
 " Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably." 
 
 As they are talking, Ursula bursts in upon them with the 
 news, " It is proved my Lady Hero hath been falsely accused ; 
 the Prince and Claudio mightily abused ; and Don John is 
 the author of all, who is fled and gone." 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 This scene is in a church, whither Claudio has repaired, 
 attended by Don Pedro and his court, to hang garlands upon 
 Hero's tomb, while musicians play a solemn dirge. Claudio 
 also affixes to the monument a poem in vindication of the 
 memory of Hero, and vows yearly to perform similar rites. 
 
 Done to death by slanderous tongues, 
 
 Was the Hero that here lies ; 
 Death, in guerdon of her wrongs. 
 
 Gives her fame that never dies. 
 So the life that died with shame 
 Lives in death with glorious fame. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 Is in a room in Leonato's house. All are waiting for the 
 marriage ceremony. Hero is standing beside her father. 
 
Much Ado about Nothing. 225 
 
 Friar. Did I not tell you she was innocent ? 
 
 Leonato. So are the Prince and Claudio who accused her, 
 Upon the error that you heard debated ; 
 But Margaret was in some fault for this, 
 Although against her will, as it appears 
 In the true course of all the question. 
 
 Antonio. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well. 
 
 Benedick, And so am I, being else by faith enforced 
 To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it. 
 
 Leonato. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all. 
 Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves. 
 And when I send for you come hither masked. 
 The Prince and Claudio promised by this hour 
 To visit me. You know your office, brother ; 
 You must be father to your brother's daughter, 
 And give her to young Claudio. 
 
 Then Benedick entreats the Friar's good offices for his 
 own marriage, and looking serious, as a member of Leonato's 
 family might well look, he is twitted by the Prince and 
 Claudio, who have no seemly seriousness in them. I think 
 we see in them how a habit of perpetual joking, and mock- 
 ing, and scoffing deteriorates the character. Benedick and 
 Beatrice have been cured of it just in time. Claudio says 
 (for the bride and bridesmaids come in masked), " Which 
 is the lady I must seize upon? " And then, " Sweet, let me 
 see your face." 
 
 Leonato. No, that you shall not till you take her hand 
 Before this Friar, and swear to marry her. 
 
 Clazidio. Give me your hand before this holy Friar ; 
 I am your husband if you like of me. 
 
 Hero [unmasking]. And while I lived I was your other wife. 
 
 Great is the amazement of the Prince, but in Claudio, to 
 do him justice, happiness overpowers wonder. Benedick, 
 stepping up to the bridesmaids, asks which is Beatrice ? 
 
 IS 
 
226 Much Ado about Nothing, 
 
 Beatrice. I answer to that name \unmasking\. What is your will ? 
 
 Benedick. Do not you love me ? 
 
 Beatrice. No, no more than reason. 
 
 Benedick. Why, then your uncle, and the Prince, and Claudio 
 Have been deceived, for they all swore you did. 
 
 Beatrice. Do not you love me ? 
 
 Benedick. No, no more than reason. 
 
 Beatrice. Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula 
 Are much deceived, for they did swear you did. 
 
 Benedick. They swore that you were almost sick for me. 
 
 Beatrice. They swore that you were almost dead for me. 
 
 Benedick. It is no such matter. Then you do not love me ? 
 
 Beatrice. No, truly, but in friendly recompense. 
 
 Leonato. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman. 
 
 Claudio. And I '11 be sworn upon 't that he loves her ; 
 For here 's a paper written in his hand, — 
 A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, 
 Fashioned to Beatrice. 
 
 Hero. And here 's another, 
 
 Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her pocket, 
 Containing her affection unto Benedick. 
 
 Benedick. A miracle ! Here 's our own hands against our hearts ! 
 Come, I will have thee ; but, by this light, I take thee for pity. 
 
 Beatrice. I would not deny you ; but, by this good day, I yield 
 upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life ; for I was told 
 you were in a consumption. 
 
 Benedick. Peace ! I will stop your mouth. \Kisses her. 
 
 Don Pedro. How dost thou. Benedick the married man ? 
 
 Benedick. I'll tell you what. Prince, a college of wit-crackers 
 cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire 
 or an epigram ? In bri?f, since I do purpose to marry, I will think 
 nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and there- 
 fore never flout at me for what I have said against it ; for man is a 
 giddy thing, and this is my conclusion. For thy part, Claudio, I did 
 think to have beaten thee ; but in that thou art like to be my kinsman, 
 live unbruised, and love my cousin. 
 
 Lady Martin says of this last scene : " In the encounter of 
 wits Beatrice, as usual, has the best of it, but Benedick is 
 too happy to care for such defeat. He knows that he has 
 
Much Ado about Nothing. 227 
 
 won her heart, and that it is a heart of gold. He can there- 
 fore well afford to smile at the epigrams of a college of wit- 
 crackers, and at the quotations against himself of his former 
 smart sayings about lovers and married men. His home, 
 I doubt not, would be a happy one, — all the happier because 
 Beatrice and he have each a strong individuality, with fine 
 spirits, and busy brains. They will always be finding out 
 something new and interesting in each other's characters. 
 As for Beatrice, at least, one feels sure that Benedick will have 
 a great deal to discover and to admire in her, the more he 
 knows her." And she adds, remembering her own tri- 
 umphs as an actress : " I can only hope that in impersonating 
 her I have given one half the pleasure to my audience that 
 I have had in taking upon me her nature for a time. Such 
 representations were to me a pure holiday. However tired 
 I might be when the play began, the pervading joyousness 
 of her character soon took hold of me, and led me de- 
 lightedly on." 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 THIS play is a pastoral, a tale of Arcady ; and Arcady 
 with Shakspeare is the life of the greenwood, the life 
 led by Robin Hood and his men, — a life discontinued since 
 their days in the uncertain climate of England, but revived 
 among ourselves in the tent-life and camp-life often led dur- 
 ing the summer months in the forests or on the mountains. 
 The whole play is in the open air, and in the sunshine, and 
 the sunniest thing throughout it all is Rosalind. The course 
 of true love runs smoothly throughout, hardly rippled except 
 in the case of the weak Silvius and his Phoebe. 
 
 The story is taken from a pastoral romance by one Lodge, 
 entitled " Rosalynde," which was founded largely on a story in 
 Chaucer. Why Shakspeare called it ''As You Like It," it is 
 difficult to say. It has, so far as I can see, no particular 
 moral. One commentator says it was designed to contrast 
 rural with court life; another, that it preaches the virtues 
 of patience and contentment. These morals I think are 
 merely incidental, and not part of the design. Jaques, 
 Touchstone, Audrey, and William are entirely the work of 
 Shakspeare. The original novel was affected, sentimental, 
 and tedious, but it contained the germs of the other char- 
 acters. 
 
232 As You Like It. 
 
 Act I. Scene i. 
 
 The first scene is not in the greenwood^ but in an orchard, 
 under blossoming boughs, in the bright days of early summer. 
 The speakers are the good old servant Adam (a character 
 that Gilbert Shakspeare, who lived to a great age, remem- 
 bered to have seen acted by his brother William), and 
 Orlando, the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Bois. 
 
 Orlando is perhaps Shakspeare's most perfect heros de 
 roman. He is handsome, stalwart, modest, proud, perse- 
 cuted, beloved, generous, and chivalrous, — a most ideal 
 lover. His father, Sir Rowland, dying, had left his estates to 
 Oliver, his first-born, but had charged him to bring up his two 
 brothers with "all good breeding." One brother, Jaques, 
 he sent to school, where he " did goldenly ; " but Orlando, 
 the younger, he kept at home, permitting him only to asso- 
 ciate with rustics, and to pick up such knowledge as might 
 fall in his way. "As far as in him lies," says the poor 
 youth, " my brother mines my gentility with my educa- 
 tion." 
 
 Oliver entering the orchard, the brothers come to words 
 with one another. I confess I do not understand Oliver. 
 To me he seems a mean, disloyal villain; but Shakspeare 
 could not have mated his sweet tlelia to a man of corrupt 
 heart. However, in this first scene he is clearly detestable. 
 Note that when Oliver contemptuously calls his brother, 
 " Boy ! " he seizes him at the same moment, to throw him 
 down. Orlando, though the younger, knows his superior 
 strength, and will do no more than free himself from his 
 brother's grasp, and then hold him at arms' length till he has 
 listened to what he has to say to him. 
 
As You Like It, 233 
 
 Adam. Yonder comes my master, your brother. 
 
 Orlando. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake 
 me up. 
 
 Oliver. Now, sir 1 what make you here I 
 
 Orlando. Nothing : I am not taught to make anything. 
 
 Oliver. What mar you then, sir ? 
 
 Orlando. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God 
 . made, a poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness. 
 
 Oliver. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught a while. 
 
 Orlando. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them.> 
 What prodigal portion have I spent, that I should come to such 
 penury.*^ 
 
 Oliver. Know you where you are, sir t 
 
 Orlando. O, sir, very well : here in your orchard. 
 
 Oliver. Know you before whom, sir ? 
 
 Orlando. Ay, better than he I am before knows me. I know you 
 are my eldest brother, and, in the gentle condition of blood, you should 
 so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better, in that 
 you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not away my 
 blood were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as much of my 
 father in me as you ; albeit I confess, your coming before me is nearer 
 to his reverence. 
 
 Oliver. What, boy ! 
 
 Orlando. Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this. 
 
 Oliver. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain ? 
 
 Orlando. I am no villain : I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland 
 de Bois ; he was my father ; and he is thrice a villain that says such a 
 father begot villains. Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this 
 hand from thy throat till this other had pulled out thy tongue for say- 
 ing so ; thou hast railed on thyself. 
 
 Adam. Sweet masters, be patient ; for your father's remembrance, 
 be at accord. 
 
 Oliver. Let me go, I say. 
 
 Orlando. I will not till I please ; you shall hear me. My father 
 charged you in his will to give me good education ; you have trained 
 me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like 
 qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in me, and I will no 
 longer endure it ; therefore allow me such exercises as may become a 
 gentleman, or give me the poor allottery my father left me by testa- 
 ment,; with that I will go buy my fortunes. 
 
234 •^•^ ^ou Like It, 
 
 Oliver. And what wilt thou do, — beg, when that is spent ? Well, 
 sir, get you in ; I will not long be troubled with you. You shall have 
 some part of your will; I pray you, leave me. 
 
 Orlando. I will no further offend you than becomes me for my 
 good. 
 
 Oliver. Get you with him, you old dog. 
 
 Adam. Is " old dog " my reward .? Most true, I have lost my teeth 
 in your service. God be with my old master, he would not have spoke 
 such a word. 
 
 There waits without, Charles, the Duke's wrestler, a good- 
 natured, but brutal athlete, who has come thither with a kind 
 intention, but has neither wit nor moral purpose enough to 
 stick to it when he finds that a crime would be acceptable to 
 his social superior. His kindness was a mere impulse, — 
 when opposed by self-interest it withers away. 
 
 Charles. Good morrow to your worship. 
 
 Oliver. Good Monsieur Charles, what 's the new news at the new 
 court ? 
 
 Charles. There 's no news at the court, sir, but the old news, — that 
 is, that the Duke is banished by his younger brother the new Duke ; 
 and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary exile 
 with him, whose land and revenues enrich the new Duke ; therefore he 
 gives them good leave to wander. 
 
 Oliver. Can you tell if Rosalind, the old Duke's daughter, be ban- 
 ished with her father ? ' 
 
 Charles. O, no, for the new Duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves 
 her, being ever from their cradles bred together, that she would have 
 followed her to exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at the 
 court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter. And 
 never two ladies loved as they do. 
 
 Oliver. Where will the old Duke live ? 
 
 Charles. They say he is already in the Forest of Arden, and a 
 many merry men with him ; and there they live like the old Robin 
 Hood of England. They say many young gentlemen flock to him 
 every day, and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden 
 world. 
 
 Oliver. What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new Duke ? 
 
As You Like IL 235 
 
 Charles. Marry, do I, sir ; and I came to acquaint you with a 
 matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger 
 brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguised against me 
 to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit ; and he that 
 escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well. Your 
 brother is but young, and tender ; and for your love, I would be loath 
 to foil him, as I must for my own honor, if he come in : therefore, out 
 of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint you withal ; that either 
 you might stay him from his intendment, or brook such disgrace well 
 as he shall run into; in that it is a thing of his own search, and alto- 
 gether against my will. 
 
 Oliver. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt 
 find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my brother's 
 purpose herein, and have by underhand means labored to dissuade 
 him from it j but he is resolute. I'll tell thee, Charles, — it is the 
 stubbornest young fellow of France ; full of ambition, an envious emu- 
 lator of every man's good parts, a secret and villanous contriver 
 against me, his natural brother. Therefore, use thy discretion ; I had as 
 lief thou didst break his neck as his finger. And thou wert best look 
 to 't ; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily 
 grace himself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap 
 thee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till he hath ta'en 
 thy life by some indirect means or other : for I assure thee, and almost 
 with tears I speak it, there is not one so young and so villanous this 
 day living. I speak but brotherly of him ; but should I anatomize 
 him to thee as he is, I must blush and weep, and thou must look pale 
 and wonder. 
 
 Charles. I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come to- 
 morrow, I '11 give him his payment. If ever he go alone again, I '11 
 never wrestle for prize more. And so, God keep your worship ! 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 Oliver. Farewell, good Charles. Now will I stir this gamester. 
 I hope I shall see an end of him ; for my soul, yet I know not why, 
 hates nothing more than he. Yet he 's gentle ; never schooled and yet 
 learned ; full of noble device; of all sorts enchantingly beloved; and, 
 indeed, so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my 
 own people who best know him, that I am altogether misprized. 
 But it shall not be so long I This wrestler shall clear all. Noth- 
 ing remains but that I kindle the boy thither; which now I'll go 
 about. 
 
236 As You Like It, 
 
 This last speech is one of the puzzles that concern Oliver. 
 How could a man not utterly sold to the devil give such a 
 character of his brother, and yet be planning his destruction 
 and disgrace ? I confess I can throw little light on Oliver. 
 Perhaps as you read over the play something may suggest 
 itself to yourselves. 
 
 Orlando is presented to us just as he is awakening into 
 manhood. He has looked about him, and appreciates his 
 position. He has no career before him, by reason of his 
 defective bringing up, but he longs to go forth into the world ; 
 and knowing himself to be at least a practised athlete, — hav- 
 ing long tried his strength among the rustics on his brother's 
 farm, — he proposes, secretly, as we have heard, to appear at 
 court and try his strength with the Duke's wrestler. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 In this scene we are introduced to Rosalind. She and 
 Celia are another pair of Shakspeare's sweet girl-friends. 
 Of Rosalind, Lady Martin says : " Hers is a sweet, com- 
 posite nature, joyous, buoyant, and deep womanly. She 
 has tenderness, and an active intellect, disciplined by 
 fine culture as well as tempered by a certain native 
 distinction." Indeed, in Rosalind throughout there is 
 such a flavor of high breeding that I cannot conceive 
 how the part could be acted by any woman who was not 
 a lady. 
 
 Mrs. Jameson says of her : " She is fresh as the morning, 
 light as the breeze. She is as witty, voluble, and sprightly 
 as Beatrice, but in a style altogether distinct. In both the 
 wit is equally unconscious ; but in Beatrice it plays about us 
 like the lightning, dazzling but also alarming, while the wit 
 
As You Like IL 237 
 
 of Rosalind bubbles up and sparkles like the living fountain, 
 refreshing all around." 
 
 The merry greenwood is the fit setting for Rosalind. Celia 
 needs from her none of the protecting, patronizing care that 
 Hero receives from Beatrice. Indeed, up to the time the 
 play opens Celia has been the protectress of her cousin. We 
 already know their story, — how Rosalind's father, having 
 neglected his ducal duties, like Prospero, has been detlironed 
 and banished by his brother Frederick, Celia's father. Rosa- 
 lind had been kept at court as companion and playfellow to 
 her cousin Celia ; but the usurping Duke, finding how popular 
 her graces make her, is beginning to be jealous of her. 
 Dearly as Rosalind loves Celia, and little (it appears) as she 
 has known her banished father, she cannot forget his wrongs. 
 Celia believes herself more matter-of-fact, and less romantic 
 than Rosalind. " She is," says the " Monthly Packet," " a 
 very charming little lady, with her loving heart, and generous 
 ways; always thinking how she may compensate for her 
 father's misdeeds, though continually, as she owns, ' stabbed 
 by his harsh and jealous temper.' She has a pretty dignity 
 about her, suiting her position, and a decided fashion of re- 
 pressing any approach to a liberty ; but this is no check to 
 her frank gayety when chatting alone with Rosalind or whil- 
 ing away leisure moments with the court fool. Touchstone." 
 Celia's description of herself would have been that she was 
 practical, quiet, and sensible, yet in the end she belies all 
 these qualities. People in common life, like certain char- 
 acters in the Bible, generally fail upon the very points in 
 which they consider themselves most secure. 
 
 When the two girls first appear before us Celia is exhorting 
 her cousin to be merry. Now, merriment was in Rosalind's 
 
238 As You Like It. 
 
 very nature. We fancy she has been saddened by perceiving 
 how precarious her position is fast becoming at court; by 
 anxieties about her future, — such anxieties,- in short, as were 
 beginning, as we have seen, to weigh heavily on Orlando ; anx- 
 ieties which present themselves with keen vividness to every 
 thoughtful girl or man, 
 
 " Standing with reluctant feet 
 Where the brook and river meet," — 
 
 at the entrance into maturity. 
 
 As girls will do, the cousins talk of love, and, as girls will 
 also do, they make sport of it. Rosalind utters a truth to 
 which she lived to be an exception, namely, that the sweetest 
 girls are apt to be to men the least attractive. As I have 
 often said, God seems to keep his noblest women unmar- 
 ried, that they may do the work that married women are 
 withheld from doing. As Rosalind and Ceha make play 
 with their keen wits, there comes in the court fool, Touch- 
 stone. The fools of old times were usually scatter-brained 
 men, noted for their cleverness (in a certain way). They 
 acted to court-life like the chorus to the characters in a 
 Greek play. They were privileged to say anything they 
 pleased, subject to being whipped if they became offensive. 
 \ They, and they ojily^ could tell their lord home truths. They 
 ^ ^ met him on an equality, just because of an inferiority of 
 ^ystation so absolute that there was no disputing it, — exactly 
 as we can be on more familiar terms with a trusted colored 
 servant than we can be with a white one. Touchstone had 
 probably known the girls from their babyhood, and is all 
 ready with his jokes as soon as they come together. 
 
 Touchstone. Mistress, you must come away to your father. 
 Celia. Were you made the messenger ? 
 
As Vou Like //. ' 239 
 
 Touchstone. No, by mine honor ; but I was bid to come for you. 
 
 Rosalind. Where learned you that oath, fool ? 
 
 Touchstone. Of a certain knight, that swore by his honor they 
 were good pancakes, and swore by his honor the mustard was naught. 
 Now, I'll stand to it the pancakes were naught, and the mustard was 
 good ; and yet was not the knight forsworn. 
 
 Celia. How prove you that, in the great heaps of your knowl- 
 edge ? 
 
 Rosalind. Ay, marry ; now unmuzzle your wisdom. 
 
 Touchstone. Stand you both forth now; stroke your chins, and 
 swear by your beards that I am a knave. 
 
 Celia. By our beards, if we had them, thou art. 
 
 Touchstone. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were ; but if you 
 swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn. No more was this 
 knight, swearing by his honor, for he never had any ; or if he had, 
 he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pancakes or that 
 mustard. 
 
 As they jest, in comes a courtier, — Monsieur le Beau ; his 
 entrance being prefaced by Celia's remark that " the little 
 foolery that wise men have makes a great show." 
 
 Le Beau in his first speech mincingly promises the ladies 
 " spot " (sport), and Celia mimics him. 
 
 Le Beau. Fair princess, you have lost much good spot. 
 
 Celia. Spot ? Of what color ? 
 
 Le Beau. What color, madam .? How shall I answer you ? 
 
 Rosalind. As wit and fortune will. 
 
 Touchstone. Or as the destinies decree. 
 
 Le Beau. You amaze me, ladies : I would have told you of good 
 wrestling, which you have lost the sight of 
 
 Rosalind. Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling. 
 
 Le Beau. I will tell you the beginning, and if it please your lady- 
 ships, you may see the end ; for the best is yet to do ; and here, where 
 you are, they are coming to perform it. 
 
 Celia. Well, — the beginning, that is dead and buried. 
 
 Le Beau. There comes an old man, and his three sons, — 
 
 Celia. I could match this beginning with an old tale. 
 
 Le Beau. Three proper young men, of excellent growth and pres- 
 ence, — 
 
240 * As You Like It, 
 
 Rosalind. With bills on their necks, — Be it known unto all men 
 by these presents. 
 
 Le Beau. The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the Duke's 
 wrestler ; which Charles in a moment threw him, and broke three of 
 his ribs, that there is little hope of life in him : so he served the second, 
 and so the third. Yonder they lie ; the poor old man, their father, 
 making such pitiful dole over them that all the beholders take his part 
 with weeping. 
 
 Rosalind, Alas ! 
 
 Touchstone. But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have 
 lost .? 
 
 Le Beau. Why, this that I speak of. 
 
 Touchstone. Thus men may grow wiser every day ! it is the first 
 time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies. 
 
 Celia. Or I, I promise thee. 
 
 Rosalind. But is there any else longs to see this broken music in 
 his sides.'' is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking? Shall we 
 see this wrestling, cousin ? 
 
 The girls dread seeing the wrestling, yet they resolve to 
 stay, in hopes of putting a check upon its cruelty ; and their 
 subsequent inability to withdraw their eyes from the cham- 
 pion who has interested them is all true womanly. 
 
 "This scene of the wrestling," says the '' Monthly Packet," 
 " is picturesque in itself. . The courtiers pour out upon the 
 quiet lawn; the pages come and mark the ring; presently 
 Duke Frederick arrives, followed by the unequal-looking 
 combatants, Orlando's youthful grace contrasting with Charles' 
 fully developed strength. This contrast evidently has in- 
 spired the Duke with an unusual measure of interest, which 
 we see in his efforts to dissuade Orlando from the struggle, 
 even to the degree of desiring the Princesses to try and 
 influence him. Celia's pretty stateliness is very charming, 
 as she gently represents to Orlando that he is very fool- 
 hardy; and Rosahnd chimes in with more direct entreaty, 
 and a device for saving the credit of the young champion. 
 
As You Like It. 241 
 
 He cannot yield the point even to them. He may not be 
 very sanguine of success, but he has a crowd of boyish reasons 
 for wanting to break his neck, — which seem drawn out of 
 him by the girls' sympathetic eyes." 
 
 Duke Frederick. Come on ; since the youth will not be entreated, 
 his own peril on his forwardness. 
 
 Rosalind. Is yonder the man ? 
 
 Le Beau. Even he, madam. 
 
 Celia. Alas ! he is too young ; yet he looks successfully. 
 
 Duke Frederick. How now, daughter and cousin ? are you crept 
 hither to see the wrestling? 
 
 Rosalind. Ay, my liege ; so please you give us leave. 
 
 Duke Frederick. You will take little delight in it, I can tell you ; 
 there is such odds in the men. In pity of the challenger's youth I 
 would fain dissuade him, but he will not be entreated. Speak to him, 
 ladies ; see if you can move him. [ The Duke goes apart. 
 
 Le Beau. Monsieur the challenger, the Princesses call for you. 
 
 Orlando. I attend them with all respect and duty. 
 
 Rosalind, Young man, have you challenged Charles, the wrestler ? 
 
 Orlando. No, fair Princess ; he is the general challenger. I come 
 but in, as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth. 
 
 Celia. Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your years. 
 You have seen cruel proof of this man's strength. If you saw your- 
 self with our eyes, or knew yourself with our judgment, the fear of your 
 adventure would counsel you to a more equal enterprize. We pray 
 you, for your own sake, to embrace your own safety, and give over this 
 attempt. 
 
 Rosalind. Do, young sir ; your reputation shall not therefore be 
 misprized : we will make it our suit to the Duke, that the wrestling 
 might not go forward. 
 
 Orlando. I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts ; 
 wherein I confess me much guilty, to deny so fair and excellent ladies 
 anything. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my 
 trial ; wherein if I be foiled, there is but one shamed that was never 
 gracious ; if killed, but one dead that is willing to be so : I shall do 
 my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me ; the world no in- 
 jury, for in it I have nothing ; only in the world I fill up a place, which 
 may be better supplied when I have made it empty. 
 
 16 
 
242 As Vou Like It. 
 
 Rosalind. The little strength that I have, I would it were with you. 
 
 Celia. And mine, to eke out hers. 
 
 Rosalind. Fare you well. Pray heaven, I be deceived in you. 
 
 Celia. Your heart's desires be with you ! 
 
 Charles. Come, where is this young gallant, that is so desirous to 
 lie with his mother earth ? 
 
 Orlando. Ready, sir ; but his will hath in it a more modest work- 
 ing. 
 
 Duke Frederick. You shall try but one fall. 
 
 Charles. No, I warrant your grace ; you shall not entreat him to 
 a second, that have so mightily persuaded him from a first. 
 
 Orlando. You mean to mock me after ; you should not have 
 mocked me before : but come your ways. 
 
 Rosalind. Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man I 
 
 Celia. I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the 
 leg. \Charles and Orlando wrestle. 
 
 Rosalind. O excellent young man 1 
 
 Celia. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should 
 down. \Charles is thrown. Shout. 
 
 Duke Frederick. No more, no more. 
 
 Orlando. Yes, I beseech your grace ; I am not yet well breathed. 
 
 Duke Frederick. How dost thou, Charles ? 
 
 Le Beau. He cannot speak, my lord. 
 
 Duke Frederick. Bear him away. What is thy name, young man ? 
 
 Orlando. Orlando, my liege ; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de 
 Bois. 
 
 Duke Frederick. I would thou hadst been son to some one else. 
 . . . But fare thee well ; thou art a gallant youth. I would thou hadst 
 told me of another father. 
 
 The injustice of the hard, vindictive Duke, who will not 
 reward the son of his old enemy, dashes Orlando's hopes of 
 an opening to court favor to the ground. Perhaps it had 
 already gone hard with him to make up his mind to seek ser- 
 vice with his father's enemy ; now he asserts his pride in that 
 dead father, and awakens a deeper thrill of sympathy in the 
 heart of Rosalind. But it is Celia who — having no self- 
 consciousness to hold her back, and a self-imposed mission 
 
As You Like It. 243 
 
 to pour balm into the wounds made by her father — is 
 foremost to comfort him. 
 
 Lady Martin says of this passage in the play, " It is one of 
 the most difficult scenes for an actress to act. Rosalind 
 says so little, but so much is implied." The gentle kindness 
 of the Princesses, but above all the love at first sight which 
 springs up between Orlando and Rosalind, completely be- 
 wilder the young man. He stands stupefied; he can say 
 no word. First, Celia urges her cousin, (who is also under 
 the bewildering consciousness of a new sensation) to go 
 forward and comfort and encourage the poor young fellow. 
 Then Rosalind, taking her gold chain from her neck, gives 
 it to Orlando with a few sweet, sad words of personal sym- 
 pathy. He returns her no thanks. Rosalind pauses, expect- 
 ing them; then says, ''Shall we go, cousin?" Celia bids 
 farewell. Orlando, as they depart, murmurs a few words ; 
 and Rosalind, loath to go, fancies he has recalled them. 
 In the confusion of the moment she half betrays her 
 feelings, — " Sir, you have overthrown more than your 
 enemies." Celia nips this demonstration of interest in 
 the bud, repeating Rosalind's own words : " Will you go, 
 cousin?" 
 
 As Orlando still stands bewildered, there enters Le Beau 
 (a man marred by his court life) with a warning that he had 
 better quit the court and danger. Le Beau lets his true 
 self come out now. He has laid aside the affectations he 
 had shown when in company with the ladies, and appears a 
 courteous, kindly, upright gentleman. 
 
 Orlando takes little heed of his own danger, so anxious is 
 he to know which lady is the Duke's daughter. " The tall 
 one," says Le Beau, " is daughter to the banished Duke ; the 
 
244 -^^ ^^^ Z^/^^ //. 
 
 shorter is her cousin." Le Beau has not named them, but 
 Orlando at once knows that his love's name is Rosalind. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Then comes a scene in which sensible Celia teases her 
 cousin for her sudden fancy. Notice Celia's reproving re- 
 mark that if women walk not in trodden paths their very 
 petticoats will catch the burs. 
 
 Celia. Why, cousin ; why, Rosalind ! Cupid have mercy ! — Not 
 a word ? 
 
 Rosalind. Not one to throw at a dog. ' 
 
 Celia. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs, 
 throw some of them at me ; come, lame me with reasons. 
 
 Rosalind. Then there were two cousins laid up ; when the one 
 should be lamed with reasons, and the other mad without any. 
 
 Celia. But is all this for your father ? 
 
 Rosalind. No, some of it is for my father's child. O, how full of 
 briers is this working-day world ! 
 
 Celia. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday 
 foolery ; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will 
 catch them. 
 
 Rosalind. I could shake them off my coat ; these burs are in my 
 heart. 
 
 Celia. Hem them away. 
 
 Rosalind. I would try ; if I could cry hem^ and have him. 
 
 Celia. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections. 
 
 Rosalind. O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself. 
 
 Celia. O, a good wish upon you ! you will try in time, in despite 
 of a fall. But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good 
 earnest : Is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so 
 strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son ? 
 
 Rosalind. The Duke, my father, loved his father dearly. 
 
 Celia. Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly ? 
 By this kind of chase, I should hate him, for my father hated his father 
 dearly ; yet I hate not Orlando. 
 
 Rosalind. No, 'faith, hate him not, for my sake. 
 
 Celia. Why should I not ? doth he not deserve well } 
 
 
As You Like It, 245 
 
 Rosalind. Let me love him for that ; and do you love him because 
 I do. Look, here comes the Duke. 
 Celia. With his eyes full of anger. 
 
 The Duke indeed comes in with angry eyes, prepared 
 (under what sudden prompting we know not) to carry out a 
 purpose he has already entertained of banishing poor Rosa- 
 Hnd. Rosalind's mingled reasoning and pleading with her 
 uncle is very beautiful. When he calls her "a traitor's 
 daughter " her patience gives way, and she retorts upon him- 
 self as the traitor ; but in an instant changes her proud tone, 
 and beseeches him as her hege. Celia's description of their 
 friendship is very celebrated. 
 
 Rosalind. Treason is not inherited, my lord ; 
 Or, if we did derive it from our friends, 
 What 's that to me ? My father was no traitor ! 
 Then, my good liege, mistake me not so much 
 To think my poverty is treacherous. 
 
 Celia. Dear sovereign, hear me speak. 
 
 Duke Frederick. Ay, Celia, we stayed her for your sake ; 
 Else had she with her father ranged along. 
 
 Celia. I did not then entreat to have her stay ; 
 It was your pleasure, and your own remorse. 
 I was too young that time to value her ; 
 But now I know her. If she be a traitor, 
 Why, so am I. We still have slept together, 
 Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat together,' 
 And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans. 
 Still we went coupled and inseparable. 
 
 b 
 
 But Celia's pleading is of no avail. Rosalind is banished, 
 and is not permitted to delay her departure. If she outstays 
 the time appointed her the penalty is death. She stands 
 overwhelmed with grief, and Celia is the counsellor and 
 comforter ; though as soon as Rosalind recovers herself she 
 
246 J^s You Like It. 
 
 enters with great spirit into Celia's plans, and is ready with 
 her own practical suggestions. 
 
 Celia. O my poor Rosalind ! whither wilt thou go ? 
 Wilt thou change fathers ? I will give thee mine. 
 I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am. 
 
 Rosalind. I have more cause. 
 
 Celia. Thou hast not, cousin ; 
 
 Prithee, be cheerful ; know'st thou not the Duke 
 Hath banished me, his daughter ? 
 
 Rosalind. That he hath not. 
 
 Celia. No .'' hath not ? Rosalind lacks then the love 
 Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one. 
 Shall we be sundered } shall we part, sweet girl "i 
 No ; let my father seek another heir. 
 Therefore devise with me how we may fly ; 
 Whither to go, and what to bear with us. 
 And do not seek to take your change upon you, 
 To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out ; 
 For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, 
 Say what thou canst, I '11 go along with thee. 
 
 Rosalind. Why, whither shall we go ? 
 
 Celia. To seek my uncle. 
 
 Rosalind. Alas, what danger will it be to us. 
 Maids as we are, to travel forth so far I 
 Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold. 
 
 Celia. I '11 put myself in poor and mean attire, 
 And with a kind of umber smirch my face ; 
 The like do you ; so shall we pass along, 
 And never stir assailants. 
 
 Rosalind. Were it not better, 
 
 Because that I am more than common tall, 
 That I did suit me all points like a man ? 
 A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh, 
 A boar-spear in my hand ; and (in my heart 
 Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will) 
 We '11 have a swashing and a martial outside ; 
 As many other mannish cowards have, 
 That do outface it with their semblances. 
 
 Celia. What shall I call thee, when thou art a man ? 
 
As You Like It, 247 
 
 Rosalind. I '11 have no worse a name than Jove's own page ; 
 And therefore look you call me Ganymede. 
 But what will you be called ? 
 
 Celia. Something that hath a reference to my state ; 
 No longer Celia, but Aliena. 
 
 Rosalind. But, cousin, what if we essayed to steal 
 The clownish fool out of your father's court ? 
 Would he not be a comfort to our travel ? 
 
 Celia. He '11 go along o'er the wide world with me ; 
 Leave me alone to woo him. Let 's away, 
 And get our jewels and our wealth together ; 
 Devise the fittest time, and safest way 
 To hide us from pursuit that will be made 
 After my flight. Now go we, in content, 
 To liberty, and not to banishment. 
 
 Act II. Scene i. 
 
 The first scene of this act is in the forest of Arden. No 
 doubt the name of Arden endeared itself to Shakspeare, 
 being the maiden name of his own mother. It was also a 
 place already known to poets and other wanderers in Fairy- 
 land, for in Ardennes, not far from Charlemagne's camp, 
 occurred many notable adventures of the Paladins. There 
 is also an actual Forest of Ardennes in the eastern part of 
 France ; but the one in question has no geographical position. 
 In this scene we see the banished Duke, a jovial gentleman, 
 who probably was not ill content to exchange his dukedom 
 for the greenwood. One of his company is a lord, once a 
 man of dissipated and irregular habits, now called by his 
 companions '* the melancholy Jaques." Jaques has been a 
 puzzle to commentators. Victor Hugo contrasts him with 
 Touchstone (called in the French translation Pierre la 
 Touche), — the one a pessimist, the other an optimist by 
 nature. Maginn has written a celebrated paper on him. I 
 
248 As You Like It, 
 
 think myself that he is the sketch of one whom Shakspeare 
 must have deeply studied and often seen ; a man who by sen- 
 sual excesses has not only marred his life, but weakened the 
 spring of all enjoyment in him. A man of that kind never 
 can know the frame of mind described by Archbishop Trench 
 when he says : — 
 
 " Wiser it were to welcome and make ours 
 
 Whate'er of good, though small, the present brings, — 
 
 Kind welcomes, sunshine, song of birds, and flowers. 
 With a child's pure delight in little things ; 
 
 And of the griefs unborn to rest secure, 
 
 Knowing that mercy ever will endure." 
 
 As Coleridge when enervated by opium speaks of his own 
 feelings with respect to the beauties of nature, — 
 
 " I see them all, so excellently fair 
 I see, not feel, how beautiful they are," — 
 
 so Jaques, with apparently no great, sharp misery of his 
 own to trouble him, lies under the pleasant shade of the 
 oaks, and moralizes, with the wounded stag for his text, on 
 the greed, selfishness, and unkindness of other people. You 
 may observe that, as to greed, Jaques, in spite of sentimental 
 sobbings, went to the dinner-tent and dined on venison, and 
 was by no means well pleased to have real want break in 
 upon his dinner. Observe too, that the passage descriptive 
 of the wounded stag, and all expressions of real pity for him 
 come from the mouth of the nameless lord, not that of 
 Jaques. Jaques is the confirmed sentimentalist. It is hard to 
 rouse him to action. With him all strength of will and all 
 the motive power of enthusiasm have passed away. There 
 is nothing real whatever in his melancholy ; it is simply dis- 
 
As You Like It, 249 
 
 content born of satiety. Here is the account of him, begin- 
 ning with part of Rosalind's father's speech. 
 
 Sweet are the uses of adversity, 
 
 Which like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
 
 Wears yet a precious jewel in his head. 
 
 And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 
 
 Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
 
 Sermons in stones, and good in everything. 
 
 Amiens. I would not change it. Happy is your grace, 
 That can translate the stubbornness of fortune 
 Into so quiet and so sweet a style. 
 
 Duke. Come, shall we go and kill us venison ? 
 And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools — 
 Being native burghers of this desert city — 
 Should, in their own confines, with forked heads 
 Have their round haunches gored. 
 
 I Lord. Indeed, my lord. 
 
 The melancholy Jaques grieves at that ; 
 And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp 
 Than doth your brother that hath banished you. 
 To-day, my lord of Amiens and myself 
 Did steal behind him, as he lay along 
 Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out 
 Upon the brook that brawls along this wood ; 
 To the which place a poor sequestered stag, 
 That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt. 
 Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my lord, 
 The wretched animal heaved forth such groans. 
 That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat 
 Almost to bursting ; and the big round tears 
 Coursed one another down his innocent nose 
 In piteous chase. And thus the hairy fool. 
 Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, 
 Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook, 
 Augmenting it with tears. 
 
 Duke. But what said Jaques ? 
 
 Did he not moralize this spectacle ? 
 
 I Lord. O yes, into a thousand similes. 
 First, for his weeping in the needless stream ; 
 
250 As You Like It, 
 
 " Poor deer," quoth he, " thou mak'st a testament 
 
 As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more 
 
 To that which had too much." Then, being alone, 
 
 Left and abandoned of his velvet friends, 
 
 " 'T is right," quoth he ; " thus misery doth part 
 
 The flux of company." Anon a careless herd, 
 
 Full of the pasture, jumps along by him, 
 
 And never stays to greet him. " Ay," quoth Jaques, 
 
 " Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens ! 
 
 'T is just the fashion. Wherefore do you look 
 
 Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there ? " 
 
 Thus, most invectively, he pierceth through 
 
 The body of the country, city, court. 
 
 Yea, and of this our life ; swearing that we 
 
 Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what 's worse — 
 
 To fright the animals and to kill them up 
 
 In their assigned and native dwelling-place. 
 
 Duke. And did you leave him in this contemplation ? 
 
 2 Lord. We did, my lord, weeping, and commenting 
 Upon the sobbing deer. 
 
 Coleridge is said to have remarked in connection with this 
 lord's account of Jaques, as he lay watching the hurt deer, 
 that " Shakspeare never gives any description of rustic 
 scenery merely for its own sake, or to show how he can 
 paint natural objects ; but while he now and then displays 
 marvellous accuracy and minuteness of knowledge, he usually 
 only touches upon the larger features and broader character- 
 istics, leaving the fiUings-up to the imagination. Thus, in this 
 passage, he describes an oak of many centuries in a single 
 line, — 
 
 Under an oak whose antique root peeps out. 
 
 Other, and inferior writers, would have dwelt on this de- 
 scription, and worked it out with pettiness and impertinence of 
 detail. In Shakspeare the ' antique root ' furnishes the whole 
 picture." 
 
As You Like It. 251 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Meantime the flight of Celia, Touchstone, and Rosalind 
 is discovered. Some evil-minded courtier (who may have 
 observed something in the looks of the young people, each 
 attracted by the other) suggests that Orlando may be of 
 the party. The Duke in a fury sends for the elder brother, 
 Oliver. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 We know well that Orlando has had no understanding 
 with the ladies, and in this scene we see him back again in 
 his brother's house, and in company with the good old Adam. 
 Is it possible that Adam may here slander Oliver ? One can 
 more readily believe that the old man was misled by his fears 
 than that such diabolical intentions could be harbored by 
 the man who was the destined husband of sweet Celia. 
 
 Orlando, with his small experience of life, needs some one 
 to strike out a plan for him. Adam springs to the rescue, 
 offering his master's disinherited son his little treasure. 
 
 How far back must we go to reach the days of ideal 
 domestic service ? Orlando speaks of " old time " servants 
 in the regretful tone we hear around us. Adam is hardly 
 coherent at first in his anger and his anguish, so that Orlando 
 finds it hard to make out what is the matter. 
 
 Adam. O, my gentle master ! 
 
 O, my sweet master ! O, you memory 
 Of old Sir Rowland ! Why I — what make you here ? 
 Why are you virtuous ? Why do people love you ? 
 And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant ? 
 Why would you be so fond to overcome 
 The bony prizer of th' ill-tempered Duke ? 
 Your praise is come too swiftly home before you : 
 
252 As You Like IL 
 
 O, what a world is this, when what is comely 
 Envenoms him that bears it ! 
 
 Orlando. Why, what 's the matter ? 
 
 Adam. O unhappy youth, 
 
 Come not within these doors. Within this roof 
 The enemy of all your graces lives. 
 Your brother — no I no brother — yet the son — 
 Yet not the son — I will not call him son 
 Of him I was about to call his father — 
 Hath heard your praises ; and this night he means 
 To burn the lodging where you use to lie, 
 And you within it : if he fail of that, 
 He will have other means to cut you oflf. 
 I overheard him, and his practices. 
 This is no place, this house is but a butchery ; 
 Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it. 
 
 Orlando. Why, whither, Adam, would'st thou have me go ? 
 
 Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here. 
 
 Orlando. What, would'st thou have me go and beg my food ? 
 Or, with a base and boisterous sword, enforce 
 A thievish living on the common road ? 
 This I must do, or know not what to do : 
 Yet this I will not do, do how I can ; 
 I rather will subject me to the malice 
 Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother. 
 
 Adam. But do not so : I have five hundred crowns, 
 The thrifty hire I saved under your father. 
 Which I did store, to be my foster-nurse. 
 When service should in my old limbs lie lame, 
 And unregarded age in corners thrown; 
 Take that : and He that doth the ravens feed, 
 Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, 
 Be comfort to my age ! Here is the gold ; 
 All this I give you ; let me be your servant. 
 Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty ; 
 For in my youth I never did apply 
 Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood ; 
 Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo 
 The means of weakness and debility ; 
 Therefore my age is as a lusty winter. 
 
As Yoti Like It, 253 
 
 Frosty, but kindly. Let me go with you j 
 I '11 do the service of a younger man 
 In all your business and necessities. 
 
 Orlando. O good old man ; how well in thee appears 
 The constant service of the antique world, 
 When service sweat for duty, not for meed! 
 Thou art not for the fashion of these times, 
 Where none will sweat but for promotion ; 
 And having that, do choke their service up 
 Even with the having : it is not so with thee. 
 But, poor .old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree, 
 That cannot so much as a blossom yield. 
 In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry. 
 But come thy ways, we '11 go along together ; 
 And ere we have thy youthful wages spent. 
 We '11 light upon some settled low content. 
 
 Adam. Master, go on ; and I will follow thee, 
 To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty. 
 From seventeen years till now almost fourscore 
 Here lived I, but I now live here no more. 
 At seventeen years many their fortunes seek ; 
 But at fourscore, it is too late a week ; 
 Yet fortune cannot recompense me better. 
 Than to die well, and not my master's debtor. 
 
 Notice the contrast between Jaques and Adam in one 
 passage of this scene, — Adam all action, Jaques all profit- 
 less musing ; Adam generous, Jaques self-absorbed ; Adam's 
 winter of life "frosty but kindly," Jaques enervated and 
 cynical. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 Now at last we are in the heart of the Forest of Arden ; 
 the very forest where another Orlando, and Rinaldo and Angel- 
 ica drank of the enchanted fountains. Rosalind is in boy's 
 clothes ; Celia a pretty shepherdess, too weary to speak ; and 
 Touchstone, grumbling, is still clothed in motley. 
 
254 ^^ ^ou Like It. 
 
 Rosalind. O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits ! 
 
 Touchstone. I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary. 
 
 Rosalind. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel, 
 and to cry like a woman ; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as 
 doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat ; there- 
 fore, courage, good Aliena. 
 
 Celia. I pray you, bear with me ; I can go no further. 
 
 Touchstone. For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear 
 you ; yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you, for I think you 
 have no money in your purse. 
 
 Rosalind. Well, this is the Forest of Arden. 
 
 Touchstone. Ay, now am I in Arden, the more fool I. 
 When I was at home I was in a better place ; 
 But travellers must be content. 
 
 Rosalind. Ay, be it so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes 
 here .? A young man, and an old, in solemn talk. 
 
 The men approaching are two shepherds, — Corin, and 
 a love-sick young fellow, Silvius by name, who is in love 
 with pretty Phoebe. Extravagant as Silvius' love complaints 
 are, they move the heart of Rosalind with a fellow-feeling. 
 Though weary, she is not too weary to discuss love with Touch- 
 stone, who gives her some hints out of his own experience. 
 
 Rosalind. Alas ! poor shepherd, searching of thy wound, 
 I have by hard adventure found mine own. 
 
 Touchstone. And I mine. I remember when I was in love I broke 
 my sword upon a stone, and bade him take that for coming to see Jane 
 Smile; and I remember the kissing of her washing-bat, and the cows* 
 teats that her pretty chapped hands had milked ; and I remember the 
 wooing of a peascod of her ; from whom I took two cods, and giving 
 her them again, said with weeping tears, " Wear these for my sake." 
 We, that are true lovers, run into strange capers ; but as all is mortal 
 in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly. 
 
 Rosalind. Thou speak'st wiser than thou art 'ware of. 
 
 Touchstone. Nay, I shall ne'er be 'ware of mine own wit till I 
 break my shins against it. 
 
 Rosalind \sings\. Jove 1 Jove ! this shepherd's passion 
 Is much upon my fashion. 
 
j4s You Like It. 
 
 255 
 
 Touchstone. And mine ; but it grows something stale with me. 
 
 Celia. I pray you, one of you question yond man, 
 If he for gold will give us any food ; 
 I faint almost to death. 
 
 Rosalind checks Touchstone for the rough way in which, 
 at Ceha's request, he calls after the shepherds, and she 
 courteously entreats them, for the sake of the young girl 
 with her, to show them some spot where they may rest. 
 
 Corin tells them of a cottage they can purchase not far 
 off, and the cousins, with the liberality of girlhood and high 
 station, proceed to buy the property off-hand. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 We here see Jaques himself, persuading Amiens to sing. 
 There was no opera in England at that period, and Shaks- 
 peare's comedies are always provided with songs, to be sung 
 by the musical members of his dramatic company. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Amiens. Under the greenwood tree, 
 Who loves to lie with me, 
 And tune his merry note 
 Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither, 
 Here shall he see 
 No enemy. 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 Who doth ambition shun. 
 And loves to live i' the sun, 
 Seeking the food he eats. 
 And pleased with what he gets, 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither ; 
 Here shall he see 
 No enemy. 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
256 As You Like It. 
 
 /agues. I '11 give you a verse to this note, that I made yesterday in 
 despite of my invention. 
 Amiens. And I '11 sing it. 
 Jaques. Thus it goes : — 
 
 If it do come to pass, 
 That any man turn ass, 
 Leaving his wealth and ease, 
 A stubborn will to please, 
 Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame ; 
 Here shall he see, 
 Gross fools as he. 
 An if he will come to Ami. 
 
 Amiens. What 's that ducdhme ? 
 
 Jaques. 'T is a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle. I '11 go 
 sleep if I can ; if I cannot, I '11 rail against all the first-born of Egypt. 
 Amiens. And I '11 go seek the Duke ; his banquet is prepared. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 " Ducdame," which Jaques tries to pass off as a Greek 
 invocation, is doubtless a parody on " Come hither, come 
 hither, come hither," in the song ; and may possibly be an 
 early version of Mrs. Brown's well-known " invocation " of 
 her ducks : " Dilly, dilly, dilly, come and be killed ! " which 
 they decline to respond to. 
 
 Jaques inveighs heartily against the folly of quitting good 
 homes for the greenwood ; and yet in the end, with charac- 
 teristic inconsistency, he elects to make his abode in the 
 greenwood rather than go home. The pressing required by 
 Amiens is delightful mockery of a universal affectation. 
 
 Scene 6. 
 
 In this scene we have Adam, the good retainer, fainting 
 for weariness and lack of nourishment. *' Oh ! blessed was 
 that man," cries Coleridge, "who, when Shakspeare acted 
 Adam, bore Shakspeare on his back ! " 
 
As Vou Like It, 257 
 
 Adam. Dear master, I can go no further. O ! I die for food. 
 Here lie I down and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master ! 
 
 Orlando. Why, how now, Adam } no greater heart in thee 1 Live 
 a little ; comfort a little ; cheer thyself a little ; if this uncouth forest 
 yield anything savage I will either be food for it, or bring it for food to 
 thee. For my sake be comfortable ; hold death a while at the arm's end ; 
 I will be here with thee presently, and if I bring thee not something 
 to eat, I '11 give thee leave to die ; but if thou diest before I come, 
 thou art a mocker of my labor. Well said; thou lookest cheerly, and 
 I '11 be with thee quickly. Yet thou liest in the bleak air ; come I 
 I will bear thee to some shelter ; and thou shalt not die for want of 
 a dinner if there live anything in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam. 
 
 How much our appreciation of things around us is influ- 
 enced by our personal circumstances ! The beautiful forest 
 of Arden, to us the very ideal of bosky loveliness, is to 
 Orlando "this uncouth forest," this "desert place," as he 
 looks around, and can see no rehef for his beloved Adam. 
 
 Scene 7. 
 
 In the court of the banished Duke Jaques appears to have 
 been "the animated No!" — the "tuneful discord," the 
 comic grumbler. It seems he had met Touchstone in the 
 wood, and has something to tell about him as they sit down 
 to dinner. I think Touchstone had previously fallen in with 
 Jaques, possibly in the days when Jaques was a courtier, and 
 that he had also overheard him when he soliloquized that 
 morning about the stag. He seems to have given him a 
 sort of parody of himself. 
 
 Jaques. A fool, a fool ! — I met a fool i' the forest, 
 A motley fool ; a miserable world ! — 
 As I do live by food, I met a fool ; 
 Who laid him down and basked him in the sun. 
 And railed on lady Fortune in good terms, 
 In good set terms, — and yet a motley fool. 
 17 
 
258 As You Like It, 
 
 " Good-morrow, fool," quoth I. " No, sir," quoth he, 
 " Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me fortune." 
 And then he drew a dial from his poke ; 
 And looking on it with lack-lustre eye. 
 Says, very wisely, " It is ten o'clock. 
 Thus may we see," quoth he, " how the world wags. 
 'T is but an hour ago since it was nine ; 
 And after an hour more 't will be eleven ; 
 And so, from hour to hour, we ripe, and ripe, 
 And then, from hour to hour, we rot, and rot, 
 And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear 
 The motley fool thus moral on the time, 
 My lungs began to crow like chanticleer. 
 That fools should be so deep-contemplative ; 
 And I did laugh, sans intermission. 
 An hour by his dial. O, noble fool ! 
 A worthy fool ! Motley's the only wear. 
 Duke. What fool is this ? 
 
 Jaques goes on describing fools, and wishing he wore 
 motley, till the Duke says, " Well ! you shall have a coat." 
 " Then," cries Jaques, — 
 
 I will through and through 
 Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, 
 If they will patiently receive my medicine. 
 
 Duke. Fie on thee ! I '11 tell thee what thou would'st do. 
 
 Jaques. What would I do but good? 
 
 Duke. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin. 
 For thou thyself hast been a libertine. 
 As sensual as the brutish sting itself. 
 And all the embossed sores, and headed evils 
 That thou with license of free foot hast caught 
 Would'st thou disgorge into the general world. 
 
 It seems to me this passage, containing the views of the 
 grand master of fiction, might well be considered by those 
 who, mistaking the legitimate purposes of poetry or the 
 novel, '• nose," as Ruskin says, " round the world's garbage 
 
As You Like It, 259 
 
 heaps/' and excuse themselves for their revelations by a 
 professed purpose of improving the world. 
 
 As the talk goes on, Orlando with drawn sword rushes in 
 upon the banquet. Here is genuine want, mental agony, 
 stark misery, in contrast to Jaques and his sentimentality. 
 
 Orlando. Forbear, and eat no more ! 
 
 Jaques. Why, I have eat none yet. 
 
 Orlando. Nor shalt not, till necessity be served. 
 
 Jaques. Of what kind should this cock come of? 
 
 Duke. Art thou emboldened, man, by thy distress, 
 Or else a rude despiser of good manners, 
 That in civility thou seem'st so empty ? 
 
 Orlando. You touched my vein at first. The thorny point 
 Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show 
 Of smooth civility. Yet I am well brought up, 
 And know some manners. But forbear, I say. 
 He dies that touches any of this food 
 Till I and my affairs are answered. 
 
 Duke. What would you have ? Your gentleness shall force, 
 More than your force move us to gentleness. 
 
 Orlando. I almost die for food, and let me have it. 
 
 Duke. Sit down and feed ; and welcome to our table. 
 
 Orlando. Speak you so gently .-* Pardon me, I pray you. 
 I thought that all things had been savage here ; 
 And therefore put I on the countenance 
 Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are, 
 That in this desert inaccessible, 
 Under the shade of melancholy boughs. 
 Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time, — 
 If ever you have looked on better days ; 
 If ever been where bells have knolled to church ; 
 If ever sat at any good man's feast ; 
 If ever from your eye-lids wiped a tear, 
 And know what 't is to pity, and be pitied ; 
 Let gentleness my strong enforcement be. 
 In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword. 
 
 Duke. True is it that we have seen better days ; 
 And have with holy bell been knolled to church ; 
 
26o As You Like It, 
 
 And sat at good men's feasts ; and wiped our eyes 
 Of drops that sacred pity hath engendered ; 
 And therefore sit you down in gentleness, 
 And take upon command what help we have, 
 That to your wanting may be ministered. 
 
 Orlando. Then but forbear your food a little while. 
 Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn, 
 And give it food. There is an old- poor man, 
 Who after me hath many a weary step 
 Limped in pure love ; till he be first sufficed, — 
 Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger, — 
 I will not touch a bit. 
 
 Duke. Go find him out. 
 
 And we will nothing waste till you return. 
 
 Orlando. I thank ye ; and be blessed for your good comfort ! 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 Jaques is for a moment put out of countenance, but soon 
 recovering himself, answers the Duke's remark, — that the 
 world is like a theatre, that presents more woeful pageants than 
 the one they are themselves playing, — by his celebrated re- 
 flection that " all the world 's a stage, and all the men and 
 women merely players." 
 
 All the world 's a stage, 
 And all the men and women merely players. 
 They have their exits, and their entrances ; 
 And one man in his time plays many parts, 
 His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant. 
 Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. 
 And then, the whining schoolboy, with his satchel 
 And shining morning face, creeping like snail. 
 Unwillingly, to school. And then, the lover ; 
 Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad 
 Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then, a soldier ; 
 Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, 
 Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, 
 Seeking the bubble reputation 
 
 Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice \ 
 In fair round belly, with good capon lined, 
 
As You Like IL 261 
 
 With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, 
 Full of wise saws and modern instances ; 
 And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts 
 Into the lean and slippered pantaloon ; 
 With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side; 
 His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide 
 For his shrunk shank ; and his big, manly voice, 
 Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 
 And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, 
 That ends this strange eventful history. 
 Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; 
 Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. 
 
 Maginn says of this passage that the evils it complains of 
 are all common-place, and all perfectly consistent with man's 
 happiness. It would be cruelty to keep the boy from knowl- 
 edge ; the lover is not unhappy penning his foolish poetry ; 
 the soldier loves the battle and the war-shout, and (whatever 
 Jaques himself might do) considers reputation well purchased 
 by the danger ; the justice is complaisant and comfortable ; 
 the lean old man in his loose hose and slippers has those 
 about him who take charge of his wants, and smooth his path 
 out of the world ; and if old age comes on with loss of teeth, 
 eye-sight, and vigor, friends are at least thankful that the 
 veteran has lived so long. There is nothing to move to 
 melancholy in Jaques' picture nearly so much as the thought 
 that there are Adams who die uncared for, and Orlandos 
 whom suffering drives, despite their better nature, into crime 
 and violence. 
 
 When Adam and Orlando have been welcomed to the 
 
 sylvan dining-table, the Duke, with the politeness of an 
 
 Homeric chief, forbears to question them until their wants 
 
 ^are satisfied, but turning to Amiens requests a song from 
 
 him. That song is music itself in words. Orlando, when he 
 
262 As You Like It. 
 
 tells his story, is welcomed by the banished Duke as good 
 Sir Rowland's son, and his fortunes are assured. Here is 
 Amiens' song : — 
 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
 Thou art not so unkind 
 
 As man's ingratitude ; 
 Thy touch is not so keen, 
 Because thou art not seen, 
 
 Although thy breath be rude. 
 Heigh ho ! Sing heigh ho, unto the green holly. 
 Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. 
 
 Then heigh ho, the holly ! 
 
 This life is most jolly. 
 
 Here, I presume, he lifts his glass. 
 
 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky ; 
 Thou dost not bite so nigh 
 
 As benefits forgot ; 
 Though thou the waters warp, 
 Thy sting is not so sharp 
 
 As friend remembered not. 
 Heigh ho ! Sing heigh ho, unto the green holly. 
 Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. 
 
 Then heigh ho, the holly ! 
 
 This life is most jolly 1 
 
 Act in. Scene i. 
 
 When anything degrading or disagreeable is to be done 
 in this play it takes place under a roof. Here Duke Fred- 
 erick, in a room of his palace, is at high words with Oli- 
 ver about his absconding brother. Oliver's excuse that 
 he has never loved the lad incites the Duke to more vio- 
 lence, and the urmatural kinsman is stripped of all his *■ 
 property. 
 
As You Like It. 263 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 In the forest of Arden we see Orlando hanging verses about 
 Rosalind (whom he imagines safe and happy in her uncle's 
 palace) upon all the green boughs. I think Shakspeare 
 must have had in his mind Medoro's verses, found by that 
 other Orlando, in which he celebrated " the fairest of her 
 sex, Angelica." Then come in old Corin and Touchstone. 
 The latter is amusing himself by puzzling and bewildering 
 the old shepherd, who, from a practical point of view, has, 
 on the subject they are discussing (the relative advantages of 
 court and country life), the best of the argument. 
 
 Then Rosahnd, dressed as Ganymede, the brother of the 
 shepherdess Aliena, wanders by, reading a paper of verses 
 she has found in praise of "Rosalind." The privileged fool 
 looks over her shoulder as she reads, and parodies the verses. 
 I think she hardly dares believe that these precious praises 
 could have been addressed to herself. Then enters Celia 
 (Aliena) , reading verses, also to Rosalind, that she has found. 
 The lines that have been picked up by Celia contain the 
 lover's description of the person of his Rosalind. 
 
 Rosalind. Peace ! 
 Here comes my sister, reading ; stand aside. 
 
 Celia [reads]. Why should this desert silent be ? 
 
 For it is unpeopled ? No ; 
 Tongues I '11 hang on every tree, 
 
 That shall civil sayings show. 
 Some, how brief the life of man 
 
 Runs his erring pilgrimage ; 
 That the stretching of a span 
 
 Buckles in his sum of age. 
 Some, of violated vows 
 
 'Twixt the souls of friend and friend ; 
 
264 ^s You Like It. 
 
 But upon the fairest boughs, 
 
 Or at every sentence' end, 
 Will I Rosalinda write ; 
 
 Teaching all that read to know 
 The quintessence of every sprite 
 
 Heaven would in little show. 
 Therefore heaven nature charged 
 
 That one body should be filled 
 With all graces wide enlarged. 
 
 Nature presently distilled 
 Helen's cheek, but not her heart ; 
 
 Cleopatra's majesty ; 
 Atalanta's better part ; 
 
 Sad Lucretia's modesty. 
 Thus Rosalind of many parts 
 
 By heavenly synod was devised ; 
 Of many faces, eyes, and hearts, 
 
 To have the touches dearest prized. 
 Heaven would that she these gifts should have, 
 And I to live and die her slave. 
 
 "Atalanta's better part," I suppose, hints at the perfection 
 of form that that lady displayed in her running. 
 
 Celia, always anxious to keep up appearances, sends Corin 
 and Touchstone to a little distance while she discourses 
 about the hnes to Rosalind. At first Rosalind conceals her 
 pleasure in the verses by her merriment, saying : " I was 
 never so berhymed since Pythagoras' time, when I was an 
 Irish rat." In old times, in Ireland, it was believed that rats 
 could be charmed out of their haunts by rhymed spells. 
 
 Then begins one of the prettiest scenes in the whole play. 
 One wonders how Shakspeare could have so perfectly under- 
 stood girls in their relations to each other. Celia is teasing 
 Rosalind ; Rosalind is frantic with impatience, yet knows that 
 the more she shows it the longer the provoking Celia will 
 keep her waiting. She says of herself, "Dost thou think 
 
As You Like It, 265 
 
 I have doublet and hose in my disposition ? " No, truly ; 
 among all Shakspeare's creations no girl perhaps is so " pure 
 womanly " as Rosalind ; and when she really has the certainty 
 that Orlando is at hand, and (joy of joys !) knows too that 
 Orlando loves her, how woman-true is her first thought : 
 " Alas, the day ! — what shall I do with my doublet and 
 hose ? " Then her rush of questions to her cousin, and her 
 coaxing ! her desire to slink away among the trees, in her 
 strange dress, when she sees her lover approaching her with 
 Jaques — all is so true to woman's nature ! 
 
 Jaques and Orlando are in high dispute ; but, as usual 
 with Jaques, the sentiments expressed are only sham ones. 
 Rosalind, hiding in her bower of green leaves, has the rapture 
 of hearing her lover own his attachment to herself, in pretty, 
 touching words. Jaques says, '' So Rosalind is your love's 
 name?" "Yes, most truly," answers Orlando. "I do not 
 like her name," says the man of melancholy. "There was 
 no thought of pleasing you when she was christened," is the 
 answer. Then Jaques, half suspecting that the lady in ques- 
 tion may be Princess Rosalind, who was extraordinarily tall, 
 asks, " What stature is she of ? " and is answered, " Just as 
 high as my heart." 
 
 Having learned, to her triumph and satisfaction, that Orlan- 
 do's love for her is fully as great as hers for him, Rosalind, 
 while further talk goes on between the two men, makes up 
 her mind. She is sure of her ground now. She will treat 
 herself to being wooed, even in her doublet and hose. With- 
 out saying a word to Celia, who would have raised objections, 
 she comes forward suddenly, exaggerating her manliness. 
 What woman who has ever loved does not envy her this 
 chance of hearing, in the character of confidant, what her 
 
266 As You Like It. 
 
 lover feels for her ? Lady Martin says : Only Shakspeare 
 could have brought such a girl " into a position where she 
 could, without revealing her own secret, probe the heart of 
 her lover." Sweet Rosalind, — like sunshine playing on 
 green leaves ! 
 
 She breaks in on Orlando before Celia can stop her, with 
 an "Hallo!" — and, "Do you hear me, forester?" She 
 comes to talk of love, and she chooses the first opportunity of 
 introducing the subject. She brings it in, indeed, " neck and 
 heels." But Orlando at first will not respond to the cue. 
 
 Rosalind. I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that 
 habit play the knave with him. — Do yon hear, forester ? 
 
 Orlando. Very well ; what would you ? 
 
 Rosalind. I pray you, what is 't o' clock ? 
 
 Orlando. You should ask me, what time o' day ; there 's no clock 
 in the forest. 
 
 Rosalind. Then there is no true lover in the forest ; else sighing 
 every minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of 
 time as well as a clock. 
 
 Orlando. And why not the swift foot of time t had not that been 
 as proper ? 
 
 Rosalind. By no means, sir ; Time travels in divers paces with 
 divers persons : I 'II tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots 
 withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal. 
 
 Much amused by this unexpected encounter of a gay wit 
 in such a lad, Orlando proceeds to question him, and learns 
 that Time trots with a young maid before her marriage, ambles 
 with a lazy priest, gallops with a thief, and stands still with a 
 lawyer in his vacation. 
 
 Orlando. Where dwell you, pretty youth ? 
 
 Rosalind. With this shepherdess, my sister, here in the skirts of 
 the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat. 
 
 Orlando. Are you a native of this place ? 
 
 Rosalind. As the coney, which you see dwell where it lies hidden. 
 
i 
 
 As You Like It. 267 
 
 Orlando. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase 
 in so remote a dwelling. 
 
 Rosalind. I have been told so of many ; but indeed, an old religious 
 uncle of mine taught me to speak. He was one that knew courtship 
 well, for in his youth he fell in love. I have heard him read many 
 lectures against it ; and I thank God, I am not a woman tQ be touched 
 with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their whole 
 sex withal. 
 
 Orlando. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid 
 to the charge of women .? 
 
 Rosalind. There were none principal ; they were all like one 
 another as ha'pence are, — every one fault seeming monstrous till his 
 fellow-fault came to match it. 
 
 Orlafido. I prithee, recount some of them. 
 
 Rosalind. No, I will not cast away my physic, but on those that 
 are sick. There is a man haunts the forest that abuses our young 
 plants with carving " Rosalind " on their barks ; hangs odes upon haw- 
 thorns, and elegies on brambles ; all, forsooth deifying the name of 
 Rosalind. If I could meet that fancy-monger I would give him 
 some good counsel, for he seems to have the quartan fever of love 
 on him. 
 
 Orlando. I am he that is so love-shaked ; I pray you, tell me your 
 remedy. 
 
 Rosalind. There is none of my uncle's marks upon you ; he taught 
 me how to know a man in love ; in which cage of rushes, I am sure, 
 you are not prisoner. 
 
 Orlando. What were his marks ? 
 
 Rosalind. A lean cheek, which you have not ; a blue eye, and 
 sunken, which you have not ; an unquestionable spirit, which you have 
 not; a beard neglected, which you have not, — but I pardon you for 
 that; for, simply, your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue. 
 Then your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your 
 sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything about you demon- 
 strating a careless desolation. But you are no such man ; you are 
 rather point-device in your accoutrements ; as loving yourself, than 
 seeming the lover of any other. 
 
 Orlando. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love. 
 
 Rosalind. Me believe it ? you may as soon make her that you love 
 believe it ; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess she 
 does ; that is one of the points in the which women still give the lie 
 
268 As You Like It. 
 
 to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the 
 verses on the tree, wherein Rosalind is so admired ? 
 
 Orlando. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, 
 I am that he, — that unfortunate he. 
 
 Rosalind. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak ? 
 
 Orlando. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much. 
 
 Rosalind. Love is merely a madness ; and, I tell you, deserves as 
 well a dark house and a whip as madmen do ; and the reason why 
 they are not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary 
 that the whippers are in love too ; yet I profess curing it by counsel. 
 
 Orlando. Did you ever cure any so .'' 
 
 Rosalind. Yes, one ; and in this manner : He was to imagine me 
 his love, his mistress ; and I set him every day to woo me : at which 
 time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, change- 
 able, longing, and liking ; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, incon- 
 stant, full of tears, full of smiles ; for every passion something, and 
 for no passion truly anything, — as boys and women are for the most 
 part cattle of this color ; would now like him, now loathe him ; then 
 entertain him, then forswear him ; now weep for him, then spit at 
 him ; that I drave my suitor from his mad humor of love, to a living 
 humor of madness ; which was, to forswear the full stream of the 
 world, and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured 
 him. 
 
 Orlando. I would not be cured, youth. 
 
 Rosalind. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, 
 and come every day to my cote, and woo me. 
 
 Orlando. Now, by the faith of my love, I will ; tell me where 
 it is. 
 
 Rosalind. Go with me to it, and I '11 show it you ; and by the 
 way you shall tell me where in the forest you live ; will you go ? 
 
 Orlando. With all my heart, good youth. 
 
 Rosalind. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will 
 you go ? \Exeunt. 
 
 Think what inimitable acting this scene must require. 
 Above all things, Rosalind's high breeding and ladylikeness 
 must be kept up throughout. Indeed, she thinks it necessary 
 to invent a httle fiction about the " old religious uncle " to 
 account for the superiority she cannot repress, in connection 
 
As You Like It. 269 
 
 with her surroundings. How, when the subject of Orlando's 
 love is started at last, she teases and makes fun of him ! She 
 mocks at his clothes, his looks, his verses, his sentiments ; 
 but she makes him repeat over and over again the precious 
 truth that he loves Rosalind ! During all their talk, Celia, 
 with as bright a wit as Rosalind's, abstains from saying a word. 
 Perhaps she keeps the more readily in the background lest 
 Orlando, seeing her in woman's dress, should recognize her 
 as one of the princesses. But Orlando knows nothing of the 
 banishment of Rosahnd, or of the flight of Celia, so never for 
 a moment suspects the true character of these unusual shep- 
 herds. Besides, he has had so little experience of the world ! 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 The next scene is very amusing, but we must deny our- 
 selves any extracts from it. Touchstone, in his idleness 
 (for he seems to do very little work for his young ladies), has 
 taken to courting a buxom shepherd-girl, Audrey. She is 
 not comely, she is simply a good, devoted peasant girl, who 
 admires Touchstone with all her simple heart, — loves him 
 open-mouthed as it were, — and trots after him with a stolid 
 obedience that probably has its attraction to the fool, accus- 
 tomed to be ordered round by his superiors, and flouted by 
 women. She does not understand one word in ten he says 
 to her ; but she feels it to be great promotion to marry him. 
 Touchstone has proposed* to her, and they are to meet in 
 this sylvan spot the worthless vicar of a neighboring parish, 
 who will marry them without bans, license, church-register, 
 or witnesses, under a hedge. Such a marriage, unless within 
 the precincts of the Fleet Prison, was not legal in England. 
 Up to forty years ago, all marriages, whether of church- 
 
270 As Vou Like It. 
 
 people or dissenters, had to be solemnized in the parish 
 church. Poor Audrey, I think, is wholly unaware of the trick 
 that is being played on her \ she places implicit trust in the 
 lover who is entirely above her comprehension, and she 
 might have come to grief, but that Jaques, lying under a tree 
 hard by, Jiears what is going on, and his better nature, as a 
 man and a gentleman, brings him to the rescue. He steps 
 forth and without addressing himself to Audrey, flatters 
 Touchstone by. telling him he never should have expected a 
 man of his breeding would wish to be married under a bush, 
 like a beggar. 
 
 Jaques. And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married 
 under a bush, like a beggar ? Get you to church, and have a good 
 priest that can tell you what marriage is; this fellow will but join you 
 together as they join wainscot ; then one of you will prove a shrunk 
 panel, and, like green timber, warp, warp. 
 
 Audrey is simply passive, but Touchstone, having the grace 
 to be a little ashamed of himself, disappoints the ribald vicar 
 of his marriage-fee. 
 
 This sudden appearance of Jaques in the character of the 
 protector of rustic innocence, may remind us of some of 
 Bret Harte's damaged heroes, especially Oakhurst, in that 
 touching story, " The Outcasts of Poker Flat." I have always 
 held that there are two kinds of natures, the one utterly 
 selfish, which has in it no divine sparks that may be kindled 
 into better things. The owner of ^such a nature may live all 
 his days a highly respectable life, but never will be capable 
 of generosity, heroism, or even true appreciation of them. 
 The other nature may have gone as far astray as the prodi- 
 gal's, and yet have in it the unextinguished spark, which may 
 be blown into a flame. 
 
As Vou Like It. 271 
 
 Scene 4. 
 We see Rosalind in trouble. Orlando, detained by some 
 duty in the Duke's service, has failed to keep his appoint- 
 ment. Any one who has had experience in consoling lover- 
 girl or lover-man under such circumstances will appreciate 
 this scene, with its utter unreasonableness on the part of the 
 one cousin, and the patience of the other, driven to repeat 
 and re-repeat her arguments, together with the craving of the 
 one bereft to have the confidant praise and not blame the 
 object beloved. Rosalind seems to have had small personal 
 knowledge of her banished father, and shows no great anxiety 
 to join his court. Probably this free, untrammelled green- 
 wood life was dehghtful to her ; possibly she had misgivings 
 as to his reception of Celia. 
 
 Rosalind. Never talk to me ; I will weep. 
 
 Celia. Do, I prithee ; but yet have the grace to consider that 
 tears do not become a man, 
 
 Rosalind. But have I not cause to weep .? 
 
 Celia. As good cause as one would desire ; therefore weep. 
 • Rosalind. His very hair is of the dissembling color. 
 
 Celia. Something browner than Judas's : marry, his kisses are 
 Judas's own children. 
 
 Rosalind. V faith, his hair is of a good color. 
 
 Celia. An excellent CQlor ; your chestnut was ever the only 
 color. 
 
 Rosalind. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy 
 bread. 
 
 Celia. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana : a nun of win- 
 ter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously ; the very ice of chastity is 
 in them. 
 
 Rosalind. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and 
 comes not ? 
 
 Celia. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him. 
 
 Rosalind. Do you think so ? 
 
 Celia. Yes ; I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a horse-stealer j 
 
272 As You Like It. 
 
 but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet, 
 or a worm-eaten nut. 
 
 Rosalind. Not true in love ? 
 
 Celia. Yes, when he is in ; but I think he is not in. 
 
 Rosalind. You have heard him swear downright he was. 
 
 Celia. Was is not is; besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger 
 than the word of a tapster ; they are both the confirmers of false reck- 
 onings. He attends here in the forest on the Duke, your father. 
 
 Rosalind. 1 met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with 
 him. He asked me of what parentage I was ; I told him of as good 
 as he ; so he laughed, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, 
 when there is such a man as Orlando ? 
 
 Celia. O, that 's a brave man ! he writes brave verses, speaks 
 brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite tra- 
 verse, across the heart of his lover ; as a puny tilter, that spurs his 
 horse but on one side, and breaks his staff like a noble. But all 's 
 brave that youth mounts, and folly guides. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 This fifth scene is part of the pastoral which is combined 
 with the main story, and which, though it has been esteemed 
 as " a gem inserted in a golden setting," and though Phebe 
 has some of the loveliest speeches in the drama, we have 
 too little space to be able to pause upon. Phebe is a black- 
 haired village beauty, immensely conscious of her own at- 
 tractions. Silvius courts her with a sort of dog-like, servile 
 love, that is the very thing that would set such a girl against 
 him as a lover. In truth, Phebe flouts him, disdains him, 
 tramples on him ; and her heartless behavior provokes gen- 
 erous Rosalind, who, overhearing her ill-treating the patient 
 man, breaks in with remonstrances, and tells her, — 
 
 Know yourself; down on your knees, 
 
 And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love. 
 
 Phebe, utterly astonished when this handsome youth 
 assures her she is no beauty, and that she is hardly worthy 
 
As You Like It. 273 
 
 of the love of Silvius, falls at once in love with him who so 
 reproves her. All love in this play is love at first sight, ex- 
 cept that of Silvius. Maybe, in love, instinct is as safe a guide 
 as modern methods. Phebe quotes a line which may be, as 
 she says, an old proverb, but which is found in Marlowe : 
 
 " Who ever loved that loved not at first sight ? " 
 
 As soon as Rosalind (the scornful Ganymede) has disappeared, 
 Phebe apparently softens to Silvius, who had previously told 
 her that when she knew the power of fancy herself she would 
 grow more pitiful to him. She is a deceitful minx, however, 
 for her first object is to ascertain where the youth who 
 has been speaking to her lives. This is her description 
 of him : — 
 
 It is a pretty youth, — not very pretty ; 
 
 But, sure, he 's proud, — and yet his pride becomes him ; 
 
 He '11 make a proper man. The best thing in him 
 
 Is his complexion ; and faster than his tongue 
 
 Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. 
 
 He is not tall, — yet for his years he 's tall ; 
 
 His leg is but so so, — and yet 't is well ; 
 
 There was a pretty redness in his lip ; 
 
 A little riper and more lusty red 
 
 Than that mixed in his cheek ; 't was just the difference 
 
 Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. 
 
 There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him 
 
 In parcels as I did, would have gone near 
 
 To fall in love with him ; but, for my part, 
 
 I love him not nor hate him not; and yet 
 
 I have more cause to hate him than to love him. 
 
 For what had he to do to chide at me .? 
 
 Then suddenly she conceives the idea of using her power 
 over Silvius to make him carry to her new love a love- 
 letter. 
 
 18 
 
2 74 ^^ ^^^ Lzh It. 
 
 Act IV. Scene i. 
 
 In the first scene of this act, Jaques is trying to make 
 acquaintance with Rosalind, who calls him to account for his 
 profession of melancholy. As usual, Jaques proceeds to 
 classify that quality, though somewhat puzzled to describe 
 his own despondency. Rosalind, who is uneasy about 
 Orlando, is herself in a melancholy mood. As they talk, 
 Orlando comes up to them, and a scene ensues, in which, 
 says Lady Martin, " Rosalind puts forth all her little womanly 
 waywardnesses, playing like summer lightning on her own 
 throbbing tenderness of heart, and never in her gayest 
 sallies or her happiest moods (for she is radiantly happy, now 
 that Orlando has come back to her) losing one grain of our 
 respect." As Jaques, who has professed to be a traveller, 
 departs, how admirable is the sarcasm she flings after him : 
 
 Rosalind. Farewell, monsieur traveller. Look, you lisp, and wear 
 strange suits ; disable all the benefits of your own country ; be out of 
 love with your nativity ; and almost chide God for making you that 
 countenance you are ; or I will scarce think you have swam in a 
 gondola. Why, how now, Orlando ! Where have you been all this 
 while ? You a lover ? An you serve me such another trick, never 
 come in my sight more. 
 
 Orlando. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise. 
 
 Rosalind. Break an hour's promise in love ? He that will divide 
 a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of a thousandth 
 part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him, that Cupid 
 hath clapped him o' the shoulder, but I warrant him heart-whole. 
 
 Orlando. Pardon me, dear Rosalind. 
 
 Rosalind. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight ; I 
 had as lief be wooed of a snail. 
 
 Orlando. Of a snail ? 
 
 Rosalind. Ay, of a snail ; for though he comes slowly, he carries 
 his house on his head ; a better jointure, I think, than you can make a 
 woman. But come, woo me, woo me ; for now I am in a holiday 
 
As You Like It. 275 
 
 humor, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now 
 an I were your very, very Rosalind ? 
 
 Orlando. I would kiss before I spoke. 
 
 Rosalind. How if the kiss be denied? But am I not your 
 Rosalind ? 
 
 Orlando. I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talk- 
 ing of her. 
 
 Rosalind. Well, in her person I say, I will not have you. 
 
 Orlando. Then in mine own person I die. 
 
 Rosalind. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost 
 six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died 
 in his own person, videlicet^ in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains 
 clashed out with a Grecian club ; yet he did what he could to die be- 
 fore, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have 
 lived many a fair year though Hero had turned nun, had it not been 
 for a hot midsummer night ; for, good youth, he went forth but to wash 
 him in the Hellespont, and being taken with the cramp was drowned ; 
 and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was — Hero, of Sestos ! 
 But these are all lies ; men have died from time to time, and worms 
 have eaten them, — but not for love. 
 
 Orlando. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, for I 
 protest her frown would kill me. 
 
 Rosalind. By this hand it will not kill a fly. But come, now I 
 will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition ; and ask me 
 what you will, I will grant it. 
 
 The courtship goes on till they have made a genuine troth- 
 plight, with Celia as the witness. Rosalind, I think, is a little 
 apprehensive that her father may put obstacles in the way of 
 her happiness, and is not unwilling to secure herself by such 
 a troth-plight as, in "The Winter's Tale," passed between 
 Florizel and Perdita. And then, when Orlando must leave 
 her, how prettily, while pretending to be Rosalind, she 
 pleads for his sweet company ; and begs him soon to come 
 back again. 
 
 Orlando. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee. 
 Rosalind. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours. 
 
276 As You Like It, 
 
 Orlando. I must attend the Duke at dinner ; by two o' clock I will 
 be with thee again. 
 
 Rosalind. Ay, go your ways, go your ways. I knew what you 
 would prove ; my friends told me as much, and I thought no less. 
 That flattering tongue of yours won me. 'T is but one cast away ; and 
 so, come death. Two o' clock is your hour "i 
 
 Orlando. Ay, sweet Rosalind. 
 
 Rosalind. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, 
 and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of 
 your promise, or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you 
 the most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and the 
 most unworthy of her you call Rosalind, that may be chosen out of the 
 gross band of the unfaithful. Therefore beware my censure, and keep 
 your promise. 
 
 Then, Orlando being gone, Celia, pouting, reproves her 
 cousin for slandering her own sex in her love-prate, and 
 Rosalind (no doubt dancing round her as she speaks) 
 answers : — 
 
 O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many 
 fathom deep I am in love ! But it cannot be sounded ; my affection 
 hath an unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal. That blind ras- 
 cally boy, that son of Venus, that abuses every one's eyes because his 
 own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love. I '11 tell thee, 
 Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando. I '11 go find a shadow, 
 and sigh till he come. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 This scene contains little more than a hunting-song, in- 
 troduced probably to bring out the voice of the best male 
 singer in Shakspeare's dramatic company. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 We now see Rosalind expectant of Orlando. As she 
 awaits him (for the two hours of his absence are at an end) 
 Silvius comes up to her with Phebe's love-letter. Rosalind 
 
As Yoti Like It, 277 
 
 is so indignant at the girl's treachery that she hands over the 
 letter to Silvius (whom she calls a " tame snake " ), to deal with 
 the writer on account of it as he will, giving him at the 
 same time the assurance that he (Ganymede) will never 
 have Phebe, except ' Silvius himself shall entreat that he shall 
 give her his love. 
 
 Here enters Oliver, asking if they know where stands " a 
 sheepcote fenced with olive-trees?" Observe that Oliver is 
 in possession of that secret which has but just revealed it- 
 self to Orlando. He addresses both the girls as " fair ones," 
 notwithstanding Ganymede's doublet and hose. Celia 
 replies ; — 
 
 West of this place, down in the neighboring bottom, 
 The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream, 
 Left on your right hand, brings you to the place. 
 But at this hour the house doth keep itself; 
 There 's none within. 
 
 Oliver. If that an eye may profit by a tongue, 
 Then I should know you by description ; 
 Such garments, and such years : " The boy is fair. 
 Of female favor, and bestows himself 
 Like a ripe sister ; but the woman low, 
 And browner than her brother." Are not you 
 The owner of the house I did inquire for .'' 
 
 Celia. It is no boast, being asked, to say, we are. 
 
 Oliver. Orlando doth commend him to you both ; 
 And to that youth he calls his Rosalind, 
 He sends this bloody napkin ; are you he ? 
 
 Rosalind. I am ; what must we understand by this .-* 
 
 Oliver. Some of my shame ; if you will know of me 
 What man I am, and how, and why, and where 
 This handkerchief was stained. 
 
 Celia. I pray you, tell it. 
 
 Oliver. When last the young Orlando parted from you. 
 He left a promise to return again 
 Within an hour ; and pacing through the forest, 
 
278 As You Like It, 
 
 Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy, 
 
 Lo, what befel ! he threw his eye aside, 
 
 And, mark, what object did present itself! 
 
 Under an oak, whose boughs were mossed with age, 
 
 And high top bald with dry antiquity, 
 
 A wretched, ragged man, o'ergrown with hair, 
 
 Lay sleeping on his back : about his neck 
 
 A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself, 
 
 Who with her head, nimble in threats, approached 
 
 The opening of his mouth ; but suddenly 
 
 Seeing Orlando, it unlinked itself, 
 
 And with indented glides did slip away 
 
 Into a bush ; under which bush's shade 
 
 A lioness, with udders all drawn dry. 
 
 Lay crouching, head on ground, with cat-like watch 
 
 When that the sleeping man should stir, — for 't is 
 
 The royal disposition of that beast 
 
 To prey on nothing that doth^iteem as dead. 
 
 This seen, Orlando did approach the man. 
 
 And found it was his brother, his elder brother. 
 
 Celia. O, I have heard him speak of that same brother 
 And he did render him the most unnatural 
 That lived 'mongst men. 
 
 Oliver. And well he might do so ; 
 
 For well I know he was unnatural. 
 
 Rosalind. But, to Orlando, — did he leave him there, 
 Food to the sucked and hungry lioness? 
 
 Oliver. Twice did he turn his back, and purposed so. 
 But kindness, nobler ever than revenge. 
 And nature, stronger than his just occasion, 
 Made him give battle to the lioness. 
 Who quickly fell before him ; in which hurtling, 
 From miserable slumber I awaked. 
 
 Celia. Are you his brother .? 
 
 Rosalind. Was it you he rescued ? 
 
 Celia. Was 't you that did so oft contrive to kill him ? 
 
 Oliver. 'T was I ; but 't is not I. I do not shame 
 To tell you what I was, since my conversion 
 So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. 
 
 Rosalind. But, for the bloody napkin ? — 
 
As You Like It. 279 
 
 Oliver. By and by. 
 
 When from the first to last, betwixt us two, 
 Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed, 
 As, how I came into that desert place, — 
 In brief, he led me to the gentle Duke, 
 Who gave me fresh array, and entertainment, 
 Committing me unto my brother's love ; 
 Who led me instantly unto his cave. 
 There stripped himself, and here upon his arm 
 The lioness had torn some flesh away. 
 Which all this while had bled ; and now he fainted, 
 And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind. 
 Brief, I recovered him ; bound up his wound j 
 And after some small space, being strong at heart, 
 He sent me hither, stranger as I am, 
 To tell this story, that you might excuse 
 His broken promise, and to give this napkin, 
 Dyed in his blood, unto the shepherd youth 
 That he in sport doth call his Rosalind. 
 
 The last part of this scene, where Rosahnd, unable to bear 
 more, faints, then makes believe she had but counterfeited, 
 — the solicitude of Celia, the guesses of Oliver, Celia's 
 blunder when she addresses Ganymede as " cousin," and 
 Rosalind's want of power to collect her scattered senses are 
 all told to us in a few words. 
 
 Celia. Why, how now, Ganymede ? sweet Ganymede ! 
 
 [Rosalind faints. 
 
 Oliver. Many will swoon when they do look on blood. 
 
 Celia. There 's more in it. Cousin ! Ganymede ! 
 
 Oliver. Look ! he recovers. 
 
 Rosalind. I would I were at home. 
 
 Celia. We '11 lead you thither. 
 I pray you, will you take him by the arm ? 
 
 Oliver. Be of good cheer, youth. You a man ! 
 You lack a man's heart. 
 
 Rosalind. I do so ; I confess it. Ah, sir, a body would think this 
 
28o As You Like It, 
 
 was well counterfeited ; I pray you tell your brother how well I coun- 
 terfeited. Heigh ho ! 
 
 Oliver. This was not counterfeit. There m too great testimony in 
 your complexion that it was a passion of earnest. 
 
 Rosalind. Counterfeit, I assure you. 
 
 Oliver. Well, then, take a good heart and counterfeit to be a man. 
 
 Rosalind. So I do, but i' faith, I should have been a woman by 
 right. 
 
 Celia. Come, you look paler and paler ; pray you draw home- 
 wards. Good sir, go with us. 
 
 Oliver. That will I, for I must bear answer back how you excuse 
 my brother, Rosalind. 
 
 Rosalind. I shall devise something ; but I pray you commend my 
 counterfeiting to him. Will you go ? 
 
 Act V. Scene i . 
 
 Here we see Audrey, not over-pleased that " the gentle- 
 man" has stopped her irregular marriage. This natural 
 mistrust of " the gentleman " seems to pervade all peasants, 
 unless we except the all-confiding race of Southern negroes. 
 Touchstone grows more in love with Audrey as soon as he 
 suspects that he may have a rival. The rustic, stolid Wil- 
 liam is one of Shakspeare's perfect minor characters. Lady 
 Martin says that when she acted Rosalind it was an especial 
 pleasure to her to see one particular actor do that part. We 
 can imagine Touchstone as he thunders down on the poor 
 fellow, and frightens him off the scene ; and Audrey is also 
 scared out of her wits. 
 
 Touchstone. We shall find a time, Audrey ; patience, gentle 
 Audrey. 
 
 Audrey. 'Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentle- 
 man's saying. 
 
 Touchstone. A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Mar- 
 text. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to 
 you. 
 
As You Like It. 281 
 
 Audrey. Ay, I know who 't is ; he hath no interest in me in the 
 world : here comes the man you mean. 
 
 [Enter William. 
 
 Touchstone. It is meat and drink to me to see a clown. By my 
 troth, we that have good wits have much to answer for : we shall be 
 flouting; we cannot hold. 
 
 William. Good even, Audrey. 
 
 Audrey. God ye good even, William. 
 
 William. And good even to you, sir. 
 
 Touchstone. Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy 
 head ; nay, prithee, be covered. How old are you, friend "i 
 
 William. Five and twenty, sir. 
 
 Touchstone. A ripe age ; is thy name William ? 
 
 William. William, sir. 
 
 Touchstone. A fair name. Wast born i' the forest here ? 
 
 William. Ay, sir, I thank God. 
 
 Touchstone. " Thank God ; " a good answer. Art rich ? 
 
 William. 'Faith, sir, so, so. 
 
 Touchstone. ** So, so " is good, very good, very excellent good ; 
 and yet it is not, it is but so so. Art thou wise ? 
 
 William. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit. 
 
 Touchstone. Why, thou say'st well. I do now remember a saying, 
 " The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to 
 be a fool." The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a 
 grape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth ; meaning 
 thereby, that grapes were made to eat, and lips to open. You do 
 love this maid ? 
 
 William. I do, sir. 
 
 Touchstone. Give me your hand. Are you learned ? 
 
 William. No, sir. 
 
 Touchstone. Then learn this of me : To have is to have ; for it is a 
 figure in rhetoric, that drink, being poured out of a cup into a glass, by 
 filling the one doth empty the other. For all your writers do confess 
 that ipse is he ; now you are not ipse, for I am he. 
 
 William. Which he, sir ? 
 
 Touchstone. He, sir, that must marry this woman ; therefore, you 
 clown, abandon — which in the vulgar is leave — the society — which 
 in the boorish is company — of this female — which in the common is 
 woman ; which together is. Abandon the society of this female. Or, 
 clown, thou perishest, or to thy better understanding, diest ; to wit, 
 
282 As You Like It. 
 
 I '11 kill thee, make thee away ; translate thy life into death, thy liberty 
 into bondage. I will deal in poison with thee, in bastinado, or in steel. 
 I will bandy with thee in faction ; I will o'errun thee with policy, I 
 will kill thee an hundred and fifty ways. Therefore, tremble and 
 depart ! 
 
 Audrey. Do, good William. 
 
 William. God rest you merry, sir. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 Oliver confesses his love for Celia, at first sight, to Or- 
 lando. Here the brothers have changed places ; Oliver has 
 become penniless, and Orlando, being high in the favor of the 
 legitimate Duke, is now in the position of an elder brother. 
 
 Orlando. Is 't possible that on so little acquaintance you should 
 like her.? that, but seeing, you should love' her? and, loving, woo.-* 
 and, wooing, she should grant ? and will you persever to enjoy her } 
 
 Oliver. Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the poverty of 
 her, the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, nor her sudden con- 
 senting ; but say with me, I love Aliena ; say with her, that she loves 
 me ; consent with both, that we may enjoy each other. It shall be 
 to your good ; for my father's house, and all the revenue that was 
 old Sir Rowland's, will I estate upon you, and here live and die a 
 shepherd. 
 
 Here Rosalind breaks in upon the brothers, and I think 
 Oliver hints to her that he has guessed her sex ; but she 
 stops his mouth by alluding to his own wooing. 
 
 Rosalind \to Oliver\. God save you, brother. 
 
 Oliver. And you, fair sister. 
 
 Rosalind. O! my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee 
 wear thy heart in a scarf. 
 
 Orlando. It is my arm. 
 
 Rosalind. I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of 
 a Hon. 
 
 Orlando. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady. 
 
 Rosalind. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon 
 when he showed me your handkerchief? 
 
As You Like It. 283 
 
 Orlando. Ay, and greater wonders than that. 
 
 Rosalind. O, I know where you are. Nay, 'tis true there was 
 never anything so sudden, but Caesar's thrasonical brag of " I came, 
 saw, and overcame." For your brother and my sister no sooner met 
 but they looked ; no sooner looked but they loved ; no sooner loved 
 but they sighed ; no sooner sighed but they asked one another the 
 reason ; no sooner knew the reason than they sought the remedy ; and 
 in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage. 
 
 Orlando. They shall be married to-morrow, and I will bid the 
 Duke to the nuptial. But O! how bitter a thing it is to look into 
 happiness through another man's eyes ! by so much the more shall I 
 to-morrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I shall 
 think my brother happy in having what he wishes for. 
 
 Rosalind. Why, then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for 
 Rosalind ? 
 
 Orlando. I can live no longer by thinking. 
 
 Rosalind. I will weary you then no longer with idle talking ; for if 
 you will be married to-morrow you shall, and to Rosalind if you will. 
 I am a magician. 
 
 Then come in Silvius and Phebe ; and Rosalind, in her 
 happiness, plays dea ex machina, and promises marriage and 
 satisfaction all round. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 In the next short scene we see Touchstone promising 
 Audrey that the morrow shall be their wedding-day; and 
 two pages of the Duke passing by at the moment sing them 
 a song. " Shall we clap into 't roundly," asks one of them, 
 " without hawking, or spitting, or saying we are hoarse ? " 
 
 Like all Shakspeare's songs, it is music without music, 
 though a misprint in the refrain long deprived it of some of 
 
 its melody. 
 
 I. . 
 It was a lover,Nand his lass, 
 
 With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
 That o'er the green cornfield did pass 
 In the spring time, the pretty ring time, O ! 
 
284 ^s Vou Like It. 
 
 When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding ; 
 Sweet lovers love the spring, O ! 
 
 II. 
 Between the acres of the rye, 
 
 With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
 These pretty country folks would lie, 
 
 In the spring time, the pretty ring time, O ! 
 When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding ; 
 Sweet lovers love the spring, O 1 
 
 III. 
 This carol they began that hour, 
 
 With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
 How that a life was but a flower 
 
 In the spring time, the pretty ring time, O ! 
 When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; 
 Sweet lovers love the spring, O ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 And therefore take the present time, 
 
 With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino ; 
 
 For love is crowned with the prime, 
 
 In the spring time, the pretty ring time, O ! 
 
 When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding ; 
 
 Sweet lovers love the spring, O ! 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 The Duke and his court assemble for the marriage of 
 Oliver. Rosalind, having ascertained (we know not how) 
 that if the Duke's daughter be produced she shall be given 
 in marriage to Orlando (I think that Jaques, who has sus- 
 pected her secret all along, may have revealed it to his 
 master), goes aside to resume her female raiment. While 
 this is doing we are diverted by a colloquy, in the Duke's 
 presence, between Jaques and Touchstone. The book 
 alluded to is " a very ridiculous treatise, by one Vicentio 
 Saviola, entitled ' Of Humourous and Honourable Quarrels ; ' 
 printed in English in 1594." 
 
As Vou Like It, 285 
 
 As Audrey and Touchstone come forward in their bridal 
 finery, Jaques remarks on them as a pair of queer beasts out 
 of the ark j then recognizing Touchstone as the fool that he 
 had met in the forest, he greets him ironically as a gentle- 
 man and courtier. 
 
 Touchstone. If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation. 
 I have trod a measure ; I have flattered a lady ; I have been politic with 
 my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have undone three tailors; I 
 have had four quarrels, and like to have fought one. 
 
 Jaques. And how was that taken up ? 
 
 Touchstone. 'Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the 
 seventh cause. 
 ■ Jaques. How seventh cause } — Good my lord, like this fellow. 
 
 Duke. I like him very well. 
 
 Touchstone. God 'ild you, sir ; I desire you of the like. I press 
 in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear, 
 and to forswear ; according as marriage binds, and blood breaks. 
 A poor virgin, sir, an ill-favored thing, sir, but mine own ; a poor 
 humor of mine, sir, to take that that no man else will. Rich hon- 
 esty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house ; as your pearl, in your 
 foul oyster. 
 
 Duke. By my faith, he is very swift and sententious. 
 
 Touchstone. According to the fool's bolt, sir, and such dulcet dis- 
 eases. 
 
 Jaques. But, for the seventh cause, — how did you find the quarrel 
 on the seventh cause ? 
 
 Touchstone. Upon a lie seven times removed, — bear your body 
 more seeming, Audrey, — as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a cer- 
 tain courtier's beard ; he sent me word if I said his beard was not cut 
 well, he was in the mind it was. This is called the retort courteous. 
 If I sent him word again it was not well cut, he would send me word 
 he cut it to please himself. This is called the quip modest. If again, 
 it was not well cut, he disabled my judgment. This is called the reply 
 churlish. If again, it was not well cut, he would answer, I spake not 
 true. This is called the reproof valiant. If again, it was not well cut, 
 he would say, I lie. This is called the countercheck quarrelsome : and 
 so to the lie circumstantial, and the lie direct. 
 
 Jaques. And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut ? 
 
286 As You Like It, 
 
 Touchstone. I durst go no further than the lie circumstantial^ nor 
 he durst not give me the lie direct ; and so we measured swords and 
 parted. 
 
 Jaques. Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie ? 
 
 Touchstone. O sir, we quarrel in print, by the book, as you have 
 books for good manners ; I will name you the degrees. The first, the 
 retort courteous; the second, the quip modest; the third, the reply 
 churlish ; the fourth, the reproof valiant ; the fifth, the countercheck 
 quarrelsome ; the sixth, the lie with circumstance ; the seventh, the lie 
 direct. All these you may avoid, but the lie direct ; and you may 
 avoid that too, with an if. I knew when seven justices could not take 
 up a quarrel ; but when the parties were met themselves, one of them 
 thought but of an if, as, if you said so, then I said so ; and they shook 
 hands, and swore brothers. Your if is the only peacemaker ; much 
 virtue in if. 
 
 Jaques. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord ? he 's as good at any- 
 thing, and yet a fool. 
 
 Duke, He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the pres- 
 entation of that, he shoots his wit. 
 
 Then Rosalind and Celia, attended, as in a masque, by a 
 representative of Hymen, come into the presence, and the 
 four couples stand up to be married. Before the ceremony 
 can be performed, however, Jaques de Bois, that brother 
 who stood between Oliver and Orlando, who had been study- 
 ing in some " school " (that is, college) of law or medicine, ap- 
 pears, saying that Duke Frederick has repented ; has restored 
 the dukedom to his brother, the banished Duke, and has 
 gone into a hermitage. At this the other Jaques, who in spite 
 of his claims to melancholy has been really happy in the 
 greenwood, announces his determination to follow the fallen 
 fortunes of Celia's father. In this "he is conscious he is 
 playing what will be considered a disinterested part and feels 
 himself exalted in his own eyes." " He departs from the 
 stage," says Maginn, " with the grace and easy elegance of a 
 gentleman in heart and manners. He joins his old antago- 
 
As You Like IL 287 
 
 nist, the late usurping Duke, in his fallen fortunes ; he had 
 spurned him in his prosperity. His restored friend he be- 
 queaths to his former honor, deserved by his patience and 
 his virtue ; he compliments Oliver on his restoration to land 
 and love and great allies ; wishes Silvius joy of his long-sought 
 and well-earned marriage ; cracks upon Touchstone one of 
 those good-humored jokes to which men of the world on 
 the eve of marriage must laughingly submit, — and makes 
 his bow." ' 
 
 Victor Hugo's idea of the moral of this play is that it 
 illustrates the fable of Antaeus, — that contact with pure nature 
 — Mother Earth — in short, the greenwood — renovates 
 and purifies human nature. Thus he sees Jaques, Touch- 
 stone, and above all, Oliver made better by their sojourn in 
 Arden; and to this he attributes the total revolution that 
 apparently takes place in Oliver. 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT; 
 
 OR, 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 19 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 THIS Play, under the name of " What You Will," was 
 first performed on Candlemas Day (Ground Hog*s 
 Day, in Maryland, and the old Twelfth Night) , — in other 
 words, February 2, 1602. Its plot is taken from a trivial, in- 
 delicate, commonplace story, " ApoUonius and Silla," in which 
 Shakspeare found his central idea of the faithful love of a 
 true woman capable of absolutely forgetting herself. 
 
 It is a play full of rollicking fun, as suited its performance 
 on Twelfth Night. HazHtt says, " It makes us laugh at the 
 follies of mankind, not despise them, and still less bear any ill 
 will to them. Shakspeare's comic genius resembles the bee 
 rather in its power of extracting sweetness from weeds than 
 in leaving a sting behind it." 
 
 The scene is laid in Illyria, where reigns a Duke, young, 
 handsome, musical, tender-hearted, and well-nurtured, but 
 one of those people who are capable of talking themselves 
 into a state of feeling, — as Romeo talked himself into what 
 we might call an ungenuine passion for Rosaline. These are 
 the loves that prove curable. They pain or they rejoice 
 those who entertain them, — while they last, — and almost all 
 men and women have experienced them; but, as it takes 
 two to make a quarrel, so I think it takes two to make a 
 genuine affection ; or at least it requires such intimate com- 
 
292 Twelfth Night ; or. What You Will, 
 
 munion with the object of the passion as Viola had with the 
 Duke while his confidant and page. 
 
 This Duke, Orsino, had conceived a passion (or senti- 
 ment) of this nature for Olivia, a noble lady, very rich, and 
 very beautiful, who had been left by her dying father to the 
 guardianship of an only brother. He, dying soon after, left 
 her, like Portia, mistress of herself and of her fortune. Her 
 nearest kinsman, Sir Toby Belch, who ought to have been 
 her protector, is a dissipated old uncle whom she suffers to 
 live in her house ; but the charge of that house is committed 
 \ to Malvolio, a Puritan in character, a man of stern integrity, 
 1 unbounded conceit, and narrow understanding, — the very 
 I prince of prigs. 
 
 Olivia, like Orsino, has a disposition that leads her to 
 fosterl unnatural sentiment. ) Her brother being dead, she 
 resolves to seclude herself from all society, nay, even from 
 the free air of heaven, for seven years. We can feel that 
 were the Duke to succeed in his suit to Olivia, their simil- 
 arity in sentimentality would mar their married happiness. 
 Each needs a bolder and more practical better half to 
 supply what is lacking in himself or her. 
 
 Act I. Scene i. 
 
 The Duke's reflections upon music, which open the play, 
 as he sits among his lords in an apartment of his palace, are 
 very pretty, though (to quote himself) they may be '' high 
 fantastical." 
 
 If music be the food of love, play on, 
 Give me excess of it ; that, surfeiting, 
 The appetite may sicken, and so die. 
 That strain again, — it had a dying fall ; 
 O ! it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, 
 
Twelfth Night ; or, What You Will. 293 
 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets, 
 
 Stealing, and giving, odor. Enough ; no more ; 
 
 'T is not so sweet now as it was before. 
 
 O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou ! 
 
 That notwithstanding thy capacity 
 
 Receiveth as a sea, nought enters there. 
 
 Of what validity and pitch soever. 
 
 But falls into abasement and low price, 
 
 Even in a minute ! So full of shapes is fancy 
 
 That it alone is high fantastical. 
 
 Goethe has somewhere remarked that Shakspeare's meta- 
 phors contain always the presentation of a new idea. The 
 Duke's speech is very full of them. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 This next scene introduces us to Viola, who, like Olivia, 
 is grieving for a brother's loss. She and this brother have 
 been wrecked at sea; she has been saved, while he 
 drifted out of sight upon a spar. Finding herself in lUyria, 
 her first thought is that she would like to seek shelter in the 
 household of Countess Olivia. This, her friend the captain 
 assures her, is impossible. Then at once, with her practical 
 mind, she makes another plan, — she will enter the service of 
 the Duke Orsino ; but, as he is a bachelor, she will assume 
 her twin brother's clothes and call herself Caesario. 
 
 Never was any woman less manly than poor Viola. Slie 
 has none of Rosalind's sense of fun in her disguise. Ifer 
 " doublet and hose " are assumed in trembling and in sadness. 
 She knows something of the Duke, she has heard that he 
 delights in music, she thinks that she might please him. 
 Left an orphan, she has the habit of deciding for herself; to 
 her there seems but one alternative, — a safe and honorable 
 shelter must be found either in the Duke's service, or in the 
 
 elCij 
 
294 Twelfth Night ; or. What You Will, 
 
 household of Olivia. We are saddened by a sense of her 
 \ utter loneliness ; but her determined perseverance, her mas- 
 tery over her own wishes, her sweet tenderness, her womanly 
 fears, invest her with especial interest. She is, what many 
 . another woman has been, weak in the flesh, but strong in 
 spirit. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 The characters of this play are introduced to us in three 
 disconnected scenes. First, we have Duke Orsino and his 
 court ; secondly, we have the bereaved, lonely, shipwrecked 
 Viola ; thirdly, we enter the palace of Olivia, where we find 
 her disreputable uncle, Sir Toby Belch, conversing with her 
 lively, under-bred waiting-woman, the roguish Maria. Maria 
 is taking the drinking kinsman of her lady to task for his 
 irregular habits ; especially is she anxious to hear particulars 
 of a foolish knight whom Sir Toby has brought to the house 
 as a suitor to her mistress, — one Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. 
 I think Maria has some notion that, though he is utterly 
 unsuitable for Countess Olivia, she herself may capture the 
 prize. Sir Toby is getting money out of Sir Andrew Ague- 
 cheek, and at the same time much amusement. Sir Andrew 
 is a " bom fool," country-bred, greatly abashed by the court- 
 life that he sees around him, and not at all disposed to be 
 self-confident. He thinks that, maybe, eating too much 
 beef has been hurtful to his brains. Sir Toby and Maria 
 can wind him round their fingers, and when the play is 
 acted it must be very funny to see him lumbering round the 
 stage, capering in a galliard at the close of this scene. 
 
 Sir Toby. What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her 
 brother thus ? I am sure care 's an enemy to life. 
 
Twelfth Night ; or. What You Will. 295 
 
 Maria. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights. 
 Your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours. 
 
 Sir Toby. Why, let her except before excepted. 
 
 Maria. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits 
 of order. 
 
 Sir Toby. Confine ? I '11 confine myself no finer than I am. These 
 clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too. If 
 they are not, let them hang themselves in their own straps. 
 
 Maria. That quaffing and drinking will undo you ; I heard my 
 lady talk of it yesterday, and of a foolish knight you brought in one 
 night here to be her wooer. 
 
 Sir Toby. Who ? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek t 
 
 Maria. Ay, he. 
 
 Sir Toby. He 's as tall a j nan as any in Tllyr ja. ■ — 
 
 Maria. What 'sThat to the purpose ? 
 
 Sir Toby. Why, he has three thousand ducats a year. 
 
 Maria. Ay, but he '11 have but one year in all these ducats. He 's 
 a very fool, and a prodigal. 
 
 Sir Toby. Fie ! that you '11 say so ; he plays o' the viol de gamba^ 
 and speaks three or four languages, word for word, without book, and 
 hath all the good gifts of nature. 
 
 Maria. . . They add, moreover, he 's drunk nightly in your company. 
 
 Sir Toby. With drinking healths to my niece ; I '11 drink to her as 
 long as there 's a passage in my throat or drink in Illyria. . . . What, 
 wench t Castiliano mdgo ; for here comes Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. 
 
 Sir Andrew. Sir Toby Belch ! How now, Sir Toby Belch ? 
 
 Sir Toby. Sweet Sir Andrew ! 
 
 Sir Andrew [to Maria] . Bless you, fair shrew. 
 
 Maria. And you too, sir. 
 
 Sir Toby. Accost ! Sir Andrew, accost ! 
 
 Sir Andrew. ' What 's that ? 
 
 Sir Toby. My niece's chambermaid. 
 • Sir Andrew. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance. 
 
 Maria. My name is Mary, sir. 
 
 Sir Andrew. Good Mistress Mary Accost — 
 
 Sir Toby. You mistake, knight ; accost is, front her, board her, 
 woo her, assail her. 
 
 Sir Andrezv. By my troth, I would not undertake that in this com- 
 pany. Is that the meaning of accost ? 
 
 Maria. Fare you well, gentlemen. 
 
296 Twelfth Night; or. What You Will. 
 
 She stays, however, for a Kttle more coarse badinage, and 
 then departs, leaving Sir Toby laughing. He cries out : — 
 
 knight, thou lackest a cup of canary ; when did I see thee so 
 put down ? 
 
 Sir Andrew. Never in your life, I think, unless you see canary put 
 me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian 
 or an ordinary man has. But I am a great eater of beef, and I believe 
 that does harm to my wit. 
 
 Sir Toby, No question. 
 
 Sir Andrew. An I thought that I 'd forswear it. I '11 ride home 
 to-morrow, Sir Toby. 
 
 Sir Toby. Fourquoi, my dear knight. 
 
 Sir Andrew. What is potirquoi ? do or not do ? I would I had 
 bestowed that time on the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and 
 bear-baiting. O, had I but followed the arts ! 
 
 Then, more and more despondent, he continues : — 
 
 'Faith, I '11 home to-morrow, Sir Toby ; your niece will not be seen, 
 or, if she be, it 's four to one she'll none of me. The Count Jiiraself, 
 here hard by, woos her. 
 
 Sir Toby. She '11 none o' the Count. She '11 not match above her 
 degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit. I have heard her swear it. 
 Tut, there 's life in 't, man ! 
 
 Sir Andrew. I '11 stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the 
 strangest mind in the world ; I delight in masques and revels some- 
 times altogether. 
 
 Sir Toby. Art thou good at these kickshaws, knight ? 
 
 Sir Andrew. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the 
 degree of my betters ; and yet I will not compare with an old man. 
 
 Sir Toby. What is thine excellence in a galliard, knight .? 
 
 Sir Andrew. Faith, I can cut a caper. 
 
 Sir Toby. And I can eat the mutton to 't. 
 
 Sir Andrew. And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong 
 as any man in Illyria. \Dances. 
 
 Sir Toby. Wherefore are these things hid? Wherefore have 
 these gifts a curtain before them ? Are they like to take dust, like 
 Mistress Moll's l picture "i Why dost thou not go to church in a 
 
 1 Moll Fith, a woman noted for mad pranks in London in Shakspeare's 
 time. 
 
Twelfth Night ; or^ What You WilL 297 
 
 galliard, and come home in a coranto ? My very walk should be a jig. 
 What dost thou mean ? Is it a world to hide virtues in ? I did think 
 by the excellent constitution of thy leg it was formed under the star of 
 a galliard. 
 
 Sir Andrew, Ay, it is strong, and it does indifferent work in a 
 flame-colored stock. Shall we set about some revels ? 
 
 Sir Toby. What shall we do else? were we not born under 
 Taurus ? 
 
 Sir Andrew. Taurus ? ^ That 's sides and hearts. 
 
 Sir Toby. No, sir ; it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper. 
 Ha ! higher. Ha, ha ! — excellent ! 
 
 \Sir Andrew goes off dancing^ 
 
 The author in the " Monthly Packet " says of Sir Toby : 
 " He is no fool when his brains are not muddled by drink- 
 ing. When he has control of his intellect it is exclusively 
 directed towards advancing his own interests, and chiefly as 
 regards his purse ; for he has evidently run through all that 
 belonged to him, and is living partly by his wits, partly on 
 such hospitality as Olivia is inclined to show him. He is 
 well adapted to be a pertinacious hanger-on in' a rich house- 
 hold, for he possesses all the necessary effrontery for making 
 the most of his advantages without giving an equivalent. 
 It never enters into Sir Toby's wildest dreams that he could 
 be expected to be of any use to his orphan niece, left un- 
 protected j his only idea is to make as great convenience as 
 he can of her house, till the indignant girl orders him out 
 of it." 
 
 Yet who can be angry with Sir Toby very long ? He is 
 nearly as hard to disconcert as the immortal Sir John Falstaff 
 himself. As to Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, Charles Lamb, in 
 one of his papers, tells us of an actor who looked the part to 
 
 1 He alludes to the human figure in Almanacs, adapted to the signs of the 
 Zodiac. 
 
298 Twelfth Night; or, What You Will 
 
 perfection, with " his broad moony face, and the occasional 
 gleam of an idea stealing over it, and going out for want of 
 fuel." 
 
 "Sir Andrew is distinguished among Shakspeare's non- 
 professional fools by sheer duhiess of brain. If now and 
 then a faint notion works into what he is pleased to call his 
 ' wits,* it is easily dispossessed by Sir Toby, in whose re- 
 lentless hands the poor knight is pitiably helpless. He is 
 one of those men who need to be vigorously guarded, from 
 the cradle to the grave, if they are not to be continually 
 robbed ; and even then they will probably find some way to 
 ruin themselves through their folly, especially if they, like Sir 
 Andrew, take to being drunk every night." 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 In this fourth scene we find Viola, as the page Caesario, 
 admitted into the closest intimacy with Duke Orsino ; already 
 the confidant of his love affair, and alas ! already herself in 
 love with him. That she appears more like a woman than a 
 boy, the Duke tells us. Her love is hopeless from the first. 
 That — and everything that belongs to her true self — must 
 be sternly, carefully hidden away. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 In Olivia's household, where she lives as lonely as poor 
 Viola, there reigns a good deal of loose management, and 
 would reign more, but for Malvolio. We see Maria exchang- 
 ing banter with the fool of the establishment, who rallies her 
 on her standing flirtation with Sir Toby. Olivia's seclusion 
 has made Maria of undue importance in the household, and 
 she takes upon herself the airs of a mistress. Clever, unscru- 
 
Twelfth Night ; or, What You Will. 299 
 
 pulous, self-seeking, and pleasure-loving, she finds Olivia's 
 house a dull abode, " and catches at anything which promises 
 diversion." Olivia is in no humor to enjoy her fool's quips 
 and quiddities, but the fool stands his ground, and presently 
 begins to awaken her interest. He proves to her that to 
 mourn that her brother is in heaven marks her for a fool. 
 Malvolio has evidently been making complaints of the fool 
 to his mistress ; for Olivia turns to him with, — 
 
 What think you of this fool, Malvolio ? doth he not mend ? 
 
 Malvolio. Yes, and shall do till the pangs of death shake him. 
 Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool. 
 
 Fool. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing 
 your folly ! Sir Toby will be sworn I am no fox ; but he will not pass 
 his word for two-pence that you are no fool. 
 
 Olivia. How say you to that, Malvolio ? 
 
 Malvolio. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren 
 rascal. I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool that 
 has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he is out of his 
 guard already. Unless you laugh and minister occasion to him he is 
 gagged. I protest I take these wise men that crow so at these set 
 kind of fools for no better than the fool's zanies. 
 
 Olivia. Oh ! you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a 
 distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposi- 
 tion is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets. 
 There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail, 
 nor no railing in an honest, discreet man, though he do nothing but 
 reprove. 
 
 Fool. Now Mercury indue thee with leasing, for thou speakest 
 well of fools ! 
 
 Feste, the fool, is one of the brightest specimens of his 
 class drawn for us by Shakspeare. A member of OUvia's 
 somewhat disorderly household, he passes his time wandering 
 backwards and forwards between her palace and the court, 
 picking up all possible items of news and gossip, and turn- 
 ing them, as it were, to account in his profession. As 
 
300 Twelfth Night ; or. What You Will. 
 
 Olivia is disputing with her fool, and administering a little 
 good counsel to Malvolio, who holds the fool in abhorrence, 
 news is brought to her that a young gentleman desires to 
 speak with her. Hearing that Sir Toby, whom she knows to 
 be probably intoxicated, is parleying with the gentleman, she 
 sends Malvolio to say " engaged "or " not at home," if the 
 young man comes from Duke Orsino. 
 
 Malvolio having had no success in dismissing the Duke's 
 messenger, so reports to Olivia, who grows curious to see and 
 hear the ambassador. We must bear in mind the dulness, 
 the loneliness, and the worry of the life led by Olivia. Her 
 mind has recovered from the first shock of her brother's 
 death ; she is unconsciously craving for new interests, and is 
 prepared to welcome a new affection ; but the Duke's suit is 
 an annoyance and a weariness to her. Viola, on the contrary, 
 who has been listening for a week past to the Duke's out- 
 pourings of confidence, and has been led by pity within the 
 bounds of love, comes in with her heart full of suppressed 
 suffering. She is one of those women in whom the maternal 
 — that is, the protecting — instinct predominates. Her love 
 would lead her to sacrifice herself, could she but give her 
 Duke his heart's desire. She has to stand by, and see all 
 she would most desire for herself lavished upon one indiffer- 
 ent to it. Nor is the Duke unconscious of the charms of 
 Viola. Regarding her as a boy, he is attracted by her feminine 
 ways, her sympathy, her solicitude for himself He makes a 
 pet of her while employing her in matters that he deems of 
 the most vital importance, relying with perfect confidence on 
 her devotion and ability. 
 
 Olivia \to Malvolio]. What kind of man is he ? 
 Malvolio. Why, of man kind. 
 
Twelfth Night ; or^ What You Will, 301 
 
 Olivia. What manner of man ? 
 
 Malvolio. Of very ill manner ; he '11 speak with you, will you 
 or no. 
 
 Olivia. Of what personage and years is he ? 
 
 Malvolio. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a 
 boy; as a sqimsh is before it is a peascod, or a codling that is almost 
 an apple ; 't is with him e'en standing water between boy and man ; 
 he is very well-favored, and he speaks very shrewishly ; one would 
 think his mother's milk were scarce out of him. 
 
 Olivia. Let him approach ; call in my gentlewoman. 
 Give me my veil ; come, throw it o'er my face. 
 We '11 once more hear Orsino's embassy. {Enter Viola. 
 
 Viola. The honorable lady of the house, which is she .'' 
 
 Olivia. Speak to me ; I shall answer for her ; your will } 
 
 Viola. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty, — I pray 
 you tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her. 
 I would be loath to cast away my speech, for besides that it is excel- 
 lently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, 
 let me sustain no scorn. I am very sensitive, even to the least sinister 
 usage. 
 
 Olivia. Whence came you, sir ? 
 
 Viola. I can say little more than I have studied, and that ques- 
 tion 's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance if 
 you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech. 
 
 Olivia. Are you a comedian } 
 
 Viola. No, my profound heart ; and yet I swear I am not that I 
 play. Are you the lady of the house ? 
 
 Olivia. If I do not usurp myself, I am. 
 
 Viola. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself ; for 
 what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. 
 
 Olivia declines to receive the poetical compliment pre- 
 pared for her ; and, wishing to abash the boy, says : — "I 
 heard you were saucy at my gates, and allowed your ap- 
 proach rather to wonder at you than to hear you." 
 
 Maria, who does not like the page's evident conviction 
 that she is the waiting-maid, and the other Countess Olivia, 
 breaks in with, "Will you hoist sail, sir? there lies your 
 way." 
 
302 Twelfth Night ; or. What You Will 
 
 Viola, who is just fresh from a sea-voyage, answers her 
 back in nautical terms, and repays her insolence by address- 
 ing her as "good swabber," — the swabber's office being to 
 act as housemaid to the ship. Then Viola proceeds to re- 
 quest from Olivia a private interview, and the discomfited 
 Maria is sent away. 
 
 Viola's first request is that she may see the face of Olivia. 
 When Olivia has unveiled she exclaims : — 
 
 , 'T is beauty truly, blent, whose red and white 
 \ Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on. 
 I Lady, you are the cruelest she alive 
 \ If you will lead these graces to the grave, 
 
 And leave the world no copy. 
 Olivia. O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted ; I will give out divers 
 schedules of my beauty. It shall be inventoried, — every particle and 
 utensil labelled to my will : as, item, two lips, indifferent red ; item, 
 two gray eyes with lids to them ; item, one neck, one chin, and so 
 forth ; were you sent hither to praise me ? 
 
 Viola. I see what you are ; you are too proud. 
 But, if you were the devil, you are fair. 
 My lord and master loves you. O ! such love 
 Could but be recompensed, though you were crowned 
 The nonpareil of beauty. 
 
 Olivia. How does he love me } 
 
 Viola. With adorations, and with fertile tears, 
 With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. 
 
 Olivia. Your lord does know my mind, I cannot love him ; 
 Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble. 
 Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth. 
 In voices well divulged, free, learned, valiant. 
 And in dimension and the shape of nature 
 A gracious person ; but yet I cannot love him. 
 He might have took his answer long ago. 
 
 Viola. If I did love you in my master's flame, 
 With such a suffering, such a deadly life, 
 In your denial I would find no sense ; 
 I would not understand it. 
 
Twelfth Night ; or, What You Will, 303 
 
 Olivia. Why, what would you ? 
 
 Viola. Make me a willow cabin at your gate, 
 And call upon my soul within the house ; 
 Write loyal cantons of contemned love. 
 And sing them loud e'en in the dead of night ; 
 Holla your name to the reverberate hills, 
 And make the babbling gossip of the air 
 Cry out, Olivia ! O ! you should not rest 
 Between the elements of air and earth 
 But you should pity me. 
 
 Olivia. You might do much. 
 
 What is your parentage ? 
 
 Viola. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well ; 
 I am a gentleman. 
 
 Olivia. Get you to your lord. 
 
 I cannot love him ; let him send no more, — 
 Unless perchance you come to me again 
 To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well. 
 I thank you for your pains ; spend this for me. 
 
 Viola. I am no fee'd post, lady ; keep your purse. 
 My master, not myself, lacks recompense. 
 Love make his heart of flint that you shall love ! 
 And let your fervor, like my master's, be 
 Placed in contempt. Farewell, fair cruelty. {Exit. 
 
 Olivia. What is your parentage ? 
 " Above my fortunes, yet my state is well ; 
 I am a gentleman." I '11 be sworn thou art. 
 Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit 
 Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast ! — soft, soft, 
 Unless the master were the man. How now } 
 Even so quickly may one catch the plague } 
 Methinks I feel this youth's perfections. 
 With an invisible and subtle stealth. 
 To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. 
 What, ho, Malvoliol — 
 
 Malvolio. Here, madam, at your service. 
 
 Olivia. Run after that same peevish messenger. 
 The County's man. He left this ring behind him. 
 Would I or not; tell him I '11 none of it ; 
 Desire him not to flatter with his lord. 
 
304 Twelfth Night ; or. What You Will. 
 
 Nor hold him up with hopes ; I am not for him. 
 If that the youth will come this way to-morrow, 
 I '11 give him reasons for 't. Hie thee, Malvolio. 
 
 In this scene you will observe that Viola begins by a little 
 over-acting her part of the saucy page. She comprehends 
 in what the Duke has erred in his courtship ; she knows he 
 should have wooed in person, put his fervor into action, and 
 have carried his point by storm. But it is Orsino's nature to 
 be the too patient, somewhat philandering admirer. Some 
 of us must have known how hard it is to spur up one who 
 hesitates and fears, to be an active lover. Viola, who no 
 doubt, in her page's dress, strongly resembles her brother 
 Sebastian, — minus the manly boldness of his bearing, — 
 charms Olivia from the very first, interests and stimulates 
 her. Her dull and lonely life had not been broken into by 
 anything so interesting for many months. The mystery that 
 hangs about the youth, his unfeigned admiration of her 
 beauty (which Viola, with a pang, is generous enough to 
 acknowledge and to praise), his assurance that his birth 
 makes him her equal, his refusal of her purse, which con- 
 firms this impression, — all, combined with the ripeness of her 
 own heart for love, throw Olivia off her balance. " Lord of 
 herself," hke Portia, she is not, though hitherto a gracious, 
 sweet, and somewhat ostentatiously reserved great lady. No 
 doubt Viola had been preaching personal persistency to her 
 Duke; and she gives Olivia the benefit of her reflections 
 when she says that whereas Orsino loves with tears, and 
 groans, and sighs, she would put her love into action, would 
 take no denial, would sit at her lady's gate, would sing her 
 love-songs in the dead of night, " holla her name to the 
 reverberate hills, and make the very breezes cry, Olivia ! " 
 
Twelfth Night ; or. What You WilL 305 
 
 Alas ! she had to hide her love, poor girl, in tears and sighs, 
 and plead before this insensible beauty the cause of one she 
 fain would have for her own. 
 
 Act II. Scene i. 
 
 The opening scene of this second act is on the sea-coast ; 
 the speakers are the sea-captain Antonio, who has picked 
 Sebastian up at sea, — and that young gentleman. Like 
 his sister, he has the happy gift of making every one believe 
 in him and love him ; he is bound to Orsino's court, and 
 tells us, incidentally, that he and his sister were» persons of 
 the highest consideration in their own country ; so that there 
 was no misalliance in their subsequent marriages. Antonio 
 offers to attach himself to Sebastian as his servant, but 
 Sebastian, with words of tenderness and courtesy, declines 
 the proposition. Antonio, indeed, had reasons for avoiding 
 Orsino's dominions. To use the slang phrase of our poHce, 
 he knew that he was " wanted " there, having at one time 
 fought the galleys of Illyria, very probably as a freebooter, 
 and been condemned to death for it. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Here we have Malvolio, churlishly and roughly accosting 
 
 Viola, and flinging at her Countess Olivia's ring. The truth 
 
 that Olivia believes herself in love with her — the page — 
 
 dawns upon Viola, as the prim steward leaves her ; she does 
 
 not scorn OHvia, as happy Rosalind scorned Phebe, but 
 
 inasmuch as 
 
 That woman could not be of nature's making 
 Who, being kind, her misery made not kinder, 
 
 her own unhappy love leads her to pity her. She says, — 
 
 20 
 
3o6 Twelfth Night ; or. What You Will. 
 
 I left no ring with her ; what means this lady ? 
 
 Fortune forbid my outside have not charmed her 1 
 
 She made good view of me ; indeed, so much 
 
 That, sure, methought, her eyes had lost her tongue ; 
 
 For she did speak in starts, distractedly. 
 
 She loves me, sure ; the cunning of her passion 
 
 Invites me in this churlish messenger. 
 
 None of my lord's ring ? why, he sent her none. 
 
 I am the man. If it be so (as 't is). 
 
 Poor lady, she were better love a dream. 
 
 Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness. 
 
 Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. 
 
 How easy is it for the proper-false 
 
 In women's waxen hearts to set their forms ! 
 
 Alas ! our frailty is the cause, not we. 
 
 For, such as we are made of, such we be. 
 
 How will this fadge ? My master loves her dearly. 
 
 And I, poor monster, fond as much on him ; 
 
 And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. 
 
 What will become of this ? As I am man, 
 
 My state is desperate for my master's love ; 
 
 As I am woman, now alas the day ! 
 
 What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe! 
 
 O time, thou must untangle this, not I ; 
 
 It is too hard a knot for me to untie. 
 
 This must be a very hard play to put upon the stage in 
 modern times, owing to the repeated changes in scenery. In 
 Shakspeare's Globe Theatre all they did was to set up a 
 board inscribed The Sea Coast. A Street. A room in 
 Olivia's House, and so on. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Scene third is a room in Olivia's house, where Sir Toby, 
 his victim Sir Andrew, and Feste the fool are carousing in 
 company. Sir Andrew has just hinted that it may be time 
 to go to bed. All that Sir Toby says, his science and 
 
Twelfth Night ; or, What You Will. 307 
 
 his Latin, is equally confusing to Sir Andrew, whom it 
 pleases Sir Toby to make believe is a man of parts and 
 learning. 
 
 Sir Toby. Approach, Sir Andrew ; not to be a-bed after midnight 
 is to be up betimes, and diluculo surgere, thou knowest — 
 
 Sir Andrew. Nay, by my troth, I know not ; but I know that to 
 be up late is to be up late. 
 
 Sir Toby. A false conclusion, — I hate it as an unfilled can ; to be 
 up after midnight, and to go to bed then is early ; so that to go to bed 
 after midnight is to go to bed- betimes. Do not our lives consist of 
 four elements ? 
 
 . Sir Andrew. Faith, so they say ; but I think it rather consists of 
 eating and drinking. 
 
 Sir Toby. Thou art a scholar ! let us therefore eat and drink. 
 Maria, I say ! — a stoop of wine ! 
 
 Sir Andrew. Here comes the fool, i' faith. 
 
 Fool. How now, my hearts ? Did you never see the picture of we 
 three ? 
 
 Sir Toby. Come on ; there 's sixpence for you ; let 's have a 
 song. 
 
 Sir Andrew. There 's a testril of me, too. If one knight give away 
 sixpence, so will I give another ; go to, — a song. 
 
 Fool. Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life ? 
 
 Sir Toby. A love-song ! A love-song ! 
 
 Sir Andrew. Ay, I care not for good life. 
 
 Song. 
 
 O mistress mine, where are you roaming ? 
 O, stay thou here ; thy true love 's coming, 
 
 That can sing both high and low. 
 Trip no further, pretty sweeting, 
 Journeys end in lovers' meeting, 
 
 Every wise man's son doth know. 
 
 What is love ? 't is not hereafter ; 
 Present mirth hath present laughter ; 
 
 What 's to come is still unsure. 
 In delay there lies no plenty, 
 
3o8 Twelfth Night; or, What You Will. 
 
 Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty, 
 Youth 's a staff will not endure. 
 
 \Enter Maria. 
 
 Maria. What a caterwauling do you keep here ! If my lady have 
 not called up her steward, Malvolio, and bid him turn you^ out of 
 doors, never trust me. 
 
 Sir Toby. My lady's a Catanian, we are politicians, Malvolio 's a 
 Peg-a-Ramsey, and " Three merry men are we ! " Am I not con- 
 sanguineous ? am I not of her blood .? Tilly-valley, lady ! {Sings^ 
 *' There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady." 
 
 Fool. Beshrew me, the knight is in admirable fooling. 
 
 Sir Andrew. Ay, he does it well enough, if he be disposed, and so 
 do I, too ; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural. 
 
 Sir Toby \singin^. "^ Oh, the twelfth day of December ! *' 
 
 Maria. For the love of God, peace ! 
 
 Throughout the half-tipsy talk that goes on in this scene 
 there are numerous allusions which have puzzled the com- 
 mentators. A great many vain words, the utterances of Dry- 
 as-dust, have been expended in unsatisfactory explanations. 
 We may be content not to know what the tipsy knight 
 means by a Catanian, — who was Pigrogromitus,^ or what 
 connection the Myrmidons had with bottled ale. As Sir 
 Toby is trolling out his song, 
 
 " Oh, the twelfth day of December ! " 
 
 (an allusion, I believe, to the day of the accession of Queen 
 Elizabeth) Malvolio comes in, crying, — 
 
 My masters, are you mad ? or what are you ? have you no wit, 
 manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time o' night "i 
 Do ye make an ale-house of my lady's house ? Is there no respect of 
 place, persons, or time, in you "i 
 
 Sir Toby. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. 
 
 Malvolio. Sir Toby, I must be round with you ; my lady bade me 
 tell you that though she • harbors you as her kinsman, she 's nothing 
 
 1 Mentioned by Sir Andrew and Feste, in speeches omitted. 
 
Twelfth Night; or What You Will, 309 
 
 allied to your disorders ; if you can separate yourself and your mis- 
 demeanors you are welcome to the house ; if not, an it would please 
 you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell. 
 
 Sir Toby answers this threat of dismissal by singing a 
 popular catch, with the clown. 
 
 Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone. 
 
 This first line frightens Malvolio, who had no expectation of 
 being taken at his word. 
 
 His eyes do show his days are almost done. 
 
 But I will never die ! 
 
 Shall I bid him go ? 
 
 What an if you do? 
 Shall I bid him go, and spare not ? 
 No ! no ! no I no ! no ! you dare not ! 
 
 This last line, improvised for the occasion, is sung by the 
 fool j then Sir Toby turns upon Malvolio with a reference 
 to his late inquiry whether the rollicking trio had no respect 
 of place, persons, or time. 
 
 Out o' time ? sir, ye lie. Art any more than a steward ? Dost thou 
 think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale ? 
 
 The allusion in this often-quoted passage is to an old- 
 fashioned custom of eating ginger-cakes and drinking stronger 
 ale than usual upon Saints' days. This custom was discoun- 
 tenanced by the Puritans, as "a rag of Popery." 
 
 The fool follows up the allusion to ginger-cakes with — 
 
 And ginger shall be hot in the mouth, too. 
 
 Then Sir Toby turns contemptuously to the steward, and 
 bids him spend his time rubbing his gold chain (the badge 
 of his office) bright with bread-crumbs, winding up with a 
 call for more wine to Maria. 
 
3IO Twelfth Night ; or. What You Will, 
 
 Malvolio. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favor at anything 
 more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule. 
 She shall know of it, by this hand ! 
 
 With these words he retires discomfited, and the three men 
 and Maria, whom he has offended, remain to plot vengeance 
 against him. Sir Andrew proposes to challenge him. Sir 
 Toby claims the fun of carrying the challenge as a good joke, 
 but woman's wit devises a better plan. Maria says : — 
 
 Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night. Since that youth of the 
 Count's was to-day with my lady she is much out of quiet. For Mon- 
 sieur Malvolio, let me alone with him. If I do not gull him into a nay- 
 word, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit 
 enough to lie straight in my bed. I know I can do it. 
 
 Sir Toby, who is startled by Maria's hint about Duke 
 Orsino's page, cries : *' Possess us ! Possess us ! Tell us 
 something about him ! " But Maria turns the subject by 
 feigning to think he is speaking of Malvolio. " Marry, sir," 
 she says, " sometimes he is a kind of Puritan." 
 
 Sir Andrew. 1 if I thought that I would beat him like a dog. 
 
 Sir Toby. What, for being a Puritan.? Thine exquisite reason, 
 dear knight. 
 
 Sir Andrew. I have no exquisite reason for it, but I have reasons 
 good enough. 
 
 Maria. The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything constantly but 
 a time-pleaser ; an afFectioned ass, that cons state without book, and 
 utters it by great swaths ; the best persuaded of himself, so crammed 
 as he thinks with excellences that it is his ground of faith that all who 
 look on him love him, and on that vice in him will my revenge find 
 notable cause to work. 
 
 Sir Toby. What wilt thou do ? 
 
 Maria. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love, where- 
 in by the color of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his 
 gait, the expression of his eye,^ forehead, and complexion, he shall find 
 himself most feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady, 
 
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will. 311 
 
 your niece. On a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of 
 our hands. 
 
 Sir Toby. Excellent ! I smell a device. 
 
 Sir Andrew. I have it in my nose too. 
 
 Sir Toby. He shall think by the letters that thou wilt drop that 
 they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him. 
 
 Maria. My purpose is indeed a horse of that color. 
 
 Sir Andrew. And your horse now would make him an ass. 
 
 Maria \turning on Sir Andrew\. Ass ! — I doubt not. 
 
 Sir Andrew. O ! it will be admirable ! 
 
 Maria. Sport royal, I warrant you. I will plant you two, and let 
 the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter; observe his 
 construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. 
 
 All this scene of the noisy, tipsy revel is admirable. Mal- 
 volio is entirely in the right, and is pragmatically trying to do 
 his duty. Sir Toby and the fool, half-tipsy, will do nothing 
 but sing. Maria is making eyes at Sir Toby ; Sir Andrew, 
 with lagging wits, tries to keep up with the fun around him, 
 but hardly comprehends a word of it. Maria declares Mal- 
 volio is no real Puritan, intimating that she might respect 
 him if his Puritanism were genuine j but that he is a conceited 
 ass, and a pretentious pedant, crammed with self-conceit; 
 and thereupon she lays a plot to be revenged on him. Can 
 we imagine Nerissa counterfeiting her lady's hand to play off 
 a coarse trick on old Balthazar? But Olivia has forsaken 
 the practical superintendence of her household for the in- 
 dulgence of sentimental grief, for which all her people per- 
 mit themselves to blame her. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 This scene is in the Duke's house. He has called for 
 music. He desires a sweet, old, melancholy song, and Feste, 
 Olivia's fool, who is roving round the palace, is sent for to 
 sing to him. Meantime he communes with Cassario. 
 
312 Twelfth Night ; or, What You Will. 
 
 Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love. 
 In the sweet pangs of it, remember me ; 
 For such as I am, all true lovers are. . . . 
 How dost thou like this tune ? 
 
 Viola. It gives a very echo to the seat 
 Where love is throned. 
 
 Duke. Thou dost speak masterly. 
 
 My life upon 't, young though thou art, thine eye 
 Hath stayed upon some favor that it loves. 
 Hath it not, boy ? 
 
 Viola. A little, by your favor. 
 
 Dtike. What kind of woman is 't ? 
 
 Viola. Of your complexion. 
 
 Duke. She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith ? 
 
 Viola. About your years, my lord. 
 
 Duke. Too old, by heaven ! Let still the woman take 
 An elder than herself. So wears she to him, 
 So sways she level in her husband's heart. 
 For, boy, however we do praise ourselves. 
 Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, 
 More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won. 
 Than women's are. 
 
 Viola. I think it well, my lord. 
 
 Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thyself, 
 Or thy affection cannot hold the bent. 
 For women are as roses ; whose fair flower. 
 Being once displayed, doth fall that very hour. 
 
 Viola. And so they are. Alas ! that they are so ; 
 To die e'en when they to perfection grow. 
 
 [Enter the fool. 
 
 Duke. O fellow, come, the song we had last night. 
 Mark it, Caesario, it is old and plain. 
 The spinsters and the knitters in th^sun, 
 And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, 
 Do use to chant it. It is silly sooth, 
 And dallies with the innocence of love 
 Like the old age. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Come away, come away, death, 
 And in sad cypress let me be laid ; 
 
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will. 313 
 
 Fly away, fly away, breath ; 
 
 I am slain by a fair, cruel maid. 
 My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 
 
 O, prepare it I 
 My part of death — no one so true 
 
 Did share it. 
 Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 
 
 On my black coffin let there be strown ; 
 Not a friend, not a friend greet 
 
 My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown. 
 A thousand thousand sighs to save. 
 
 Lay me, O ! where 
 Sad true lover ne'er find my grave, 
 To weep there. 
 Duke. There 's for thy pains. 
 
 Fool. No pains, sir. I take pleasure in singing, sir. 
 Duke. I '11 pay thy pleasure, then. 
 
 Fool. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another. 
 Duke. I give thee leave to leave me. 
 
 Fool. Now the melancholy god protect thee, and the tailor make 
 thy doublet of changeable silk, for thy mind is a very opal. I would 
 have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be 
 everything and their intent everywhere. For that 's it that always makes 
 a good voyage of nothing. 
 
 You no doubt noticed in this colloquy the delicate descrip- 
 tion of the song. It was old and plain ; but spinning-girls 
 and knitters in the sun, or lace-makers, who wove their 
 threads with bones, were used to sing it. Alas ! the song was 
 far more suited to the state of mind of the false page than of 
 his master. Note, too, the piece of good advice that, under 
 cover of his folly, Feste ventures to give Duke Orsino. With 
 his knowledge of human nature he sees the Duke is change- 
 able, and only half in earnest in any of his doings. 
 
 Then the Duke, left alone with his page, tries to send him 
 again on an embassy to Olivia. Viola seeks to be excused 
 the commission. 
 
314 Twelfth Night; or, What You Will, 
 
 Viola. But if she cannot love you, sir ? 
 
 Duke. I cannot so be answered. 
 
 Viola. Sooth, but you must. 
 
 Say that some lady, as, perhaps there is, 
 Hath for your love as great a pang of heart 
 As you have for Olivia. You cannot love her. 
 You tell her so. Must she not then be answered ? 
 
 Duke. There is no woman's sides 
 Can bide the beating of so strong a passion 
 As love doth give my heart. No woman's heart 
 So big to hold so much. . . . Make no compare 
 Between that love a woman can bear me 
 And that I owe Olivia. 
 
 Viola. Ay, but I know — 
 
 Duke. What dost thou know ? 
 
 Viola. Too well what love women to men may owe. 
 In faith they are as true in heart as we. 
 My father had a daughter loved a man, 
 As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, 
 I should your lordship. 
 
 l^uke. And what 's her history ? 
 
 Viola. A blank, my; jord. She never told her love, 
 But let concealment, like * worm i' the bud, " — 
 Ji'eed^on Tier damask clieek. She pined in thought, 
 And with a^grecTrantTyellow melancholy, 
 She sat, like Patience on a monument. 
 Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed ? 
 We men may say more, swear more ; but, indeed. 
 Our shows are more than will ; for still we prove 
 Much in our vows, but little in our love. 
 
 Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boyf 
 
 Viola. I am all the daughters of my father's house. 
 And all the brothers too, —r and yet I know not. 
 Sir, shall I to this lady? 
 
 £)uke. Ay, that 's the theme. 
 
 To her in haste. Give her this jewel. Say 
 My love can give no place, bide no delay. 
 
 Viola had almost beguiled the Duke' into forgetting Olivia, 
 when, perhaps as a self-inflicted punishment for letting 
 
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will 315 
 
 her feelings get the better of her, she offers to go on his 
 embassy. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 This is the inimitable scene wherein saucy Maria with her 
 confidants befool Malvolio. Fabian is a sort of gentleman- 
 attendant on Olivia. The scene is very hard to read effect- 
 ively, because of the asides that break Malvolio's pompous 
 soliloquy. You will observe how Fabian is busy all the time 
 trying to hush Sir Toby, who in his turn, whenever Sir 
 Andrew attempts to speak, grows angry with him. 
 
 The scene is in Olivia's garden. 
 
 Sir Toby. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian. 
 
 Fabian. Nay, I '11 come. If I lose a scruple of this sport let me be 
 boiled to death with melancholy. 
 
 Sir Toby. Would'st thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascal 
 who worries us come by some notable shame ? 
 
 Fabian. I would exult, man. You know he brought me out of 
 favor with my lady about a bear-baiting here. 
 
 Sir Toby. To anger him we'll have the bear again, and we will 
 fool him black and blue. Shall we not. Sir Andrew t 
 
 Sir Andrew. An we do not, it is a pity of our lives. 
 
 Sir Toby. Here comes Maria, the little villain ! How now, my 
 nettle of India ? 
 
 Maria. Get ye all three into the box-tree. Malvolio's coming 
 down this walk. He has been yonder in the sun, practising behavior 
 to his own shadow, this half-hour. Observe him, for the love of mock- 
 ery ; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. 
 Close ! in the name of jesting \thro%os down a letter']. Lie thou there, 
 for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. 
 
 {Exit Maria. 
 
 Malvolio. ' T is but fortune ; all is fortune. Maria once told me 
 she did affect me ; and I have heard herself come thus near, that 
 should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she 
 uses me with a more exalted respect than any one else that follows 
 her. What should I think on 't ? 
 
 Sir Toby. Here 's an overweening rogue ! 
 
3i6 Twelfth Night; or, What You Will, 
 
 Fabian. O ! peace. Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of 
 him. How he jets under his ruffled plumes ! 
 
 Sir Andrew. 'Slight ! I could so beat the rogue — 
 
 Sir Toby. Peace, I say. ■"- 
 
 MalvoUo. To be Count Malvolio ! — 
 
 Sir Toby. Ah ! rogue. 
 
 Sir Andrew. Pistol him ! pistol him ! 
 
 Sir Toby. Peace ! peace ! 
 
 Malvolio. There is example for it ; the lady of the Strozzi 
 married the yeoman of the wardrobe. 
 
 Sir Andrew. Fie on him, Jezebel ! 
 
 Fabian. O ! peace ; now he 's deeply in. Look how imagination 
 blows him I 
 
 Malvolio. Having been three months married to her, sitting in 
 my state — 
 
 Sir Toby. O ! for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye ! 
 
 Malvolio. — calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet 
 gown ; having come from a day-bed where I left Olivia sleeping. 
 
 Sir Toby. Fire and brimstone ! 
 
 Fabian. O, peace, peace ! 
 
 Malvolio. And then to have the honors of state ; and after a 
 demure travel of regard, — telling them I know my place, as I would 
 they should do theirs, — to ask for my kinsman Toby. 
 
 Sir Toby. Bolts and shackles 1 
 
 Fabian. O, peace, peace, peace ! Now, now ! 
 
 Malvolio. Seven of my people with an obedient start make out for 
 him. I frown awhile, and perchance wind up my watch, or play with 
 . . . some rich jewel. Toby approaches; courtesies there to me, — 
 
 Sir Toby. Shall this fellow live ? 
 
 Fabian. Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace. 
 
 Malvolio. — I extend my hand to him, thus, quenching my familiar 
 smile with an austere regard of control ; 
 
 Sir Toby. And does not Sir Toby take you a blow on the lips, 
 then? 
 
 Malvolio. — saying. Cousin Toby, my fortunes, having cast me 
 on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech. 
 
 Sir Toby. What ? What ? 
 
 Malvolio. You must amend your drunkenness ; 
 
 Sir Toby. Out, scab ! 
 
 Fabian. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot. 
 
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will. 317 
 
 Malvolio. — besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a 
 foolish knight, — 
 
 Sir Andrew. That 's me, I warrant you ! 
 
 Malvolio. — one Sir Andrew. 
 
 Sir Andrew. I knew 't was I, for many do call me fool. 
 
 Malvolio \picking up the letter\ What employment have we here ? 
 
 Fabian. Now is the wood-cock near the gin. 
 
 Sir Toby. O! peace, and the spirit of humors intimate reading 
 aloud to him ! 
 
 Malvolio. By my life, this is my lady's hand. These be her very 
 C's, her U's, and her T's ; and thus she makes her great P's. It is, in 
 contempt of question, her hand ! 
 
 Sir Andrew. Her C's, her U's, and her T's ? Why that ? 
 
 Malvolio [reads]. " To the unknown beloved, this, and my good 
 wishes ; " her very phrases ! By your leave, wax. Soft ! — and the 
 impressure her Lucrece with which she uses to seal. 'T is my lady. 
 To whom should this be ? 
 
 Fabian. This wins him ! 
 
 Malvolio [reads]. " Jove knows I love ; 
 But who ? 
 Lips, do not move. 
 No man must know." 
 " No man must know ? "^ What follows ? The number 's altered. " No 
 man must know." If this should be thee, Malvolio ? 
 
 Sir Toby. Marry, hang the badger ! 
 
 Malvolio [reads]. " I may command where I adore ; 
 
 But silence, like a Lucrece knife, 
 With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore, 
 M. O. A. I. doth sway my life ! " 
 
 " M. O. A. I. doth sway my life," — nay, but first, let me see — let me 
 see — let me see. " I may command where I adore." Why, she may 
 command me. I serve her ; she is my lady. Why, this is evident to 
 any formal capacity. There is no obstruction in this. And the end } 
 What should that aphabetical position portend } If I could make that 
 resemble something in me. Softly ! " M. O. A. I." 
 
 Thus he continues, endeavoring to affix some meaning to 
 the letter, till, on turning over the page, he finds some prose. 
 "... Be not afraid of greatness. Some are bom great, 
 some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 
 
3i8 Twelfth Night; or, What You Will. 
 
 them. . . . Inure thyself to what thou art like to be. Be op- 
 posite with a kinsman, surly with servants, . . . put thyself into 
 the trick of singularity. . . . Remember who commended thy 
 yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered." 
 This seems to Malvolio to decide the authorship of the letter 
 at once. " She did commend my yellow stockings," he 
 cries ; " she did praise my leg being cross-gartered \ " and 
 Puritan though he may be, he instantly resolves to put him- 
 self into gaudy clothes, — thanking heaven for his good 
 fortunes. His antics are so comical that Fabian, hidden in 
 the box-bush, declares he would not have missed the sport 
 for a pension of thousands, to be paid by the Sophi. On 
 Malvolio's leaving that part of the grounds to change his 
 toilet, Maria, who has been watching, rushes in. 
 
 Maria. If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first 
 approach to my lady. He will come to her in yellow stockings, and 
 't is a color she abhors ; and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests ; and 
 he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposi- 
 tion, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn 
 him into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow me ! 
 
 Act III. Scene i. 
 
 Viola, on another errand for the Duke, is crossing Olivia's 
 garden in company with the fool Feste. Feste has a 
 shrewd guess that there is something strange about his com- 
 panion, and ventures on a hint that he may be carrying on 
 some intrigue with his mistress. This does not, however, 
 hinder him from taking the page's money, and favoring his 
 interview with the Lady Olivia. Poor Olivia! she needed 
 indeed a husband to save her from her disorderly menial 
 crew. Viola's reflections on the office of a fool are ex- 
 cellent. 
 
Twelfth Night ; or, What You Will. 319 
 
 This fellow 's wise enough to play the fool, 
 
 And to do that well craves a kind of wit. 
 
 He must observe their mood on whom he jests. 
 
 The quality of persons, and the time ; 
 
 And like the haggard, check at every feather 
 
 That comes before his eye. This is a practice 
 
 As full of labor as a wise man's art. 
 
 Here the two knights enter, — Sir Andrew exchanging 
 French compliments with the Duke's gentleman \ and then 
 Olivia, attended by Maria, somewhat forgetful of her vow 
 of strict seclusion, comes hurrying into the garden. The 
 others are dismissed, and then follows the two girls' interview. 
 Viola begins by being on her guard ; Olivia, the great lady, 
 knowing she must make the first advances to Caesario, pro- 
 ceeds to encourage her visitor. Viola, meaning to protect 
 herself, begins, ''Dear lady — " when Olivia, perceiving this 
 will be the prelude to an expostulation, breaks in breath- 
 lessly to excuse herself for forwardness in having sent the 
 ring j one feels she had been brooding over it ever since its 
 rejection. To her advances, to her self-reproaches, all 
 Viola will answer is, " I pity you." Then Olivia, calling up 
 her pride, tries to make believe she had not been in earnest, 
 and loftily dismisses the Duke's messenger. Viola accepts 
 the dismissal, but asks : " May I not carry some message 
 to my master? " " Stay," cries Olivia; "before you go, let 
 me know what you think of me." "I think,'* says Viola, 
 *'you think you are not what you are," — that is, you do not 
 know you are deceiving yourself. Olivia answers, " I think 
 the same of you." "Then you think right," says Viola; "I 
 am not what I seem." Olivia resumes her advances, and 
 then a flash from Viola's eyes — Viola, who knows so well 
 how to hide love with delicate tenderness — causes Olivia's 
 
320 Twelfth Night ; or. What You Will. 
 
 passion to breab all bounds ; she forgets herself completely, 
 and her love receives a firm but dignified rejection. Even 
 this does not prevent Olivia's saying, — 
 
 Yet come again ; for thou perchance may'st move 
 That heart which now abhors to like his love. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 The interview between Duke Orsino's gentleman and 
 Olivia had a spectator ; one who saw it from the orchard, — 
 Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. He is indignant at favors shown to 
 the Duke's menial, — for Olivia's gestures must have been as 
 suggestive as her words, — and is for giving up his suit, and 
 going home. This, Sir Toby, who has not quite plucked 
 his pigeon, and his confederate Fabian, are anxious to pre- 
 vent. Sir Toby therefore eagerly urges Sir Andrew to remain, 
 and challenge that upstart, the Duke's messenger. 
 
 Sir Toby. Challenge me the Count's youth, and fight with him; 
 hurt him in eleven places ; my niece shall take note of it ; and assure 
 thyself there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's 
 commendation with women than report of valor. 
 
 Fabian. There is no way but this, Sir Andrew. 
 
 Sir Andrew. Will either of you bear me a challenge to him ? 
 
 Sir Toby. Go, write it in a martial hand ; be curst and brief; it is 
 no matter how witty, so it be eloquent, and full of invention ; taunt 
 him with the license of ink ; if thou thoii'st him some thrice, it shall 
 not be amiss ; and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of paper ; 
 although the sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware in England, 
 set 'em down. Go ! about it ! let there be gall enough in thine ink; 
 though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter ; about it 1 
 
 \Exit Sir Andrew. 
 
 Fabian. This is a dear mannikin to you. Sir Toby. 
 
 Sir Toby. I have been dear to him, lad, — some two thousand 
 strong. 
 
 Fabian. We shall have a rare letter from him ; but you '11 not de- 
 liver it ? 
 
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will. 321 
 
 Sir Toby. Never trust me, then ; and by all means stir on the 
 youth to an answer ;' I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them 
 together ; for Andrew, if he were opened, and you find so much blood 
 in his liver as would clog the foot of a flea, I '11 eat the rest of his 
 anatomy. 
 
 Fabian. And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great 
 presage of cruelty. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Then comes a pretty scene in the street between Captain 
 Antonio and Sebastian. Antonio, though it is death to him 
 to walk the streets of the Duke's capital, has with rash love 
 followed Sebastian. Before they part he forces his purse 
 on the young man with tender care. 
 
 Antonio. Hold, sir — here 's my purse ; 
 
 In the south suburbs, at the Elephant, 
 Is best to lodge ; I will bespeak our diet. 
 Whiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge, 
 With viewing of the town. There shall you have me. 
 
 Sebastian. Why I your purse t 
 
 Antonio. Haply your eye shall light upon some toy, 
 You have desire to purchase ; and your store 
 Is not, I think, for idle markets, sir. 
 
 Sebastian. I '11 be your purse-bearer. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 In this scene we see Maria acting confidante to Countess 
 Olivia's love, — sure to betray her mistress on the first temp- 
 tation. Olivia, being out of spirits, — desirous even of the 
 house accounts if they will distract her thoughts, — sends 
 for Malvolio. Maria hints to her that he is conducting him- 
 self in a strange fashion, and is surely possessed. Olivia 
 replies : — 
 
 Go, call him hither ; I 'm as mad as he. 
 
 How now, Malvolio ? 
 
322 Twelfth Night ; or. What You Will, 
 
 The steward, entering in his fantastic dress, ogles his mis- 
 tress, smiles on her, quotes portions of the letter he has 
 committed to memory, and altogether bewilders her. " Why 
 appear you," says Maria, "with this ridiculous boldness 
 before my lady?" 
 
 MalvoUo. " Be not afraid of greatness," — 't was well writ. 
 
 Olivia. What meanest thou by that, Malvolio ? 
 
 MalvoUo. " Some are born great, — " 
 
 Olivia. Ha ! 
 
 Malvolio. " Some achieve greatness, — " 
 
 Olivia. What sayest thou ! 
 
 Malvolio. " And some have greatness thrust upon them ! " 
 
 Olivia. Heaven restore thee ! 
 
 Malvolio. " Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, — " 
 
 Olivia. Thy yellow stockings ? 
 
 Malvolio. "And wished to see thee cross-gartered." 
 
 Olivia. Cross-gartered ? 
 
 Malvolio. *' Go to, thou art made if thou desirest to be so, — " 
 
 Olivia. Am I made ? 
 
 Malvolio. " If not, let me see thee a servant still." 
 
 Olivia. Why, this is very midsummer madness ! 
 
 At this moment a servant reports that, with great difficulty, 
 he has succeeded in bringing back to the house the Duke's 
 page; and Olivia, only pausing to desire that great care 
 may be taken of Malvolio, hurries out to meet him. As 
 she goes she adds that Maria had better send Sir Toby to 
 look after the poor fellow. This order seems to Malvolio a 
 glorious confirmation of the esteem in which Countess Olivia 
 holds him. " So ! so ! " he cries, " no worse man than Sir 
 Toby to look to me ! ... I have limed her ; but it is 
 Jove's doing, and Jove make me thankful. And when she 
 went away, — ' Let this fellow be looked to.' Fellow ! not 
 Malvolio ! " 
 
Twelfth Night ; or, What You Will, 323 
 
 Maria, Sir Toby, and Fabian burst in upon their victim. 
 Maria insists he is possessed of a devil. Sir Toby makes the 
 most irritating attempts to soothe him ; Fabian makes mock 
 exhortations to the rest to be gentle with him. Indeed, he is 
 really afraid they may carry the joke too far ; and when Mal- 
 voHo, with contempt and indignation, stalks away, he ex- 
 claims, "Why, we shall make him mad indeed." Maria, 
 in the true spirit of a coarse woman, is reckless of conse- 
 quences. She and Sir Toby mean to make the most of 
 their fun. 
 
 Malvolio is no sooner out of the way than in comes Sir 
 Andrew Ague-cheek, with his absurd challenge, which he con- 
 fides for delivery to Sir Toby. The close of it is : " Fare 
 thee well. And God have mercy upon one of our souls ! 
 He may have mercy upon mine, but my hope is better, and 
 so look to thyself." After receiving Sir Toby's advice to He 
 in wait for Caesario, to draw on his appearance, and swear 
 roundly at him. Sir Andrew swaggers away. Then speaks 
 Sir Toby. For all his evil living and his drunkenness, there 
 were still left in him some traditions of a gentleman. 
 
 Now will I not deliver this letter ; for the behavior of the young 
 gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding. His 
 employment between his lord and my niece confirms no less. There- 
 fore, this letter, being so excellently igjiorant, will breed no terror in 
 the youth ; he will find it comes from a clod-pole. But, sir, I will de- 
 liver his challenge by word of mouth ; set upon Ague-cheek a notable 
 report of valor ; and drive the gentleman (as I know his youth will 
 aptly receive it) into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and 
 impetuosity. This will so fright them both, that they will kill one 
 another by the look, like cockatrices. 
 
 Then Viola and Olivia enter. Olivia — fully conscious 
 that her passion has carried her too far — is pleading with 
 
324 Twelfth Night ; or. What You Will. 
 
 Caesario for his good opinion. Viola, with rare fidelity to her 
 lord, endeavors to turn all her advances to the interest of 
 Orsino. " The distance of rank," says Mrs. Jameson, 
 " which separates the Countess from the page, the real sex — 
 known to us — of Viola, the dignified elegance of Olivia's 
 deportment, except when passion gets the better of her pride, 
 her generous care of Malvolio in the midst of her own 
 troubles, — all these circumstances raise Olivia in our fancy, 
 and render her caprice for the page a source of merriment 
 and interest, not a subject of reproach." 
 
 Olivia. I have said too much unto a heart of stone, 
 And laid mine honor too unchary out ; 
 There 's something in me that reproves my fault, 
 But such a headstrong, potent fault it is 
 That it but mocks reproof 
 
 Viola. With the same 'havior that your passion bears, 
 Go on my master's griefs. 
 
 Olivia. Here, wear this jewel for me ; 't is my picture. 
 Refuse it not ; it hath no tongue to vex you ; 
 And I beseecli you, come again to-morrow. 
 What ^\i2\\you ask q{ me that I '11 deny. 
 That honor, saved, may upon asking give ? 
 
 Viola. Nothing but this, — your true love for my master. 
 
 Olivia. How with mine honor may I give him that 
 Which I have given to you ? 
 
 Viola. I will acquit you. 
 
 Olivia. Well, come again to-morrow. Fare thee well. 
 A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell. 
 
 \Exit Olivia. 
 
 Olivia has no sooner left the spot than Viola finds herself 
 accosted by Sir Toby. He forces on her Sir Andrew's chal- 
 lenge, and the abject cowardice of the poor girl is perfectly 
 delightful. She is ready to make any compromise, or to 
 offer any apology that can be required of her, rather than 
 
Twelfth Night ; or. What You Will. 325 
 
 fight her challenger. She implores Sir Toby to make up the 
 quarrel. She says, " I beseech you do me this courteous 
 office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is. 
 It is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose." 
 Sir Toby makes beheve to accept the mission, desiring Fabian 
 to stay by the gentleman, lest he should run away. Fabian 
 employs the time in drawing a picture of Sir Andrew as a 
 renowned fire-eater. The shamelessness with which Viola 
 owns that she " is one who would rather go with Sir Priest 
 than Sir Knight," might have opened his eyes to the fact that 
 she was neither boy nor man. 
 
 Meantime Sir Toby is frightening Sir Andrew (who has no 
 more stomach for the duel than poor Viola) with an account 
 of the formidable and furious adversary who has been pro- 
 voked to mortal combat. 
 
 Sir Andrew. Pox on 't. I '11 not meddle with him. 
 
 Sir Toby. Ay, but he will not now be pacified. Fabian can scarce 
 hold him yonder. 
 
 Sir Andrnv. Plague on 't. Had I thought he had been valiant, 
 and so cunning in fence, I 'd have seen him damned ere I had chal- 
 lenged him. Let him let the matter slip, and I '11 give him my horse, 
 gray Capilet. 
 
 Then to Viola, who enters at that moment with Fabian, 
 Sir Toby (whispering) says : — 
 
 There 's no remedy, sir. He will fight with you for his oath's sake. 
 Marry, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that 
 now scarce to be worth talking of ; therefore, draw for the supportance 
 of his vow. He protests he will not hurt you. 
 
 Viola [aside]. Pray God, defend me ! A little thing would make 
 me tell them how much I lack of a man ! 
 
 As she says this. Sir Toby has been whispering to Sir 
 Andrew : — 
 
326 Twelfth Night ; or, What You Will, 
 
 There is no remedy ; the gentleman will for his honor's sake have 
 one bout with you. He cannot by the duello avoid it» but he has 
 promised me as he is a gentleman and soldier, he will not hurt you. 
 Come on ! To 't. 
 
 Sir Andrew. Pray God, he keep his oath. 
 
 At this critical moment enters the sea-captain Antonio. 
 Seeing, as he imagines, a man about to draw on his beloved 
 Sebastian, he interferes, and wants to fight Sir Toby. Viola's 
 pleading, the moment she gets a chance to speak to her ad- 
 versary, is deliciously womanly. Viola is the only one of 
 Shakspeare's heroines of whom he permits himself to make 
 fun. 
 
 Viola \to Sir Andrew\. Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please. 
 
 Sir Andrew. Marry will I, sir, — and for that horse I promised you, 
 I will be as good as ray word. He will bear you easily, and reins 
 well. 
 
 At this moment come up constables, sent to arrest Antonio. 
 The scene is piteous. Antonio, when he finds there is no 
 escape, turns with a little resentment to the youth he sup- 
 poses to be Sebastian : — 
 
 This comes of seeking you ; but there 's no remedy. Now my 
 necessity makes me ask you for my purse. You stand amazed, but be 
 
 of comfort. 
 
 • 
 
 Alas ! Viola denies that she has ever seen his purse. She 
 offers half of her own little store, and is dumb-founded when 
 Antonio breaks out : — 
 
 Do not tempt my misery, 
 Lest that it make me so unsound a man 
 As to upbraid you with those kindnesses 
 That I have done for you. 
 
 Viola. I know of none ; 
 
 Nor knew I you by voice or any feature. 
 I hate ingratitude more in a man 
 
Twelfth Night; or. What You Will. 327 
 
 Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, 
 Or any taint of vice, whose strong corruption 
 Inhabits our frail blood. 
 
 Antojiio. O ! heavens themselves ! 
 
 And then turning around to the bystanders, the officers of 
 the law and the assailants of Viola, he proceeds in burning 
 bitter words to tell them of his goodness towards this very 
 man who in their presence has declared he does not know 
 him. 
 
 But as he is led off, Viola, deaf to what is passing round 
 her, has seized upon a sudden hope, born of his words. He 
 may have mistaken her for her twin, — her brother. Sir 
 Toby as she stands spell-bound thinks he sees a chance of 
 some more mischief. He cries : — 
 
 A very dishonest, paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare ; his 
 dishonesty appears in leaving his friend here in necessity and denying 
 him, — and for his cowardice, ask Fabian. 
 
 Fabian. A coward, a most devout coward, — religious in it. 
 
 Sir Andrew. 'Slid, I '11 after him again, and beat him. 
 
 Sir Toby. Do ! cuff him soundly, but never draw the sword. 
 
 Then, as Sir Andrew, breathing fury, leaves the spot. Sir 
 Toby whispers to Fabian, " I dare lay any money 't will be 
 nothing yet ! " 
 
 Act IV. Scene i. 
 
 The fourth act opens before Olivia's house; Feste, the 
 fool, has been sent to see. if he can find Caesario, and 
 encounters Sebastian ; Sebastian, to get rid of him, gives 
 him money out of the poor captain's purse. Indeed, I 
 think in every scene the fool gets something from some- 
 body. 
 
 At this moment Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian come 
 upon the scene, and Sir Andrew (never doubting that the 
 
328 Twelfth Night; or, What You WilL 
 
 young man before him is his late cowardly adversary) strikes 
 Sebastian. Instantly he finds himself receiving a sound 
 beating. Feste hurries away to call Olivia, very sure that she 
 will be angry at an attack on her new favorite. Entering on 
 the scene in haste, Olivia finds Sir Toby and (as she sup- 
 poses) her love, Caesario, with their swords drawn. She 
 cries : — " Hold, Toby ! on thy life I charge thee, hold ! " 
 
 Sir Toby. Madam ? 
 
 Olivia. Will it be ever thus ? Ungracious wretch, 
 Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, 
 Where manners ne'er were preached ! out of my sight 1 
 Be not offended, dear Caesario ; I prithee, gentle friend, 
 
 [Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian. 
 Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway 
 In this uncivil and unjust extent 
 Against thy peace. Go with me to my house, 
 And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks 
 This ruffian hath botched up, that thou thereby 
 May'st smile at this. Thou shalt not choose but go ; 
 Do not deny ; beshrew his soul for me, 
 He started one poor heart of mine in thee. 
 
 Sebastian. What relish is in this 1 how runs the stream } 
 Or I am mad, or else this is a dream. 
 Let Fancy still my sense in Lethe steep 
 If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep. 
 
 Olivia. Nay, come, I prithee ; would thou 'dst be ruled by me ? 
 
 Sebastian. Madam, I will. 
 
 Olivia. O I say so, and so be. 
 
 Great is Olivia's delight at what she believes to be Caesa- 
 rio's surrender and submission. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Within the house Maria and her confederates have plotted 
 to sham-exorcise poor Malvolio, whom they are treating as 
 a madman. They have dressed up the fool to personate 
 
Twelfth Night; or. What You Will. 329 
 
 Sir Topas, the curate ; and, as the room in which Malvolio 
 has been placed is dark, and the fool is a ventriloquist, 
 Malvolio is wholly unable to detect the fraud. 
 
 The steward is evidently a man of some pretensions to 
 an austere piety; I wonder no one quotes now-a-days his 
 words, "I think nobly of the soul, and by no means ap- 
 prove that opinion," when it is suggested to him that the 
 soul of his great-grandmother might haply inhabit (or have 
 inhabited) a bird. Sir Toby by this time seems to have 
 grown anxious to be well out of the scrape ; yet he cannot 
 refuse himself the enjoyment of more fun. 
 
 Malvolio. Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady. 
 Fool. Out, hyperbolical fiend ! how vexest thou this man 1 talkest 
 thou nothing but of ladies ? 
 
 The next scene is the fool's tete-a-tete interview with 
 Malvolio in his own proper person. Feste enters the cham- 
 ber singing, each line being interrupted by a despairing 
 call from Malvolio. Very much changed is his behavior to 
 the fool since the first time we heard him speak of that 
 vain personage to Countess Olivia. The room being dark, 
 the fool changes his voice at pleasure, from his natural 
 tones to those of Sir Topas. 
 
 Malvolio. Good fool, help me to some light, and some paper. I 
 tell thee I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria. 
 
 Fool. Well-a-day, — that you were, sir 1 
 
 Malvolio. By this hand, I am ; good fool, some ink, paper, and 
 light, and convey what I will set down to my lady ; it shall advantage 
 thee more than ever the bearing of letter did. 
 
 Fool. I will help you to't. But tell me true, are you not mad 
 indeed ? or do you counterfeit ? 
 
 Malvolio. Believe me, I am not ; I tell thee true. 
 
 Fool. Nay, I '11 ne'er believe a madman till"! see his brains ; I will 
 fetch you light, and paper, and ink. 
 
330 Twelfth Night; or. What You Will, 
 
 We are glad that the fool makes the prisoner this promise ; 
 but the fun has gone quite far enough, and he knows it. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Here, in Olivia's garden, we see the bewildered Sebastian ; 
 and presently in comes the Countess, who, in her perplexity, 
 makes the request, that while he is in his present humor of 
 compliance he will go with her to a neighboring chantry, and 
 solemnly pledge his faith to her ; she has consulted her con- 
 fessor on the subject, and brings him with her. She says : — 
 
 Blame not this haste of mine ; if you mean well 
 Now go with me, and with this holy man 
 Into the chantry by ; there, before him> 
 And underneath that consecrated roof, 
 Plight me the full assurance of your faith ;. 
 That my most jealous and too doubtful soul 
 May live at peace. He shall conceal it 
 Whiles you are willing. It shall come to note 
 What time we will our celebration keep 
 According to my birth. What do you say ? 
 
 Sebastian. I 'U follow this good man, and go with you, 
 And having sworn truth, ever will be true. 
 
 Olivia. Then lead the way, good father ; an' heavens so shine 
 That they may fairly note this act of mine. 
 
 Act V. Scene i. 
 
 In this scene we have the Duke in the street before 
 Olivia's house; he is coming to call upon his lady, and 
 obtain some light upon the strange events reported to him 
 by Caesario. At this moment the constables bring up An- 
 tonio ; whose courage and seamanship the Duke frankly 
 acknowledges, though at first he is prepared to execute 
 sharp justice on the old seaman as an offender ; but Viola 
 pleads for her protector, who saved her, she believes, when 
 
Twelfth Night I or, What You Will. 331 
 
 in peril of her life, and the Duke is moved to show clemency 
 to his gallant enemy. He thus addresses him : — 
 
 Notable pirate! thou salt-water thief t 
 What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies 
 Whom thou in terms so bloody, and so dear^ 
 Hast made thine enemies ? 
 
 Antonio. Orsino, noble sir, 
 
 Be pleased that I shake off those names you give me. 
 Antonio never yet was thief or pirate, 
 Though, I confess, — on base and ground enough,, — 
 Orsino's enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither. 
 That most ungrateful boy, there by your side. 
 From the rude sea''s enraged and foamy mouth 
 Did I redeem ; a wreck past hope he was. 
 His life I gave him, and did thereto add 
 My love, without retention or restraint,. 
 All his in dedication : for his sake 
 Did I expose myself — purely for his love — 
 Into the danger of this adverse town ; 
 Drew to defend him when he was beset, 
 Where — being apprehended — his false cunning 
 (Not meaning to partake with me in danger) 
 Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance, 
 And grew a twenty-years-removed thing 
 While one could wink ; denied me my own purse 
 Which I had recommended to his use. 
 Not half an hour before. 
 
 Viola. How can this be ? 
 
 Duke. When came he to this town ? 
 
 Antonio. To-day, my lord ; and for three months before 
 (No interim — not a minute's vacancy) 
 Both night and day did we keep company. 
 
 [Enter Olivia and attendants. 
 
 Duke. Here comes the Countess ! now Heaven walks on earth I — 
 But for thee, fellow, fellow, thy words are madness ; 
 Three months this youth hath tended upon me. 
 But more of this anon. Take him aside ! 
 
 Olivia is no longer anxious to shun the Duke ; she is be- 
 trothed, — betrothed solemnly in holy sanctuary ; he cannot 
 
332 Twelfth Night ; or, What You WilL 
 
 have her for his wife, and she seems to dread no unjust 
 revengeful usage from a man of his noble character. Yet 
 even in the Duke's presence she turns first to "Viola, mistaking 
 her for her young bridegroom, who has left her (as she thinks) 
 to attend upon his master ; and all the explanations offered 
 make confusion worse confounded. 
 
 Olivia. What would my lord (but that he may not have) 
 Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable ? 
 Caesario ! you do not keep promise with me. 
 
 Viola. Madam ? 
 
 Duke. Gracious Olivia, — 
 
 Olivia. What do you say, Caesario ? — Good my lord, — 
 
 Viola. My lord would speak, my duty hushes me. 
 
 Olivia. If it be aught to the old tune, my lord, 
 It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear 
 As howling after music. 
 
 Duke. Still so cruel ? 
 
 Olivia. Still so constant, lord. 
 
 Then the Duke, carried away by anger as he reads her 
 secret on the faces of his courtiers, furious with his treacher- 
 ous page, and provoked by the bold bearing and unneces- 
 sary insolence of Olivia, cries : — 
 
 Why should I not, had I the heart to do 't, 
 
 Like to the Egyptian thief, at point of death, 
 
 Kill what I love ? — a savage jealousy 
 
 That sometimes savors nobly. But hear me this : 
 
 Since you to non-regardance cast my faith, 
 
 And that I partly know the instrument 
 
 That screws me from my true place in your favor, 
 
 Live you, the marble-hearted tyrant, still ; 
 
 But this your minion, whom I know you love, 
 
 And whom, by Heaven, I swear I tender dearly, 
 
 Him will I tear out of that cruel eye, 
 
 Where he sits crowned in his master's spite. 
 
 Come, boy, with me ; my thoughts are ripe in mischief; 
 
Twelfth Night ; or. What You Will, 333 
 
 I '11 sacrifice the lamb that I do love, 
 
 To spite a raven's heart within a dove. \Going. 
 
 Viola [following\. And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly, 
 To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. 
 
 Olivia. Where goes Caesario .'' 
 
 Violh. After him I love, 
 
 More than I love these eyes, more than my life, 
 More by all means than e'er I shall love wife. 
 
 Then Olivia, beside herself with wounded love, and terror, 
 and contempt for her new idol's treachery, calls on him 
 frantically to come back ; one of the attendants has rushed 
 to call the priest, whom she adjures to corroborate her 
 statement that she has been solemnly plighted to Caesario 
 not two hours before. 
 
 The Duke who by the fool's hints has probably for some 
 days past been induced to suspect that Caesario is his rival 
 in Olivia's good opinion, and who in his first outbreak has 
 uttered threats with (I am disposed to think) no very cruel 
 intentions, no sooner learns that a consecrated tie binds his 
 late favorite to Olivia than he briefly says, with dignity : — 
 
 Farewell, and take her ; but direct thy feet 
 Where thou and I henceforth may never meet. 
 
 " My lord, I do protest, — " cries poor Viola. 
 
 " O ! do not swear," responds no-less -to-be-pitied Olivia. 
 '•' Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear." 
 
 At this moment in staggers Sir Andrew Ague-cheek with a 
 bleeding head, crying out that he and Sir Toby have both 
 been worsted by Caesario ; Sir Toby, although drunk, is gen- 
 tleman enough to make light of his hurts, though he falls foul 
 of the drunken surgeon. Olivia, as mistress of her house- 
 hold, takes the command, and orders them both to bed, and 
 
334 Twelfth Night ; or^ What You Will. 
 
 their hurts to be looked to. At that moment appears Sebas- 
 tian, who takes no notice of the Duke and courtiers, but 
 at once addresses the Countess, his lady. 
 
 Then, step by step, all is made clear ; to the last the Duke 
 cannot quite get over his custom of looking upon Viola as 
 a boy, even though he offers her his hand and heart as soon 
 as she shall have resumed her maiden habiliments. 
 
 *' It seems too hard," says the author in the " Monthly 
 Packet," " that Viola, the very soul of fidelity should be 
 accused of treachery and baseness on all sides, without 
 yi seeing any answer to make or any way of clearing herself. 
 She stands thunderstruck while Antonio, Olivia, the Priest, 
 and Orsino, one after the other, turn upon her. 
 
 " It makes a briUiant picture ; the Duke, flushed with 
 excitement, in the foreground, in the background the vener- 
 able priest, Antonio and the oflficers, beautiful Olivia, gazing 
 in bewilderment at the handsome youth praying for her for- 
 giveness, and Viola quivering with hope and delight as she 
 sees her beloved brother once more. Suddenly Sebastian 
 becomes aware of Antonio, and, puzzled at his greeting, 
 stands astonished in his turn, gazing on the Duke's page 
 with amazement." 
 
 "Twelfth Night" is a play that should be read as a whole. 
 The rattling fire of its fun loses its force when the story is 
 given, as I have given it, in instalments. 
 
 When I first read these papers as parlor lectures in 
 Baltimore, I earnestly and repeatedly entreated those who 
 heard me to consider them as introductory to the pleasure 
 they would feel in studying the plays in their complete form. 
 I would strongly recommend for reading aloud Bowdler's 
 Shakspeare, Rolfe's School Shakspeare, or that which Charles 
 
Twelfth Night ; or. What You Will, 335 
 
 Kemble prepared for his own readings in public, which has 
 been lately published in England, and can be had at very 
 small cost. Shakspeare, as Coleridge says, is never immoral ; 
 the passages which contain gross language are all put into the 
 mouths of the wicked, though the manners of the age per- 
 mitted delicate young women sometimes to use as similes 
 subjects which oiir sex would now-a-days avoid. But in 
 reading aloud it is disagreeable to stumble suddenly on such 
 allusions ; they are no part of the play ; they are specks 
 on the glass, mere motes in the sunbeam, and can be left 
 out (as indeed such passages can be, thank God, in all great 
 writers) without in the smallest degree injuring the effect, 
 or impairing the beauty or the purpose of the drama. 
 
 HazHtt says of this play : " We have friendhness for Sir 
 Toby, we patronize Sir Andrew, we have an understanding 
 with the fool, a sneaking kindness for Maria and her rogue- 
 ries ; we feel a regard for Malvolio, and sympathy with his 
 gravity, his smiles, his cross-garters, his yellow stockings, and 
 his imprisonment, but there is something that excites in us 
 a stronger feeling, — it is Viola's confession of her love.'* 
 And Campbell adds : " The character of Viola is so sweetly 
 drawn that I have never seen justice done to it upon the 
 stage; Mrs. Siddons was too tragic, and Mrs. Jordan too 
 comic, to personate Viola." 
 
V 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 22 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 THIS is one of the most complete of Shakspeare's 
 dramas. There is a variety of characters in it, each 
 interesting in itself, each interesting through its connection 
 with its surroundings. 
 
 Antonio is the central figure of the piece, the pivot around 
 which they all revolve ; but Portia is the character of the 
 play, and to my thinking, the " highest, noblest, best," in 
 Shakspeare's gallery of women. 
 
 Commentators are divided as to the leading idea of the 
 play, if it must have a leading idea to make it perfect. Is it 
 friendship ? Is it justice ? Is it property, in its relations to 
 its possessors and to others ? 
 
 I think the latter. We have three very rich people, — 
 Antonio, Portia, Shylock. Not one of them is made happy 
 by riches. Antonio is saddened by responsibilities, and 
 beset by parasites ; Portia is not free to choose for herself 
 in marriage, and is persecuted by suitors ; Shylock's heart is 
 a serpent's den, and his house, as Jessica informs us, is a 
 hell. He is wretched himself, and the cause of wretchedness 
 in others. 
 
 Antonio is simply the rich man, generous (as our American 
 rich men so often are), but without wide-spreading sym- 
 pathies. Portia is different. Her heart is throbbing with 
 
340 The Merchant of Venice.. 
 
 sympathies ; the distribution of her money will go hand in 
 hand with her warm feelings. Whatever befalls her, she will 
 walk through life scattering blessings as she goes. 
 
 Bassanio is greatly her inferior. He has led the life of a 
 gay, good-natured spendthrift, though he is both a scholar 
 and a soldier ; and there is far better stuff in him than at 
 first appears. Antonio has discerned his better nature, Portia 
 brings it into action, and we part from him with an assured 
 hope that he is purged of his early weaknesses, — remember- 
 ing likewise Becky Sharp's reflection, that it is easy to be good 
 on ;£3000 a year. 
 
 Each character does something for which it has to pre- 
 sent excuses ; each wrong has something right in it ; each 
 right has something wrong. Antonio's higher nature is stirred 
 within him at sight of the cruel grasping of the Jew. He 
 treats the unbehever with contumely, — there his fault lies. 
 Bassanio, the true friend and gentlemanly lover, is reckless in 
 his use of money, even squandering in a farewell banquet to 
 his friends part of the three thousand ducats borrowed for 
 other uses. Jessica, with all the excuses we can make for 
 her, is a dishonest, disobedient, treacherous daughter. Ne- 
 rissa, faithful as she is, is pert ; Gratiano is devoted to his 
 friends, but vulgar in his nature and loose of tongue ; Shylock 
 has the wrongs of his race to retaliate upon the Christians, — 
 all have flaws except the peerless Portia. 
 
 The play was founded on two stories. The germ of the 
 casket-story may be found in the "Gesta Romanorum," a 
 tale-book of the Middle Ages ; and the rest is supplied from 
 the old ballad of " Geruntius, or the Jew of Venice," — taken 
 probably from an Indian source, and brought home from 
 the Crusades, — or it may have been founded on an old 
 
The Merchant of Venice. 341 
 
 Italian story. The play is thought to have been written five 
 years before Queen Elizabeth's death, and was first printed 
 in her lifetime (1600). 
 
 Mrs. Jameson classes Portia with Beatrice and Rosalind, as 
 characters distinguished for mental superiority. "In Portia," 
 she says, " we have intellect kindled into romance by a po- 
 etical imagination ; in Beatrice, intellect animated by spirit ; 
 in Rosalind, intellect softened by sensibility. What Portia 
 does,'' she goes on to say, '' is forgotten in what she is, — in 
 the rare and harmonious blending of energy, reflection, and 
 feeling in her character. . . . Her high mental powers, her 
 enthusiasm of temperament, her decision of purpose, and 
 her buoyancy of spirit are innate ; " but from the circum- 
 stances that have surrounded her all her life, she has received 
 *'a commanding grace, a high-bred elegance, a spirit of mag- 
 nificence in all she says and does, as one to whom splendor 
 had been familiar from her infancy. She treads as though 
 her footsteps had always been among marble palaces, beneath 
 roofs of fretted gold, o'er cedar floors and pavements of 
 jasper and porphyry, amid gardens full of statues and flowers 
 and fountains and haunting music. She is full of penetrative 
 wisdom, and genuine tenderness, and lively wit ; but as she 
 has never known want or grief or fear or disappointment, 
 her wisdom is without a touch of the sombre or the sad." 
 I do not quite agree in this last remark of Mrs. Jameson's. 
 When the play opens, Portia is dreading disappointment, and 
 a little cloud of melancholy overshadows her merriment; 
 but it passes away almost at once, and she stands forth in 
 glorious sunshine. 
 
 We gather that she was the only child of a very rich 
 Venetian nobleman, whose palace, Belmont, stood upon some 
 
342 The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 lovely promontory between Venice and Trieste, overlooking 
 the blue Adriatic Sea, — " such a scene as we often see in 
 one of Claude's or Poussin's Elysian landscapes." Here she 
 grew up, educated by her father in all that would best fit her 
 for the responsibilities of heiress-hood. Her father's palace, 
 while he lived, was filled with the noblest guests. She saw men 
 rather than women, and was familiar with the best of them. 
 One struck her maiden fancy, — one gayer, brighter than the 
 rest, — the handsome young Bassanio. But her father seems 
 to have been mistrustful of his character ; he dared not favor 
 his suit, he could not bring himself to oppose it. In this strait, 
 being, as we are expressly told, a man of piety, he appears to 
 have submitted his case to the judgment of God. He made 
 the question of Portia's marriage hang on the choice that 
 might be made among three caskets. He barred frivolous 
 competition by exacting a promise that the suitor who lost 
 would wed no other lady, and left the selection of his 
 daughter's husband to the decision of the Lord. 
 
 Among the guests who had frequented Belmont, and had 
 shared in the task of educating Portia, was her cousin 
 Doctor Bellario, the wisest lawyer in Italy. Portia evidently 
 looks up to him as her master. It is probable he taught her 
 law, — at least its rudiments, — which every woman who owns 
 property ought to understand. Thus, when the play opens, 
 we find Portia living without a guardian at Belmont. Her 
 companion and lady-in-waiting is Nerissa, — not a duenna, 
 but a girl a little older than herself; her major-domo is the 
 faithful Balthazar ; and her servants are old family retainers, 
 so well disciplined by their late master that they can be 
 trusted to give no suitor any hint as to the casket which 
 contains the picture. 
 
The Merchant of Venice, 343 
 
 Act I. Scene i. 
 
 When the play opens, Antonio is conversing in a street of 
 Venice (or rather, I suppose, on one of those little paved 
 landing-places which lie along the Grand Canal at intervals) 
 with two commonplace friends, Salarino and Salanio. " Any- 
 tolerable picture of Venice will show us some spot — some 
 grand staircase, or shady colonnade — where we may fancy 
 Antonio standing with his friends, looking down on the de- 
 ceitful waves to which he has trusted his mercantile honor 
 and his fortunes. Antonio's first words suggest the standing 
 puzzle of his character, which gives him the peculiar fascina- 
 tion belonging to anything mysterious. From whence comes 
 the gentle melancholy which pervades the whole nature of 
 this prosperous merchant, this true gentleman, so worthy in 
 himself, so deeply beloved by others? Shakspeare never 
 explains the mystery, so we may imagine something in 
 Antonio's antecedents to account for his gravity, or else a 
 natural sad turn of mind which only now and then becomes 
 manifest to his associates. He is never bitter or morose, but 
 a certain stately sadness rests upon him, making him appear 
 years older than his lively friends. Yet it is mostly in relation 
 to his friends that we see anything of Antonio. He stands 
 as the representative of friendship ii) its highest form of un- 
 selfish devotion, even while suggesting all sorts of interesting 
 possibilities as to his own past and future." 
 
 In his first speech he complains of a vague sadness, — a 
 sadness occasioned, I think, partly by temperament, partly by 
 presentiments, and in part by a sense of mercantile responsi- 
 bility. Antonio's temperament may be a little like Hamlet's. 
 He may have by nature the ill gift of looking on both sides 
 of things, a gift which if it does not paralyze the power of 
 
344 ^'^^ Merchant of Venice. 
 
 action (as in Hamlet) often makes its possessor, when he has 
 acted, restless and miserable. Salarino and Salanio are trying 
 to enliven the rich man by allusions to his riches. 
 
 Antonio. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad. 
 It wearies me ; you say it wearies you ; 
 But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, 
 What stuff 't is made of, whereof it is born, 
 I am to learn ; 
 
 And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, 
 That I have much ado to know myself. 
 
 Salarino. Your mind is tossing on the ocean ; 
 There, where your argosies with portly sail, — 
 Like signiors and rich burghers of the flood, 
 Or, as it were the pageants of the sea, — 
 Do overpeer the petty traffickers, 
 That curt'sy to them, do them reverence. 
 As they fly by them with their woven wings. 
 
 Salanio. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth, 
 The better part of my aifections would 
 Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still 
 Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind ; 
 Peering in maps, for ports, and piers, and roads ; 
 And every object that might make me fear 
 Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt, 
 Would make me sad. 
 
 Salarino. My wind, cooling my broth, 
 
 Would blow me to an ague, when I thought 
 What harm 'a wind too great might do at sea. 
 Then tell not me, I know Antonio 
 Is sad to think upon his merchandise. 
 
 Antonio. Believe me, no. I thank my fortune for it, 
 My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, 
 Nor to one place ; nor is my whole estate 
 Upon the fortune of this present year. 
 Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad. 
 
 Salanio. Why, then you are in love ! 
 
 Antojtio. Fie ! Fie ! 
 
 Salanio. Not in love, neither ? Then let 's say you are sad 
 Because you are not merry. And 't were as easy 
 
The Merchant of Venice. 345 
 
 For you to laugh, and leap, and say you are merry 
 
 Because you are not sad. 
 
 Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, 
 
 Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare you well. 
 
 We leave you now in better company. 
 
 Salarino. I would have stayed till I had made you merry» 
 If worthier friends had not prevented me. 
 
 Then Antonio, when he has poUtely answered " Your worth 
 is very dear in my regard," adds, sotto voce, with appreciation 
 of their true character, — 
 
 I take it your own business calls on you, 
 And you embrace the occasion to depart. 
 
 They overhear this speech, apparently, and though it suits 
 them to take no notice of it, they are naturally put out of 
 countenance by the observation. It is one of the penalties 
 attached to the possession of riches, that the rich man is apt 
 to see the worst side of human nature ; and thence he grows 
 mistrustful. He can, if he will, do something to make life 
 easier to almost every one who approaches him. His 
 associates cannot help remembering this, and hoping that he 
 may think of dropping for their good some crumb from his 
 abundance. The habit of American rich men is to be so 
 very generous that it puts them at a disadvantage in society. 
 Then too, the American "rich man" has enormously 
 more "spending money" than rich men have abroad, es- 
 pecially those who have been born to landed interests and 
 obligations. It makes one almost as sad as Antonio to see 
 how rich men are " put upon " in this country. Every one 
 who has a hobby thinks the richest man he knows should 
 mount it too. Innumerable fellow-beings with their various 
 wants " do not see why " the rich man should not step in 
 
346 The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 with a beneficent supply. Therefore one is not surprised to 
 hear Gratiano, the merriest man in Venice, say : — 
 
 Gratiano. You look not well, Signior Antonio ; 
 You have too much respect upon the world ; 
 They lose it that do buy it with much care. 
 Believe me, you are marvellously changed. 
 
 Antonio. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano ; 
 A stage, where every man must play a part, 
 And mine a sad one. 
 
 Gratiano. Let me play the fool : 
 
 With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come ; 
 And let my liver rather heat with wine, 
 Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. 
 Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, 
 Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster .? 
 Sleep when he wakes ? and creep into the jaundice 
 By being peevish "i I tell thee what, Antonio, — 
 I love thee, and it is my love that speaks, — 
 . There are a sort of men whose visages 
 Do cream and mantle like a standing pond ; 
 And do a wilful stillness entertain, 
 With purpose to be dressed in an opinion 
 Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, — 
 As who should say, " I am Sir Oracle, 
 And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark ! " 
 O, my Antonio, I do know of these, 
 That therefore only are reputed wise, 
 For saying nothing ; who, I am very sure. 
 If they should speak, would almost damn those ears 
 Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. 
 I '11 tell thee more of this another time : 
 But fish not with this melancholy bait, 
 For this fool's gudgeon, this opinion. 
 Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well, a while; 
 I '11 end my exhortation after dinner. 
 
 When Gratiano and Lorenzo take their leave Antonio turns 
 sadly to his friend and kinsman, with the question, — 
 
The Merchant of Venice, 347 
 
 Is that anything, now ? 
 
 Bassanio. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than 
 any man in Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid 
 in two bushels of chaff ; you shall seek all day to find them, and when 
 you have them, they are not worth the search. 
 
 We quite agree with Bassanio's estimate of Gratiano 's 
 volubility, albeit Gratiano has a great deal more than two 
 grains of sense in his bushel of chaff. He has been simply 
 arguing on false premises. What he says does not in the 
 least apply to Antonio. Some one says his lecture to Antonio 
 in this place recalls Landseer's " Dignity and Impudence." 
 
 An application to a rich kinsman for money is not gen- 
 erally a graceful or becoming proceeding ; but Bassanio does 
 it without impairing his dignity or gentlemanhood. It is 
 harder for a nature of high order to ask a favor than to grant 
 one, but hardest of all to ask it without loss of self-respect, 
 and without too much apology. Bassanio is perfect. It 
 does not usually dispose us in favor of a man that he 
 avowedly seeks to mend his broken fortunes by marrying an 
 heiress, and yet we do not east this up against Bassanio. 
 He has seen Portia, and loved her, and appreciates her; 
 that is what takes him to Belmont, though he urges only the 
 money consideration on his mercantile friend. 
 
 Antojtio. Well, tell me now, what lady is this same 
 To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, 
 That you to-day promised to tell me of? 
 
 Bassanio. 'T is not unknown to you, Antonio, 
 How much I have disabled mine estate, 
 By something showing a more swelling port 
 Than my faint means would grant continuance. 
 Nor do I now make moan to be abridged 
 From such a noble rate ; but my chief care 
 Is, to come fairly off from the great debts 
 
348 The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Wherein my time, something too prodigal, 
 Hath left me gaged. To you, Antonio, 
 I owe the most, in money, and in love ; 
 And from your love I have a warranty 
 To unburthen all my plots and purposes. 
 How to get clear of all the debts I owe. 
 
 Antonio. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it ; 
 And if it stand, as you yourself still do, 
 Within the eye of honor,, be assured, 
 My purse, my person, my extremest means, 
 Lie all unlocked to your occasions. 
 
 Bassanio. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, 
 I shot his fellow of the self-same flight 
 The self-same way, with more advised watch. 
 To find the other forth ; and by adventuring both, 
 I oft found both. I urge this childhood proo^ 
 Because what follows is pure innocence. 
 I owe you much ; and, like a wilful youth, 
 That which I owe is lost ; but if you please 
 To shoot another arrow that self way 
 Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, 
 As I will watch the aim, or to find both 
 Or bring your latter hazard back again, 
 And thankfully rest debtor for the first 
 
 Antonio. You know me well ; and herein spend but time, 
 To wind about my love with circumstance ; 
 And, out of doubt, you do me now more wrong. 
 In making question of my uttermost. 
 Than if you had made waste of all I have ; 
 Then do but say to me what I should do 
 That in your knowledge may by me be done, 
 And I am pressed unto it. TherefdVe, speak. 
 
 Bassanio. In Belmont is a lady, richly left ; 
 And she is fair, and, fairer than that word. 
 Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes 
 I did receive fair, speechless messages. 
 Her name is Portia, nothing undervalued 
 To Cato's daughter, — Brutus' Portia. 
 Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth ; 
 For the four winds blow in from every coast 
 
The Merchant of Venice, 349 
 
 Renowned suitors ; and her sunny locks 
 
 Hang on her temples like a golden fleece, 
 
 Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand, 
 
 And many Jasons come in quest of her. 
 
 O, my Antonio, had I but the means 
 
 To hold a rival place with one of them, 
 
 I have a mind presages me such thrift 
 
 That I should, questionless, be fortunate. 
 
 Antonio. Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea ; 
 Nor have I money, nor commodity 
 To raise a present sum. Therefore go forth ; 
 Try what my credit can in Venice do. 
 Thai shall be racked, e'en to the uttermost, 
 To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia, 
 Go, presently inquire, and so will I, 
 Where money is, and I no question make 
 To have it of my trust, or for my sake. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 We next stand within the marble halls of Belmont, where 
 Portia, the rich woman, is (like Antonio, the rich man) pro- 
 fessing herself melancholy. Nerissa, her lady-in-waiting, is 
 quick-witted, kindly, and deeply attached to the sweet heiress, 
 but throughout we feel her inferiority of nature to be greater 
 than her inferiority of position. Hear them talking to one 
 another. Nerissa is trying much the same style of comfort 
 as Salarino and Salanio have tried with Antonio. 
 
 Portia. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great 
 world. 
 
 Nerissa. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the 
 same abundance as your good fortunes. And yet, for aught I see, they 
 are as sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with 
 nothing. 
 
 Portia. Good sentences, and well pronounced. 
 
 Nerissa. They would be better if well followed. 
 
 Portia. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, 
 chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. 
 
350 The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 It is a good divine that follows his own instructions. I can easier 
 teach twenty what were good to be done than be one of the twenty 
 to follow mine own teaching. But this reasoning is not in the fash- 
 ion to choose me an husband. O, me! — the word choose! I may 
 neither choose whom I would nor refuse whom I dislike. So is 
 the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father. 
 Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse 
 none? 
 
 Nerissa. Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their 
 death have good inspirations. Therefore the lottery that he hath 
 devised in these three chests of gold, silver, and lead (whereof who 
 chooses his meaning chooses you), will no doubt never be chosen by 
 any rightly, but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is 
 there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are 
 already come ? 
 
 Portia. I pray thee, over-name them ; and as thou namest them I 
 will describe them ; and according to my description level my 
 affection. 
 
 Nerissa. First, there is the Neapolitan Prince. 
 
 Portia. Ay, that 's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of 
 his horse ; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts 
 that he can shoe him himself. 
 
 Nerissa. Then is there the County Palatine. 
 
 Portia. He does nothing but frown ; as who should say, " An if 
 you will not have me, choose ; " he hears merry tales, and sr/iiles not. 
 I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being 
 so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married 
 to a death's head with a* bone in his mouth, than to either of these. 
 God defend me from these two ! 
 
 Nerissa. How say you by the French lord. Monsieur Le Bon ? 
 
 Portia. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In 
 truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker ; but he ! why, he hath a horse 
 better than the Neapolitan's ; a better bad habit of frowning than 
 the Count Palatine ; he is every man in no man ; if a throstle sing, 
 he falls straight a-capering ; he will fence with his own shadow. 
 If I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he 
 would despise me, I would forgive him ; for if he love me to madness, 
 I shall never requite him. 
 
 Nerissa. What say you then to Falconbridge, the young baron of 
 England ? 
 
The Merchant of Venice, 351 
 
 Portia. You know, I say nothing to him ; for he understands not 
 me, nor I him. He hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian ; and you 
 will come into the court and swear that I have a poor penny-worth in 
 the English. He is *a proper man's picture. But, alas ! who can con- 
 verse with a dumb show ? How oddly he is suited ! I think he bought 
 his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, 
 and his behavior everywhere. 
 
 Nerissa. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbor ? 
 
 Portia. That he hath a neighborly charity in him ; for he borrowed 
 a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him again 
 when he was able. I think the Frenchman became his surety, and 
 sealed under for another. 
 
 Nerissa. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's 
 nephew } 
 
 Portia. Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober ; and most 
 vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk. When he is best, he is a little 
 worse than a man ; and when he is worst, he is little better than a 
 beast ; an the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go 
 without him. 
 
 Nerissa. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, 
 you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you should refuse to 
 accept him. 
 
 Portia. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a deep 
 glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket ; for if the devil be 
 within, and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will 
 do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a spunge. 
 
 Nerissa. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords ; 
 they have acquainted me with their determinations ; which is, indeed, 
 to return to their home, and to trouble you with no more suit ; unless 
 you may be won by some other sort than your father's imposition, 
 depending on the caskets. 
 
 Portia. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as 
 Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I 
 am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable ; for there is not one 
 among them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant 
 them a fair departure. 
 
 Nerissa. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a Ven- 
 etian, a scholar, and a soldier, that came hither in company of the 
 Marquis of Montferrat ? 
 
 Portia. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio ; as I think, so was he called. 
 
352 The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Nerissa. True, madam ; he, of all the men that ever my foolish 
 eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. 
 
 Portia. I remember him well ; and I remember him worthy of thy 
 praise. 
 
 How charming is Portia's description of her Neapolitan, 
 Rhineland, French, English, Scottish, and German suitors. 
 How their national peculiarities are touched off in a few words, 
 especially those of the Englishman. Surely we know him, — 
 especially such of us as have lived upon the European Con- 
 tinent (and we see him sometimes in our own country, 
 although here he has the advantage of being able to speak 
 the national tongue), — a handsome man, conspicuous by 
 his ill-assorted dress, with a dash of behavior " caught up 
 from everywhere," prompt with his fists, but a laggard with 
 his tongue. The catalogue is interrupted by the necessity of 
 going forward to receive more suitors. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 In this scene we return to Venice, and see Bassanio and 
 the usurer Shylock in conference concerning the loan of three 
 thousand ducats, to be made in Antonio's name for Bassanio's 
 uses. Though a scholar and soldier, well born and well- 
 bred, Bassanio has to keep a civil tongue in his head while 
 talking to Shylock, — nay, he even asks him to dine with 
 him. 
 
 Shylock, Three thousand ducats, for three months, and Antonio 
 bound. 
 
 Bassanio. Your answer to that. 
 
 Shylock. Antonio is a good man 
 
 Bassanio. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary ? 
 
 Shylock. Ho 1 no, no, no, no ; my meaning in saying he is a good 
 man, is to have you understand me that he is sufficient. Yet his 
 
The Merchant of Veiiice. 353 
 
 means are in supposition. He hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, 
 another to the Indies. I understand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he 
 hath a third in Mexico, a fourth in England, — and other ventures he 
 hath squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men ; 
 there be land-rats, and water-rats, water-thieves, and land-thieves, — I 
 mean, pirates ; and then, there is the peril of waters, winds, and rocks. 
 The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three thousand ducats, — 
 I think I may take his bond. 
 
 Bassanio. Be assured you may. 
 
 Shylock. I will be assured I may ; and that I may be assured, I 
 will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio "i 
 Bassanio. If it please you to dine with us. 
 
 Shylock, Yes, to smell pork ; to eat of the habitation which your 
 prophet, the Nazarite, conjured the devil into. I will buy with you, 
 sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following; but I 
 will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news 
 on the Rialto .-* — Who is he comes here "i 
 
 \Enter Antonio. 
 Bassanio. This is Signior Antonio. 
 
 Shylock [aside]. How like a fawning publican he looks ! 
 I hate him, for he is a Christian ; 
 But more, for that, in low simplicity, 
 He lends out money gratis, and brings down 
 The rate of usance here with us in Venice. 
 If I can catch him once upon the hip, , 
 
 I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 
 He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails, 
 Even there where merchants most do congregate 
 , On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift. 
 Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe 
 If I forgive him ! 
 Bassanio. i Shylock, do you hear ? 
 
 Shylock. I am debating of my present store ; 
 And, by the near guess of my memory, 
 I cannot instantly raise up the gross 
 Of full three thousand ducats. What of that ? 
 Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, 
 Will furnish me. But soft ; how many months 
 Do you desire ? 
 
 23 
 
354 ^^^ Merchant of Venice, 
 
 Here he turns suddenly to Antonio, whose entrance he has 
 
 affected not to perceive, being absorbed in calculation, and 
 
 greets him fawningly, — 
 
 Rest you fair, good Signior. 
 Your worship was the last man in our mouths. 
 
 Antonio. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow 
 By taking nor by giving of excess, 
 Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, 
 I '11 break a custom. [ To Bassam'o.] Is he yet possessed 
 How much you would .'' 
 
 Shylock. Ay, ay ; three thousand ducats. 
 
 Antonio. And for three months. 
 
 Shylock. I had forgot ; three months, you told me so. 
 Well then, your bond ; and-.— let me see. . . . 
 Three thousand ducats, — 't is a good round sum. 
 Three months from twelve, then let me see the rate. 
 
 Antonio. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholden to you ? 
 
 Shylock. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft, 
 In the Rialto, you have rated me 
 About my moneys and my usances ; 
 Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, 
 For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe ; 
 You call me misbeliever, cut-throat, dog. 
 And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, — 
 And all for use of that which is mine own. 
 Well then, it now appears you need my help. 
 Go to, then. You come to me and you say, 
 " Shylock, we would have moneys." You say so, — 
 You that did void your rheum upon my beard. 
 And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur 
 Over your threshold ; moneys is your suit. ' 
 
 What shall I say to you ? Should I not say 
 " Hath a dog money ? Is it possible 
 A cur can lend three thousand ducats ? " or 
 Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key 
 With bated breath, and whispering humbleness. 
 Say this ? — 
 
 " Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last, 
 You spurned me such a day ; another time 
 
The Merchant of Venice, 355 
 
 You called me — dog ; and for these courtesies 
 I '11 lend you thus much moneys." 
 
 Antonio. I am as like to call thee so again, 
 To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. 
 If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not 
 As to thy friends (for when did friendship take 
 A breed for barren metal of his friend .-*) 
 But lend it rather to thine enemy ; 
 Who if he break, thou may'st with better face 
 Exact the penalty. 
 
 Shylock. Why, look you, how you storm ! 
 
 I would be friends with you, and have your love, 
 Forget the shames that you hav€ stained me with, 
 Supply your present wants, and take no doit 
 Of usance for my moneys, and you '11 not hear me : 
 This is kind I offer. 
 
 Antonio. This were kindness. 
 
 Shylock. This kindness will I show : — 
 
 Go with me to a notary ; seal me there 
 Your single bond ; and, in a merry sport, 
 If you repay me not on such a day, 
 In such a place, such sum or sums as are 
 Expressed in the condition, let the forfeit 
 Be nominated for an equal pound 
 Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken 
 In what part of your body pleaseth me. 
 
 Antonio. Content, in faith : I '11 seal to such a bond, 
 And say there is much kindness in the Jew. 
 
 Bassanio. You shall not seal to such a bond for me ; 
 I '11 rather dwell in my necessity. 
 
 Antonio. Why, fear not, man ; I will not forfeit it; 
 Within these two months, that 's a month before 
 This bond expires, 1 do expect return 
 Of thrice three times the value of this bond. 
 
 Shylock. O father Abraham, what these Christians are ; 
 Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect 
 The thoughts of others ! Pray you, tell me this ; 
 If he should break his day, what should I gain 
 By the exaction of the forfeiture .-* 
 A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man, 
 
35 6 The Merchant of Venice, 
 
 Is not so estimable^ profitable neither, 
 
 As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say,, 
 
 To buy his favor I extend this friendship. 
 
 If he will take it, so ; if not, adieu ; 
 
 And for my love, I pray you, wrong me not. 
 
 Antonio, Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. 
 
 Shy lock. Then meet me forthwith at the notary's ; 
 Give him direction for this merry bond. 
 And I will go and purse the ducats straight ;, 
 See to my house, left in the fearful guard 
 Of an unthrifty knave ; and presently 
 I will be with you. \Ex^, 
 
 Antonio. Hie thee, gende Jew. 
 
 This Hebrew will turn Christian ; he grows kind. 
 
 Bassanio. I like not fair terms, and a villain's mind. 
 
 Antonio. Come on \ in this there can be no dismay j 
 My ships come home a month before the day. 
 
 We here see why Shylock has so deep a hatred to Anto- 
 nio, who in truth treats him with far less consideration than 
 he receives from Bassanio^ 
 
 It is curious, in looking over the commentaries of the 
 German Gervinus on this play, to see how the German hatred 
 of the Jew comes out. All throu^gh Russia, Polish Prussia, 
 and Eastern Europe, hatred to Jews, even in this day, seems 
 mediaeval. Among ourselves there are plenty of great and 
 good Jews, — Jews who by their extraordinary intellectual 
 activity and tribal influence rise to the highest places. In- 
 deed, it is said that the real balance of power in Europe is 
 now in the hands of Jews, Within little more than a genera- 
 tion, Disraeli in England and Cr^mieux in France have con- 
 ducted the destinies of those two great countries. Has it 
 ever occurred to you that there are two miracles that we 
 can witness still ? We can see the Greek taught by miracle 
 to the Apostles Peter, James, Jude, and John (rude fishermen 
 
The Merchant of Venice, 357 
 
 upon an inland sea), on the first Whitsunday; and with 
 our own eyes we can witness any day the fulfilment of those 
 prophecies in Deuteronomy uttered by Moses against his 
 countrymen, preserved by Jews themselves for the strength- 
 ening of the Church's faith, and handed down to us un- 
 garbled from generation to generation. These prophecies, 
 besides predicting the unnatural position occupied for eigh- 
 teen centuries by the most intellectual nation upon earth, 
 with all its wrongs and all its sorrows, tell us how utterly 
 separate among all nations the Jews shall remain. It is not 
 that they wish to be so separated ; a Jew prefers to call him- 
 self an American or an Englishman ; but let us walk down 
 any of the shopping streets of a great city, and we shall 
 see prophecy fulfilled in the faces of the little children who 
 play outside their fathers' clothing-stores, while looking out 
 for customers. It is the standing miracle, — the one we may 
 always mentally refer to whenever a doubt of the inspiration 
 of the Bible flashes across our minds. Could human reason- 
 ing have foretold this isolation, in the days before Greece 
 was civilized, or the Fall of Troy was sung? Was it capable 
 of predicting that the nation the most intellectual should be, 
 by common consent among all peoples, the most degraded 
 and oppressed; that a nation dispersed among all other 
 nations should preserve its national type, when, as we see 
 among ourselves, in two generations German, Irish, or 
 Scotch immigrants' children become wholly Americanized — 
 even to American hands and feet ? Is it not phenomenal that 
 the nation having the oldest records known to history, — the 
 nation that preserved for our use all that is most cherished 
 by civilized Christendom ; that gave us the characters we 
 have revered from infancy, the men and women whose 
 
358 The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 stories have been familiar to us from our very cradles ; the 
 people our Lord loved with a patriot's love ; the nation for 
 whose welfare Saint Paul would have been willing to risk all 
 that was most dear to him ; the people whom we believe 
 shall be regrafted into the Church, and held in highest 
 honor among men, — that this nation should be what we 
 know the Jews have been, and are, and that all this should 
 have been minutely prophesied, and that prophecy preserved 
 for us by the Jews themselves ? What is this but a miracle ? 
 We may remark too that the two greatest English writers 
 have been (may I say ifispired?) to show us the full extent 
 of this miracle by depicting for us the Jew, — Shakspeare 
 in Shylock, and Scott in Isaac of York. 
 
 True as are Shylock's descriptions of the way Jews were 
 treated (and are still treated in Eastern Europe), great men 
 do not seem to have been sharers in that wrong. Shaks- 
 peare's scorn of Shylock is for what he is as a man; he 
 pleads for him by implication as a Jew ; Scott's view is the 
 same ; Dante never spake one word against the Jews, though 
 he lived in mediaeval Italy ; Charlemagne confided in them ; 
 and Cromwell, contrary to the spirit of his times, permitted 
 them to settle freely in Puritan England. 
 
 Act II. Scene i. 
 We must pass over the scene concerning the Prince of 
 Morocco, the worthiest of Portia's princely suitors, and I 
 fear we must also omit that delightful comic soliloquy in the 
 second scene, where Launcelot Gobbo debates within himself 
 whether he can in conscience run from, or remain with 
 the Jew his master. Just as he has decided to break his 
 engagement, his old father comes in, and does not recognize 
 
The Merchant of Venice, 359 
 
 his loutish son in the smart Venetian valet, who looks to 
 him like a gentleman. I think that only those who have 
 seen this scene played by appreciative actors can estimate 
 its full effect. 
 
 Gobbo. Master, young man, you, I pray you ; which is the way to 
 master Jew's ? 
 
 Laimcelot [aside]. O heavens, this is my true begotten father ! — 
 who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not ; 
 I will try conclusions with him. 
 
 Gobbo. Master, young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to 
 master Jew's ? 
 
 Launcelot. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but at 
 the next turning of all, on your left ; marry, at the very next turning, 
 turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's house. 
 
 Gobbo. By God's sonties, 't will be a hard way to hit ; can you tell me 
 whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him, or no ? 
 
 Launcelot. Talk you of young master Launcelot ? Mark me now 
 [aside] ; now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young master 
 Launcelot ? 
 
 Gobbo. No master, sir, but a poor man's son ; his father, though I 
 say it, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to 
 live. 
 
 Launcelot. Well, let his father be what he will, we talk of young 
 master Launcelot. 
 
 Gobbo. Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir. 
 
 Launcelot. But I pray you ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you ; 
 talk you of young master Launcelot. 
 
 Gobbo. Of Launcelot, an 't please your mastership. 
 
 Launcelot. Ergo, master Launcelot ; talk not of master Launcelot, 
 father ; for the young gentleman (according to fates and destinies, and 
 such odd sayings ; the sisters three, and such branches of learning) is, 
 indeed, deceased ; or, as you would say, in plain terms, gone to heaven. 
 
 Gobbo. Marry, God forbid ! the boy was the very staff of my age, 
 my very prop. 
 
 Launcelot. Do I look like a cudgel, or a hovel-post, a staff, or a 
 prop .? Do you know me, father ? 
 
 Gobbo. Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman ; but, I 
 pray you, tell me, is my boy (God rest his soul I) alive, or dead.? 
 
360 The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Launcelot. Do you not know me, father ? 
 
 Gobbo. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind, I know you not. 
 
 Launcelot. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the 
 knowing me ; it is a wise father that knows his own child ; well, old 
 man, I will tell you news of your son. Give me your blessing ; truth 
 will come to light ; murder cannot be hid long, a man's son may ; but, 
 in the end, truth will out. 
 
 Gobbo. Pray you, sir, stand up ; I am sure you are not Launcelot, 
 my boy. 
 
 Launcelot, Pray you, let 's have no more fooling about it, but give 
 me your blessing ; I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that 
 is, your child that shall be. 
 
 Gobbo. I cannot think you are my son. 
 
 Launcelot. I know not what I shall think of that : but I am 
 Launcelot, the Jew's man ; and, I am sure, Margery, your wife, is ray 
 mother. 
 
 Gobbo. Her name is Margery, indeed ; I '11 be sworn, if thou be 
 Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. I>ord worshipped might 
 he be ! what a beard hast thou got I thou hast got more hair on thy 
 chin than Dobbin my thill-horse has on his tail. 
 
 Launcelot. It should seem then, that Dobbin's tail grows back- 
 ward ; I am sure he had more hair on his tail than I have on my face, 
 when I last saw him. 
 
 Gobbo. Lord, how art thou changed ! how dost thou and thy 
 master agree .? I have brought him a present ; how 'gree you now .'' 
 
 Launcelot. Well ; well ; but for mine own part, as I have set up 
 my rest to run away, so I would not rest till I have run some ground. 
 My master 's a very Jew ; give him a present ? give him a halter ! I 
 am famished in his service. You may tell every finger I have with 
 my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come. Give me your present to 
 one Master Bassanio, who indeed gives rare new liveries. Oh, rare 
 fortune, here comes the man ; to him, father ! 
 
 They proffer their suit and their present of doves to Bas- 
 sanio, who readily accepts Launcelot, and orders him the 
 desired new suit of " rare livery." 
 
 Next we see Gratiano begging Bassanio to take him with 
 him to Belmont ; one understands Bassanio's spendthriftness, 
 for he never can refuse a request from anybody. ^ 
 
The Merchant of Venice, 361 
 
 Gratiano. I have a suit to you. 
 
 Bassanio. You have obtained it. 
 
 Gratiatto. You must not deny me ; I must go with you to Belmont. 
 
 Bassanio. Why then, you must ; but hear thee, Gratiano ; 
 Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice ; 
 Parts, that become thee happily enough, 
 And in such eyes as ours appear not faults ; 
 But where thou art not known, why, "there they show 
 vSomething too liberal. Pray thee, take pain 
 To allay with some cold drops of modesty 
 Thy skipping spirit ; lest, through thy wild behavior, 
 I be misconstrued in the place I go to, 
 And lose my hopes. 
 
 Gratiano. Signior Bassanio, hear me : 
 
 If I do not put on a sober habit, 
 Talk with respect, and swear but now and then, 
 Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely, — 
 Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes 
 Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say, amen, — 
 Use all the observance of civility. 
 Like one well studied in a sad ostent 
 To please his grandam, — never trust me more. 
 
 Bassanio. Well, we shall see your bearing. 
 
 Gratiano. Nay, but I bar to-night ; you shall not gage me 
 By what we do to-night. 
 
 Bassanio. No, that were pity ; 
 
 I would entreat you rather to put on 
 Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends 
 That purpose merriment ; but fare you well, 
 I have some business. 
 
 Gratiano. And I must to Lorenzo, and the rest ; 
 But we will visit you at supper-time. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 In this play we have three lovers, and three ladies, — Portia 
 and Bassanio ; Jessica and Lorenzo ; Nerissa and Gratiano. 
 Jessica one would think {a priori) could not be charming; 
 she is the disobedient daughter of a fierce old usurer, 
 brought up in a home which she tells us was a hell, — among 
 
362 The Merchant of Venice, 
 
 all that was sordid and unlovely ; and yet she is a very pearl ; 
 dear, too, to the hearts of those Baltimoreans who saw her 
 personated in private theatricals by the daughter of a judge 
 high in the esteem of his fellow-townsmen. Alas ! that im- 
 personation of winning lovely, innocence is now only a 
 memory. There is a soft confidingness in Jessica which 
 would lead the way to grief if Lorenzo were no true man ; 
 and she seems all the time to be running a fearful risk in 
 trusting him so absolutely, as she really knows but little of 
 him. Her first appearance is with Launcelot, her father's 
 serving-man. 
 
 Jessica. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so ; 
 
 Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil, 
 
 Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. 
 
 But fare thee well ; there is a ducat for thee. 
 
 And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see 
 
 Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest. 
 
 Give him this letter ; do it secretly, 
 
 And so farewell ; I would not have my father 
 
 See me talk with thee. 
 Launcelot. Adieu ! — tears exhibit my tongue. Most beautiful 
 Pagan, — most sweet Jew I If a Christian do not play the knave, and 
 get thee, I am much deceived. But adieu ! these foolish drops do 
 somewhat drown my manly spirit. Adieu 1 \Exit. 
 
 Jessica. Farewell, good Launcelot. 
 
 Alack, what heinous sin is it in me 
 
 To be ashamed to be my father's child ! 
 
 But though I am a daughter to his blood, 
 
 I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo, 
 
 If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife ; 
 
 Become a Christian, and thy loving wife. \Exit. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 This scene shows us preparations for Bassanio's bachelor 
 banquet, and Lorenzo's arrangements for carrying off Jessica. 
 
The Merchant of Venice. 363 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 Next we see Shy lock going forth to* Bassanio's supper- 
 party, and giving Jessica charge of his keys in his absence. 
 Stewart Newton, a Boston^ artist of great promise, who died 
 young, as he was rising to great fame in England, took for 
 the subject of nearly all his pictures this Jewish Jessica. 
 One of them — Jessica demurely receiving from her father 
 the great keys — is well known and very celebrated. 
 
 Shylock. I am bid forth to supper, Jessica. 
 
 There are my keys. But wherefore should I go .? 
 
 I am not bid for love ; they flatter me. 
 
 But yet I '11 go in hate, to feed upon 
 
 The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl, 
 
 Look to my house. I am right loath to go ; 
 
 There is some ill a brewing towards my rest, 
 
 For I did dream of money-bags to-night. 
 Launcelot. I beseech you, sir, go, my young master doth expect your 
 reproach. 
 
 Shylock. So do I his. 
 
 Lamtcelot. And they have conspired together, — I will not say 
 you shall see a masque ; but if you do, then it was not for nothing that 
 my nose fell a bleeding on Black-Monday last, at six o'clock i' the 
 morning, falling out that year on Ash Wednesday was four year in 
 the afternoon. 
 
 Shylock. What ! are there masques } Hear you me, Jessica ; 
 
 Lock up my doors ; and when you hear the drum, 
 
 And the vile squeaking of the wry-necked fife, 
 
 Clamber not you up to the casements then. 
 
 Nor thrust your head into the public street. 
 
 To gaze on Christian fools with varnished faces : 
 
 But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements ; 
 
 Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter 
 
 My sober house. By Jacob's staff, I swear, 
 
 I have no mind of feasting forth to-night ; 
 
 But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah ; 
 
 Say I will come. 
 
364 The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Launcelot. I will go before, sir. 
 
 Mistress, look out at window, for all this ; 
 
 Th&re will come a Christian by, 
 Will be worth a Jewess' eye. 
 
 \Exit Launcelot. 
 
 Shylock. "What says that fool of^Hagar's offspring, ha ? 
 
 Jessica. His words were, Farewell, mistress ; nothing else. 
 
 Shylock. The patch is kind enough ; but a huge feeder, 
 Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day 
 More than the wild-cat ; drones hive not with me ; 
 Therefore I part with him ; and part with him 
 To one that I would have him help to waste 
 His borrowed purse. Well, Jessica, go in ; 
 Perhaps I will return immediately. 
 Do as I bid you ; 
 
 Shut doors after you : " Fast bind, fast find," — 
 A proverb never stale in thrifty mind. [Exit. 
 
 Jessica. Farewell ; and if my fortune be not crossed, 
 I have a father, you a daughter, lost. \Exit. 
 
 Launcelot's proverbial expression, " will be worth a Jewess' 
 eye," contains a popular reminiscence of those frightful days 
 when Jews were made willing to ransom their eyes and teeth 
 from the cruelty of Christians. 
 
 Scene 6. 
 In the sixth scene we see pretty Jessica in her page's dress, 
 ashamed of her false manliness far more than of carrying off 
 her father's jewels ; there is nothing Oriental about Jessica 
 but her lavishness ; her very expressions are mediaeval, or 
 drawn from classical literature. 
 
 Jessica. Who are you ? Tell me, for more certainty, 
 Albeit I '11 swear that I do know your tongue. 
 
 Lorenzo. Lorenzo, and thy love. 
 
 Jessica. Lorenzo, certain ; and my love, indeed ; 
 For who love I so much ? And now who knows. 
 But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours .'' 
 
 Lorenzo. Heaven, and thy thoughts, are witness that thou art. 
 
The Merchant of Venice, 365 
 
 Jessica. Here, catch this casket ; it is worth the pains. 
 I am glad 't is night, you do not look on me, 
 For I am much ashamed of my exchange* 
 But love is blind, and lovers cannot see 
 The pretty follies that themselves commit ; 
 For if they could, Cupid himself would blush 
 To see me thus transformed to a boy. 
 
 Lorenzo. Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer. 
 
 Jessica. What, must I hold a candle to my shames .? 
 They in themselves, good sooth, are too, too light. 
 Why, ^t is an office of discovery, love ; 
 And I should be obscured. 
 
 Lorenzo. So are you, sweet,. 
 
 Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. 
 But come at once ; 
 
 For the close night doth play the run-away. 
 And we are stayed for at Bassanio's feast. 
 
 Jessica. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself 
 With some more ducats,, and be with you straight. 
 
 [Exit, from above. 
 
 Gratiano. Now, by my hood, a Gentile, and no Jew. 
 
 Lorenzc^. Beshrew me, but I love her heartily ; 
 For she is wise, if I can judge of her ; 
 And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true ; 
 And true she is, as she hath proved herself ; 
 And therefore, like herself, wise, fair and true, 
 Shall she be placed in my constant soul. 
 
 Scene 7. 
 Here we have the final choice of the Prince of Morocco. 
 What must not Portia have felt as he laid his hand upon the 
 leaden casket ? Having lost he takes an abrupt leave with 
 a sore heart, but with dignity. 
 
 Scene 8. 
 Salarino and Salanio tell of Bassanio's embarkation for his 
 brief voyage, and of the Jew's despair on the discovery of 
 his loss. 
 
366 The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Salanio. I never heard a passion so confused, 
 So strange, outrageous, and so variable. 
 As the dog Jew did, utter in the streets : 
 " My daughter I — O, my ducats ! — O, my daughter ! 
 Fled with a Christian ! — O, my Christian ducats ! — 
 Justice ! the law ! my ducats, and my daughter ! 
 A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, 
 Of double ducats, stolen from me by my daughter — 
 And jewels ; two stones, two rich and precious stones, 
 Stolen by my daughter ! — Justice ! find the girl ! 
 She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats ! " 
 
 Salarino. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, 
 Crying, — his stones, his daughter, and his ducats. 
 
 Salanio. Let good Antonio look he keep his day, 
 Or he shall pay for this. 
 
 Salarino. Marry, well remembered. 
 
 I reasoned with a Frenchman yesterday. 
 Who told me, — in the narrow seas that part 
 The French and English, there miscarried 
 A vessel of our country, richly fraught. 
 I thought upon Antonio when he told me, 
 And wished in silence that it were not his. 
 
 Salanio. You were best to tell Antonio what you hear; 
 Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. 
 
 Salarino. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. 
 I saw Bassanio and Antonio part. 
 Bassanio told him he would make some speed 
 Of his return. He answered : " Do not so ; 
 Slur not thy business for my sake, Bassanio, 
 But stay the very riping of the time. 
 And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me. 
 Let it not enter in your mind of love. 
 Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts 
 To courtship, and such fair ostents of love 
 As shall conveniently become you there." 
 And even there, his eye being big with tears, 
 Turning his face, he put his hand behind him. 
 And with affection, wondrous sensible, 
 He wrung Bassanio's hand, and so they parted. 
 
 Salanio. I think he only loves the world for him. 
 
The Merchant of Venice, 367 
 
 The description Salarino gives of Antonio's parting with 
 Bassanio is very touching. He seems to feel so much 
 sympathy in his young friend's love, that (combined with 
 other indications) I am led to think Antonio was a widower. 
 
 Scetie 9. 
 
 The Prince of Aragon chooses the silver casket. Morocco 
 departed in sorrow ; the Prince of Aragon takes his leave 
 with subdued indignation. Just as he departs, and Nerissa 
 has remarked that "wiving goes by destiny," Bassanio's 
 arrival is announced, to the open delight of Nerissa and the 
 subdued joy of Portia. 
 
 Act III. Scene i. 
 
 We are back again in Venice, Salarino and Salanio are 
 talking about Antonio's ship, which has been wrecked upon 
 the English Goodwin Sands, when they are joined by Shylock. 
 They do not conceal from him that they took some part in 
 his daughter's flight. His first suspicion had fallen on this 
 band of gay young gentlemen ; he had searched Bassanio's 
 ship, assisted personally by the Duke himself, and Salarino, 
 Salanio, and the rest, — all friends to Antonio. 
 
 Salarino, after badgering the unhappy and bereaved old 
 man, says : " But tell us, Shylock, do you hear whether 
 Antonio have had any loss at sea, or no ? " 
 
 Shylock. There I have another bad match, — a bankrupt, a prodigal, 
 who dares scarce show his head on the Rialto ; a beggar, that used 
 to come so smug upon the mart : let him look to his bond. He was 
 wont to call me usurer, — let him look to his bond. He was wont to 
 lend money for Christian courtesy, — let him look to his bond. 
 
 Salarino. Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh ; 
 What 's that good for ? 
 
368 The Merchant of Venice, 
 
 Shylock. To bait fish withal ; if it will feed nothing else, it will feed 
 my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me of half a million ; 
 laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted 
 my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies ; and what 's his 
 reason ? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes .-* hath not a Jew hands, 
 organs, dimensions^ senses, affections, passions ? — fed with the same 
 food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed 
 by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and sum- 
 mer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed ? if you tickle 
 us, do we not laugh ? if you poison us, do we not die "i and if you 
 wrong us, shall we not revenge ? If we are like you in the rest, we will 
 resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility ? 
 Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be 
 by Christian example ? Why, revenge. The villany you teach me, I 
 will execute ; and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction. 
 
 Here the two gentlemen are called away to speak with 
 Antonio; and Tubal, a second Jewish usurer, enters with 
 news of Jessica. So obviously is the Jew's grief for his ducats 
 and his jewels, rather than for his daughter, that our sympathy, 
 moved by the glowing passion in his last speech, is turned 
 against him. 
 
 Shylock. How now, Tubal ? What news from Genoa ? Hast 
 thou found my daughter } 
 
 Tubal. I often came where I did hear of her, but never found her. 
 
 Shylock. Why there, there, there, there ! A diamond gone, cost 
 me two thousand ducats in Frankfort ! The curse rtever fell upon our 
 nation till now. I never felt it till now. Two thousand ducats in that 
 and other precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter were dead 
 at my foot, and the jewels in her ear ! Would she were hearsed at my 
 foot, and the ducats in her coffin I No news of them? Why, so, — 
 and I know not what 's spent in the search ! Why, thou loss upon 
 loss ! the thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief I 
 And no satisfaction, no revenge ; nor no ill-luck stirring but what lights 
 on my shoulders ; no sighs but of my breathing ; no tears but of my 
 shedding. 
 
 Tubal. Yes, other men have ill-luck too. Antonio, as I heard in 
 Genoa, — 
 
The Merchant of Venice, 369 
 
 Shylock. What! what! what !— Ill luck ? Ill luck? 
 
 Tubal. — hath an argosy cast away coming from Tripolis. 
 
 Shylock, I thank God ! I thank God ! Is it true ? Is it true ? 
 
 Tubal. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck. 
 
 Shylock. I thank thee, good Tubal. Good news, good news ! 
 Ha, ha ! Where ? — in Genoa ? 
 
 Tubal. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one night 
 fourscore ducats. 
 
 Shylock. Thou stick'st a dagger in me, — I shall never see my gold 
 again. Fourscore ducats at a sitting ! fourscore ducats ! 
 
 Tubal. There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my company 
 to Venice, that swear he cannot choose but break. 
 
 Shylock. I am very glad of it. I '11 plague him ; I '11 torture him ; 
 I am glad of it. 
 
 Ttibal. One of them showed me a ring, that he had of your 
 daughter for a monkey. 
 
 Shylock. Out upon her ! Thou torturest me. Tubal ; it was my 
 turquoise ; I had it of Leah, when I was a bachelor. I would not 
 have given it for a wilderness of monkeys. 
 
 Tubal. But Antonio is certainly undone. 
 
 Shylock. Nay, that 's true, that 's very true. Go, Tubal, fee me an 
 officer ; bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of him 
 if he forfeit ; for were he out of Venice I can make what merchandise 
 I will. Go, go. Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue ; go, good 
 Tubal ; at our synagogue, Tubal. \Exeunt. 
 
 Well may an old magazine writer on this play, call Shy- 
 lock's confidant, the " cruel Tubal." He is wolfish towards 
 Antonio, and tears open Shylock's wounds with cruel fangs, 
 the moment he appears to be forgetting them. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 This is the crowning scene of the whole play, — Bassanio's 
 choice of the right casket. We see the difference between 
 high-souled, well-nurtured Portia, and poor little Jessica. 
 Portia, though she confesses to Bassanio her love, will give 
 him no hint as to his choice, remaining loyal to the wishes 
 
 24 
 
370 The Merchant of Venice, 
 
 of her dead father. But she puts trust in Him who rules the 
 choice. Hear her sweet speech while soft music is being 
 played, and the man she loves is choosing for her happiness 
 or misery. 
 
 Let music sound, while he doth make his choice ; 
 
 Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, , 
 
 Fading in music ; that the comparison 
 
 May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream, 
 
 And watery death-bed for him. He may win ; 
 
 And what is music then ? then music is 
 
 Even as the flourish, when true subjects bow 
 
 To a new-crowned monarch ; such it is 
 
 As are those dulcet sounds in break of day 
 
 That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear, 
 
 And summon him to marriage. Now he goes, 
 
 With no less presence, but with much more love, 
 
 Than young Alcides, when he did redeem 
 
 The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy 
 
 To the sea-monster. I stand for sacrifice ; 
 
 The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, 
 
 With bleared visages, come forth to view 
 
 The issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules 1 
 
 Live thou, I live. With much, much more dismay 
 
 I view the fight, than thou that mak'st the fray. 
 
 And when his choice is fortunate, hear her delight : — 
 
 Portia. How all the other passions fleet to air, 
 As doubtful thoughts, and rash- embraced despair, 
 And shuddering fear, and gredn-eyed jealousy. 
 
 love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy, 
 
 In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess ; 
 
 1 feel too much thy blessing, make it less, 
 For fear I surfeit ! 
 
 Then comes that noble speech in which she gives herself 
 away to him who has won her. Pray Heaven that Bassanio 
 be worthy of his prize ! There have been women who gave 
 
The Merchant 0/ Venice, 371 
 
 themselves and all they had and were, with as full hearts, and 
 with as generous impulses as Portia. And there have been 
 ungenerous Bassanios who simply looked on wifely service 
 and on wifely. wealth as a cold right, — the legal product of 
 an advantageous marriage. I can never bear to think how 
 it might be with Portia if she met with no fitting response to 
 her love and generosity. If her full trust in her soldier and 
 scholar were to meet with disappointment, how would she 
 adjust herself to the burden she would have to bear? " For 
 perfect womanly grace," says one, " for simple feeling, com- 
 ing from a heart too pure and true to be troubled by false 
 shame, where shall we match Portia's self-surrender ? Where 
 she gives her heart, she gives all besides, freely, entirely, de- 
 lighting in it, counting everything too small to be reckoned a 
 sacrifice for love, and rejoicing at the thought of resigning 
 herself into better hands than her own." 
 
 Portia. You see me, lord Bassanio, where I stand, 
 Such as I am ; though, for myself alone, 
 I would not be ambitious in my wish 
 To wish myself much better, yet for you 
 I would be trebled twenty times myself; 
 A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times 
 More rich ; 
 
 That only to stand high on your account, 
 I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, 
 Exceed account. But the full sum of me 
 Is sum of something ; which, to term in gross, 
 Is an unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpractised. 
 Happy in this, she is not yet so old 
 But she may learn ; and happier than this. 
 She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; 
 Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit 
 Commits itself to yours to be directed. 
 As from her lord, her governor, her king. 
 Myself, and what is mine, to you and yours 
 
372 The Merchant of Ve7iice, 
 
 Is now converted ;. but now I was the lord 
 Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, 
 Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now, 
 This house, these servants, and this same myself. 
 Are yours, my lord ; I give them with this ring, 
 Which when you part from,, lose, or give away, 
 Let it presage the ruin of your love, 
 And be my vantage to exclaim on you. 
 
 The strain of this exalted feeling is broken ia upon by 
 Gratiano, who announces his engagement to Nerissa. It is 
 commonly considered that tliis was a mad-cap match, made 
 up in great haste and without consideration, but I think not. 
 Gratiano had been very solicitous to accompany Bassanio to 
 Belmont, and I doubt not had been there before, and known 
 Nerissa, and contracted a fancy for her, even as Bassanio 
 had fallen in love with Portia. Nerissa is a lady-in-waiting, 
 but is somewhat kitchen-minded. She keeps, her native 
 coarseness in check when conversing with Portia; but it 
 breaks out in her intercourse with Gratiano. 
 
 And now while congratulations are being exchanged, and 
 happiness seems complete, bad news is brought by a Venetian 
 messenger, Salerio, accompanied by Lorenzo and Jessica, of 
 the overthrow of Antonio's fortunes ; " his ventures have 
 failed, the time has. gone by when the bond could be re- 
 deemedf and nothing can drive the inexorable Jew from 
 the envious pleas of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond." 
 The first things Portia lias to share with her Bassanio are 
 trouble and perplexity. 
 
 Portia. There are some shrewd contents in yon same paper, 
 That steal the color from Bassanio's cheek. 
 Some dear friend dead ; else nothing in the world 
 Could turn so much the constitution 
 Of any constant man. What, worse ? — and worse ? — 
 
The Merchant of Venice. 373 
 
 With leave, Bassanio ; I am half yourself, 
 And I must freely have the half of anything 
 That this same paper brings you. 
 
 Bassanio. O sweet Portia, 
 
 Here are a few of the unpleasantest words 
 That ever blotted paper ! Gentle lady, 
 When I did first impart my love to you, 
 I freely told you all the wealth I had 
 Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman^ 
 And then I told you true. And yet, dear lady. 
 Rating myself at nothing, you shall see 
 How much I was a braggart. When I told you 
 My state was nothing, I should then have told you 
 That I was worse than nothing ; for, indeed, 
 I have engaged myself to a dear friend, 
 Engaged my friend to his mere enemy, 
 To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady, — 
 The paper as the body of my friend. 
 And every word in it a gaping wound. 
 Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio ? 
 Have all his ventures failed .? What, not one hit ? — 
 From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England, 
 From Lisbon, Barbary, and India .-* 
 And not one vessel 'scaped the dreadful touch 
 Of merchant-marring rocks .? 
 
 Salerio. Not one, my lord ; 
 
 Besides, it should appear that if he had 
 The present money to discharge the Jew, 
 He would not take it. Never did I know 
 A creature, that did bear the shape of man, 
 So keen and greedy to confound a man. 
 He plies the Duke at morning, and at night ; 
 And doth impeach the freedom of the state 
 If they deny him justice ; twenty merchants, 
 The Duke himself, and the magnificoes 
 Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him ; 
 But none can drive him from the envious plea 
 Of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond. 
 
 Jessica. When I was with him, I have heard him swear, 
 To Tubal, and to Chus, his countrymen, 
 
374 1^^^ Merchant of Venice, 
 
 That he would rather have Antonio's flesh, 
 Than twenty times the value of the sum 
 That he did owe him ; and I know, my lord, 
 If law, authority, and power deny not, 
 It will go hard with poor Antonio. 
 
 Portia. Is it your dear friend, that is thus in trouble ? 
 
 Bassanio. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, 
 The best conditioned, and unwearied spirit 
 In doing courtesies ; and one in whom 
 The ancient Roman honor more appears, 
 Than any that draws breath in Italy. 
 
 Portia. What sum owes he the Jew ? 
 
 Bassanio. For me, three thousand ducats. 
 
 Portia. What I no more } 
 
 Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond. 
 Double six thousand, and then treble that. 
 Before a friend of this description 
 Shall lose a hair through lord Bassanio's fault. 
 First go with me to church and call me wife, 
 And then away to Venice to your friend. 
 
 . . . You shall have gold 
 To pay the petty debt twenty times over. 
 When it is paid, bring your true friend along. 
 My maid Nerissa and myself meantime 
 Will live as maids and widows. Come, away ! 
 For you shall hence upon your wedding-day ; 
 Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer; 
 Since you are dear-bought, I will love you dear. 
 But let me hear the letter of your friend. 
 
 Bassanio [reads]. " Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried; 
 my creditors grown cruel ; my estate is very low ; my bond to the Jew 
 is forfeit ; and since, in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all 
 debts are cleared between you and I, if I might but see you at my 
 death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure. If your love do not 
 persuade you to come, let not my letter." 
 
 Portia. O love ! despatch all business, and be gone ! 
 
 Bassanio had evidently dismissed his passing apprehension 
 of danger to his friend under the terms of the Jew's bond, 
 " and now he awakens to that fact in an agony between love 
 
The Merchant of Venice, 375 
 
 for his friend and remorse at having injured him. Charac- 
 teristically, Portia wastes no words till she has grasped the 
 facts of the case ; then she comes to the rescue with a superb 
 indifference to the cost. She is only delighted that it is 
 possible to save Antonio by such a poor thing as money. 
 She sees at once what Bassanio ought to do, with loving tact 
 makes it all easy for him, and sends him off without delay." 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Here we see Antonio in his lowest abasement. He has 
 humbled himself to ask mercy from his creditor. He has 
 persuaded his jailer to let him go forth in his company, that 
 he may make one last appeal to the fierce usurer, whom, 
 whether for good or for evil, he never has understood, and 
 never could. Though Antonio's disposition is despondent, 
 life is still sweet to him. The motive of Shylock's enmity to 
 this good man is again and again set before us. The 
 Christian had interfered with the Jew's business. He had 
 rescued hapless debtors from his grasp ere he could squeeze 
 from them their last coin. He had lent money to the poor 
 at rates that shamed the dealings of the usurer. This is 
 the ground of hatred, but upon it have accumulated other 
 reasons for hate. Antonio's scorn of Shylock as a hard bad 
 man and a misbeliever, his possible connivance in the flight 
 of Jessica, the delight of demanding Christian justice upon 
 one who had despised and loathed his suffering nation in 
 the days of his wealth and his prosperity, lead the triumphant 
 Jew exultingly to trust in that adherence to law which had 
 already led the highest officer of Venice to assist him in his 
 search through the holds and cabins of the gay pleasure- 
 
37^ The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 boat of Bassanio. Listen to poor Antonio, as he enters the 
 Valley of Humiliation : — 
 
 Antonio. Hear me yet, good Shylock. 
 
 Shylock. I '11 have my bond ; speak not against my bond ; 
 I have sworn an oath, that I will have my bond. 
 Thou calledst me dog, before thou hadst a cause. 
 But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs. 
 The Duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder, 
 Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond 
 To come abroad with him at his request. 
 
 Antonio. I pray thee, hear me speak. 
 
 Shylock. I 'U have my bond ; I will not hear thee speak. 
 I '11 have my bond ; and therefore speak no more. 
 I '11 not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool, 
 To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield 
 To Christian intercessors. Follow not ; 
 I '11 have no speaking ; I will have my bond. 
 
 \Exit Shylock. 
 
 Salanio. It is the most impenetrable cur, 
 That ever kept with men. 
 
 Antonio. Let him alone, 
 
 I '11 follow him no more with bootless prayers. 
 He seeks my life ; his reason well I know ; 
 I oft delivered from his forfeitures 
 Many that have at times made moan to me ; 
 Therefore he hates me. 
 
 Scene 4. - 
 
 Bassanio being gone, Portia is left in Belmont to share the 
 company of Jessica. Jessica, on the first arrival of the news 
 of Antonio's situation, had spoken out boldly concerning her 
 father's hatred to Antonio, and his probable determination 
 to exact the forfeiture provided for in the bond ; but Portia 
 knew not then who she might be, and paid little attention to 
 her; 7iow^ left alone with her new guest, she knows her, 
 hears, and fears. With the fear rises a plan. She will go to 
 
The Merchant of Venice, 377 
 
 Padua, and impart it to her cousin Bellario; he shall say 
 if it is practicable j he shall use it to defend Antonio. She 
 and Nerissa will accompany him, dressed up as lawyers' 
 clerks, and see the scene, and greet their husbands. She is 
 brimming over with mirth at the thought ; you can see that 
 in her soul she is thinking of the triumph and the " fun." 
 Of the awful responsibility that is awaiting her, of the Jew's 
 obduracy, of his refusal of her money when she tenders it, 
 she has no suspicion. She has been all her life accustomed 
 to independent action ; and (unaccustomed yet to any matri- 
 monial yoke) she will be independent now. She had been 
 melancholy when the play opened ; she is all frolic since she 
 was won by the right lover. Gervinus, the German critic, 
 thinks that Portia has a deliberate plan of proving Bassanio's 
 worth of character by seeing how he will act in friendship, 
 and thence arguing how he will act in marriage. Fie on the 
 man who would attribute calculation of any kind to Portia ! 
 
 She sends her husband off in haste, confident that double 
 money (or twenty times double money) will buy the Jew ; 
 then she begins to fear, under the influence of Jessica, and 
 plans that Bellario shall undertake the case, she and Nerissa 
 attending him. Bellario, while he approves her plan, proves 
 too sick to go to Venice. She begins to feel the case more 
 and more pressing. Encouraged by Bellario, she takes the 
 part of advocate, and reaches Venice, no longer full of the 
 spirit of fun, but weighted with a dreadful responsibility ; and 
 she is but just in time. She evidently is familiar with the 
 ordinary machinery of law courts. Her heart and head are 
 so full of her mission that, bride as she is, she hardly notices 
 her husband. But this is anticipating. Hear what Lorenzo 
 says of Antonio, and Jessica of Portia : — 
 
378 The Merchant of Venice, 
 
 Lorenzo. Madame, although I speak it in your presence, 
 You have a noble and a true conceit 
 Of god-like amity J which appears most strongly 
 In bearing thus the absence of your lord. 
 But if you knew to whom you show this honor, 
 How true a gentleman you send relief, 
 How dear a lover of my lord, your husband, 
 I know you would be prouder of the work 
 Than customary bounty can enforce you. 
 
 Portia. I never did repent for doing good. 
 Nor shall not now ; for in companions 
 That do converse and waste the time together. 
 Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, 
 There must be needs a like proportion 
 Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit ; 
 Which makes me think that this Antonio, 
 Being the bosom lover of my lord, 
 Must needs be like my lord. If it be so, 
 How little is the cost I have bestowed 
 In purchasing the semblance of my soul 
 From out the state of hellish cruelty ! 
 This comes too near the praising of myself; 
 Therefore no more of it. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 Lorenzo. How cheer'st thou, Jessica ? 
 
 And now, good sweet, say thy opinion. 
 How dost thou like the lord Bassanio's wife ? 
 
 Jessica. Past all expressing. It is very meet, 
 The, lord Bassanio live an upright life ; 
 For, having such a blessing in his lady, 
 He finds the joys of heaven here on earth ; 
 And, if on earth he do not mean it, it 
 Is reason he should never come to heaven. 
 Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match. 
 And on the wager lay two earthly women. 
 And Portia one, there must be something else 
 Pawned with the other; for the poor rude world' 
 Hath not her fellow. 
 
The Merchant of Venice, 379 
 
 Act IV. Scene i. 
 
 And now we enter on the trial- scene. Antonio, having in 
 vain humbled himself to ask the Jew's forbearance, stands 
 *' opposing patience to his fury, armed to suffer with quietness 
 of spirit." 
 
 Not one word can be spared in this great scene ; but let 
 us first see what other writers have said of it. 
 
 **The Duke sweeps in," says one, "stately and venerable. 
 [We imagine him to be an old man, though nothing is said 
 about it.] He is sorry for Antonio ; he is willing to try to 
 move Shylock, but at the same time he is resolved upon up- 
 holding the justice of his government. Then Antonio, hav- 
 ing got his one wish of seeing Bassanio before his death, has 
 steadied himself into a great calm. He is hopeless ; but he 
 is resolute to bear the worst with manly endurance. Only 
 one thing he seems to dread, — any prolonging of the trial. 
 Nearly all he says expresses his wish to expedite matters, 
 and end the terrible suspense. Antonio can be resigned for 
 himself, but Bassanio cannot attempt to be so for him, — no 
 wonder, under the circumstances. . . . He is naturally too 
 quick and ' soldier -like ' to reason or care about the principles 
 of legal justice in the face of this misery. He wants to save 
 Antonio anyhow. ... If he forgot Antonio's risk during 
 his suit to Portia, now he would even lose Portia, if Antonio 
 might thereby be saved. From head to heel he seems to 
 tingle with suppressed excitement, which in a lesser degree 
 is shared by Gratiano, who, with all his ribaldry and reckless- 
 ness, is really attached to Antonio, and feels keenly for him ; 
 though the feeling mainly expresses itself in fierce contempt 
 for Shylock. Opposed to the group of friends stands the 
 
380 The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Jew himself, striving to control his stormy passions so far as 
 to be able to state his case coherently ; but we feel he is on 
 the point of bursting out all the time, which adds greatly to 
 the thrilling effect of the whole scene. He is almost beside 
 himself with exultation at the revenge which he deems certain, 
 — at the prospect of quickly gratifying his long-cherished 
 desire. His fear of the Duke's authority barely suffices to 
 check the insolence of his triumph, even when directly speak- 
 ing to him. To the rest of the audience his whole tone is, 
 * I am not bound to please thee with my answers.' . . . 
 
 "Hard, relentless, intensely bitter, — every evil passion 
 displayed in his frantic eagerness as he stands before us, — 
 we see why Shylock's name has grown into a proverb for that 
 worst form of injustice which clings to the letter of the law, 
 disregarding its spirit, and after trampling on every sacred 
 right and duty, turns round and asks of heaven and earth, 
 ' What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong? ' " 
 
 Lady Martin (Miss Helen Faucit) says that the Duke's 
 first speech to Shy lock shows great want of tact, and is 
 calculated to irritate him. "Who likes it to be taken for 
 granted," she says, "that he is going to do a good action? — 
 to be told that it is expected of him ? Such an appeal would 
 be likely to make even a gentle nature perverse. The treat- 
 ment of the Jew by the friends of Antonio is also little cal- 
 culated to bend him from his purpose. It would only, if 
 possible, harden his heart still more." 
 
 Here is his answer to the Duke, spiced with grim humor. 
 Before I saw Schlegel's remark, that " in Shylock's speeches 
 we can imagine we hear a sprinkling of Jewish pronunciation 
 in the written words," the same idea had struck me. It is 
 most noticeable in his first interview with Antonio and 
 
The Merchant of Venice. 381 
 
 Bassanio ; and I fancied I could detect Germanisms, as if 
 Shakspeare had studied his Shylock from some German 
 Jew. 
 
 Shylock. I have possessed your grace of what I purpose ; 
 And by our holy sabbath have I sworn 
 To have the due and forfeit of my bond. 
 If you deny it, let the danger light 
 Upon your charter, and your city's freedom. 
 You '11 ask me why I rather choose to have 
 A weight of carrion flesh than to receive 
 Three thousaiid ducats. I '11 not answer that,. 
 But say it is my humor. Is it answered ? 
 "What if my house be troubled with a rat, 
 And I be pleased to give ten thousand; ducats 
 To have it haned ? What, are you answered yet ? 
 Some men there are, love not a gaping pig \ 
 Some, that are mad if they behold a cat. 
 
 . . . Affection, 
 Mistress of passion, sways it to the nwod 
 Of what it likes, or loathes. Now, for your answer. 
 As there is no firm reason to be rendered 
 Why he cannot abide a gaping pig ; 
 Why he, a harmless, necessary cat ; 
 So can I give no reason, nor I will not, 
 More than a lodged hate, and a certain loathing 
 I bear Antonio, that I follow thus 
 A losing suit against him. Are you answered ? 
 
 Bassanio. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, 
 To excuse the current of thy cruelty. 
 
 Shylock. I am not bound to please thee with my answer. 
 
 Bassanio. Do all men kill the things they do not love ? 
 
 Shylock. Hates any man the thing he would not kill ? 
 
 Bassanio. Every offence is not a hate at first. 
 
 Shylock. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice ? 
 
 Antonio. I pray you, think you question with the Jew ; 
 You may as well go stand upon the beach. 
 And bid the main flood bate his usual height ; 
 You may as well use question with the wolf, 
 Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb ? 
 
382 The Merchant of Ve^iice, 
 
 You may as well forbid the mountain pines 
 
 To wag their high tops, and to make no noise, 
 
 "When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven; 
 
 You may as well do anything most hard, 
 
 As seek to soften that (than which what 's harder ?) 
 
 fiis Jewish heart. Therefore, I do beseech you, 
 
 Make no more offers, use no further means. 
 
 But, with all brief and plain conveniency, 
 
 Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will. 
 Bassanio. For thy three thousand ducats, here is six, 
 Shylock. If every ducat in six thousand ducats 
 
 Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, 
 
 I would not draw them, I would have my bond. 
 
 Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rend'ring none t 
 Shylock. What- judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong ? 
 
 You have among you many a purchased slave, 
 
 Which, like your asses, and your dogs and mules, 
 
 You use in abject ^nd in slavish parts 
 
 Because you bought them. Shall I say to you, 
 
 Let them be free, marry them to your heirs ? 
 
 Why sweat they under burthens ? let their beds 
 
 Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates 
 
 Be seasoned with such viands ? You will answer. 
 
 The slaves are ours. So do I answer you. 
 
 The pound of flesh which I demand of him. 
 
 Is dearly bought, is mine, and I will have it 1 
 
 If you deny me, fie upon your law ! 
 
 There is no force in the decrees of Venice. 
 
 I stand for judgment. Answer ; shall I have it ? 
 
 At this point Portia and Nerissa arrive, sent by Bellario, 
 who is too ill to come. 
 
 In acting, the mahce and impatience expressed by Shylock's 
 whetting his knife on the sole of his shoe, while Portia is 
 speaking, acts with tremendous power on the imagination. 
 Shylock's retaliation on Gratiano for his fierce abuse, by in- 
 sulting him with the epithet "good youth," is admirable. 
 Portia begins, after delivering her credentials, to soothe the 
 
The Merchant of Venice. 383 
 
 Jew, whom she desires to soften, acknowledging at once that 
 he has the law on his side. She gives up the indefensible in 
 her defence that she may better move the Jew to mercy. 
 
 As this is one of the most celebrated scenes in Shakspeare 
 it seems right to give it here almost entire. In reading it 
 mark Portia's persistent attempts to guide the Jew into the 
 paths of mercy, so that she may have some excuse for simply 
 paying him, and so ending the case happily. Suggestion 
 after suggestion on her part he puts aside, as she does sub- 
 sequently suggestion after suggestion upon his. It is not 
 until after Antonio's pathetic speech, to which the Jew listens 
 without emotion, that Portia's anger blazes forth against him. 
 
 Portia, Do you confess the bond ? 
 
 Antonio. I do. 
 
 Portia. Then must the Jew be merciful. 
 
 Shylock. On what compulsion must I ? tell me that. 
 
 Portia. The quality of mercy is not strained ; 
 It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
 Upon the place beneath : it is twice blessed ; 
 It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 
 'T is mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 
 The throned monarch better than his crown. 
 His sceptre shows the force- of temporal power, 
 The attribute to awe and majesty, 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
 But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 
 It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 
 It is an attribute to God himself; 
 And earthly power doth then show likest God's, 
 "When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
 Though justice be thy plea, consider this, — 
 That, in the course of justice, none of us 
 Should see salvation ; we do pray for mercy ; 
 And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
 The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much. 
 To mitigate the justice of thy plea ; 
 
384 The Merchant of Venice, 
 
 Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 
 Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. 
 
 Shy lock. My deed 's upon my head ! I crave the law, 
 The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 
 
 Portia. Is he not able to discharge the money ? 
 
 Bassanio. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court ; 
 Yea, twice the sum ; if that will not suffice, 
 I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, 
 On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart; 
 If this will not suffice, it must appear 
 That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you 
 Wrest once the law to your authority. 
 To do a great right, do a little wrong ; 
 And curb this cruel devil of his wilL 
 
 Portia. It must not be ; there is no power in Venice 
 Can alter a decree established. 
 'T will be recorded for a precedent ; 
 And many an error, by the same example, 
 Will rush into the state : it cannot be. 
 
 Shylock. A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! - 
 O wise young judge, how do I honor thee ! 
 
 Portia. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. 
 
 Shylock. Here 't is, most reverend doctor, here it is ! 
 
 Portia. Shylock, there 's thrice thy money offered thee. 
 
 Shylock. An oath! an oath ! I have an oath in heaven. 
 Shall I lay perjury to my soul .'* 
 No ! not for Venice. 
 
 Portia. Why, this bond is forfeit ; 
 
 And lawfully by this the Jew may claim 
 A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 
 Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful ; 
 Take thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond. 
 
 Shylock. When it is paid according to the tenor. 
 It doth appear you are a worthy judge ; 
 You know the law ; your exposition 
 Hath been most sound. I charge you by the law, 
 Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, 
 Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swear 
 There is no power in the tongue of man 
 To alter me. I stay here on my bond. 
 
The Merchant of Venice. 385 
 
 Antonio. Most heartily I do beseech the court 
 To give the judgment. 
 
 Portia. Why then, thus it is : 
 
 You must prepare your bosom for his knife ; 
 
 Shylock. O, noble judge ! O, excellent young man ! 
 
 Portia. — for the intent and purpose of the law 
 Hath full relation to the penalty 
 Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 
 
 Shylock. 'T is very true. O, wise and upright judge ! 
 How much more elder art thou than thy looks ! 
 
 Portia. Therefore, lay bare your bosom. 
 
 Shylock. Ay, his heart, 
 
 So says the bond^ — doth it not, noble judge ? 
 Nearest his heart ; those are the very words. 
 
 Portia, It is so. Are there balances here to weigh 
 The flesh t 
 
 Shylock. I have them ready. 
 
 Portia. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, 
 To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. 
 
 Shylock. Is it so- nominated in the bond ? 
 
 Portia. It is not so expressed. But what of that ? 
 'T w6re good you do so much for charity. 
 
 Shylock. I cannot find it ; 't is not in the bond. 
 
 Portia. Come, merchant, have you anything to say ? 
 
 Antonio. But little ; I am armed and well prepared. 
 Give me your hand, Bassanio. Fare you well ; 
 Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ; 
 For herein fortune shows herself more kind 
 Than is her custom. It is still her use. 
 To let the wretched man outlive his wealth, 
 To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow, 
 An age of poverty ; from which lingering penance 
 Of such a misery doth she cut me off. 
 Commend me to your honorable wife. 
 Tell her the process of Antonio's end ; 
 Say how I loved you ; speak me fair in death ; 
 And when the tale is told, bid her be judge 
 Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 
 Repent not you that you shall lose your friend, 
 And he repents not that he pays your debt ; 
 
 25 
 
386 The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 For if the Jew do cut but deep enough, 
 I '11 pay it instantly with all my heart. 
 
 Bassanio. Antonio, I am married to a wife, 
 Which is as dear to me as life itself; 
 But life itself, my wife and all the world. 
 Are not with me esteemed above thy life. 
 I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all 
 Here to this devil, to deliver you. 
 
 Portia. Your wife would give you little thanks for that, 
 If she were by, to hear you make the offer. 
 
 Gratiano. I have a wife, whom I protest I love. 
 I would she were in heaven, so she could 
 Entreat some power to change this currish Jew. 
 
 Nerissa. 'T is well you offer it behind her back ; 
 The wish would make else an unquiet house. 
 Shy lock [aside]. These be the Christian husbands ! I have a daughter; 
 Would any of the stock of Bar-Abbas 
 Had been her husband, rather than a Christian ! 
 We trifle time ; I pray thee, pursue sentence. 
 
 Portia. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine ; 
 The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 
 Shylock. Most rightful judge 1 
 
 Portia. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast ; 
 The law allows it, and the court awards it. 
 Shylock. Most learned judge I A sentence ; come, prepare ! 
 Portia. Tarry a little, — there is something else. 
 This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; 
 The words expressly are, a pound of flesh. 
 Take then thy bond, take then thy pound of flesh. 
 But in the cutting of it, if thou dost shed 
 One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
 Are by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
 Unto the State of Venice. 
 
 Gratiano. O upright judge ! Mark, Jew ! — O learned judge ! 
 Shylock. Is that the law ? 
 
 Portia. Thyself shalt see the act ; 
 
 For as thou urgest justice, be assured 
 Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. 
 
 Gratiano. O learned judge ! Mark, Jew ! — A learned judge ! 
 Shylock. I take this offer then ; pay the bond thrice. 
 And let the Christian go. 
 
The Merchant of Venice. 387 
 
 Bassanio. Here is the money ! 
 
 Portia. Soft. The Jew shall have all justice. Soft, no haste \ 
 He shall have nothing but the penalty. 
 
 Observe that the principals in the court-room, touched by 
 compassion for the baffled wretch now at their mercy, do 
 not exult over him; they leave that to their underling, 
 Gratiano. 
 
 The sentence seems severe, but it was for conspiring against 
 the life of a Venetian citizen. All Shylock's wealth is for- 
 feited, half to the State, half to Antonio, and his life is at 
 the Duke's mercy. But, moved by Portia's plea for mercy 
 wliich yet rings in their ears, they show to Shylock what 
 they doubtless consider an extreme lenity and consideration. 
 The Duke grants him his life ; and when Portia, turning to 
 Antonio, asks what he will do for his enemy, he pleads to the 
 Duke for the restoration of all his property, on the condition 
 that he may hold half in trust for Lorenzo and Jessica, and 
 that a deed of gift may be at once recorded to Lorenzo and 
 Jessica of all that Shylock may die possessed of. Added to 
 this, Antonio is disposed to exact his baptism as a Christian. 
 Such was the mediaeval conception of the virtues of an en- 
 forced profession, and such the mediaeval want of apprecia- 
 tion of the spirit of Christianity. 
 
 Portia refuses any remuneration from the man she has 
 befriended, nor will she accept courtesies from the Duke. 
 She says to Antonio : — 
 
 He is well paid that is well satisfied ; 
 And I, delivering you, am satisfied, 
 And therein do account myself well paid ; 
 My mind was never yet more mercenary. 
 I pray you, know me when we meet again ; 
 I wish you well, and so I take my leave. 
 
388 The Merchant of Venice, 
 
 Then ensues that pretty scene in which Portia and Nerissa 
 get possession of the rings they gave their husbands ; and the 
 great tragic strain being taken off, Portia's blithe nature 
 triumphs, and she is ready for fun again. 
 
 Act V. Scene i. 
 
 This fifth act would be superfluous were it not added to 
 relieve the mind of reader or spectator, who has found the 
 last act full of tragic incident, and now needs the soothing 
 influences of love, happiness, and romance, dashed with a 
 little lively comedy. 
 
 In the first scene, Lorenzo with his stolen Jessica are 
 walking in the moonlight, making the most charming love to 
 each other. In the midst of which a messenger arrives, 
 telling them that Portia is near at hand. 
 
 Lorenzo. The moon shines bright ; in such a night as this, 
 When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, 
 And they did make no noise, — in such a night, 
 Troilus,. methinks, mounted the Trojan walls, 
 And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents, 
 Where Cressid lay that night, 
 
 Jessica, In such a night 
 
 Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew ; 
 And saw the lion's shadow ere himself, 
 And ran dismayed away. 
 
 Lorenzo. In such a night 
 
 Stood Dido, with a willow in her hand, 
 Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her love 
 To come again to Carthage. 
 
 Jessica. In such a night 
 
 Medea gathered the enchanted herbs 
 That did renew old ^son. 
 
 Lorenzo. In such a night 
 
 Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew ; 
 And with an unthrift love did run from Venice, 
 As far as Belmont. 
 
The Merchant of Venice, 389 
 
 Jessica. And in such a night 
 
 Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well j 
 Stealing her soul with many vows of faith, 
 And ne'er a true one. 
 
 Lorenzo. And in such a night 
 
 Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, 
 Slander her love, and he forgave it her. 
 
 Jessica. I would out-night you did nobody come. 
 But hark, I hear the footing of a man. 
 
 Then, as soft music strikes up under the trees, a prelude to 
 the welcome home of Portia, Lorenzo cannot bear to quit 
 the place, and makes his charming love sit longer in the 
 moonlight. 
 
 How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank I 
 
 Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
 
 Creep in our ears ; soft stillness, and the night, 
 
 Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
 
 Sit, Jessica. Look, how the floor of heaven 
 
 Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ; 
 
 There 's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest, 
 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 
 Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins. 
 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
 
 But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 
 Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. 
 
 Jessica. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. 
 
 \Mu5ic. 
 
 Lorenzo. The reason is, your spirits are attentive. 
 For do but note a wild and wanton herd. 
 Or race of youthful and unhandled colts. 
 Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud, 
 Which is the hot condition of their blood, — 
 If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, 
 Or any air of music touch their ears, 
 You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, 
 Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze 
 By the sweet power of music. Therefore the poet 
 Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ; 
 
390 The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, 
 But music for the time doth change his nature. 
 The man that hath no music in himself, 
 Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, 
 Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; 
 The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 
 And his affections dark as Erebus. 
 Let no such man be trusted. 
 
 {Enter Portia and Nerissa in the distance. 
 
 Portia. That light we see is burning in my hall. 
 How far that little candle throws his beams ! 
 So shines a good deea in a naughty world. 
 
 Nerissa. When the moon shone we did not see the candle. 
 
 Portia. So doth the greater glory dim the less. 
 A substitute shines brightly as a king 
 Until a king be by ; and then his state 
 Empties itself, as doth an inland brook, 
 Into the main of waters. 
 
 Here, as a commentary on Portia's last words, pretty 
 Jessica, on her appearance, becomes absolutely silent. 
 
 The final scene, with the reflim of the husbands, the re- 
 covery of the two rings, and Portia's graceful welcome of 
 Antonio to " our house," must be regretfully omitted. If you 
 read it, you will note that Nerissa, though decorous when 
 associated with Portia, gives a loose rein to her pert wit when 
 she talks with Gratiano. I hope her husband took her away 
 from Belmont, and that pretty Jessica succeeded to her place 
 as lady-in-waiting, to be improved arid educated by her 
 intercourse with Portia. As for that sweet lady, may her 
 married life have been a happy one; but I wish she had 
 married Antonio. As old Nestor says, when he hears in the 
 dark the tramp of horses, — 
 
 " I hope, and yet I fear." 
 
CYMBELINE. 
 
CYMBELINE. 
 
 HAZLITT says of" Cymbeline " that it may be consid- 
 ered a dramatic romance, in which the most striking 
 parts of the story are thrown into the form of dialogue, and 
 the intermediate circumstances are explained by the different 
 speakers as occasion renders it necessary. " The reading of 
 this play," he adds, "is like going a journey with some un- 
 certain object at the end of it, in which the suspense is kept 
 up and heightened by the long intervals between each action." 
 
 The central figure of the play is Imogen, Princess of 
 Britain, — the brightest example in all literature of perfect 
 wifehood and true womanhood. 
 
 While never forgetful of her dignity as a princess, and of 
 her obligations to her kingdom, Imogen's whole being is 
 " bound up in the bundle of life " with that of her husband 
 and lord. " In her," says Mrs. Jameson, " a variety of tints 
 are mingled together with perfect harmony. In her we have 
 all the fervor of youthful tenderness, all the romance of 
 youthful fancy, all the enchantment of ideal grace, the bloom 
 of beauty, the brightness of intellect, and the dignity of rank, 
 taking a peculiar hue from the conjugal character which is 
 shed over all like a consecration. . . . Imogen, throughout 
 the play, is an angel of light, whose lovely presence pervades 
 and animates the whole piece." 
 
394 Cymbeline, 
 
 "Cymbeline" is one of those plays of Shakspeare — the 
 others being the "Winter's Tale" and "The Merchant of 
 Venice" — where the path of the story leads us along the 
 very verge of tragedy. Throughout " Cymbeline " there is 
 nothing that can properly be called comic ; everything moves 
 us to pity, or rouses us to apprehension. 
 
 It has never been a popular acting-play, and that from 
 several causes. The main incident of the story is not pleas- 
 ing ; and subtle as the distinctions of character are among 
 the minor personages, there are no star-parts in it for male 
 actors. The part of Imogen needs a lady of exceptional 
 refinement. It was one of Miss Helen Faucit's favorite char- 
 acters ; but when will the public look upon her like again ? 
 
 The story is founded on a tale of Boccaccio's in the 
 " Decamerone." There Imogen is Zinevra, wife of a rich 
 gentleman of Genoa. The circumstances of the bet, and of 
 the treachery of lachimo are the same ; but then the story 
 wanders into all sorts of improbabilities, and in the end 
 Zinevra and her husband are made wealthy and happy by a 
 decree of the Soldan of Egypt, who bestows on them the riches 
 of Ambroglio (the lachimo), while the unfortunate man is 
 smeared with honey, and left in the sun to be stung to death 
 by flies, — apparently to the satisfaction of the prototype of 
 Imogen. 
 
 Shakspeare has not taken contemporary Italian life as a 
 setting for his story; he has put it back into the poet's 
 fairy-land, while it pretends to be founded on semi-historical 
 facts. The scene is in the Land of the Round Table and 
 the Grail, but the date is that of the last days of Roman 
 rule in Britain ; the religion is semi -pagan, and the manners 
 have not yet caught the tone of Christian chivalry. 
 
Cymdeline. 395 
 
 In the folio edition of Shakspeare, printed in 1623, " Cym- 
 beline " is placed among the tragedies, and for that reason is 
 still so numbered by many modern editors. It is less a 
 tragedy, however, than "The Winter's Tale," which con- 
 tains two deaths, — that of Antigonus and little Mamillius, 
 heir-apparent to the Sicilian throne. Cymbeline, King of 
 Britain, is mentioned by name by Holinshed, as well as 
 his two sons, Guiderius and Arviragus. The old historian 
 also relates the circumstance of his refusing to pay tribute 
 to Rome. 
 
 The scene is partly at the court of Britain, partly among 
 the mountains of South Wales. In its contrasts between the 
 intrigues of a court and the sweet life of woods and streams, 
 it resembles " As you Like It ; " but the forest-life in " Cym- 
 beline " is very different from life in the forest of Arden. The 
 deer that Jaques moralized upon are simply " game " to old 
 Belarius and his boys. But Shakspeare knew that life, re- 
 moved from centres of thought and interest, must and should 
 pall on the ardent and the young. The princely lads are weary 
 of it, sweet as it seems to Imogen, even as in Arden Touch- 
 stone assures us " that in respect to country-life being soli- 
 tary," he likes it "very well, but in respect that it is private, 
 it is a very vile life. In respect that it is in the fields," he 
 adds, "it pleaseth me well, but in respect it is not in the 
 court, it is tedious." The sons of Cymbeline had never been 
 at court, but their hearts beat to the same measure as that of 
 the battered court-fool. 
 
 Act I. Scene i. 
 
 When the play opens Cymbeline is King of Britain. The 
 history of his court is related by two gentlemen. We are 
 
39^ Cymbeline, 
 
 not told where the court was ; possibly at Winchester, per- 
 haps at Caerlyon upon Usk.^ 
 
 The King, who is a weak, opinionated, wife-ridden old 
 man, had been twice married. By his first wife he had had 
 three children, — two boys and Princess Imogen. The boys 
 had been spirited away in infancy, and had disappeared 
 entirely and mysteriously. . Some years after his first wife's 
 death, King Cymbeline married a sly and cruel widow, 
 who had one son, Cloten, the child of a former husband. 
 This son it was the object of her life to mate with 
 Princess Imogen, and so raise him to her husband's 
 throne. She probably counted on the imbecility of Cloten 
 to enable her to continue that rule in Britain which she 
 was suffered to usurp by her weak husband. But such 
 a woman as sweet Imogen could not possibly have united 
 herself to such a man as Cloten ; nor, as heiress of Eng- 
 land, could a woman of her intellect and conscientiousness 
 have been willing to put her people into his power. Be- 
 sides, she had been brought up during her mother's life-time 
 with a young nobleman *of the court, Leonatus Posthu- 
 mus, who under peculiar circumstances had been adopted 
 by her parents. Posthumus was the son of a nobleman, of 
 distinguished rank and prowess, who, with two older sons, 
 died, sword in hand, in the King's cause. This youngest 
 son was born after his father's death, and cost the life of his 
 mother. He had been surnamed Posthumus, and raised at 
 the court of Britain, where Shakspeare is careful one of his 
 
 1 At Caerlyon, a few months after the publication of the first volume of the 
 "Idylls of the King," an American traveller inquiring for a copy of the poem 
 in the little bookstore of the town, found that the bookseller had ordered no 
 copies from London, having no idea that the work contained anything of 
 local interest which might make it salable. 
 
Cymbeline. 397 
 
 first speakers should tell us that, though poor, he was a worthy 
 
 gentleman ; that he was — 
 
 A creature such 
 As, to seek through the regions of the earth 
 For one his like, there would be son\ething failing 
 In him that should compare. I do not think 
 So fair an outward, and such stuff within, 
 Endows a man but he. 
 
 The second speaker objects that this praise is too extrava- 
 gant. " No," answers the other, " I do crush him together, 
 rather than unfold his measure duly." The King, he goes 
 on to say, having taken the babe to his protection, — 
 
 Put him to all the learnings that his time 
 Could make him the receiver of; which he took, 
 As we do air, fast as 't was ministered ; and 
 In his spring became a harvest. Lived in court 
 (Which rare it is to do) most praised, most loved, — 
 A sample to the youngest ; to the more mature, 
 A glass that feated them ; and to the graver, 
 A child that guided dotards : to his mistress, 
 For whom he now is banished, — her own price 
 Proclaims how she esteemed him and his virtue ; 
 By her election may be truly read 
 What kind of man he is. 
 
 Thus we gather that from infancy Posthumus had been 
 assigned to Princess Imogen, that their love grew up under 
 the sanction of her father, and doubtless of her mother, now 
 dead, that Posthumus was wise, cultivated, praised, beloved, 
 and to all men a rare example. It is necessary that we 
 should know him thus, for the part he is about to play does 
 not impress us in his favor. 
 
 Imogen, when the play opens, has with calm dignity, as 
 befits a princess, put a barrier between herself and Cloten, 
 by marrying the man who has long been acknowledged her 
 
39^ Cymbeline. 
 
 accepted lover. The courtiers all in their hearts approve the 
 
 step that the heiress of the realm has taken ; but the King, 
 
 stirred up by his wicked wife ("that late he married" ), is 
 
 furious with Imogen. He banishes Posthumus, and places 
 
 Imogen in the custody of her step-mother, although, as the 
 
 courtier who tells the story thinks, " himself much pained 
 
 at heart." 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 The second scene is between the Queen, Imogen the 
 newly-wedded bride, and her banished husband. 
 
 The Queen's first words seem kindly, but Imogen knows 
 her too well to trust her kindness, though not an imprudent 
 or impatient word escapes her. The Queen proposes to 
 make Imogen's imprisonment as light as possible, and to be 
 Posthumus's advocate with the King, but meantime thinks he 
 had better absent himself. She then, finding that Posthumus 
 has resolved to quit the court, with false consideration offers 
 to walk apart that the lovers may take their farewell. 
 
 Then Imogen, who has not spoken yet, exclaims, — 
 
 O, 
 
 Dissembling courtesy ! How fine this tyrant 
 
 Can tickle where she wounds ! My dearest husband, 
 
 I something fear my father's wrath ; but nothing 
 
 (Always reserved my holy duty) what 
 
 His rage can do on me. You must be gone ; 
 
 And I shall here abide the hourly shot 
 
 Of angry eyes ; not comforted to live, 
 
 But that there is this jewel in the world, 
 
 That I may see again. 
 
 Posthumus. My queen ! my mistress ! 
 
 O, lady, weep no more ; lest I give cause 
 To be suspected of more tenderness 
 Than doth become a man ! I will remain 
 The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth. 
 
Cymbeline. 399 
 
 My residence in Rome at one Philario's ; 
 Who to my father was a friend, to me 
 Known but by letter ; thither write, my queen, 
 And with mine eyes I '11 drink the words you send, 
 Though ink be made of gall. 
 
 Here rushes in the Queen, who has been to warn Cymbe- 
 Hne that his daughter and her husband are in forbidden 
 conference. It is hard, very hard to part, and the lovers 
 cling to each other. Imogen says : — 
 
 Nay, stay a little. 
 
 Were you but riding forth to air yourself, 
 
 Such parting were too petty. Look here, love.; 
 
 This diamond was my mother's : take it, heart ; 
 
 But keep it till you woo another wife, 
 
 When Imogen is dead. 
 
 Posthumus. How! how! another? — 
 
 You gentle gods, give me but this I have. 
 And sear up my embracements from a next 
 With bonds of death ! — Remain thou here 
 
 {Putting on the ring. 
 While sense can keep it on ! And sweetest, fairest, 
 As I my poor self did exchange for you. 
 To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles 
 I still win of you. For my sake, wear this ; 
 It is a manacle of love ; I '11 place it 
 Upon this fairest prisoner. 
 
 {Putting a bracelet on her arm. 
 
 Imogen. O, the gods ! 
 
 When shall we see again ? 
 
 Here comes in the King, furious that the pair should be 
 together, and with him are the courtiers. Posthumus is sum- 
 marily dismissed, but quits the court with dignity. Imogen, 
 when she sees him going, exclaims under her breath, — 
 
 There cannot be a pinch in death more sharp 
 Than this is I 
 
400 * Cymbeline, 
 
 When her father reproaches her, she only begs him to 
 forbear ; " For I," she says, '' am senseless of your wrath. 
 A touch more rare subdues all pangs, all fears." But she 
 rouses herself when her father says, "Thou wouldst have 
 made my throne a seat for baseness." " No ! " she cries, 
 " I rather added a lustre to it." 
 
 Sir, it is your fault I loved Posthumus. 
 You bred him as my playfellow, and he is 
 A man worth any woman ; over-buys me 
 Almost the price he pays. 
 
 How perfect is Imogen's sense of duty to her father, to 
 her kingdom, to her husband, to herself. She is unmatched 
 in her sweet, sorrowful dignity. "One feels," says Mrs. 
 Jameson, " as. if we had known and loved her before she was 
 married to Posthumus, and that her conjugal virtues are a 
 charm superadded, like the color laid upon a beautiful 
 ground-work. We see her love to Posthumus acting on her 
 mind with the force of an habitual feeling, heightened by en- 
 thusiastic passion, and hallowed by a sense of duty." 
 
 Of the parting scene she says, " Compare it with the part- 
 ing of Romeo and Juliet, or df Troilus and Cressida ; com- 
 pare the confiding matronly tenderness of Imogen with the 
 despairing agony of Juliet, or the petulant grief of Cressida." 
 
 The false Queen then takes up her speech, and with soft, 
 honeyed words pretends to stand as mediatrix between her 
 husband and his child. The passionate, unreasonable, un- 
 stable old man flies into a new burst of anger. The make- 
 believe partisanship of his wife was the very thing to rouse 
 him. 
 
 Then Pisanio, the servant of Posthumus, enters, having been 
 sent back by his master to watch over Imogen. The Queen, 
 
Cymbeline, 401 
 
 who has already deep-laid plans of wickedness, endeavors to 
 
 win him over by her courtesies. The first thing that Pisanio 
 
 reports is an encounter between the base booby, Cloten, and 
 
 his master. No harm was done. " My master rather played 
 
 than fought," says Pisanio, " and had no help of anger." 
 
 But Imogen, who has not uttered one word on her own 
 
 behalf, is indignant at this attack on her husband. Still, her 
 
 speech to Cloten's mother is politic. She has lived too long 
 
 in a court not to know the mischief that may come from an 
 
 unruly tongue. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 This scene is in a public place between Cloten and two 
 lords. They are rejoicing in their hearts at his discomfiture, 
 and making covert game of him. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 We have next an interview between Imogen and Pisanio. 
 That worthy retainer has returned from the port, where he 
 has seen his lord put out to sea. Here is his account, given 
 to Imogen, who in a half-hour of retirement has recovered 
 herself. 
 
 Imogen. If he should write, 
 
 And I not have it, 't were a paper lost, 
 As offered mercy is. What was the last 
 That he spake to thee ? 
 
 Pisanio. 'T was, " His queen, his queen I " 
 
 Imogen. Then waved his handkerchief? 
 
 Pisanio. And kissed it, madam. 
 
 Imogen. Senseless linen ! happier therein than I ! 
 And that was all ? 
 
 Pisanio. No, madam ; for so long 
 
 As he could make me with this eye or ear 
 Distinguish him from others, he did keep 
 The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief, 
 
 26 
 
402 Cymbeline, 
 
 Still waving, as the fits and stirs of his mind 
 Could best express how slow his soul sailed on, 
 How swift his ship. 
 
 Imogen. Thou shouldst have made him 
 
 As little as a crow, or less, ere left 
 To after-eye him. 
 
 Pisanio. Madam, so I did. 
 
 Imogen. I would have broke mine eye-strings ; cracked them, but 
 To look upon him, till the diminution 
 Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle ; 
 Nay, followed him, till he had melted from 
 The smallness of a gnat to air, and then 
 Have turned mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio, 
 When shall we hear from him ? 
 
 Pisanio. Be assured, mada,m, 
 
 With his next vantage. 
 
 Imogen. I did not take my leave of him, but had 
 Most pretty things to say ; ere I could tell him, 
 How I would think on him, at certain hours. 
 Such thoughts, and such ; or I could make him swear 
 The shes of Italy should not betray 
 Mine interest, and his honor ; or have charged him, 
 At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, 
 To encounter me with orisons, for then 
 I am in heaven for him ; or ere I could 
 Give him that parting kiss which I had set 
 Between two charming words, comes in my father, 
 And like the tyrannous breathing of the North 
 Shakes all our buds from growing. 
 
 Scefie 5. 
 We next find ourselves in Rome, in the palace of Philario, 
 that friend of his dead father to whom Posthumus had an- 
 nounced his intention to betake himself. The scene is not a 
 pleasant one ; but as we read it and see the cunning of the 
 Italian, the insolence of the Frenchman (who, like a French- 
 man of his class in our own day, makes a boast of his 
 bonnes fortunes), \iQ feel that Posthumus — perfectly confi- 
 
Cymbeline. 403 
 
 dent of his wife's unassailable purity — is making a protest 
 in favor of good morals, and designs the punishment of the 
 wicked. 
 
 When the scene opens, Philario and his friends — lachimo, 
 the Frenchman, a Hollander, and a Spaniard — are dis- 
 cussing the English milord who has just come to Rome, 
 lachimo had seen him in Britain, the Frenchman had met 
 him in France, both some years previously. The Frenchman 
 had interfered during their former acquaintance to prevent 
 a duel with another Frenchman, who had excited the young 
 Englishman's wrath by misdoubting his statement that the 
 lady to whom he professed allegiance was " the most fair, 
 virtuous, chaste, well-qualified, and pure of any lady in the 
 world." Posthumus entering, this old question is re-opened. 
 You will note that the name of the lady is never mentioned, 
 though Posthumus says that when he defended her first, he 
 was her friend only, but is now her adorer. 
 
 Some critics have wondered why lachimo put himself so 
 forward in this matter ; but I think, first, that he was a needy 
 man ; secondly, that he was like some of the men of the 
 Restoration described by Balzac, — a man eager to attempt 
 any enterprise (the more difficult the better), if it would 
 assure him a triunjph over a womatfs honor. 
 
 At any rate, lachimo makes a coarse bet with Posthumus, 
 of ten thousand golden ducats against his diamond ring, that 
 he will, if furnished with letters to the English court and to 
 the lady in question, in two days secure proofs of her un- 
 faithfulness to her husband. Posthumus, between his teeth, 
 vows that if he fail, as he will fail, he shall answer to him 
 with the sword for this insult to his wife. So there are now 
 three motives to make lachimo persist in succeeding at any 
 
404 Cymbeline. 
 
 price, — his pecuniary necessities, the thing he calls his 
 honor, and the probability that if he fail he will be sacrificed 
 to the just wrath of the young English husband. 
 
 The wager is made ; the terms are signed before witnesses, 
 and the money and ring put up, with a little faint remon- 
 strance from Philario. 
 
 Scene 6. 
 
 We go back again to Britain. The vile Queen dismisses 
 her ladies to gather for her primroses and violets, and has 
 then a secret interview with Cornelius, the court physician. 
 She has asked him to bring her secretly some poisons. He 
 says, presenting her a small box : — 
 
 I do beseech your grace (without offence, 
 My conscience bids me ask) wherefore you have 
 Commanded of me these most poisonous compounds, 
 Which are the movers of a languishing death ; 
 But, though slow, deadly ? 
 
 Queen. I do wonder, doctor, 
 
 Thou ask'st me such a question. Have I not been 
 Thy pupil long ? Hast thou not learned me how 
 To make perfumes ? distil ? preserve ? yea, so, 
 That our great king himself doth woo me oft 
 For my confections } Having thus far proceeded, 
 (Unless thou think'st me devilish) is't not meet 
 That I did amplify my judgment in 
 Other conclusions ? I will try the forces 
 Of these thy compounds on such creatures as 
 We count not worth the hanging, but none human, 
 To try the vigor of them, and apply 
 Allayments to their act ; and by them gather 
 Their several virtues and effects. 
 
 Cornelius. Your highness 
 
 Shall from this practice but make hard your heart ; 
 Besides, the seeing these effects will be 
 Both noisome and infectious. 
 
 Queen. O, content thee -^ 
 
Cymbeline. 405 
 
 [Enter Pisanio. 
 Here comes a flattering rascal ; upon him \Aside. 
 Will I first work ; he 's for his master, 
 And enemy to my son. 
 
 Lady Martin thinks that Pisanio may have been servant 
 to old Sicilius Leonatus, and on Posthumus's adoption by 
 Cymbeline, have been appointed to the especial service of 
 his orphaned son. If so, he had seen him grow up beside 
 Imogen, and was probably deep in the plot (if we may call it 
 so) of their marriage. On no other hypothesis, I think, can 
 we account for the personal hatred felt for Pisanio, both by 
 the Queen and Cloten. 
 
 Cornelius, as the Queen speaks to Pisanio with dissembling 
 words, tells us in an aside, that misdoubting the intentions of 
 the Queen, the box that he has given her contains drugs 
 that will not kill, but only for a time produce a deathlike 
 slumber. 
 
 The Queen, in her interview with Pisanio, is apparently 
 endeavoring to persuade him to favor a divorce, and to urge 
 upon his mistress the suit of Cloten ; but she must have 
 known that this was but pains lost, for at the same moment 
 she drops the box of poisons, and Pisanio picking them up, 
 she begs him to keep the box as containing medicines of 
 great value, hoping he will take the drugs himself, and so 
 deprive Imogen of the go-between between herself and her 
 husband. The Queen's purpose already is, if she cannot 
 raise her son to the throne by marrying him to Imogen, to 
 remove her too. " Pisanio," says Lady Martin, " is a man of 
 deep devotion, respectful, manly tenderness, and delicacy of 
 feeling." 
 
4o6 Cymdeline. 
 
 Scene 7. 
 
 This scene is also in the palace. lachimo has arrived, 
 bringing letters to Imogen. She, poor lady, has been passing 
 months of ever- increasing unhappiness. She herself enumer- 
 ates her trials, — 
 
 A father cruel, and a step-dame false, 
 A foolish suitor to a wedded lady, 
 That hath her husband banished. 
 
 Then comes the thought of what at once is her chief 
 sorrow and her only comfort, — 
 
 O, that husband ! 
 My supreme crown of grief. 
 
 At this moment Pisanio, always in attendance, brings her 
 word that a noble gentleman from Rome, with letters from 
 her husband, desires an interview. 
 
 I often remember that in my youth I heard a friend say 
 of her mother that the motto of her hfe had been fidelity ; 
 " and," she added, " it is not until we examine ourselves in 
 all our relations to God, to others, and ourselves that we 
 know fully what that means." Fidelity might be the motto 
 for Imogen. Lady Martin, who gave her ^' the largest place 
 in her heart " of all the characters she acted, says of lier : " A 
 grand and patient faithfulness is at the bottom of her character. 
 Yet she can be angry, vehement, passionate, upon occasion. 
 With a being of so fine and sensitive a nature, how could it 
 have been otherwise? Her soul's strength and tenderness, 
 speaking through her form and manners, impress all who see 
 her with an irresistible charm. Her fine taste, her delicate 
 ways, her feminine accomplishments, her sweet singing are 
 brought before us in countless subde touches. To her be- 
 
Cymbeline. 407 
 
 longs especially the quality of grace, — that quality which 
 Goethe says ' draws all men after it,' and which Racine says 
 'is even superior to beauty, or rather, is beauty sweetly 
 animated.' " 
 
 lachimo, fastidious and cloyed with sensuality, when he 
 sees her is struck with admiring awe, and says to himself, as 
 he presents her her husband's letter, — 
 
 All of her that 's out of door 's most rich ! 
 If she be furnished with a mind so rare, 
 She is alone the Arabian bird ; and I 
 Have lost the wager. 
 
 I think the act I can least forgive in Posthumus is the 
 writing of this letter, recommending such a scoundrel as 
 lachimo, as " one of noblest note, to whose kindness I am 
 most infinitely tied." 
 
 With pretty grace, on reading this, Imogen welcomes base 
 lachimo, who at once begins to pay her impertinent com- 
 pliments, which Imogen with English innocence does not even 
 understand. Twice she begs him to explain himself, then 
 thinks, as he gazes at her with a leer, that he may be taken 
 ill. At this, determined to pursue his base design, he begs 
 Pisanio to go and keep company with his man, who is 
 " peevish and a stranger." 
 
 Then Imogen begins to question lachimo about her lord. 
 She fears he grieves like her, and therefore says : " Is he 
 disposed to mirth? — I hope he is." To her surprise she is 
 answered, " No stranger in all Rome is so merry and so 
 gamesome. He is called the British reveller." 
 
 Imogen says musingly that at home he always had been con- 
 sidered inclined to sadness. " I never saw him sad," exclaims 
 lachimo, and then goes on to tell how his chosen companion 
 
4o8 Cymbeline. 
 
 is a Frenchman, sick at heart for love of a girl in his own 
 land. The tempter gives his victim to understand that " the 
 Frenchman sighs, the jolly Briton laughs," and derides the 
 man who really puts trust in the faith and constancy of a 
 woman. More and more bewildered, Imogen exclaims, 
 " Will my lord say so ? " Then, step by step, lachimo lets 
 the wife know that he pities her. 
 
 As I write this, my mind recalls Balzac's De Marsay, a 
 man quite capable of acting the part of lachimo, yet a man 
 of polish, of accomplishments, rising high in the diplomatic 
 world, successful with nearly every woman he makes love to, 
 combining sensuality with the bitterest cold common-sense. 
 Only I hardly think De Marsay would have been made sorry 
 by the wreck of Imogen's happiness, which lachimo in the 
 end had the grace to be. He goes on, more and more 
 perplexing Imogen, who believes in her husband too«fully to 
 comprehend the insinuations of his detractor. Finally, 
 lachimo growing bolder, insults her by talk such as her in- 
 nocent ears are unaccustomed to, and draws from her one 
 sorrowful word, — " My lord, I fear, hath forgot Britain." 
 
 The reason very pure women (Mrs. Pendennis, for example) 
 are sometimes strangely ready to believe* evil of the men who 
 belong to them is, that in their estimate of the world, its 
 temptations and the temptability of human nature, there is 
 always allowance made for what we may call *' an unknown 
 quantity." They judge men without being able to weigh or 
 measure this, and their judgments are sometimes singularly 
 unjust, even of the men they love. For one instant this 
 feeling gets the better of Imogen ; then, as lachimo continues 
 his coarse talk, she puts him down with the dignity of a 
 princess and a wedded wife, — " Let me hear no more." 
 
Cymbeline. 409 
 
 But he proceeds, and urges her, upon her dignity, to be 
 revenged on her unfaithful husband. 
 
 Imogetu Revenged ? 
 
 How should I be revenged ? If this be true 
 (As I have such a heart that both mine ears 
 Must not in haste abuse) — if'\\. be true — 
 How should I be revenged ? 
 
 Then lachimo insults her with an outrageous proposition. 
 He dares not ask her to love him, he only proposes to let 
 him be the instrument of her revenge upon her husband. 
 She makes him no answer. She has not words to do so. 
 She only calls aloud, " What ho ! Pisanio ! " Her faithful 
 guardian, her husband's servitor, shall drive this reptile from 
 her presence. But lachimo has provided against that con- 
 tingency. In the beginning of their interview he had sent 
 away Pisanio. 
 
 lachimo persists, and then provokes an outburst of right- 
 eous indignation, broken by cries of " What ho ! Pisanio ! " 
 Till feeling himself utterly foiled, and seeing that the only 
 way to win her toleration is through her devotion to her 
 husband, he resumes the gentleman. One can fancy a 
 De Marsay so recovering himself. Against the finished man 
 of the world, learned alike in its graces and iniquities, is 
 pitted the pure young English wife, impressed with his finish, 
 inclined to him by her husband's praise, hardly able to under- 
 stand him, afraid she may have misunderstood. 
 
 lachimo, in terms of hyperbolical praise, takes back all he 
 had said of Posthumus, and Imogen is pacified. In this 
 court, where her dear lord is not permitted to be praised, 
 how sweet is commendation of him to her ears ! lachimo, 
 finding it pleases her, goes on : — 
 
4IO Cymbeline, 
 
 He sits 'mongst men like a descended god ; 
 He hath a kind of honor sets him off. 
 More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, 
 Most mighty princess, that I have adventured 
 To try your taking of a false report ; which hath 
 Honored with confirmation your great judgment 
 In the election of a sir so rare, 
 Which you know cannot err. 
 
 Then, with sweet dignity, Imogen gives him her pardon, 
 and offers him her services at the EngHsh court. She cannot 
 Hke the man ; but he is returning to Posthumus, and Post- 
 humus has recommended him to her protection. As he is 
 leaving her he turns back, and mentions that he has under 
 his charge a trunk of valuables, — silver bought in France as 
 a present for the Roman Emperor; her husband is one of 
 the subscribers to this gift; would she allow him, for one 
 night, to place it for security in her chamber? Imogen gives 
 a pleased assent to this ; and the first act — a very long one 
 — comes to an end. 
 
 Act II. Scene i. 
 
 The first scene in this act is one in which Cloten displays 
 himself. The man is handsome, and possibly not wanting in 
 physical courage ; but here, in the space of a few sentences, 
 he shows himself a gamester, a brawler, and a swearer, — 
 insolent beyond measure to his inferiors in rank, loving 
 flattery, and presuming on his position as the Queen's son, 
 indulged and flattered from his infancy. At last his atten- 
 tion is diverted from himself and his oaths, and the man 
 whose head he broke for spoiling his strike at bowls, by 
 mention of a stranger who has appeared at court that day. 
 **One of Posthumus's friends, it is thought," says the lord 
 who tells him. " Leonatus Posthunius ? " cries Cloten, — ''a 
 
Cymbeline. 411 
 
 banished rascal ! And he 's another, whosoever he be." But 
 in an instant he has changed his purpose. " Come ! I '11 go 
 see this Italian. What I have lost to-day at bowls I '11 win 
 to-nighf of him." 
 
 The lords in attendance are making fun of the insolent 
 coxcomb behind his back, with gibing comments upon every 
 speech that falls from him. Here is what they say when 
 he has gone to seek a fresh victim in the Italian ; — 
 
 That such a crafty devil as is his mother 
 
 Should yield the world this ass ! a woman that 
 
 Bears all down with her brain ; and this her son 
 
 Cannot take two from twenty for his heart, 
 
 And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess, 
 
 Thou divine Imogen ! what thou endur'st 
 
 Betwixt a father by thy step-dame governed, 
 
 A mother hourly coining plots , a wooer 
 
 More hateful than the foul expulsion is 
 
 Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act 
 
 Of the divorce he 'd make ! The heavens hold firm 
 
 The walls of thy dear honor ; keep unshaked 
 
 That temple, thy fair mind ; that thou may'st stand, 
 
 To enjoy thy banished lord, and this great land ! 
 
 This, then, was public sentiment at court ; and Cloten's 
 purpose was well known of procuring the divorce of Imogen 
 and Posthumus, and succeeding to the hand of the Princess, 
 and subsequently to the throne, when his clever mother pur- 
 posed to continue to govern the kingdom. This is why she 
 will not outwardly ill-treat Imogen ; why she speaks honeyed 
 words to her, and pretends to be her friend. And if Imogen, 
 even though deprived of the support of Pisanio, will not 
 break her marriage vow, and hearken to Cloten's suit, there 
 is poison, as a last resort, in store for her. 
 
4 1 2 Cymbeline, 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 We next find ourselves in the rich bed-chamber of Princess 
 Imogen. Surrounded by the luxuries and refinements she 
 has been used to all her life, she lies reading. In one corner 
 of her chamber stands the chest, supposed to contain plate 
 destined for the Emperor. " What hour is it ? " asks Imogen. 
 .Her lady answers, "Almost midnight, madam." 
 
 How long those hours must have seemed to the fiend 
 lying in wait in the trunk ! 
 
 Imogen. I have read three hours, then ; mine eyes are weak. 
 Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed ; 
 Take not away the taper, leave it burning ; 
 And if thou canst awake by four o' the clock, 
 I prithee, call me. Sleep hath seized me wholly. 
 
 You will remark all through this play (probably one of the 
 last that Shakspeare wrote) the spirit of prayer. Here are 
 Imogen's orisons : — 
 
 To your protection I commend me, gods I 
 From fairies, and the tempters of the night, 
 Guard me, beseech ye ! \She sleeps.^ 
 
 Then forth from the chest rises the man with his unholy 
 purpose. His conscience smites him. He bethinks him of 
 " false Sextus, who wrought the deed of shame." Hardened 
 as he is, the purity and beauty of his victim awe him. Al- 
 though she is undefended, except by heavenly powers, he dares 
 not touch her. Here is the whole of his soliloquy : — 
 
 lachimo. The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labored sense 
 Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus 
 Did softly press the rushes, ere he wakened 
 The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, 
 How bravely thou becom'st thy bed I fresh lily ! 
 
Cymbeline, 413 
 
 And whiter than the sheets I That I might touch — 
 But kiss ; one kiss ! . . . ' T is her breathing that 
 Perfumes the chamber thus ! The flame o' the taper 
 Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids 
 To see th' enclosed lights, now canopied 
 Under these windows. White and azure, laced 
 With bits of heaven's own tinct. 
 
 [ Takes out his tablets. 
 But my design 
 To note the chamber ! I will write all down. 
 Such and such pictures ; there the window ; such 
 The adornment of her bed. The arras, figures, 
 Why, such and such ; and the contents o'the story. 
 Ah, but some natural notes about her body, 
 Above ten thousand meaner movables, 
 Would testify, to enrich mine inventory. 
 O sleep, that apest death, lie dull upon her ! 
 And be her sense but as a monument, 
 Thus in a chapel lying ! Come off, come off. 
 
 [ Taking off her bracelet. 
 As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard I 
 ' T is mine ; and this will witness outwardly, 
 As strongly as the conscience does within, 
 To the madding of her lord. On her left breast 
 A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops 
 I' the bottom of a cowslip. Here 's a voucher 
 Stronger than ever law could make. This secret 
 Will force him think I have picked the lock, and ta'en 
 The treasure of her honor. No more. To what end .'' 
 Why should I write this down, that 's riveted, 
 Screwed to my memory ? She hath been reading late 
 The tale of Tereus ; here the leaf's turned dovm, 
 Where Philomel gave up. I have enough ; 
 To the trunk again, and shut the spring of it. 
 Swift, swift, you dragons of the night ! that dawning 
 May bare the raven's eye. I lodge in fear ; 
 Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. 
 
 The awe inspired by the purity of Imogen in the breast of 
 this bad man of the world, this slanderer of women, is the 
 
414 Cymbeltne. 
 
 highest tribute paid to her. The book she had been read- 
 ing told the story of Philomela and her sister Procene, who, 
 in extremity, when pursued by a wanton god-head, were 
 changed, the one into a nightingale, the other into a swallow. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Here we again find Cloten, who, after a night of gambling, 
 has brought musicians to serenade her whom he calls " that 
 fooHsh Imogen," and others " Imogen the divine." 
 
 Then comes one of the loveliest of Shakspeare's lovely 
 songs : — 
 
 Hark, hark ! The lark at heaven's gate sings, 
 
 And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
 His steeds to water at those springs 
 
 On chaliced flowers that lies ; 
 And winking Mary-buds begin 
 
 To ope their golden eyes ; 
 With everything that pretty bin, 
 
 My lady sweet, arise. 
 
 The King and Queen come in, early astir on public busi- 
 ness. Caius Lucius has arrived, ambassador from Rome. 
 Cloten says, " I am glad I was up so late, for that 's the 
 reason I am up so early." 
 
 He persists in forcing his way into Imogen's presence. 
 She, having risen early, comes forth from her chamber. 
 The sweet, fi?m courtesy with which she repels Cloten's 
 advances at first, is very beautiful. When provoked into 
 alluding to his folly, she hastens to bind up the wounds 
 " that her sweet teachings make," with penitent words. 
 Then, seeing that such courtesy has no effect, and that 
 Cloten is preparing to renew his suit, she speaks again, 
 with a firmness which she thinks he cannot misconstrue. 
 
Cymbeline. 415 
 
 He answers her by reminding her of her duty of obedi- 
 ence as a daughter, and heaps reproach and contumely 
 upon Posthumus. Then, indeed, Imogen's anger bursts 
 forth. 
 
 In the midst of her indignation she suddenly perceives that 
 her bracelet is not upon her arm, and stays herself with, 
 " What ho ! Pisanio ! " In broken words she complains of 
 the persecution that has frightened and angered her, and says 
 to Pisanio : — 
 
 Go, bid my woman 
 
 Search for a jewel, that too casually 
 
 Hath left mine arm ; it was thy master's : 'shrew me, 
 
 If I would lose it for a revenue 
 
 Of any king's in Europe. I do think 
 
 I saw 't this morning : confident I am 
 
 Last night \ was on mine arm ; I kissed it : 
 
 I hope it be not gone, to tell my lord 
 
 That I kiss aught but he. 
 
 Imogen, angry, nervous, and indignant, and Cloten, 
 wounded and spiteful, close this scene with a few more 
 words. With a sarcastic sentence, and a dignified sweep, 
 Imogen passes back into her chamber. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 This is that scene in Rome where lachimo gives account of 
 his mission in England to the unsuspecting Leonatus Post- 
 humus. Another trouble now disquiets the exile. The em- 
 bassy of Caius Lucius is to require arrearages of tribute, 
 neglected by Cymbeline, to be paid at once to the Roman 
 Emperor. Posthumus feels as the American loyalists in Eng- 
 land felt during our war of the Revolution, when, whatever 
 their political faith might be, their hearts were with their 
 countrymen. His first greeting to lachimo is an expression 
 
41 6 Cymbeline. 
 
 of surprise at the promptitude of his return ; then he at once 
 leads the way to the great subject. The way in which lach- 
 imo gives his letters to Posthumus, and while he reads them 
 turns aside to talk carelessly of the embassy of Caius Lucius 
 should be noted. Imogen's sweet letters are of course sat- 
 isfactory, and Posthumus says, pointing exultingly to his 
 diamond : — 
 
 Sparkles this stone as it was wont ? Or is 't 
 Too dull for yoar good wearing ? 
 
 " If I had lost it," replies lachimo, according to the old 
 corrector of the folio Shakspeare, " I should more than have 
 lost the worth of it in gold," — 
 
 I 'd make a journey twice as far to enjoy 
 A second night of such sweet shortness, as 
 Was mine in Britain^ — for the ring is won. 
 
 I have said already, and I here repeat, that I by no' means 
 consider lachimo the vulgar stage villain. Like Balzac's Henri 
 de Marsay, he is a man utterly without principle, with vanity 
 which would be almost ludicrous were it not that success ap- 
 pears to justify it. He has all the vices that are consistent 
 with being a gentleman (according to his own perverted 
 code). In his intercourse with men he observes strictly 
 what the morality of the Jockey Club would deem the line 
 of honor. His perceptions are keen on every subject ; he 
 delights in opening the eyes of those around him. And when 
 he pulls away the mask with which vice, folly, or selfishness 
 conceals itself, part of the pleasure to him is to demonstrate 
 how litde worse he is than other people. He is always ready 
 to cry, — and cry with truth, — " I could have told you so," 
 after a misfortune. He is handsome ; he is stripped of all 
 
Cymbeline. 4 1 7 
 
 delusions ; he acknowledges no ties but those of camaraderie^ 
 and here and there of friendship (of a kind) ; but his business 
 in Hfe is that of a woman-hunter. He would spare no pains 
 to run any woman down ; he would stalk her, or pursue her ; 
 the more pure she was, the better ; the greater the resistance, 
 the greater glory would be his. Such a man would have been 
 quite capable of appreciating the loveliness and fidelity of 
 Imogen ; of acknowledging that to make himself her lover 
 (at least in the time allotted to him) was wholly impossible, 
 and of refusing to accept his defeat so long as by any device 
 Posthumus could be imposed upon. 
 
 By stroke after stroke lachimo beats down all the de- 
 fences of his victim. If he could not overcome the fidelity 
 of Imogen, he will that of her husband. Posthumus is 
 contemptuous ; then he thinks it all an indecent joke ; 
 then he threatens the traducer; then he calls upon him 
 for proofs. 
 
 Here is lachimo's description of Imogen's bedchamber : — 
 
 It was hanged 
 With tapestry of silk and silver ; the story, 
 Proud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman, 
 And Cydnus swelled above the banks, or for 
 The press of boats, or pride, — a piece of work 
 So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive 
 In workmanship and value ; which I wondered, 
 Could be so rarely and exactly wrought. . . . 
 
 The chimney 
 Is south the chamber ; and the chimney-piece, 
 Chaste Dian, bathing. Never saw I figures 
 So likely to report themselves ; the cutter 
 Was as another Nature, dumb, — outwent her. 
 Motion and breath left out. . . . 
 
 The roof o' the chamber 
 With golden cherubins is fretted. Her andirons 
 27 
 
41 8 Cymbeline, 
 
 (I had forgot them) were two winking Cupids 
 Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely 
 Depending on their brands. 
 
 "This is true," answers Posthumus, with the very sword 
 in his heart. " Still, you might have learned this from 
 description." 
 
 Then lachimo, exulting in the agony he is going to inflict, 
 pulls forth the bracelet, tosses it in his hand, and pockets it 
 again. 
 
 " Jove ! " cries Posthumus ; " once more let me behold 
 it ! Is it that which I left with her? " 
 
 lachimo, with cool impertinence (with frightful frankness, 
 had it been the truth), replies : — 
 
 Sir (I thank her), that! 
 She stripped it from her arm. I see her yet. 
 Her pretty action did outsell her gift, 
 And yet enriched it too. She gave it me, and said 
 She prized it once. 
 
 " May be," exclaimed Posthumus, " she plucked it off to 
 send to me." 
 
 This quiet suggestion alarms lachimo, who asks hurriedly, 
 " She writes so to you, doth she ? " 
 
 Alas ! the supposition has nothing to support it. 
 
 " O ! no, no, no," cries Posthumus, flinging him the ring, 
 " 't is true ! Here, — take this too. It is a basilisk, kills me 
 to look on 't." 
 
 Here Philario, moved by his guest's agony, breaks in with 
 several suggestions : " The bracelet may have been stolen 
 by a servant." 
 
 " Very true ! " cries Posthumus, " and so I hope he came 
 by *t. Give back my ring ! " 
 
Cymbeline, 419 
 
 lachimo then swears (he had not dared before to swear) 
 he had it from her arm. 
 
 At this Posthumus grows frantic ; again flings at him the 
 ring, and sinks down in an exhaustion of suffering. Philario 
 interposes again. He says, " Such infideHty is not suddenly 
 to be believed by one persuaded well. ..." But lachimo 
 brings- forward his last proof, — the " mole cinque-spotted 
 on her left breast," that he had seen when he drew off the 
 bracelet. At this Posthumus goes beside himself. He is 
 mad, and though in the presence of the others (scene 5) 
 he raves like a lunatic. His faith in all things pure, lovely, and 
 of good report is shattered to pieces. Of course, Posthumus 
 is far inferior in strength of moral fibre to his wife, but then 
 there is a proneness to jealousy, even in good men, which 
 does not exist in a good woman. As one reads these scenes 
 one is inclined to have patience with him in his transports, 
 to be less hard on him than some critics have been for his 
 insults to his wife, and for his subsequent determination to 
 exercise the privilege, never denied to husbands in past ages, 
 of taking the life of a guilty woman. This was law in old 
 times, it is still law with many nations, and appears (to judge 
 by the newspapers) to be a permitted custom even among 
 ourselves. 
 
 Act hi. Scene i. 
 
 In this first scene of the third act, Caius Lucius, the Am- 
 bassador, has audience with Cymbeline. Shakspeare has 
 taken this opportunity to put a fine picture of sea-girdled 
 Britain into the mouth of the Queen. It is a passage to 
 thrill the hearts of Englishmen. 
 
 Remember, sir, my liege, 
 The kings your ancestors ; together with 
 
420 Cymbeline. 
 
 The natural bravery of your isle ; which stands 
 
 As Neptune's park, ribbed and paled in 
 
 With rocks unscalable, and roaring waters ; 
 
 With sands, that will not bear your enemies' boats, 
 
 But suck them up to the top-mast. A kind of conquest 
 
 Caesar made here ; but made not here his brag, 
 
 Oi came, and saw, and overcame ; with shame 
 
 (The first that ever touched him) he was carried 
 
 From off our coast, twice beaten ; and his shipping 
 
 (Poor ignorant baubles ! ) on our terrible seas, 
 
 Like eggshells moved upon their surges, cracked 
 
 As easily 'gainst our rocks. 
 
 Shakspeare must have been thinking of the defeat of the 
 Armada when he wrote this, — an event within his memory. 
 
 The high courtesy of the King and the Ambassador is in 
 striking contrast with the feminine vehemence of the Queen 
 (all women are vehement in politics when their feelings are 
 excited), and the coarse interpositions of Cloten. The tribute 
 is refused, and war is declared between Britain and Rome. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Pisanio has received his master's letter. He is to execute 
 vengeance, in his master's name, on Imogen, and he is 
 'almost as much beside himself with horror as Posthumus has 
 been with jealousy. 
 
 Disloyal ? No : 
 She 's punished for her truth ; and undergoes, 
 More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults 
 As would take in some virtue. O, my master ! 
 Thy mind to her is now as low as were 
 Thy fortunes. 
 
 As he is cursing the very paper on which the cruel words 
 are written, Imogen enters. Pisanio's letter had enclosed 
 one to herself. It is lovely to see how she gloats over it. 
 
Cymbeline, 42 1 
 
 how she lingers over the envelope with loving words before 
 she opens it. It is a cautious letter ; not lover-like, but very 
 false. It tells her that Posthumus has returned to Britain, — 
 is in Wales, — at Milford Haven. " What your own love 
 will out of this news advise you," he,says, "follow." 
 
 Remark that though Posthumus is going to kill her for 
 unfaithfulness, he never for a moment doubts that her love 
 for him will carry her to Milford Haven. Then Imogen, in 
 her turn, is beside herself; she is wild with happiness. "O 
 for a horse with wings ! " she cries. " How far is Milford 
 Haven ? — blessed Milford Haven ! How can we get there ? 
 How can we leave the court? How many miles an hour 
 can we ride?" 
 
 Every word sticks a knife into the heart of Pisanio. He 
 answers her raptures with a crabbed retainer's discouraging 
 words. She sends him to provide her horses, and a riding- 
 dress j and will brook no remonstrance, no delay. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 This scene is in the mountains of South Wales. Belarius, 
 a noble general of Britain, had been unjustly treated about 
 twenty years before by Cymbeline. He still grieves for the 
 old days when his royal master loved him. On false accusa- 
 tion, that master (easily led and weak) had believed him 
 confederate with the Romans. He was banished, but stole 
 away the two boy-princes, brothers to Imogen, heirs to the 
 British throne. The boys have grown up noble, pure, and 
 good, and are " mighty hunters." But as they feel their 
 manhood and their strength, their royal blood stirs in them. 
 Guiderius, the elder by three years, longs for the stir of life, 
 the battle and the war-shout, while Arviragus, the younger, 
 
42 2 Cvmbeline. 
 
 — the poet (the Friedel to the Ebbo in Miss Yonge's " Dove 
 in the Eagle's Nest"), asks Belarius, — 
 
 What should we speak of, 
 When we are old as you ? when we shall hear 
 The rain and wind beat dark December, how, 
 In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse 
 The freezing hours away ? We have seen nothing ; 
 We are beastly ; subtle as the fox, for prey ; 
 Like war-like as the wolf for what we eat. 
 Our valor is to chase what flies ; our cage 
 We make a quire, as doth the prison bird. 
 And sing our bondage freely. 
 
 The boys are introduced as exhorted by Belarius (whom 
 they think their father) not to forget their morning orisons. 
 This gives us a kindly first impression of old Belarius and of his 
 young companions. The prayer does not shock us as stage- 
 prayers do in modern opera. It is just enough for its pur- 
 pose ; the holy name of God is not taken in vain. 
 
 After this prayer the inhabitants of the cave go forth to 
 their day's labor, which is to provide themselves with food. 
 In this, note the difference between the sylvan life in the 
 fairy-forest of Arden, and the real, rude, vigorous life of 
 mountain hunters. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 This scene is in the woods surrounding Milford Haven ; 
 indeed, Milford is in sight from the hill-tops. Sweet Imogen, 
 who had started so eager and in such high hope, is weary 
 with the journey. Nor has she found a responsive travelling 
 companion in old Pisanio. At first, in the exuberance of 
 her happiness, she had not noticed his dejection. Now she 
 questions him, evidently in some apprehension. Pisanio 
 does not speak, but holds out to her her husband's letter. 
 
Cymbeline, 423 
 
 " My husband's hand ! " she cries, and her first thought is 
 " My husband is in trouble ! " — 
 
 He must be over-reached 
 By that drug-damned Italy. 
 
 " Please you, read," says Pisanio, " that you may know my 
 misery." 
 
 She reads indeed, and as she reads Pisanio says : — 
 
 What shall I need to draw my sword ? The paper 
 Hath cut her throat already. 
 
 He tries to rouse her. 
 
 Imogen, False to his bed ! What is it to be false } 
 To lie in watch there, and to think on him ? 
 To weep 'twixt clock and clock ? If sleep charge nature, 
 To break it with a fearful dream of him. 
 And cry myself awake ? That 's false to his bed, 
 Is it .? 
 
 She does not think upon her husband's cruelty ; she shows 
 no terror as to her own fate. She does not take it in. All 
 her thought is of this terrible — this astounding — accusation. 
 Then she bethinks her of lachimo, not indeed as the author 
 of this falsehood, but as having told her that her husband in 
 Rome was playing false to her with other women. This 
 must have changed him and perverted him ; this has set 
 him against her. Using a woman's simile, for Imogen is 
 skilful in needlework, she says : — 
 
 Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion ; 
 And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls, 
 I must be ripped : — to pieces with me! 
 
 The same thought strikes her that has struck her hus- 
 band, — if one so noble can be false, it puts a doubt upon all 
 love and honor. 
 
424 Cymbeline. 
 
 Turning fiercely to Pisanio, she bids him do his master's 
 bidding, only reporting that she had been obedient. Alas ! 
 obedience in this is the last wifely duty that is left for her. 
 
 Seeing Pisanio will not do the deed, she entreats him, 
 saying : — 
 
 Against self-slaughter 
 There is a prohibition so divine 
 It cravens my weak hand. Come, here 's my heart. 
 
 But something lies upon that heart. It is her husband's 
 letters. She draws them forth, and scatters them to the 
 winds. In all her grief her habit of thinking of him first 
 leads her to pity him for the woe that he will feel, when 
 his infatuation for the Italian woman he now loves has 
 passed, and when his memory recalls the wife who had 
 so fondly loved him. 
 
 Again she turns impatiently to Pisanio. ;^ut Pisanio utterly 
 refuses to strike her. "Why, then," she asks, "have you 
 brought me so far from court to change your purpose ? " 
 
 " My end was to gain time," is the substance of his an- 
 swer ; " I never meant to do it." 
 
 Her petulance with old Pisanio is most touching. It 
 shows her very nature overthrown, or rather (for Imogen 
 could be impatient at times) it shows how the restraints that 
 ordinarily kept her temper in check have been swept away. 
 
 " Madam," says Pisanio, " I thought you would not back 
 again." 
 
 "Most like," replies Imogen, "bringing me here to kill 
 me." 
 
 Then Pisanio, at last obtaining a hearing, assures her that 
 his master has been misled by some unnatural villain. He 
 unfolds to her his plan. He has provided boy's raiment for 
 
Cymbeline, 425 
 
 her. She can in this disguise make her way to Milford 
 Haven, thence to Rome in the train of the ambassador 
 Caius Lucius, and being in Rome she will find herself 
 near Posthumus, and can herself unravel the mystery. 
 Posthumus shall meanwhile receive from Pisanio some 
 bloody sign that his commands have been executed. 
 Imogen exclaims : — 
 
 Through peril to my modesty, not death on 't, 
 1 would adventure. 
 
 Then Pisanio gives her his instructions : — 
 
 You must forget to be a woman ; change 
 Command into obedience ; fear and niceness 
 (The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, 
 Woman its pretty self) to a waggish courage ; 
 Ready in gibes, quick-answered, saucy, and 
 As quarrelous as the weasel. 
 
 And last of all, she must forget that care in dress which, 
 princess as she is, has ever distinguished her. How little 
 fitted Imogen was to act up to Pisanio's instructions is shown 
 in the sequel. 
 
 At parting Pisanio presents her with the box of medicines 
 given to him by the Queen. Should she be sea-sick while 
 travelling to Rome, or stomach-qualmed on land, " a drachm 
 of this," he says, "will drive away distemper." 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 This scene is in Cymbeline's palace. The Ambassador 
 from Rome here takes his leave. 
 
 In presence of war, Cloten, who seems not to be wanting 
 in personal courage, assumes something like dignity. Cym- 
 beline, missing Imogen on this occasion of state, and very 
 
426 Cymdelme. 
 
 fussy upon points of respect due to himself, has his daughter 
 sent for. The Queen, dreading collision between the Prin- 
 cess and her father, which may injure her own plans, says : — 
 
 'Beseech your majesty, 
 Forbear sharp speeches to her ; she 's a lady 
 So tender of rebukes that words are strokes, 
 And strokes death to her. 
 
 Alas ! poor Imogen. We may judge from this how dread- 
 ful it must have been to her to be called vile, coarse names 
 in her husband's letter to Pisanio. As she herself said on 
 reading them, " Mine ear itself can take no deeper wound." 
 
 But Imogen is gone. She cannot answer her father's sum- 
 mons, and Cymbeline rages, while the Queen coolly calcu- 
 lates that she may now have it in her power to bestow the 
 crown of Britain. 
 
 As Cloten is questioning within himself whether he most 
 loves or most hates Imogen, Pisanio returns. Being cross- 
 questioned by Cloten with his usual upstart impudence, he 
 shows him Posthumus's letter to his wife, which he had picked 
 up when she tore those cherished letters from her bosom. By 
 this Cloten believes he learns that she has gone to meet Post- 
 humus at Milford Haven. Clumsily endeavoring to attach 
 Pisanio to himself by flattery and money, he goes on to re- 
 quest of him a suit of Posthumus's clothes, which Pisanio 
 brings him. I fancy the old man was not willing to quarrel 
 with Cloten lest his ability to help Imogen should be 
 curtailed. 
 
 Scene 6. 
 
 The story now returns to Imogen. Unused to mountain- 
 walking, she had failed to reach Milford Haven, which was in 
 
Cymbeline. 427 
 
 sight when Pisanio left her, and wandering up and down the 
 hills, she has come after two days spent on foot, and two 
 nights passed in the woods, to the cave of Belarius. Two 
 beggars, whom she doubtless had relieved with money, had 
 told her that she could not miss her way, but she, poor Prin- 
 cess, in her inexperience, had missed it. And now her 
 heart has gone back to Posthumus ; again she calls him her 
 " dear lord." Perceiving the cave, she peers into it timidly. 
 She dreads rough men, she dreads wild beasts, as, holding 
 her sword awkwardly before her, she creeps through the 
 doorway. 
 
 Shortly after, the brothers and Belarius return hungry and 
 weary. There is cold meat in the cave, and they will stay 
 their appetites on that till they can cook their supper. Glanc- 
 ing into the cave, however, they perceive something that 
 Belarius calls a fairy, an angel, a paragon. As he speaks, 
 Imogen, hearing voices, comes forth. 
 
 Judge how like her speech is to that of a quarrelsome and 
 saucy page : — 
 
 Imogen. Good masters, harm me not. 
 Before I entered here, I called ; and thought 
 To have begged, or bought, what I have took. Good troth, 
 I have stolen nought ; nor would not, though I had found 
 Gold strewed o' the floor. Here 's money for my meat. 
 I would have left it on the board so soon 
 As I had made my meal ; and parted 
 With prayers for the provider. 
 
 Guiderius. Money, youth ? 
 
 Arviragus. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt ! 
 As 'tis no better reckoned, but of those 
 Who worship dirty gods. 
 
 Imogen. I see you are angry. 
 
 Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should 
 Have died had I not made it. 
 
428 Cymbeline, 
 
 Belarius. Whither bound ? 
 
 Imogen. To Milford Haven, sir. 
 
 Belarius. What is your name ? 
 
 Imogen. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who 
 Is bound for Italy ; he embarked at Milford ; 
 To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, 
 I am fallen in this offence. 
 
 Belarius. Prithee, fair youth, 
 
 Think us no churls ; nor measure our good minds 
 By this rude place we live in. Well encountered ! 
 'T is almost night : you shall have better cheer 
 Ere you depart ; and thanks, to stay and eat it. 
 Boys, bid him welcome. 
 
 Then Guiderius, the elder, says he would have made his 
 suit to the lad if he had been a woman, but Arviragus, not so 
 much a man as his elder brother, hails Fidele as a comrade. 
 Suddenly something inspires in Imogen a remembrance of 
 her brothers. She wishes they were living. Were she not 
 heiress to a kingdom, she would be more an equal match 
 "for thee, Posthumus." Hope has returned to her heart. 
 Surely, things must yet come right between her and him she 
 used to honor as well as love. 
 
 Scene 7. 
 
 We now learn that messengers have been sent from Rome 
 to intercept Caius Lucius, and to order him to undertake the 
 war with Britain. They bear him his appointment as pro- 
 consul. 
 
 Aci' IV. Scene i. 
 
 Cloten, imagining that Posthumus is by appointment to 
 meet Imogen in those Welsh woods, hopes to meet her first, 
 and in Posthumus's clothes to deceive and ruin her. Her 
 humiliation being accomplished, and her husband killed 
 
Cymbeline, 429 
 
 before her eyes, Cloten brutally proposes to drive this fair 
 
 creature home before him to her father. Surely, we need 
 
 not count " Cymbeline " a tragedy because this wretch's death 
 
 was near at hand. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Imogen is sick, and is recommended by her kind hosts to 
 remain in the cave while they go forth to hunt. Each 
 brother, however, offers to stay with her. Old Belarius, who 
 has tended them so faithfully for years, is not a little hurt 
 that both boys should profess that they already love the 
 stranger as well as they do him. I think he suspects Imogen's 
 sex, too, and is anxious about the love professed for her by 
 Guiderius. 
 
 Then these " kind creatures " being gone, Imogen takes 
 out the Queen's box, and swallows a portion of her drug. 
 We learn from the boys' talk that already Imogen's singing, 
 her dainty cookery, and gentle, housewifely ways have made 
 home charming to them. 
 
 In comes Cloten, — not a very young man, for Belarius 
 recognizes him. Belarius is fearful of being pursued, and 
 discovered. While he and Arviragus search the neighboring 
 brushwood to see if the new comer be attended by soldiers, 
 Guiderius remains to parley with him. The brave young 
 mountaineer is not used to be addressed with the insolence 
 with which Cloten always speaks to those he considers his 
 inferiors. He gives him back word for word. Finally, they 
 come to blows. Guiderius is conqueror, and cuts off Cloten's 
 head. Belarius is greatly alarmed at this exploit, though 
 Guiderius himself exults in it, having slain his foe only in self- 
 defence ; and Arviragus sustains him, saying, " My brother 
 hath done well." 
 
430 Cymbeline. 
 
 An Eolian harp, invented by Belarius, here begins to play, 
 as Arviragus, who has been into the cave, comes out bearing 
 Imogen lifeless in his arms. The lament made over the sup- 
 posed corpse is very beautiful. Arviragus, the poet by 
 nature, says : — 
 
 With fairest flowers, 
 Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
 I '11 sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack 
 The flower that 's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor 
 The azured hare-bell, like thy veins ; no, nor 
 The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, 
 Out-sweetened not thy breath ; the red-breast would, 
 With charitable bill (O bill, sore-shaming 
 Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie 
 Without a monument ! ), bring thee all this ; 
 Yea, and furred moss besides, when flowers are none, 
 To winter-ground thy corse. 
 
 Guiderius. Prithee, have done, 
 
 And do not play in wench-like words with that 
 Which is so serious. Let us bury him. 
 
 Guiderius, who has just fleshed his maiden sword, naturally 
 turns upon his brother for any touch of womanliness ; besides 
 his own grief is deep and cannot bear mere words. 
 
 Belarius persuades them both to include the body of 
 Cloten in their funeral ceremonies, for they have decided to 
 bury dead Fidele as they buried their nurse, Euriphile, whom 
 they believed to be their mother. Here is another little 
 touch showing us their religious training, and Shakspeare's 
 religious delicacy in hinting only at holy things. They are 
 preparing Imogen's body for sepulchre, and Guiderius says : 
 
 My brother, we must lay his head to the east, 
 My father hath a reason for it. 
 
 The song they sing is a lovely one : — 
 
Cymbeline, 431 
 
 Song. 
 
 Guiderius, Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
 
 Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
 Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
 
 Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. 
 Golden lads and girls all must. 
 As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 
 Af-viragus. Fear no more the frown o' the great ; 
 
 Thou art past the tyrant's stroke. 
 Care no more to clothe, and eat ; 
 
 To thee the reed is as the oak. 
 The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
 All follow this, and come to dust. 
 
 But the song generally sung in this place on the stage is an 
 interpolation by Collins. 
 
 They leave the bodies strewn with flowers, meaning to 
 bury them at set of sun. 
 
 When they have gone, Imogen, who had drunk — not 
 poison, but — the sleeping-draught prepared by Dr. Cornelius, 
 awakes bewildered. She thinks she must have dreamed that 
 she was a cave-keeper and cook to honest creatures. Then 
 suddenly she sees lying at her side a headless man, and his 
 clothes are the clothes of her Posthumus. At once her fury 
 breaks out against Pisanio. He has conspired with Cloten ; 
 he has deceived her husband and herself. " O, damned 
 Pisanio!" she exclaims again and again. *'0, damned 
 Pisanio ! '* 
 
 As, all bloody, she lies stretched upon the corpse (we 
 grudge Cloten each tear that she sheds over him), Caius 
 Lucius, the Roman general, and his soldiers come by. They 
 raise the boy, and ask his name. Imogen replies : — 
 
 I am nothing ; or if not. 
 Nothing to be were better. This was my master, 
 
432 Cymbeline. 
 
 A very valiant Briton, and a good, 
 
 That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas ! 
 
 There are no more such masters. I may wander 
 
 From east to Occident, cry out for service. 
 
 Try many, all good, serve truly, never 
 
 Find such another master. 
 
 And when she has to give him a fictitious name the false- 
 hood troubles her. She puts up a little prayer that she may 
 be forgiven. The Romans, touched with her fidelity and 
 grief, assist her with their pikes and partisans, to bury the 
 dead body; and Lucius, with kind words, takes her as a 
 page into his service. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 The Queen, with all her brain and all her scheming, is meet- 
 ing her just punishment, — she lies stricken with mortal sick- 
 ness ; and Cymbeline, surrounded by enemies, and accustomed 
 always to lean on somebody, now mourns for Imogen. 
 Troubles too are thickening about him from the Roman inva- 
 sion. Pisanio has received no news from Rome since he 
 sent tidings of Imogen's death to Posthumus ; no word has 
 come from Imogen, and Cloten has sunk out of sight utterly. 
 " Wherein I 'm false I 'm honest," he says ; " not true to be 
 true." 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 The two young Princes, not knowing their high birth, are 
 urging Belarius to let them go to the war. He sees plainly, 
 with fear and trembling, that he cannot withhold them longer. 
 
 Act V. Scene i. 
 
 Here we see Posthumus, dressed as a Roman soldier, with 
 the handkerchief supposed to be stained with his wife's blood 
 
Cymbeline, 433 
 
 in his hand. " Alas ! " he cries, " if every married man should 
 take my course, how many men would murder wives far 
 better than themselves ! " He reproaches the gods that they 
 had not saved the noble Imogen to repent, and struck him, 
 the wretch more worthy of their vengeance. But Imogen, 
 he reflects afterwards, is now " all heaven's own." He prays, 
 " Ye gods, do your blest wills and make me blessed to obey." 
 He has come over to Britain with the Romans, but now 
 he will desert them, and take part with British men. He 
 has done Britain wrong enough in having killed iier future 
 Queen ; now he will fight for Britain. 
 
 So I '11 die 
 For thee, O Imogen ! e'en for whom my life 
 Is, every breath, a death. 
 
 With that he changes his Roman armor for the suit of a 
 
 British peasant. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 This is the scene of the battle. In the foreground Posthu- 
 mus, as a Briton, fights with lachimo, the Roman. Posthumus 
 vanquishes and disarms lachimo, but with a generosity born 
 of his repentance, turns aside and spares him. lachimo 
 thinks that he has lost his skill in arms because the gods are 
 angry at him for his sin against a noble lady. Here ceases 
 my parallel between lachimo and De Marsay. lachimo had 
 faith enough to lead him to repentance ; the Frenchman of 
 the nineteenth century had not so much faith as the devils 
 have, who have enough to make them tremble. 
 
 The Britons are getting worsted, when Belarius and his 
 boys break in and change the fortunes of the day. Cymbe- 
 line is rescued by thek prowess, seconded by that of 
 Posthumus. 
 
 28 
 
434 Cymbeline. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Here Posthumus describes to a British lord how Belarius 
 and his boys held a narrow lane against the whole Roman 
 army. It is Horatius, Herminius, and Lartius over again. 
 Posthumus, not having been able to lose his life in battle, 
 resolves to yield himself to the first man he sees. If a 
 Roman he will be executed as a deserter, if a Briton he is 
 no less sure of death as soon as he has told his name. 
 
 The first persons who enter are Britons. They are talking 
 of Posthumus's own brilliant deeds. He surrenders to them 
 as an obscure Roman. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 We now see Posthumus deeply penitent and in prison. 
 He dreams that his father, mother, and brave brothers — 
 none of whom he ever knew — come round him in a vision ; 
 while grieving for his fault, they deal with it gently, and 
 pray the gods for his forgiveness. I presume that this scene, 
 which is conducted in recitative, added to the musical attrac- 
 tions of the play ; it does not improve it as a story or a 
 
 drama. 
 
 He shall be lord of Lady Imogen, 
 
 And happier much by his afflictions made, 
 
 is Jupiter's answer to the prayers offered up by his ghostly 
 kindred. Waking, Posthumus is about to be led to execu- 
 tion, when an order arrives to knock off his fetters, and bring 
 him before the King. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 King Cymbeline has discovered three of the brave men 
 who saved the fortunes of the day, — Belarius, Guiderius, 
 and Arviragus; the fourth is still wanting. The King is 
 
Cymbeline. 435 
 
 surrounded by his court, his lords, and his deliverers. Here 
 enter messengers to say the Queen is dead. Not only 
 is she dead, but she has confessed her crimes and evil 
 purposes upon her death-bed. 
 
 Then the Roman prisoners are brought in, among them 
 Imogen, as a page in attendance upon Caius Lucius, who 
 makes a noble Roman speech, ending with these words : — 
 
 This one thing only 
 I will entreat : my boy, a Briton born, 
 Let him be ransomed. Never master had 
 A page so kind, so duteous, diligent, 
 So tender over his occasions, true, 
 So feat, so nurse-like ; let his virtue join 
 With my request, which, I '11 make bold, your highness 
 Cannot deny ; he hath done no Briton harm. 
 Though he hath served a Roman. Save him, sir, 
 And spare no blood beside. 
 
 Cymbeline, moved by the looks of the page, touched by 
 the speech of Lucius, and willing to do a generous thing 
 gracefully, not only gives the boy his liberty, but promotes 
 him to his favor, and tells him to ask a boon, suggesting that 
 it should be the Hfe of a prisoner. Neither Cymbeline nor 
 any one else doubts that the lad will ask the life of Lucius. 
 Indeed, that generous Roman says, — 
 
 I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad ; 
 And yet I know thou wilt. 
 
 But Imogen has seen lachimo in the crowd of prisoners. 
 On his finger gleams her own ring. She stands gazing at 
 him speechless. Finally, she requests a moment's private 
 interview with Cymbeline. I think she then suggests that 
 the ring the Roman wears is the valuable diamond of 
 
43^ Cymbelme. 
 
 Cymbeline's first wife; for he comes back eager to know 
 its history. 
 
 Then lachimo, conscience-stricken and in deadly super- 
 stitious terror, tells, with much verbiage and many flatteries, 
 by which he hopes to appease the British King, the story 
 of his guilt, and wholly exonerates Imogen. As he is say- 
 ing, speaking of Posthumus, " Methinks I see him now, — " 
 '' Thou dost ! " exclaims Posthumus, starting forward and 
 confronting him. Then the unhappy husband goes on to 
 call down vengeance of all kinds upon himself. As he cries, 
 
 O Imogen ! 
 My queen, my life, my wife ! O Imogen, 
 Imogen, Imogen ! 
 
 she, standing by, can bear it no longer, but springs forward 
 to comfort him. He thinks the Roman page means only to 
 make sport of his great misery. He strikes her, and she 
 falls. Then Pisanio starts forward with, 
 
 O my Lord Posthumus I 
 You ne'er killed Imogen till now. Help, help ! 
 Mine honored lady!: 
 
 Posthumus staggers backward. He dares not clasp his wife ; 
 he dares not understand what is now passing round him. 
 Cymbeline begins to thank the gods ; but Imogen, recovering 
 herself, repulses Pisanio as a would-be poisoner. Then Dr. 
 Cornelius makes that misunderstanding straight. Guiderius 
 and Arviragus with amazement recognize the dead Fidele. 
 CymbeHne tells Imogen her ** mother's dead." With gentle 
 dignity she says, " I 'm sorry for it, sir." Cloten too is 
 missing. Then Pisanio again steps forward, and tells how 
 he lent him a suit of Posthumus's clothes, in which he set 
 
Cymbeline. 437 
 
 forth to Milford to surprise Imogen, and bring her to dis- 
 honor. Here Guiderius breaks in with, — 
 
 • Let me end the story : 
 
 I slew him there. 
 
 Cymbeline is greatly discomposed, not only by the death 
 of Cloten, but by the necessity the law lays upon him of 
 condemning to death an inferior who has slain a man of 
 rank higher than his own. Guiderius, prince-like, sticks to 
 the truth. He has done the deed, and he is not ashamed 
 of it. Cloten deserved his death, and got it. Then Belarius 
 reveals the parentage of his adopted sons. 
 
 All this while Imogen and Posthumus are clasped in 
 
 each other's arms. Cymbeline, as he acknowledges the 
 
 young heroes for his heirs and children, says somewhat 
 
 regretfully : — 
 
 O Imogen 1 
 Thou hast lost by this a kingdom. 
 
 Imogen. No, my lord ; 
 
 I have got two worlds by 't. 
 
 And after loving greetings to her brothers, she hails Bela- 
 rius as another father, thus disposing the heart of Cymbeline 
 towards him. 
 
 She next, having secured pardon for Belarius, turns to 
 Lucius, whose fate she had all along known would be in her 
 hands. Cymbeline has but one regret in all this happiness, 
 — he cannot find the forlorn soldier who aided his brave 
 sons and their foster-father to guard the lane. 
 
 Posthumus avows himself that soldier. " Pardon," cries 
 Cymbeline, "is the word for all." Even lachimo is par- 
 doned ; and Cymbeline, turning to Lucius, not only offers 
 him his freedom, but a treaty which promises to Rome the 
 
438 Cymbeline. 
 
 0^ ^^ very tribute in dispute. This is the usual ending to any 
 ^ ^ f__English war. England, it is said, always in her European 
 ^^ ^conflicts triumphs in arms, and makes peace by giving»back 
 j^t^ all, and more than all, that she contended for. 
 * Though there is very little of the comic element in this 
 
 ^» play, it seems impossible with such an ending to call " Cym- 
 
 beline " a tragedy. It is rather an exquisite and composite 
 romantic drama, with its scene laid so far back in the dim 
 past that manners, incidents, and probabilities are all removed 
 out of the realm of fact, and are moulded at the poet's will 
 by liis creative fancy. 
 
INDEX. 
 
INDEX, 
 
 Actors, their practice o£ soliciting the 
 patronage of the lord of the manor, 133 ; 
 their disadvantages, in, 127. 
 
 Adam, the old retainer, 232, 251; Cole- 
 ridge's apostrophe to the actor who 
 bore him, 256; Adam and Jaqiies con- 
 trasted, 253. 
 
 Ague-cheek, Sir Andrew, 294, 297, 298 ; 
 Charles Lamb on, 297, 298. 
 
 American exiled loyahsts, 415. 
 
 American rich men, 345. 
 
 " Amours in Quatorzains," Michael Dray- 
 ton's, 152. 
 
 Anglo-Saxon Saints' legends, 93, 94. 
 
 Antonio, the merchant of Venice, 339, 
 340, 343. 344» 347. 367, 375- 
 
 Antonio, th« sea-captain, 305, 330, 331. 
 
 ** Apollonius and Silla," the origin of 
 Twelfth Night, 291. 
 
 Arcady, As You Like It, a tale of, 231. 
 
 Arden, Shakspeare's mother's maiden 
 name, 247 ; forest of, 247. 
 
 Ardennes, the Enchanted Forest in the 
 " Orlando Furioso," 247. 
 
 Ariel, 57, 58, 64, 82; Coleridge on, 64; 
 Hazlitt on, 82. 
 
 Ariosto, Shakspeare's acquaintance with 
 the writings of, 64, 131, 181, 247. 
 
 Armada, allusion to the wreck of, 419, 420. 
 
 Arviragus, his poetical temperament, 422. 
 
 Astrologers in Shakspeare's day, 84, 85. 
 
 As Yojc Like It, a tale of Arcady, 231 ; 
 its origin, 231 ; its supposed moral, 231 ; 
 Victor Hugo's idea of, 287. 
 
 Autolycus, 28, 29 ; contents of his basket, 
 36. 
 
 Audrey, 269, 280. 
 
 Ayrer, Jacob, author of " Die Schbne 
 Sidea," 56 ; plot of his story, 56. 
 
 Balzac, 201, 402, 408, 416, 417, 433 ; 
 
 Coleridge's remarks on Shakspeare's 
 
 characters applied to, 91, 92. 
 Bandello, his story, the origin of Much 
 
 Ado about Nothing, 181. 
 Baptista, 136; Petruchio's first interview 
 
 with, 143, 144. 
 Bassanio, 340, 347. 
 Beatrice, 189, 190, 191, 197, 198, 226, 227; 
 
 "Monthly Packet" on, 181; Lady 
 
 Martin on, 182, 183, 189, 190, 226, 227; 
 
 contrasted with Katharine, 183. 
 Belch, Sir Toby, Maria, and Sir Andrew 
 
 Ague-cheek, 294, 295, 296, 297. 
 Benedick, 184; moved by the sarcasms of 
 
 Beatrice, 194 ; Lady Martin on the last 
 
 encounter of wits between him and 
 
 Beatrice, 226, 227. 
 Bermudas, Strachey's narrative of the ship- 
 wreck of Sir Thomas Gates, on the, 57. 
 Betrothals of Florizel and Perdita, 37 ; of 
 
 Olivia and Sebastian, 275; possibly of 
 
 Rosalind and Orlando, 275. 
 Bianca, 150. 
 
 Biondello, mistrusts Tranio, 171. 
 Boatswain and sailors, 59. 
 Boccaccio, origin oi Cymbeline in the "De- 
 
 camerone," 394. 
 Borachio, the bravo, 199. 
 Bottom,ioi ; Maginnon, iir, 120, 12T, 127. 
 Bug, /. e. bugbear, early version of the 
 
 Bible, 23. 
 
 Cain and his thornbush, no. 
 
 Cakes and ale on Saints' days, 309. 
 
 Caliban, 57, 58, 64, 72, 82; the mob in- 
 carnate, 56; Coleridge on, 64; Hazlitt 
 on, 72, 82 ; Schlegel on, 72. 
 
 Campbell, Thomas, on Viola, 385. 
 
442 
 
 Index, 
 
 Candlemas Day, 291. 
 
 Celia, 237,244, 245, 264, 269; "Monthly 
 Packet " on, 237. 
 
 Changes of scenery on Shakspeare's stage, 
 58, 306. 
 
 Characters in Shakspeare and Balzac, 91, 
 92 ; those that are wholly Shakspeare's 
 in Much Ado about Nothing, 181, and 
 As You Like //", 231 ; in the MercJiant 
 of Venice all have flaws but Portia, 340. 
 
 Chaucer originated Theseus and Hip- 
 polyta, 95 ; also originated Lodge's 
 Rosalynde, 231. 
 
 Claudio, 183, 184, 194, 209, 220, 221. 
 
 Cloten, 410, 411, 425, 429. 
 
 Cobwebs, in. 
 
 Coleridge, S- T., on jealousy, 5, 6; on 
 Perdita, 39 ; on Ariel and Caliban, 64 ; 
 on Miranda, 60, 76, 77 ; on Prospero's 
 narrative, 61 ; on conspiracy scenes in 
 Tempest, 74 ; on drunken scene in 
 Tempest, 80 ; on Shakspeare's modesty 
 and morality, 76, 77, 82 ; on the sense 
 of maternity and ancestry in good wo- 
 men, 64 ; his remarks on Shakspeare's 
 characters applied to Balzac, 91, 92 ; on 
 Puck's song, 127 ; on Shakspeare's sce- 
 nery, 250; on Adam, 256; apostrophe 
 to the actor who bore Adam, 256. 
 
 Collins, author of the dirge commonly 
 sung over Imogen, 431. 
 
 Complaints of servants in Shakspeare's 
 day, 251. 
 
 Confidants, Shakspeare's compared with 
 those of French tragedy, 17. 
 
 Conspiracy scenes in Tempest, 71, 80. 
 
 Cymbeline, Hazlitt on, 393 ; not a tragedy, 
 though almost one, 394, 429, 438; why 
 never a popular acting-play, 394 ; on 
 what founded, 394 ; its scenery, date, and 
 semi-paganism, 394 ; passage suggested 
 by the fate of the Armada, 419, 420. 
 
 Dances, modem application of jig, meas- 
 ure, and cinque-pace, 192. 
 
 Demetnus, no gentleman, 106. 
 
 Disadvantages of actors, iii, 127. 
 
 Dogberry, 209 ; as a country justice, 217. 
 
 Don John, 188. 
 
 Don Pedro, 187. 
 
 Drayton, Michael, his Poly-Olbion, 95, 
 152 ; his ballad of Agincourt, 152 ; his 
 "Amours in Quatorzains," 152. 
 
 Dreams, sleep, and moonlight in Midsum- 
 mer Nighfs Dream, 91, 96, 103, 109, 
 123 ; Posthumus' dream, part of the 
 musical attractions of Cymbeline, 434. 
 
 Drunken scene in Tempest, Coleridge on, 
 80. 
 
 Ducdam6, 256. 
 
 Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, Tempest 
 
 performed at her nuptials, 55. 
 Elizabeth, Queen of England, pageant at 
 
 Keniiworth, Shakspeare prbbably there, 
 
 105. 
 English marriages only lawful in parish 
 
 churches, 269. 
 English wars, their usual termination, 438. 
 Exhortation to read Shakspeare, 334. 
 Extravagant expressions of Petruchio and 
 
 Katharine, no criterion of Shakspeare's 
 
 real opinion of the relations between 
 
 men and women, 168, 169. 
 
 Fairies, without characters, 93 ; gnomes, 
 kobolds, elves, and fairies, 93, 94 ; five 
 species of fairies, 95 ; Gervinus on, 103, 
 104 ; difference between ghosts and, 
 119 ; all purity, 120. 
 
 Faucit, Miss Helen, 394. See Lady 
 Martin. 
 
 Ferdinand, Mrs. Jameson on, 76. 
 
 Feste, Olivia's fool, 299. • 
 
 Fidelity, 408. 
 
 Floods in England in 1595, 105. 
 
 Fools, 238, 299, 318, 319, 395; receive 
 money, 327. 
 
 Gentlemen messengers, 185, 186. 
 Germanisms in Shylock's English, 381. 
 " Geruntius, the Jew of Venice," ballad 
 
 of, 340. 
 Gervinus on fairies, 103, 104 ; on Portia, 
 
 377 ; his hatred of the Jews, 356. 
 " Gesta Romanorum," 340. 
 Goethe on Shakspeare's metaphors, 293. 
 Greene, Richard, author of a story that 
 
 originated the Winter^s Tale, 3. 
 Gratiano, 347, 372, 390. 
 Grumio, 157, 158. 
 Guiderins, his princely disposition, 421, 
 
 429, 430, 437. 
 
 Haberdasher, 184. 
 
 Hamlet, shghtly indicated in Jaques, 
 
Index. 
 
 443 
 
 248, 343 ; compared with Coleridge, 
 248; with Antonio, 343. 
 
 Hazlitt on seeing Bannister, Mrs. Siddons, 
 and Mrs. Jordan act Winter's Tale., 30 ; 
 on Caliban, 72, 82 ; on Ariel, 82 ; on 
 Tempest, 56, 102 ; on Shakspeare's 
 songs, 85 ; on Midsummer Nighfs 
 Dream, 102 ; on Twelfth Night, 291, 
 335 ; on Cymbelitte, Z9Z' 
 
 Hermia, 118, 119. 
 
 Hermione, 26 ; Mrs. Jameson on, 6, 7 ; 
 why she remained sixteen years se- 
 cluded from her husband, 27. 
 
 Helena, 118, 119; her want of modesty, 
 106. 
 
 Hippolyta, 96. 
 
 Holinshed, parts of Cymbeline suggested 
 by, 395- 
 
 Hortensio's widow, 172 ; her impertinence 
 to Katharine, 173. 
 
 Hugo, Victor, on Jaques, 247 ; his idea of 
 As You Like It, 287. 
 
 Humility, Bishop Griswold on, loi. 
 
 Hunters, their life contrasted with that of 
 Arden, 395, 422. 
 
 Iachimo compared to Balzac's De Marsay, 
 402, 408, 416, 417, 433. 
 
 Imogen, 393, 396, 413, 414, 415, 423, 424, 
 425, 426, 427, 428, 431, 432; Mrs. 
 Jameson on, 393, 400 ; Lady Martin on, 
 406, 407 ; her farewell compared to those 
 of Juliet and Cressida, 400 ; why she 
 desired a private interview with Cymbe- 
 line, 434. 
 
 Induction to Taming of the Shrew, 131; 
 the lord, 133 ; the actors probably im- 
 provised their parts, 177. 
 
 In memoriam, 362. 
 
 Irish rats berhymed, 264. 
 
 Ivy fatal to sheep, 26. 
 
 Jameson, Mrs. Anna, " Characteristics 
 of Women," on Hermione, 6, 7 ; on the 
 last scene in the Winter'' s Tale, 48, 49, 
 50 ; on Paulina, 17 ; on Perdita, 32, 39 ; 
 on Miranda, 60, 6t ; on Ferdinand, 76 ; 
 on Prospero, 84 ; on Rosalind, 236, 237 ; 
 on Portia, 341, 342 ; on Olivia, 324 : on 
 Imogen, 393, 400. 
 
 Jaques, Victor Hugo on, 277; Maginn 
 on, 247 ; of the same type as Hamlet 
 and Coleridge, 248. 
 
 Jealousy, Coleridge on, 5, 6. 
 
 Jessica, 361, 362; Stuart Newton's pic- 
 tures of, 363. 
 
 Jews, their past and present status in the 
 world a standing miracle, 356, 357; 
 great statesmen and great writers above 
 the prejudices of the ignorant, 358. 
 
 Joking, perpetual, a dangerous sport, 225. 
 
 Jonson, Ben, and Shakspeare, 190. 
 
 Katharine, the shrew, 139, 140, 145, 
 151; " Monthly Packet " on, 140, 143, 
 170, 176, 179; her submission, 167, 168, 
 169, 170, 174, 175, 176, 177. 
 
 Lady in Proverbs reflects honor on her 
 husband, 176. 
 
 Lamb, Charles, on Sir Andrew Ague- 
 cheek, 297, 298. 
 
 Law of marriage in England, 169 ; law 
 concerning the murder of a social supe- 
 rior, 437 ; law punishing adultery, 419. 
 
 Leonato, 190, 212. 
 
 Leontes, 9, 10, 11, 12, 24, 25, 43, 46. 
 
 Linen bleaching on hedges, 29. 
 
 Lodge, author of " Rosalynde," 231. 
 
 Love at first sight in As You Like It, 273. 
 
 Lucentio, Hortensio, and Bianca, 
 " Monthly Packet " on, 150. 
 
 Madrigal Club in London, 102. 
 
 Maginn on Bottom, iii, 120, 121, 127; 
 on Jaques, 286, 287 ; on the seven ages 
 of man, 261. 
 
 Malvolio, 292, 311 ; a Puritan, 311 ; on 
 Darwinism, 329. 
 
 Maria, 294, 298, 299 ; her position com- 
 pared with Nerissa's, 311. 
 
 Martin, Lady, on Beatrice, 182, 189, 190 ; 
 on the last encounter of wits between 
 Beatrice and Benedick, 226, 227 ; on 
 Rosalind, 236, 243, 266, 274 ; on the 
 trial scene in the Merchant of Venice, 
 380 ; on Pisanio, 405 ; on Imogen, 406, 
 407. 
 
 Masque, in Winter's Tale, 37 ; in Tem- 
 pest, 83 ; in Much A do about Nothing, 
 225 ; vci As You Like It, 286. 
 
 Merchant of Venice, Antonio, 339, 367 ; 
 characters in, 340; supposed leading 
 idea of, 339, 340 ; why the fifth act was 
 added, 388 ; " Monthly Packet" on trial 
 scene, 379, 380 ; Lady Martin on, 380. 
 
444 
 
 Index. 
 
 Mercy, mediseval ideas of, 387. 
 
 Midsummer Night's Dream., 91, 102, 
 III, 112; compared with Tempest^ 56; 
 dreams, sleep, and moonlight in, 91, 96, 
 103, 109, 123; no elaborated characters 
 iu, 92; when printed, 95. 
 
 Milton on Shakspeare, 124, 125. 
 
 Minor characters in Taming of the Shrew 
 conventional, 135. 
 
 Misconception of women, by Leonato, 
 Don Pedro, and Claudio, 204, 205 ; con- 
 trasted with the tact of Hero and Ur- 
 sula, 208. 
 
 Miranda, 59, 60, 61, 69, 76, 77; Mrs. 
 Jameson on, 60, 61 ; Coleridge on, 64. 
 
 Misery, real in contrast with sentimental, 
 259, 260. 
 
 Mobs, 80 ; French, English, and Ameri- 
 can, 100 ; Caliban the mob incarnate, 58. 
 
 Modern application of jig, measure, and 
 cinque-pace, 192. 
 
 Montaigne, passage adapted from, 71. 
 
 " Monthly Packet," " Shakspeare Talks 
 with Uncritical People," by Constance 
 O'Brian, on Katharine, 140; on Petru- 
 chio's first interview with Baptista, 143, 
 144 ; on Lucentio, Hortensio, and Bi- 
 anca, 150 ; Petruchio but once claims 
 authority to force Katharine against 
 her will, 155, 156; exaggerated expres- 
 sions of Petruchio and Katharine no 
 criterion of Shakspeare's real opinions 
 concerning men and women, 168, 169 ; 
 on the change that passes over Katha- 
 rine, 170; on Much Ado about Nothing, 
 181; on Celia, 237, 269; on Rosalind, 
 243, 266, 274 ; on the wrestling scene in 
 As You Like It, 243, 244 ; on Sir Toby, 
 297, 298 ; on Viola, 297, 298 ; on last 
 scene in Twelfth Night, 334 ; on Portia, 
 374. 375 ; on tr'^l scene, 379, 380. 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing, its origin, 
 181; Ariosto's episode of "Ariodante 
 and Ginevra," and Bandello's story, 
 i8i ; "Monthly Packet" on, 181. 
 
 Names of Shakspeare's Warwickshire 
 
 neighbors, 135. 
 Natures that though fallen retain the germ 
 
 of good, 270. 
 Nerissa, 349, 390 ; Gratiano, probably her 
 
 former lover, 372; contrasted with 
 
 Maria, 311. 
 
 Newton, Stuart, his pictures of Jessica, 
 
 363. 
 Nick, Old, his origin, 94. 
 
 O'Brian, Constance. See "Monthly 
 Packet." 
 
 Oliver, his apparently inconsistent char- 
 acter, 232, 236, 251. 
 
 Oliver and Orlando change places, 
 282. 
 
 Olivia, 292, 300, 304, 319, 320, 323, 344 ; 
 Mrs. Jameson on, 324. 
 
 Orange, Seville, 197. 
 
 Oriental tales brought home by crusaders, 
 131- 
 
 Orlando, 232, 236, 251. 
 
 Orsino, Duke, 291, 332. 
 
 Our views of nature modified by physical 
 sensations, 257. 
 
 Passion, unreal, 291. 
 
 Paulina, 17, 18, 43, 50, 51 ; Mrs. Jameson 
 
 on, 17, 18. 
 Peasants distrustful of their superiors, 
 
 280. 
 Petruchio, 143, 155, 156, 168, 169. 
 Pisanio, 405, 420, 421 ; his report to 
 
 Imogen, 401, 402 ; his reflection on 
 
 himself, 432. 
 Phebe and Silvius, 272. 
 Philomela and Procene, 4x4. 
 Pleached bower, 205. 
 Portia, 339, 341, 342, 369, 372, 374, 375 ; 
 
 her self-surrender, 369, 370, 371, 372 ; 
 
 the first conception of her plan, 376, 
 
 377; Gervinus on, 377; her persistent 
 
 attempts to obtain some excuse for 
 
 showing Shylock mercy, 383, 384, 385. 
 Portrait of an English tourist, 352. 
 Posthumus, Leonatus, 396, 397, 417, 419; 
 
 his repentance, 432, 433 ; his dream 
 
 part of the operatic attraction in Cymbe- 
 
 line, 434. 
 Prayer in Shakspeare, 412, 422, 430. 
 Proverbs, the lady in, 176. 
 Proverbial expression derived from the 
 
 cruelties practised on Jews, 364. 
 Puck, origin of his name, 95 ; the clown 
 
 fairy, 104 ; Coleridge on Puck's song, 
 
 127, 128. 
 
 Riches in Merchant of Venice, 339, 340. 
 Rich men in America, 345. 
 
Index, 
 
 445 
 
 "Robin Goodfellow," ballad, attributed 
 
 to, 95- 
 Russia, Sir Thomas Randolph's embassy 
 to, 48. 
 
 Saviola, author of a treatise on " Hu- 
 mourous and Honourable Quarrels," 
 284. 
 
 " Schbne Sidea, Die," 56. 
 
 Schlegel on Caliban, 72 ; on Shylock's 
 speech, 380, 381. 
 
 Sebastian and Viola of high birth, 305 ; 
 Sebastian and Olivia betrothed, 330. 
 
 Shakspeare, Coleridge on his modesty and 
 morality, 77, 82 ; Coleridge on his char- 
 acters, 91, 92 ; acquainted with the 
 writings of Ariosto, 64, 131, 181, 247; 
 extravagant expressions of Katharine 
 and Petruchio, no criterion of his real 
 opinion concerning the relations between 
 men and women, 168, 169 ; on the ba}'- 
 ing of hounds, 123 ; Milton on, 124, 
 125 ; on his knowledge of minute things 
 in nature, 26 ; his dislike to parish offi- 
 cers, 209 ; his reverence for the clergy, 
 213; his wonderful knowledge of girls' 
 words 'and ways, 264 ; his similes, 293 ; 
 never immoral, 335 ; exhortation to read, 
 334; on reading his plays aloud, 334; 
 reverence for prayer and holy customs, 
 412, 422, 430. 
 
 Sly, drunkard, soldier, and adventurer, 
 132. 
 
 Songs of Shakspeare, 65, 85, 102, 108, iii, 
 iig, 127, 128, 255, 262, 263, 283, 307, 
 313, 414; Hazlitt on, 85. 
 
 Stage setting in Shakspeare's time, 58, 
 306. 
 
 Strachey, William, author of a narrative 
 of Sir Thomas Gates's shipwreck on the 
 Bermudas and escape to Virginia, 57. 
 
 Statues tinted in the Middle Ages, 47. 
 
 Superstition from which rose the custom 
 of rough shaving on crossing the line, 
 84 ; of expelling Irish rats by rhymes, 
 264. 
 
 Swabber, 302. 
 
 "Taming of a Shrew," 131. 
 
 Taming of the S^reiv, 131, 135. 
 
 Tempest, its first representation, 55 ; 
 where Shakspeare found its story, 56, 
 57 ; compared with Midsummer Night" s 
 Dream, 56. 
 
 Touchstone on court and country, 395. 
 
 Tranio, 154, 161, 167. 
 
 Tubal, 369. 
 
 Twelfth Night, Candlemas Day, 291 ; 
 when first produced, 291 ; Hazlitt on, 
 291, 335 ; unexplained allusions in, 308 ; 
 *' Monthly Packet " on last scene, 334. 
 
 Unreasonableness of lovers, 271. 
 Unreal misery, 259, 260. 
 Unexplained allusions in Twelfth Nighty 
 308. 
 
 Viola, 293, 294, 300, 304, 324, 325, 326, 
 328 ; her knowledge of sea terms, 300, 
 319 ; Campbell on, 335 ; " Monthly 
 Packet " on, 297, 298, 334, 335. 
 
 Warren, a, 196. 
 
 Walpole, Horace, on Henry VIII. and 
 
 Anne Boleyn as Florizel and Perdita, 4. 
 Wrestling scene va. As You Like It, 243, 
 
 244. 
 Why pure women often misjudge the men 
 
 they love, 408. 
 William, Lady Martin on, 280. 
 Working men in Shakspeare, 100. 
 Wright, Thomas, on fairy lore in the 
 
 Middle Ages, 93, 94. 
 
 University Press : John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 
 
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